What I Did (11 page)

Eyes open, whap!

This news that I don't have to leap out of bed immediately is so exciting that I immediately do leap out of my bed.

And I didn't wake Dad up early today either because it's late and I've only just woken up so I can't have. The news just keeps on getting better!

But have you ever had cold hands? I have, and once Mum suggested that a good way to warm them up would be to put them in a basin of warm water, but sadly I let the hot tap run for too long before I pressed the plug lever down and the water in the basin wasn't warm anymore because it was hot. Only I didn't know that. Basin sounds a bit like bison and yet I don't think you get water bison only water buffalo which doesn't matter. What mattered was that I plopped my hands deeply into the basin of hot water without knowing what I was doing, and unfortunately my hands were too cold to tell me about the mistake quickly enough. They sort of knew something was wrong, and so did I, but it was like we were shouting at each other across a windy park. What's that, hands? I can't quite hear you. Shout louder! Then, and it felt like ages later, but Mum said it was probably just a few seconds, my hands started screaming at me, and I knew exactly what a stupid idiot I had been, and I burst into tears.

And that's exactly how I feel this morning after I realize I haven't woken Dad up early, which is good, but suddenly strangely bad. Because, because, because . . . because I woke him up early the day before, which was awful, because of something I can't quite remember which happened after that, until I nearly can, and then do . . . which makes the whole thing come screaming back at me very loudly and with agony, too.

For breakfast Dad makes porridge with golden stirrups. I always want a second spoonful of stirrups because the first one is inefficient and normally Dad says no way, one's enough, Son, and then gives me a second spoonful anyway, but today he gives me spoon two before I've even asked, which is so excellent that I nearly ask for a third, but I strain myself very wisely and don't. He is concentrating on the radio, which is full of people interrupting each other because it is the morning. Today they are arguing about the new clear threat which the first man says isn't going to go away on its own. The allies have to show we mean business. But we don't even know for sure they have the capability says the other man. There's not enough evidence.

— Precisely, mutters Dad.

— Like for God, I say.

— What's that?

— No evidence.

Dad laughs unfunnily and says, — Exactly. But it doesn't stop people believing.

 

After breakfast we take the bus into town. I sit next to Dad on the window side and he looks out, too, leaning on the top of my head with his chin. It is not scratchy this morning because he has shaved it.

Shop windows are like televisions, very full of adverts. The bus stops by one which shows a massive picture of a lady on a beach bending over with a measuring tape around her waist. Dad uses his for slash windows. We wait for people to climb on and off which is called boarding and is very boring, and I stare at the picture and try hard to work out what it is trying to make me want. Not the measuring tape because of the beach, and not the beach because of the measuring tape, which only leaves the bendy thin lady. She is staring past the bus with a two-headlamp smile on her face, very pleased.

— We don't want one of those, do we?

— What's that?

— A bendy lady.

Dad laughs and says, — Oh I don't know.

— We've already got Mum.

He stops laughing and says, — Of course, you're right.

Then his phone rings and he checks it and winces and sucks in his cheeks and lets the ringing happen again before he presses a button anyway and holds the phone to his ear with his eyes shut and says very cheerfully, — Morgan, hi! So, where do we stand?

The bus rolls forward. Good-bye bendy woman. Dad's good hand is on my knee. It stretches into a waiting starfish, much bigger than Lizzie's, then gradually balls up into a fist.

 

We arrive at the hospital and go slowly up the front steps with Dad still talking very pretend cheerfully on his phone, and we come to a halt in the hall. Actually it's not a hall but a bigger bit called a lob-in where they lob in all the sick people. In you go, go on, into the bright lights and excellent colorful pictures. Here's one of a whale grinning. But sadly the artist got the eye wrong. It's way too near the blowhole and it's all long and slitty. His brush must have slipped. As a result the whale's smile looks a bit fake. Dad's phone snaps shut behind me so I turn round and tell him about a superb species of fast-swimming and edible fish.

