The Shock of the Fall (Special edition), Page 2

  Granddad helped me lift the bigger paving slabs so I could see the nests. The moment a slab was lifted the ants would go mental, scurrying around passing secret messages to each other and carrying their tiny white and yellow eggs underground to safety.

  Within a couple of minutes the surface would be completely deserted, except for maybe a few woodlice wandering clumsily through to see what all the fuss was about. Occasionally I’d poke a twig down one of the little holes, and in an instant a dozen soldier ants would be back out on the offensive, prepared to give their lives for the colony. Not that I ever hurt them. I only wanted to watch.

  After Granddad had finished weeding or pulling up vegetables or planting new ones, we’d carefully place back the slab and head home for our tea. I don’t remember us ever talking. I know we must have done. But what words we shared have escaped from my memory completely, like ants down a hole.

  Nanny Noo made nice food. She is one of those people who tries to feed you the moment you walk through the door, and doesn’t stop trying to feed you until the moment you leave. She might even make you a quick ham sandwich for your journey.

  It is a nice way to be. I think people who are generous with food have a goodness about them. But that week or so that I stayed with them was very difficult because I had no appetite. I felt sick a lot of the time, and once or twice I actually was sick. This was difficult for Nanny Noo too, because if she couldn’t solve a problem through the stomach – like with a bowl of soup or a roasted chicken or a slice of Battenberg – she felt out of her depth. One time I spied her standing in the kitchen, hunched over the untouched dishes and sobbing.

  Bedtimes were hardest. I was staying in the spare room, which never gets properly dark because there is a street lamp outside the window and the curtains are thin. I would lie awake each night for ages and ages, staring through the gloom, wishing that I could just go home, and wondering if I ever would.

  ‘Can I sleep in here tonight, Nanny?’

  She didn’t stir, so I walked in slowly and lifted the corner of her quilt. Nanny Noo has one of those electric blankets on account of her cold bones. It was a warm night though, so it wasn’t plugged in, and next thing I knew I was letting out a quiet yelp as my bare foot pressed down onto the upturned plug.

  ‘Sweetheart?’

  ‘Are you awake, Nanny?’

  ‘Shhh, you’ll wake up Granddad.’

  She lifted the quilt and I climbed in beside her, ‘I stood on the plug,’ I said. ‘I hurt my foot a bit.’

  I could feel the warmth of Nanny’s breath against my ear. I could hear Granddad’s rhythmic snoring.

  ‘I can’t remember anything,’ I said at last. ‘I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what I did.’

  At least I wanted to say that. It was all I could think about, and I desperately wanted to say it, but that isn’t the same thing. I could feel Nanny’s breath against my ear. ‘You stood on the plug, my poor angel. You hurt your foot.’

  When I went home it was just Mum and Dad and me. On our first evening together the three of us sank onto the big green couch, which is how it always was because Simon preferred to sit cross-legged on the carpet – his face right up close to the television.

  That was sort of our family portrait. It’s not the kind of thing you think you would miss. Maybe you don’t even notice it all those thousands of times, sitting between your mum and dad on the big green couch with your big brother on the carpet getting in the way of the telly. Maybe you don’t even notice that.

  But you notice it when he isn’t there any more. You notice so many of the places where he isn’t, and you hear so many of the things he doesn’t say.

  I do.

  I hear them all the time.

  Mum switched on the television for the start of EastEnders. This was like a ritual. We even videoed it if we weren’t going to be home. It was funny because Simon had a huge crush on Bianca. We all used to tease him about it and tell him that Ricky would beat him up. It was only for fun. He used to laugh out loud, rolling about on the carpet. He had the sort of laugh people call infectious. Whenever he laughed it made everything that bit better.

  I don’t know if you watch EastEnders, or even if you do, I don’t suppose you’ll remember an episode from so long ago. But this one stayed with me. I remember sitting on the couch and watching as all the lies and deceit about Bianca sleeping with her mum’s boyfriend and a whole load of other stuff finally came to its bitter conclusion. This was the episode when Bianca left Walford.

  We didn’t speak for a long time after that. We didn’t even move. Other programmes started and ended well into the night. This was our new family portrait – the three of us, sitting side by side, staring at the space where Simon used to be.

  PLEASE STOP READING

  OVER MY SHOULDER

  She keeps reading over my shoulder. It is hard enough to concentrate in this place without people reading over your shoulder.

  I had to put that in big letters to drive the message home. It worked, but now I feel bad about it. It was the student social worker who was looking over my shoulder, the young one with the minty breath and big gold earrings. She’s really nice.

  Anyway, now she’s skipped away down the corridor, acting bright and breezy. But I know that I’ve embarrassed her because people only skip like that, and act all bright and breezy, when they’re embarrassed. We don’t need to skip when we’re not embarrassed – we can just walk.

