Feather Boy Read online

  “You’re joking,” she says.

  A moment later I’m face to face with Ram-Rod. Close to, she looks surprisingly frail. Her body so thin and bloodless, she must, I think, be sitting upright by force of will alone.

  “I’m Robert,” I say, extending a polite hand.

  “Edith,” she replies, ignoring the hand. “Edith Sorrel.”

  My arm drops uselessly and me with it. I’m back on the floor.

  Then, like the cavalry, the tea trolley arrives. It comes with clink and clatter and shout and “Thank God” from Albert. Catherine, obviously taken aback that tea can be so early, suggests we all use the time to get “better acquainted”. We know what this means because Liz Finch briefed us on the bus.

  “Remember your Elder may be deaf,” she said. “Just ask short, simple questions. Do you have children? Grandchildren? A husband/wife? What job did you use to do? And speak up.”

  “Do you have children?” I ask Edith Sorrel.

  “No.”

  I pause, leave a gap. This the art of conversation, you know. You say something. They say something. You say something.

  Edith says nothing.

  “A husband?” I enquire hopefully.

  “No.”

  Another pause. Longer this time. I watch the trolley coming, so very slowly round towards us.

  “Looking forward to tea?”

  “No.”

  The trolley passes us. The staff obviously know that Edith does not take tea, she does not take biscuits. The biscuits are those oblong ones which say “Nice” on them and are covered in sugar. I watch them go Weasel’s way.

  “Did you have a job?”

  Behind me I can hear Kate’s Albert. He had a job. He worked “in sawmills” and then “on the building”, he got paid sixpence a day.

  “How much is sixpence?” asks Kate.

  “Eh?” says Albert.

  “Sixpence – how much was it worth?”

  “Three loaves of bread, that’s what sixpence were.”

  “No,” says Edith Sorrel. “I did not have a job. Young women were not encouraged to have jobs.”

  And then I think she’s not really trying and it’s not fair and anyhow I’m cross about the biscuits, so I say: “Any special reason why you didn’t want a girl?”

  “No.”

  “OK. Any special reason for wanting me?”

  She stares at me. Under her gaze, I feel quite transparent. As though she’s looking straight through me and out the other side.

  “I mean me,” I persist, “me rather than any other boy?”

  “No,” says Edith Sorrel.

  “Well,” says Catherine, as the tea trolley finally beats a retreat, “I’d like to tell you all a story.”

  “Oh aye,” says Albert.

  Edith Sorrel clasps her hands in her lap. And I have this weird sensation that she’s holding herself, trying to comfort herself.

  “It’s about a silent prince and the young woman who wants to free him from the curse that has rendered him mute. The Prince’s mother and father, the King and Queen, have promised the riches of their kingdom to anyone who can make the young man speak. But for those who try and fail, the penalty is to be instant death.”

  “Is it Neighbours?” asks Mavis.

  “You daft brush,” says Albert.

  “Well, the young woman knew it would take more than skill or cunning or luck to make the Prince speak, for many had gone before her and as many had lost their lives. So the young woman took herself into the forest where her grandparents lived. And as they sat around the cottage after supper, she told them of her plan.

  “‘Oh my beloved,’ cried her grandmother, ‘you know not what you ask.’

  “‘Indeed I do, Grandmother,’ said the girl. ‘And that is why I’m here. I have come to listen and to learn. For you and Grandfather have lived long in the forest and understand how it is that night turns into day and winter into spring. And if this were not enough, you have lived long in each other’s hearts and so understand the dark and light of love, and if this were not enough you have read many books and told many stories and so know what makes a beginning and what an end. I beg you, Grandparents, share what you can with me, for I am eager to know what you know and to carry your wisdom to the Prince.’”

  “Nurse,” cries Mavis. “Shut the curtains!”

  “I’ve nearly finished now,” says Catherine, gently. “If you want to sleep. But you see, the grandparents did tell the girl their wisdom. All night long they spoke and she listened. And I was hoping we could do something similar here.”

  “What?” says Albert.

  “She wants you to tell the children your secrets,” shouts Matron.

