What I Did (20 page)

Miss Hart's head tilts the other way hard now, blinking, totally spaniel-inquisitive-sad: she doesn't understand at all and her nose is twitching.

— It's like silverbacks, I explain. — They only do hurting when they have to, otherwise it would damage their genes. Please can I go now, please? Plea—

I slip off the front of my chair and my sweatshirt wings come apart and she notices. She sort of pulls back a tiny bit and grabs her chin with her hand and says, — Gosh, Billy!

I want to say sorry, sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to and you wouldn't let me go so it's your fault really not mine and I'm incredibly sorry so please don't be cross I won't ever do it again it was an accident I'm wet, I'm wet, I'm wet . . . but Dad's face swims up to the door glass now, looking in, and suddenly I desperately don't want him to know about it too so I just say, — Please don't tell my dad, very quickly before the sob comes. Sobbing is quite interesting because it jumps your shoulders up and down as if you're a puppet on jerky strings.

— Oh, Billy. You poor thing.

— Don't tell anyone!

— But why didn't you let me know if you needed—

— Once it happened in the car . . . after I'd been pretending it might happen . . . and we stopped . . . and I didn't need to go really then . . . so the next time Dad wouldn't stop . . . and it happened . . . and we had to wash the car-seat cover thing . . . and he wasn't happy . . . so please . . . don't say anything.

— Breathe gently: it's all right. Accidents happen; he'll understand.

She nods after she says this but strangely the nod works backward, making what she's said seem even less likely to be true than it did before.

— Let me find you some PE kit, she says.

She retreats to the pegs to look for my dolphin bag with the stiff zipper, but I can't stop the puppet strings yanking on my shoulders even though I'm trying to do the gentle breathing like she said, and the next thing that happens is a knock on the door followed by Dad's head leaning in.

— Everything all right, Miss Hart? Billy? What's going on?

Miss Hart spins on her squeaky heel with her eyes wide and her mouth all round and I pull at my sweatshirt which I've somehow got tangled round my left leg. Miss Hart sorts herself out quickest; the “O” mouth disappears into her assembly face, very sit-still-no-wriggling-or-else.

— We're fine. One moment. I'll bring Billy through.

— Billy? says Dad.

— Please, Mr. Wright. Just give us a moment. I'll explain.

And I immediately horribly understand what's going on here: Miss Hart is pretending. She is finding my PE-bag shorts and saying it's all going to be okay but she isn't really meaning to keep it a secret at all.

She's admitted it! She's going to
explain
.

And what was I thinking anyway, idiot?

If I take off my wet trousers and put my PE shorts on instead, Dad will see I'm wearing PE shorts and holding wet trousers and say Hey, why are you holding those wet trousers and what are you wearing your PE shorts for? And even if I don't change out of my wet trousers into my PE shorts I'll still be wearing wet trousers and he'll just ask about those instead.

So do you know what? No, but I do! I decide I'm not going to answer any questions. None. She can do the answers anyway. I yank my sweatshirt wings off my lap and bury my head in them on the table to do my puppet jerky sobbing under cover instead.

— Son?

— Please, says Miss Hart. — Just give us a moment.

But Dad is already beside me bending down, big hand on the back of my neck. I wriggle a bit but he keeps it there.

— What's happened to you, Billy? I'm here. It's okay.

I say nothing.

— Come on, sit up. Let me have a look at you.

I hunker down harder.

— What on earth is it? Come here.

— No! I say. No isn't an answer because Come here isn't a question, and anyway I was right because Miss Hart is already doing it.

— Billy had a little accident, she explains. — He's upset.

— Accident, says Dad, worried. — What sort of accident? Is he hurt?

— No, no. He was just late getting to the toilet.

— I see, he says. — I see.

But the way he says this, all jelly-mold unserious, is wrong and angering! And anyway, Miss Hart is lying! I wasn't late getting to the toilet. She wouldn't let me go! Dad is rubbing the hair on the back of my head the way he tells me not to stroke our cat Richard, who doesn't like being stroked backward, and neither do I!