  It’s good to be able to use this computer though. I had a teaching session on it with the occupational therapist. His name’s Steve, and I don’t suppose I’ll mention him again. But he was satisfied I knew not to try to eat the keyboard, or whatever it is they worry about. So he said it’s okay for me to use it for my writing. Except he still didn’t give me a password, so I have to ask each time, and we only get forty minutes. It’s like that here, forty minutes for this, and ten minutes for that. But I am sorry about embarrassing that student social worker. I really am. I hate stuff like that.

  kicking and wailing

  I had no right to attend my brother’s funeral. But I did attend. I wore a white polyester shirt that itched like mad around the collar, and a black clip-on tie. The church echoed whenever anyone coughed. And afterwards there were scones with cream and jam. And that is all I can remember.

  But now I should slow down a bit. I tend to rush when I’m nervous. I do it when I’m speaking too, which is weird because you tend to think it’s just those small tightly wound men who speak quickly. I’m about six feet tall and might even still be growing. I’m nineteen, so maybe not. I’m definitely growing outwards though. I’m way fatter than I should be. We can blame the medication for that – it’s a common side effect.

  Anyway, I speak too quickly. I rush through words I find uncomfortable, and I’m doing that now.

  I need to slow down because I want to explain how my world slowed down. I also need to talk about how life has a shape and a size, and how it can be made to fit into something small – like a house.

  But the first thing I want to say is how quiet everything got. That was the first thing I noticed. It was as though somebody had come along and turned the volume to just above mute, and now everyone felt a need to talk in whispers. Not just Mum and Dad, but people who came to visit us too – like something terrible was asleep in the corner of the room and nobody dared be the one to wake it.

  I’m talking about relatives here, people like my aunties and grandparents. My parents were never the sort to have loads of friends. I had a few. But they were at school. That was the other thing that happened. I think I might be rushing again, but I’ll just tell you quickly about how I stopped going to school, because it’s important, and because it is an actual thing that happened. Most of life isn’t anything. Most of life is just the passing of time, and we’re even asleep for a fair chunk of that.

  When I’m heavily medicated I sleep for up to eighteen hours a day. During these times I am far more interested in my d
reams than in reality, because they take up so much more of my time. If I’m having nice dreams, I consider life to be pretty good. When the medication isn’t working properly – or if I decide not to take it – I spend more time awake. But then my dreams have a way of following me.

  It’s like we each have a wall that separates our dreams from reality, but mine has cracks in it. The dreams can wriggle and squeeze their way through, until it’s hard to know the difference.

  Sometimes

  But now I’m getting distracted.

  I’m forever getting distracted. I need to concentrate, because there is a lot I want to write about – like this stuff about my school. Summer was over. September was edging to a close, and I still hadn’t been back to the classroom. So a decision had to be made.

  The headmaster phoned and I listened to Mum’s half of the conversation from the watching stair. It wasn’t much of a conversation though. Basically she just said thank you a load of times. Then she called me to the telephone for my turn.

  It was weird, because I never really talked to my headmaster at school. I mean, you really only talk to your teachers. I can’t say for sure that I had ever once spoken to my headmaster, and now here he was on the end of the telephone saying, ‘Hello Matthew, it’s Mr Rogers.’

  ‘Hello sir,’ I managed. My voice sounded very small all of a sudden. I waited for him to say something else, and Mum squeezed my shoulder.

  ‘I’ve just been speaking with your mum, but I wanted to talk to you too. Is that okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I know this is a very difficult and sad time for you. I can only imagine how hard it must be.’

  I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know what there was to say, so there was a really long silence. Then I started to agree that it was hard, but Mr Rogers started talking again at the same time, repeating that it was sad. So then we both stopped to let the other one talk, and neither of us said anything. Mum rubbed at the top of my back. I’ve never been any good on the phone.

  ‘Matthew, I won’t keep you because I know this is hard. But I wanted to tell you that everyone is thinking of you, that we miss you. And however long this takes, however long you need, you’ll be welcomed back warmly. So you mustn’t be afraid.’

  That was a strange thing for him to say because I don’t think I was afraid until then. I felt a lot of things – a lot that I didn’t properly understand – but not afraid. Except when he said that, I suddenly was. So I just said thank you a few times too, and Mum gave me a weak smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Do you want to speak to my mum again?’

  ‘I think we’re done for now,’ Mr Rogers said. ‘I’d just wanted to say a few words to you. We’ll see you soon, okay?’

  I let the phone drop into its cradle with a loud clunk.

  He didn’t see me soon. I didn’t go back to school for a long time, and never to that school. I don’t know how these decisions were made. That’s the thing when you are nine years old; you don’t really get told anything. Like if you are taken out of school nobody has to tell you why. People don’t have to tell you anything. I think, though, most of the things we do, are driven by fear. I think my mum was very frightened of losing me. I think that is what it was. But I don’t want to put thoughts in your head.

  If you’re a parent you can stop your children going to school, and sit them at the kitchen table with a workbook instead. Just write a letter to the head, and that is it. You don’t even need to be a teacher, although Mum was. Sort of. I should tell you about my mum, because you probably have never met her.

  She is thin and pale, with cold hands. She has a broad chin that she is very self-conscious about. She sniffs the milk before she drinks it. She loves me. And she is mad. That will do for now.

  I say that she was sort of a teacher because once upon a time she was going to be. This was when she was trying to get pregnant, but there were some complications and the doctors said that she might not be able to conceive. I know this stuff, without any recollection of being told it. I think she decided to become a teacher to give her life a meaning, or to distract her. I don’t suppose there is much difference.