  “No I won’t indeed. They’d be shocked.”

  “Not secrets,” says Catherine. “Wisdoms. Things you’ve learnt over the years.”

  “Not to be nosey,” says Weasel’s Elder. “That’s what. Mind your own business. That’s what. Little piggies have big ears. That’s what.”

  “Well, that’s a start,” says Catherine.

  “That’s what,” says Weasel emphatically.

  “Wesley…” says Liz Finch.

  “I’m just repeating the wisdom,” says Weasel. “Learning from Dulcie here. That right, Dulcie?”

  “Cheeky little blighter,” says Dulcie.

  “Anything you’d share with me,” I say to Edith Sorrel, “if I was going to be beheaded tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  I put my finger to my throat and make the sound of ripping flesh. “That’s me gone then.”

  “What?” For the first time she seems caught off-guard.

  “Dead,” I repeat. “I’m dead. Just twelve years old and dead. D.E.A.D. Dead. Finished. Kaput. Head on the carpet.”

  “Stop it,” says Edith Sorrel. “Stop it at once.”

  “Can’t stop it. Sorry, without The Wisdom, I’m a goner. Didn’t Catherine say? Just one or two old forest truths and I’ll be OK. You can save me. You do want to save me, don’t you?”

  She gives me that stare. “Of course. I’d give my life to save you. You know that.”

  “Oh. Right. Great. Well, you’ve got to tell me something important then.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know! You’re supposed to be telling me. Whatever the most important thing in your life is. Was. Whatever.”

  “Top Floor Flat. Chance House, twenty-six St Albans.”

  “What?”

  “You can go there. Walk. It’s not far.”

  Geography has never exactly been my strong point but I’d say St Albans has to be two and a half hours’ drive from here. So maybe Niker’s right about the vegetable shop after all.

  “Sure,” I say. “I’ll go right after school.”

  “You’re such a good boy,” she says and then she reaches up towards my head and gives me this little dry, tender tap. “Beautiful,” she murmurs, hand in my hair, “beautiful.”

  I pull away. “It’s horrid,” I say, “my hair.” And I tell her how they used to call me “Chickie”.

  “I don’t see Chickie,” she says and then: “Pass me my bag.”

  Jammed down the side of the seat is one of those triangular witches’ bags, faded black leather with a large gold clasp. I extract it and hand it to her as instructed. From the musty interior she draws out a mirror in a suede case.

  “Now,” she wipes the surface with the back of her liver-spotted hand. “What do you see?”

  She holds the mirror up to her own face. And this is what I see: A spooky old bat with snow-white hair, weird black eyebrows and about a million wrinkles.

  “Come on,” she urges, “come on.”

  “I just see a lady.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Well an old… erm, an elderly lady then.”

  “Liar,” she says. “Tell me what you see.”

  But I can’t.

  So she says, “You see an old hag. A wrinkled old hag. Yes?”

  �
�Maybe.”

  “So do I.” She puts away the mirror. “It always surprises me. You see, I expect to see the girl I was at twenty. With skin and hair like yours. And yet whenever I look – there’s the old hag.” She laughs quietly.

  “Right.”

  “So you’ll go to Chance House for me?”

  I’m not sure where the “so” comes from in this. There doesn’t seem any “so” about it. But I nod like the sad guy I am.

  “Good. Thank you.”

  “Everything OK?” asks Catherine, coming by.

  “Oh yeah. Great.”

  “Good.” She moves on but not before Albert bursts into song:

  “Run rabbit, run rabbit, run run run.”

  “Stop it,” says Edith Sorrel. “Stop that at once!”

  “Don’t be afraid of the farmer’s gun!” squawks up Mavis.

  “Right on,” says Niker.

  “He’ll get by…” continues Albert in a gravelly lilt, “without a rabbit pie…”

  “Stop the singing,” says Edith. “Don’t sing. I asked you to stop.”

  “Ole misery guts,” mutters Albert.

  “Run,” Niker encourages the Chicken, “run rabbit…”

  Edith draws herself to her feet. She is tall. She reaches for her stick. For one insane moment I think she intends to hit someone. But of course she only means to walk away.