— That's not like him at all, says Dad. — Is it, Son? But never mind . . . next time you'll—

— Miss Hart made me do it! I shout into my arms. — She did! She's not telling the—

— Billy! Dad says sharply.

— But it's true!

I lift up my head and see something surprising. Both Dad and Miss Hart are looking at one another with similar shut faces. Miss Hart's eyes are narrowed and her lips are I'm-going-to-have-to-give-you-a-red-mark thin: Dad looks like he's biting the inside of his mouth to stop himself saying something mean. He takes my PE-kit bag from Miss Hart's outstretched hand and gives it to me. — Go and put your shorts on, he says softly.

I trudge over to the chipped sink area again and start changing. It's not as easy to swap trousers you've wet for dry shorts as you might think: first of all, you definitely have to take your shoes off, and then you have to decide whether you're supposed to wear nothing under the shorts or wet pants which nobody will see instead.

— What happened?

— He had an accident, like I say.

I decide that it's probably best to take the pants off as well as my trousers because I don't wear pants under my swimming trunks. Why would you? They'd get all wet.

— But why? He doesn't have accidents.

— I'm afraid I don't know, Mr. Wright. He's clearly upset about something.

— Wouldn't you be? If he asked, why wasn't he allowed to go?

— He didn't ask—

— Yes I did.

— Or, if he did, I'm afraid I didn't hear him until it was too late. Obviously I'm sorry if that's the case.

— Didn't
hear
him?

— No.

— Did this happen in front of the class? Was it . . . noticed?

— No, no, no. But it wouldn't be the first time a pupil—

— Maybe not, but not Billy: he doesn't have accidents.

— Really? says Miss Hart, using her try-again-that's-not-quite-the-answer-I-was-looking-for voice. — Most little ones do from time to time. It's to be expected. In the car, for instance . . . Here she leaves a pause just like the ones she leaves in class which somebody — anybody — might like to fill with the actual true answer, before she eventually continues: — But as I say, he's clearly distressed . . .

— About what?

— I don't know. He had an argument with Fraser about a project they were working on together, but to me that seemed more of a symptom than the cause of the problem.

— What else has happened?

— That's what I was hoping you might be able to help with.

But hold on, I don't wear pants under my trunks because I don't want them to get wet, and these ones are already wet, so perhaps I should put them back on?

— Me? Dad's voice has knives in it. — Ah, I see.

Miss Hart, very assembly: — Has anything happened at home that we should be aware of?

Dad doesn't answer and I decide not to put the pants back on. After swimming we wrap all the wet things into a towel sausage. There's no towel here but I carefully roll the pants up inside the wet trousers. Then I unroll them because I did it from the wrong end. By starting with the wet patch the dry legs come last. It takes a few goes but I do some person veering and succeed by the time Dad comes to fetch me. The sausage bundle looks much smaller under his arm.

— Okay? he says very quietly, taking my hand.

— Fine.

Miss Hart: — Do feel free to come in and see me if you want to talk about how Billy's getting on, both in school . . . and more generally. No need for an appointment, just drop by at the end of the day.

Dad says, — Thank you, as he walks us past her desk again, but I can tell he means something else, very camouflaged knife tips, and at the door he stops. — Home's not the problem, he says. — We've had no accidents there.

 

It's not just accidents that have left home; when we get back Grandma Lynne and Mum are out, too. Dad looks at his watch and goes up to his bedroom-study to check his computer, and I put on some normal trousers to do drawing in. I feel better like that, and somebody has sharpened all the pencils which is excellent. I draw incredibly pointy claws first and then attach a giant man with two heads. One of the faces does a hilarious smile while the other opens its fearsome jaws wide to eat a stick person who has a speech bubble coming out of her mouth.
I am Miss Hart
is what the speech bubble says to start with, but after I've written it I read it and feel bad so I try to rub it out, but sadly I discover that I've written it in the wrong sort of pencil, black instead of gray. Black is part of the colored-pencil set and if you try to rub out colored pencils all you do is make a smeary mess. I don't know why: that's just the way life goes, Son. Luckily I am not downhearted but inventive instead: I color the whole speech bubble in very black indeed. It's strange. Even though I use bright turquoise and yellow and red for the rest of the picture the black speech bubble makes the stick person incredibly desperate. It looks like they have a storm coming out of their mouth. I draw Mum a seagull with a daffodil in its beak next because the clownfish the daffodil was supposed to be goes all wrong.