— What's that?

— Red snappers. David Attenborough says —

— Not now, Billy. He shoves his phone hard into his pocket and takes me over to some plastic chairs which are cleverly bolted onto the floor. It is all squares. You could play chess in here if you had any pieces. Chess is like kitchen roll, very absorbing. It will take your mind off anything.

— Do they have any pieces? I ask Dad.

— Enough about species, Son.

— No, no, no. If we have a game we can mop up the bad news from your phone.

He plonks me onto a plastic chair and squats down in front of me. In baseball, which they play in America, which is near Cornwall, they have a man who squats like this the whole time. Dad shakes his head and pinches the top of his nose.

— Okay, Billy. Listen. This is important.

— I know, I say.

— We're going to see a doctor.

— I know. And I'm going to tell the truth.

— Right. Good. The doctor wants to look at you and ask you about your bruises. How you got them. And it's very important that you tell him—

— The truth.

— Yes, the truth. The
simple
truth. No stories with it, okay. Just answer the questions. Honestly. And
briefly
.

— What's briefly?

— In as few words as possible. No wittering on about nature or whatever. Clear? The plain truth.

— All clear, I say. But the truth doesn't always help. You told me that —

— Did I? I did. Well . . . not always doesn't mean never. Understand?

— Yes.

— Good, right. He looks me straight in the face. Our eyes are the same gray color because mine came out of his, but right now I think his are more shiny, like cutlery. A cutlass is a type of sword but it doesn't cut less. — I can't believe this is happening, he whispers. He looks away for a moment. When he turns back he's smiling at me to be reassuring but it doesn't work because the smile is as fake as the whale's.

 

Soon we are in the waiting area with the babyish Thomas the Tank Engine toys and boring magazines and, look, here's Butterfly, she's come, too. Dad spots her pushing through the swing door and goes stiff-tall in his little seat because like a dog or a deer or a rabbit or any creature really his body movements have many purposes, including for saying things like Oh no, danger danger, don't come any closer, stay clear!

Butterfly doesn't get it, though. She marches straight over, smiles, and sits down opposite us, bag on her lap, a corner of jeans-folder poking out of it, very alert, like an Alsatian's ear.

— Great, she says. — I'm so glad we're all here.

Dad nods.

Butterfly leans forward toward me and says, — Dr. Adebayo is a very nice man.

— How long will this take? Dad asks.

— Not long, she says, still looking at me. — He's a very gentle doctor. Do you know, he even keeps his stethoscope on the radiator, to make sure the silvery end is warm!

— What's a—

— He'll just want to ask you some questions and look you over like I did yesterday, okay?

— It's a medical instrument for listening to chests, Billy, explains Dad.

— Oh. I thought . . .

— It was some sort of dinosaur. 'Fraid not. No.

— Carnivores use slashing motions—

— Not now, Billy.

Butterfly is still smiling but with confused eyes. She goes off to the lady at the desk with her bag bouncing under her arm. In Scotland they play bagpipes by squeezing their elbows together tightly. Top marks, Butterfly, inflatable.

 

The doctor appears. He offers Dad a hand to shake, then switches to the other one with a silly-me laugh when he sees Dad's red plaster cast. Very friendly. He takes us into another room, which is in fact two rooms connected by a door with a window in it. The door is open. Here's another little low table. This one has Legos on it. Sadly the bricks are too big for highly detailed work, but never mind, I'll manage.

— Build me a bridge, says Dad.

— Okay.

— And while Billy's doing that, says the doctor, — perhaps you and I could have a chat through here.

Dad pats me on the head and follows the doctor through the door, which swings shut. The glass has little wire squares through it, which would be great if you wanted a massive game of noughts and crosses, but I prefer chess, and for that you'd have to color half the squares in black, like the floor. Dad is standing very straight. He looks as if his belt is done up too tightly; I'd like to go and tell him to undo it a notch, but I know I'm not supposed to interrupt so I don't.