  “Run,” sings Albert jovially to her stiff, retreating back, “rabbit, run, run, run.”

  I follow Edith into the corridor. Each stride looks painful.

  “Can I help?”

  “No,” she says “No. Go away. Leave me alone.”

  “Don’t mind her,” says Matron. “She doesn’t mean anything by it.”

  But, as Edith shuts the door of her room, I have this horrible feeling that she does mean something by it. All of it.

  3

  I don’t go to Chance House. Not right after school anyway. But I find myself wanting to go. The whole walk home to Grantley Street I keep thinking, “I ought to be going to Chance House. Why aren’t I going to Chance House?” And it’s not just because I told some batty old woman that I would go, it’s because I feel, about as powerfully as I’ve ever felt about anything, that the house is standing somewhere close, waiting for me. Maybe being batty is catching.

  Grantley Street is a thin strip of houses, wedged between two roads. Our front door opens straight on to the pavement of Grantley and our rear patio on to The Lane, which is lucky considering it could open on to The Dog Leg. The Dog Leg can be scary. More about that later.

  Our back gate is a nine-foot barricade of wood with a deranged row of nails banged in along the top. It’s about two years since Mum made with the hammer, so the points are a bit rusty now. I perform complicated manoeuvres with the gate lock, the bolts and chain and then, once inside, remove a loose brick from the garden wall to get at the house keys. A moment later I’m letting myself into the kitchen.

  “I can see you,” I announce in a loud voice.

  I wish I could stop doing this. I’m not quite sure who I’m expecting to find in our kitchen. Niker. A burglar. Dad. But it’s part of the routine now, a habit, a mantra. Saying it protects me, gives me one-up on Whoever’s There. Proves I can’t be startled, taken advantage of. Trouble is, I have to do it in every room in the house.

  “I can see you!” I yell into the sitting room. Then I thunder upstairs and repeat myself in Mum’s bedroom, in mine and finally in the bathroom. This little quirk started about three years ago, when Dad left and Mum took the extra shifts at the hospital. “No choice, now,” Mum said. The good news is I don’t do the cupboards any more. I used to shout into the larder, Mum’s wardrobe and the airing cupboard. This has to be progress.

  Of course, I don’t yell if Mum’s home. Well, I did once, blasted into the kitchen shrieking, “I can see you!” at the top of my voice. Mum was sat at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee.

  “That’s lucky,” she said, “or you’d need new glasses.”

  They call it obsessive-compulsive behaviour. Or compulsive-obsessive or Chance House Bonkers or something. People do it with hand-washing. I read that in the newspapers. They wash their hands again and again and again, four times, six times, twenty times. Then as soon as their hands are dry, it’s back to the basin again, wash, wash, wash. Washing until they bleed. By comparison I have to be a mild case. Almost normal in fact. Norbert Normal.

  Anyhow. I’m in the house. I’d like to tell you that I get a chocolate biscuit and then go straight on to the computer. Well, I do get the biscuit but then I go upstairs to paint my models. Niker, when he came round, called me a “Saddo”. I didn’t tell him we don’t have a computer because of the money. I told him I like painting model soldiers. Which, as it happens, I do. That was a little while after the Grape Incident. Which took place in The Dog Leg. Anyway, I didn’t tell Mum anything about anything. But she’s not stupid. She’d watched me avoiding The Dog Leg, even though it’s the quickest way to school. And one afternoon she asked:

  “Is someone on your back?”

  “No.”

  “Someone bullying you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to invite anyone home for tea?”

  “No!”

  “If someone’s on your back,” she said, “you can always try to make a friend of them. Ask their advice. Get them to help you with something. Invite them home. It sometimes helps.”

  “Right.”

  How come grown-ups are always so smart about your life, but not quite so smart about their own? Slap, slap, slap. That was Dad hitting her on the landing. Well, hitting her on the face actually, out on the landing. Or maybe on the shoulders. I didn’t really want to look. I could hear plenty enough. Anyhow, I didn’t notice her trying to make him into a friend next morning.