 

Dad comes downstairs eventually and yes, yes, yes, he decides I can watch some children's television if I want to, which I do. But sadly when he turns the television on it's the news which shouldn't be on at this time of day but is, and quite unfairly Dad sits down on the edge of the coffee table to watch it instead. There's an emergency debate going on to do with broken resolutions and the new clear threat. I'm confused: a resolution is a promise you make after Christmas which isn't for ages. Dad's head dips forward to listen carefully. Without conclusive evidence the Government will be acting illegally, says a woman with puffy white hair, and Dad nods in agreement. But then somebody more important-looking wearing an excellent yellow-spotted tie starts saying something I can't understand about sanctions not having worked and the rapidly approaching point of no return and Dad growls the sort of sad growl a leopard might growl if it had to abandon its kill to a pride of advancing lions. — They're going to get their own way eventually no matter what, he says, walking right up to the television. It looks like he might kick it. But in the end he just yanks the plug out of the wall.

— Dinner, he says. — What would you like?

— Fish and chips.

— Out of the question. How does chili con carne sound instead?

— Fine.

Dad likes cooking but he does it differently from Mum. When Mum finishes there's a lovely meal you recognize on a plate and nothing else to see; when Dad does it there are packets and spoons and knives and cuttings and pans and jars everywhere — because it's a kitchen, Son, not a bloody operating theater — and the thing you get on the plate is often surprising.

— Right, you can help, he says, giving me a bundle of carrots. — Peel these.

I love peeling. Here's a dirty old carrot. Here's a peeler. Here are the peelings. And here is a brand-new carrot. It's brilliant and it works with potatoes, too. Best of all, with Dad you can leave the peelings on the side. They are fiddly buggers to pick up.

While I peel, Dad chops onions and starts to cry.

Then we fetch out the biggest pan and heat up some oil and do really spitting frying. Onions, mince, carrots: they all go in. But then Dad decides carrots were a mistake so he fishes them out and puts them in another pan full of boiling water instead. Next, spices. There they are in their little pots, lined up like soldiers on parade. Let's have a tap of each one, shall we, and a good old shake of the chili. Back they go, retreat, retreat, retreat; not in a line anymore but safe again. Cans of beans and chopped tomatoes go on top when the frying is done, and the spots that spit out of the pan onto the cooker and tiles now are more gluey-red, like nosebleed snot. Magic ingredients next: a tin of tomato soup plus a mega-squirt of ketchup. And look at this — there's even a real chili in the back of the fridge. Chilies are peppers' hottest cousins, Son: they're related. Dad chops this one up very small and we both try a piece and my tongue is fine to start with until it's not, and then there's nothing to be done about it: even the glass of water Dad gives me tastes like malting larvae. He lets me stir the pot to take my mind off it, so long as I'm careful not to pull the whole boiling lot on top of my head and end up scalded and scarred for life, and while I'm stirring he puts the rice on and has a second bite of chili and starts crying again.

Simmering is quite boring.

But I'm allowed to grate the cheese so long as I do it without shredding my fingertips because nobody wants to eat pink cheese, Son, and before long there isn't any space in the sink which means we're nearly ready.

Dad frowns at his phone again. — We might as well make a start, he says.

We do, and it's fine: I can't even really taste the black twisty bits of onion. And since I know it makes him happy I manage to eat every last spoonful, which works, because yes, yes, yes: ice cream! With extras! This time it's peanut butter and chopped-up bits of something he fetches from his coat pocket: a Mars bar!

— Hell, we've earned it, Son.

I'm halfway through my bowl when Mum comes in. Dad turns and says, — Hello, but stops short of what he was going to say next when he sees Grandma Lynne walk through the door behind her. Both Mum and Grandma Lynne have a little look around the kitchen before anyone speaks next. It's Dad, pretend-happy: — I know, I know. We've been reenacting the Somme. Don't worry, I'll sort it out afterward.