What I Did (5 page)

— Grab some toys and play downstairs, says Dad, using his highly reasonable voice.

— Do I have to?

— Yes.

— Now?

— When do you think? Mum's been up all night.

— But I was going to make an explosive tent marble run.

— A what? Do it downstairs.

— But I need the ingredients.

— Well fetch them then.

— But you don't understand.

— She's tired, Son.

— But you could do communications downstairs.

— Billy.

— But for a tent marble run I need the radiator thing.

— Enough buts!

— But.

His face is going hard again and Mum has already trudged up the first few steps and I can't help it, it's not me, it's my feet, they just rush up past her stamping, stamp, stamp, STAMP. Quite often this makes him or her come after me very quickly and get cross, but today they don't, and strangely this feels quite annoying, like when you jump on a Ribena carton and it goes hiss instead of pop. I don't get the things I want out of my bedroom, I get pointless things instead, a bathrobe, a babyish book, and some socks.

— I only need a few hours, Billy, says Mum as I barge past her again, and that makes it worse because she uses her voice with cracks in so the inside of me feels sort of melted and scooped out. I nearly say sorry but there's been enough sorry already today, and anyway it's Dad's fault and he deserves it. Still, I don't stamp going downstairs because it's not working. You wouldn't jump on a hissy Ribena box twice either would you? No. Not unless you were an amazing idiot.

 

I go into the front room and lie on the floor with my head on one side looking under the sofa. When the tide goes out it leaves seaweed in a line on the beach and in this way it is quite like the vacuum cleaner.

I'm still lying there when the phone rings. Not the important phone Dad keeps in his pocket, or even the one Mum carries in her bag, but the old incredibly loud one that lives on its little stand in the hall. It normally only goes off on birthdays when Auntie Lesley calls so it's exciting to hear it and Dad does come two-stepping downstairs as if he's pleased. Only he isn't. His — Hello? comes out more annoyed than excited. Perhaps he's worried the loudness might have woken up Mum. I sit on the bottom step to watch this fascinating development.

— Calling from where? Dad says.

The little voice on the other end does some tweeting I can't hear.

— Is this some sort of windup?

— Chirp, chirp.

— How did you get this number?

— Tweet.

— Of course I'm in. You're talking to me, aren't you?

— Chirp.

— No. No. Absolutely not.

— Ch—

— Good-bye.

Dad bangs the phone back into its holder quite hard but his face doesn't look fierce; it looks . . . whitely frightened. He grips his forehead and stands still for a strangely long time. Our cat Richard is amazing at standoffs so leopards are probably good at them too. When I say, — Who was that? Dad looks at me as if I've asked a particularly hard question like the one about the difference between termites and ants, but we don't look up the answer to this one on the computer. Instead Dad says, — Nobody, and goes back upstairs.

 

And later he's still up there when the doorbell rings. I'm not waiting on the bottom stair anymore though. I'm sitting on the edge of the armchair nearest the television which is on because I know how to turn it on now. And the sound is turned almost off, too, because I know how to do that as well. I'm secretly watching an episode of new-series
Batman
which is quite interesting. Suddenly: ring-a-ding! Very quickly like a rat up a pipe I press the Off button and rush out of the front room to answer the door. This is helpful both to Mum and Dad and it is also necessary camouflage. By the way, did you know that the Off and the On buttons are exactly the same one on our television? Well they are, and it isn't confusing.

I open the door and look up and see that there is a lady with a butterfly on the edge of her coat smiling down at me. I do a smile back. The butterfly isn't realistic. It is made from wool or something heavy and bobbly. A knitted butterfly! There's no way it could ever fly properly.

I don't know this woman.

When a person you don't know comes to your door you have to act the right way, which means stand up straight and look at them in the eye, and you have to say the right thing, which is Hello can I help. But there are two things about that. The first is that it's incredibly hard to say things to somebody you don't know while standing up straight and looking at them in the eye, because you always actually want to say nothing and go away. And the second thing is that it is even harder to speak to them normally if they have a knitted flightless butterfly stuck on them and lips which are a quite gentle pink like the clematis, because then it's impossible not to get distracted and start thinking of more interesting things instead, like Hey that butterfly must be incredibly disappointed because there's no way at all that it's ever going to flap up high enough to get at the nectar in that clematis lip with its prebosc-thing. Actually there are three things about saying Hello, how can I help, to strange adults, not just two, I was wrong. The third thing that makes it hard or even pointless is that you know what they're going to say back to you anyway. They're going to say Can you fetch your mum or dad please, or something similar, and that is exactly what this woman with the butterfly goes and says.

— Hello. Is Mum or Dad in?

— Yes.

— Great. Could you fetch them for me, please?

— Which one?

— How about Mum?

— No.

The woman does a small quite nice laugh and says. — Why's that then?

— She's asleep.

— I see. And is your dad awake?

I don't have to answer that question though because at that moment Dad walks up behind me and says, — Just about.

The woman smiles from him to me and back again. She is good at smiling.

— How can I help? says Dad, rustling me behind him.

The butterfly does actually lift up a bit now because the woman is taking an I'm-about-to-jump-into-this-pool-and-the-water-looks-pretty-cold-but-I'll-do-it-you-just-watch-me deep breath.

— We spoke earlier, she says. Sheila Hudson, from the Council's ChildSafe team.

 

Do you like wine and beer?

I do because I am advancing.

But of course I don't drink beer or wine because I am only six and I don't want my family to go to prison. So you might think hey how can he say he likes wine and beer when he doesn't even drink it? I can answer that question two ways.

No, three.

The first way is this: Mum and Dad and especially Dad drink quite a lot of wine and beer and I like it when they do because it relaxes them at the end of the day and there's nothing wrong with that, Son, is there, especially because when you are a bit relaxed you let people stay up later than normal and watch extra television.