  So what happens? Niker comes home. I didn’t think for a moment he’d accept the invitation. In fact, it took me three weeks to pluck up courage to ask him, and even then I had to write the time and date down and pass it to him like some secret note. I thought he’d laugh. But he just looked at me and said: “Yeah. Why not.” Of course Mum had planned to be there, but she hadn’t reckoned on a juggernaut jackknifing on the A23 and ploughing into six other vehicles. Like every other member of nursing staff in Sussex, she was called into Accident and Emergency. So when we got home there was a note on the table and a lasagna in the oven. Niker doesn’t like lasagna.

  “No computer and no food,” said Niker. “On the other hand – no parents.”

  I had never intended to show Niker the lead soldiers – the ones that were my father’s when he was a child. Dad had bought them in Willie Sureen, Sloane Street, with his own pocket money on one of the rare occasions he’d accompanied my grandfather on business to London. No more than half a thumb high, each man is intricately cast, from the sharp tip of his spear to the insignia on his tricorn or the buttons on his spats. Highlanders of the ’45 rebellion who died at Culloden, French officers who fought against Wolfe in Canada in the Seven Years War, a single Grenadier guard on his knees with a bayonet, a little drummer boy. Each delicately painted in Humbrol enamel, every silver belt buckle, cross-gartered stocking, black sporran tassel executed perfectly, every soldier a tribute to the skill of my father, who has such large, ungainly hands.

  No, I never meant to show Niker these soldiers, which I keep wrapped in tissue paper in the Huntley and Palmer Superior Reading Biscuits tin in which Dad presented them to me on my eighth birthday. I intended to show him the small, less detailed plastic models, also my father’s, from the American War of Independence. Cavalry, artillery, foot soldiers, painted more sporadically by Dad, and left in their grey or blue plastic for me to finish. And painstakingly, with my sable brushes and thinners, I have been finishing them. The rifles of these soldiers are flexible, durable, whereas the smallest, most accidental, tweak can snap the sword of one of the lead soldiers.

  So there they were that day, the plastic models, on my de
sk. The horses, the riders, the gun carriages, the infantry and even one or two odd cowboys, a belly-scuttling Indian, a First World War soldier, titbits to entice. And the paint of course. And the brushes. I knew it was a risk. But that was what I was doing – risking.

  Niker scanned my room. “What’s in that tin?”

  The Huntley and Palmer tin. Had I been looking? How could he possibly have known? Why hadn’t I hidden it, stashed it under the bed, secreted it in Mum’s room?

  “What tin?”

  “This tin.”

  I feel cold even now when I think of him opening it. His hands on the stiff, slightly rusty lid. Him pulling and peering and me just standing there. The tissue was discoloured, brittle.

  “What have we here, Norbert?”

  He drew out a Highlander, red jacket, green kilt, tam-o-shanter, a running man, heels kicking, thin bladed bayonet to the fore.

  “Jeez,” said Niker, looking at the exquisitely painted criss-cross leg garters, “did you do this?”

  “No, my dad.”

  “It’s good.” And he put the soldier down, turned it gently this way and that, admired it. “Very good.”

  He unwrapped and looked at every soldier in the same way, taking time and care, asking me what I knew about the uniforms.

  Two hours later Mum found us both sitting at my desk, paint brushes in hand. The lasagna, which I’d forgotten to turn down, was burnt, but there were fifteen chestnut horses with black bridles, blue saddle-cloths and fifteen horse stands. Niker had painted mud and grass on his stands. And also flowers.

  Mum’s smile was so broad. But premature. Nothing changed at school. In fact it remained so much the same I sometimes think that Niker never came to my house at all. But then I sometimes think that my father, with those heavy hands, could never have painted the Highlanders. And he did.

  So here I am again, sitting at my desk with the smell of turps about me and thinking about Niker because it’s preferable to thinking about what I’m actually thinking about. Which is Chance House.

  You know how it is when there’s something niggling you, and you do your best to refuse it, chain it up in some dark and faraway place, only to have it come yap yap yapping back at you like some demented dog? Well, yap yap yap, here it comes again. Chance House.