He's explaining something very stiff and quiet to start with. I can't hear it. So I construct some pillars for my bridge.

But then he says things loudly enough for me to hear.

— Of course not!

— Then don't in sinew ate it!

— That's ridiculous!

I need longer bits than they have here to connect the pillars up but these short bits will work if I join them with reinforcements so I keep trying anyway. At least I have something to show Dad when he eventually comes out, still done up too tightly, but pleased with me all the same; I know because he kneels next to me and squeezes my hand long-short-long. It's a sign.

The doctor appears in the doorway.

— Okay if I have a chat with Billy next? he asks Dad.

— Yes. Leave that, Billy. Come with us.

— If you've no objections, and Billy doesn't mind, it might be helpful to talk to him one to one. Just through here.

Dad lets out a sort of low sharp sigh and says through gritty teeth, — Of course. As I said. We have absolutely nothing to hide.

— Very good.

— I'll be just here, Son, Dad says. — No need for you to worry about a thing. Okay? Five minutes. With the doctor, here. Just be . . . I'll be right . . . outside.

— Okay, I say, and I give him an I-know-what-to-do wink.

 

The doctor has a lovely watch, very silvery, with a red hand that goes round smoothly without stopping. Actually, looking carefully, I see that it moves in tiny jerks. Tickety-tick. Seconds are short things. Very
brief
.

— So what have we here, then? Let's just lift that up and I'll help you take it off. Now those. There we go. How old are you then, Billy? Let me guess.

It's an easy question to start with, so I answer: — Six.

— Is that right?

I've told him the truth but he must think I am lying and he does, yes, because look, he's checking something on a screen.

— Well then. Six! Let's have a look at you. Turn this way. And lift up your arm. And let me just look at . . . Yes, yes. That's right, I see. You've been in the wars, haven't you?

— No.

— Does this hurt when I press here?

— No.

— And this?

— No.

— Well you're a brave boy saying it doesn't. This scrape here looks nasty. And . . . recent. Can you tell me about it?

— Yes.

— Good. Good boy.

I look at the doctor's face. He has very dark eyes, like tarmacs.

— Well then. How did it happen?

— Actually I've forgotten.

— Well, I bet you can remember if you try. Have a think about it for a moment, and then tell me how you got hurt here, and here, and here. Can you do that for me?

— Yes.

— Excellent.

Once there was a very rich man who pressed eyes into the tarmacs of roads. Cats' eyes. It must have been a hot day when he did it because they stuck in and they're still there, winking. Everyone gave him ten pence afterward to say thank you, well done, now we can see, marvelous, you deserve to be rich.

— Tell me, then. Was it all at the same time?

— Yes.

— And when was that, then?

— Yesterday.

— Yesterday. Good boy. And . . . what happened yesterday?

Last summer some of the tarmacs on our road melted. I know because I trod black stuff into Cicely and Lizzie's house. It wasn't my fault but I felt bad. Their house is actually a part of a house. A part of one.

— Where were you, then?

— Out.

— Out. Whereabouts?

— Outside.

— Okay. Outside. At the park, perhaps. Did this happen in the park?

— No.

— Okay. It's okay. You can take your time. It didn't happen in a play park. On a road?

— No.

(And it's really quite interesting this, using the littlest words possible for my answers, while being truthful, too. It is interesting because otherwise it would be very boring, because Butterfly and Mum have already asked about these bruises and now that Dad's given me permission I'm allowed to do what I want to do which is say as little about them as possible. It actually happened on the pavement but he hasn't asked me that.)

— Was there anybody with you when you got hurt? asks the doctor. As well as tarmacs for eyes he has lovely brown skin on his arms, and undone shirtsleeves rolled up above his elbows, and his big silvery watch slides up and down his quite thin wrist when he moves his hand about. I put my head on one side to look at it and the next thing I know he's undoing the strap bit. — Here, he says. You can have a closer look at it if you want.