The second way is this: although I don't drink wine or beer myself, they do, which I've already said, and I also said when they drink it they let me stay up late sometimes, but I haven't yet said that they do put me to bed eventually, because they have to, because you can't stay up all night, because if you didn't sleep it would flatten your batteries fatally, and well . . . I can't remember the reason. No, yes, I can. The reason is it smells nice. Yes, wine and beer smell lovely when Mum and Dad kiss you with it at the end of the day. Very cheerful. Lights-out, Son.

And the third way is a secret but I will tell you anyway so long as you don't call the police. Dad sometimes lets me have a sip of his beer or wine to test whether I like them and it's true, I like both, because of my advancing test buds.

 

Dad goes into the kitchen with the butterfly woman. I walk into it behind them. Look, there's my reflection in the bin. I have a stretched head and a stretched body, too, particularly when I stick my arms out. This is what I must look like if I am hugging a tree and you are its trunk, I expect. Wood has eyes called knots. But I'm not close enough so I go a bit closer and it's quite hard to see all of me then. Impossible, in fact, when I'm actually hugging it.

— Billy? says Dad. — Leave the bin alone.

I un-hug it and step back trying fierce faces for intimidating purposes.

Dad laughs. I look at him. He's already stopped. He'd forgotten to be serious but now just as quickly he remembers again and whap, he's got his I'm-working-run-along impression back on.

Butterfly woman's smile stays put.

— Upstairs. Carry on with your game, says Dad.

— But I wasn't up—

— Now.

Sometimes it's best even if you can win a battle with facts or logics not to bother so as Dad says, — What's all this about then? To the woman I beat a treat because yes it's true animals aren't like humans, they don't fight unless they have to. I pull the door nearly shut behind me as I go.

But I don't go all the way upstairs, no, just up some of them, and then I stop on the stair I always stop on, the one with the loose banister. Rattle rattle. Somebody kicked this banister out once and that somebody was Dad and he was sorry so he stuck it back in with glue again. Slash windows are much more difficult to repair. But sadly even banisters are tricky if you use the wrong sort of glue, or not enough of the right kind, and now the banister is loose again. Still, you wouldn't know it was unless you wriggled it a bit and why would you do that?

Shall I tell you?

Baddies!

Imagine if you were in the house upstairs at night and you heard a suspicious noise coming from downstairs. Well then you might creep downstairs very stealthy, standing on the bits of the steps that join onto the wall, because those bits hardly ever creak, and missing out the second step altogether because sadly all of that step creaks all the time. And when you got to this step here instead of thinking oh Christ I should have brought a light saver or at least a sword you could gently wriggle the banister back like this and un-slot it from the bottom bit, and that would be truly excellent because then you would have a big knobbly stick secret weapon! Take that, baddy! Whack, duck, jab, spin, poke, hit, slash, knockout!

But be careful while you are attacking because you must never stick sticks in your eyes.

I re-slot the banister into its hole which is also called a socket, like you have for eyes and plugs and hips. Did you know that gibbons have ball-and-socket joints in their wrists? This makes them the most outstanding of all animals who make their home in the tree canopy. Hush now, Son. I can hear voices through the leaves.

— That is absurd.

— We have to take all such reports very seriously. I'm sure you understand. We have a duty to investigate all claims of this nature.

— What did you say the woman's name was?

— She's asked to remain anonymous.

— What?

— We have to protect her identity, if that's what she wants.

— I'll bet she does.

Dad pauses. It's not a what-shall-I-say-next pause, though, but the I-better-not-say-anything-for-a-moment opposite. I rattle the banister again. Then I pull it out. Mark in Year One dislocated his thumb falling off his scooter once. Gently: knock, knock, knock. The other banisters are a bit like a xylophone for this one, only all the notes are the same. The pause stops.

— Anonymous, Dad says.

— I understand how . . . difficult this must be for you. My advice is that you cooperate fully with the process. Doing so will help your case. All I'm asking in the first instance is for you to explain your version of events, and allow me to talk to the child in question. Once I've done that I'll have everything I need to make my report. Then we'll be able to take the matter forward appropriately.

— Appropriately.

— You could begin by telling me the child's name.

— I could. Another pause, then: — What did this woman report to you exactly? What did she say?

Dad's voice is very loud even though the door is half shut. It sounds as if he's throwing bits of brick into a bucket. When Butterfly woman replies it sounds very different indeed, all smooth and round. You have to plant daffodil bulbs gently in soft soil.

— As I say, if you could begin by telling me your version of what happened this morning in Alexandra Lane, adjacent to the park, that would be the best way forward.

— You keep saying that. Version. It's as if you doubt me before I've even opened my mouth. VERSION?

Just then, as I'm about to start rattling the xylophone banisters again, I realize I need the loo.

 

I never do number-twos at school. Don't ask me why because I won't tell you, just like I won't tell anyone at school when I need to do number-twos. It's easy: instead of saying anything I just stop myself needing to go until I get home. But sometimes I can only stop myself needing to go until Dad comes to collect me and then I have to tell him I need to do number-twos. It is better to say so when you're still in the school because Dad says — Righto! very cheerfully when there are people nearby and besides they have toilets there. If you can wait till home that's fine, too. But the worst place to say I need to do number-twos is halfway home because then we have to stop at the café or the woody bit by the park and although he might say — Righto! let's do a sneaky one, he might also say, — Can't you wait? and if you say — No, he might do the thing with his teeth and say — For Christ's sake, why oh why didn't you just do one before we set off? Cows do manure and birds do guano. I already told you about their islands.

 

There are footsteps behind me and hello what's this, it's Mum coming down early.

— What's going on? she asks. — Where's Dad?