  So she enrolled at university and did the course. Then she got pregnant with Simon, and her meaning came kicking and wailing the regular way.

  But she got to be my teacher. Each and every weekday, after Dad had set off for work, our school day would begin. First we would clear the breakfast table together, stacking plates and bowls by the sink for Mum to wash whilst I made a start on the pile of Key Stage exercise books. I was a clever child back then. I think that took Mum by surprise.

  When Simon was alive he could be a bit of a sponge, soaking up the attention. He didn’t mean to or anything, but that is what special needs do – they demand more of the things around them. I seemed to go unnoticed. But sitting at the kitchen table, Mum did notice me. It might have been easier for her if I had been stupid. I only just thought that now as I wrote it, but it might be true. There were these tests at the end of each chapter of the Key Stage Science, Maths and French workbooks, and whenever I got everything right she would go quiet for ages. But if I only got nearly everything right, she would be encouraging, and gently talk me through my mistakes. That was weird. So I started making mistakes on purpose.

  We never went out, and we never talked about anything except school work. That was strange too, because it wasn’t as if Mum acted like a teacher. Sometimes she would kiss me on the forehead or stroke my hair or whatever. But we just didn’t talk about anything except what was in the books. And that is exactly how the days unfolded for a long time, though I couldn’t tell you exactly how long in terms of weeks or months. It merged into one extended moment, with me sitting at the kitchen table doing my tests, and Mum talking me through my deliberate mistakes.

  That is what I mean by my world slowing down, but it is hard to explain because it only takes a couple of pages to say how it was day after day. But it is the day-after-day that takes so long.

  When my work was done I would watch cartoons or play some Nintendo. Or sometimes I would go upstairs and gently press my ear against Simon’s bedroom door, listening. Sometimes I would kill a bit of time doing that. We never talked about that either. Mum would make tea, and we would wait for my dad to get home. I should tell you about my dad, because you probably have never met him.

  He is tall and broad, and stoops a little. He wears a leather jacket because he used to ride a motorbike. He calls me mon ami. And he loves me. That will do for now.

  I said my mother is mad. I said that. But you might not see it. I mean, you might not think that anything I’ve told you proves she is mad. But there are different kinds of madness. Some madness doesn’t act mad to begin with, sometimes it will knock politely at the door, and when you let it in, it’ll simply sit in the corner without a fuss – and grow. Then one day, maybe many months after your decision to take your son out of school and isolate him in a house for reasons that got lost in your grief, one day that madness will stir in the chair, and it will say to him, ‘You look pale.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You look pale. You don’t look well at all sweetheart. Are you feeling okay?’

  ‘I’m fine, I think. I have a bit of a sore throat.’

  ‘Let me feel you.’ She put the back of her hand against my forehead. ‘Oh, darling. You feel hot. You’re burning up.’

  ‘Really? I feel okay.’

  ‘You’ve been looking pale for a few days now. I don’t think you get enough sunshine.’

  ‘We never go out!’ I said that angrily. I didn’t mean to, but that’s the way it came out. It wasn’t fair of me either because we did go out sometimes. I wasn’t a prisoner or anything.

  We didn’t go out much, though. And never without Dad taking us. I suppose that’s what I mean by saying how life can shrink into a house. I suppose I’m just ungrateful. Mum must have thought so, because she suddenly looked at me like I’d spat on her or something. But then she said ve
ry sweetly, ‘Shall we go for a walk? We could pop in to see Dr Marlow, he can look at your throat.’

  It wasn’t cold, but she took my orange winter coat from the hook, and she zipped it right to the top with the hood pulled up. Then we stepped outside.

  To get to the local GP surgery from our house, you had to walk past my school. Or rather, what used to be my school. Mum held my hand as we crossed the main road, and as we rounded the corner I could hear distant shouts and laughter drifting over from the playground. I must have resisted. I don’t remember doing so on purpose, but I must have done because as we got closer Mum’s grip on me tightened, taking hold of my wrist and pulling me along.

  ‘Let’s go back, Mum.’

  We didn’t go back. We walked right up to the school, and along the whole length of the fence so that I was practically being dragged, with my stupid hood right over my eyes.

  ‘Is that you, Matthew? Hello Mrs Homes. Hello Matthew.’

  I can’t think of her name now. Gemma, or something. It doesn’t matter anyway.

  ‘Hey, it’s Matthew!’

  The thing is, I was even popular. The group of children who gathered at the fence did so because they liked me. They were my classmates and would have been shaken up by what had happened, and my sudden exit from their lives. But I didn’t talk to them. I can’t explain it. I looked straight ahead, hiding behind my hood, whilst Mum said, ‘Matthew isn’t very well today. Go back and play.’

  Dr Marlow asked me to open wide. He looked inside my mouth, breathing his warm breath into me, smelling of coffee. There was nothing wrong with my throat that a few lozenges and some Lemsip couldn’t fix. He said I should get some rest. So that was that. Only it wasn’t.

  It was just the start.

  hypotonia n. a state of reduced tension in muscle.