‘Oh yes. It’s right here. In fact … I’m looking at it!’
‘Call me when you’re ready. Maybe I’ll pick it up later today, after school.’ Dad added politely, ‘Is that fine by you?’
Gabriel said, ‘What else are you doing today, Dad?’
‘I don’t know yet. We’ll have to see what develops.’
‘Where’s Lester’s picture?’ Gabriel asked Hannah, biting into a charcoal and peanut butter mixture. ‘Have you seen it?’
She looked at him in bewilderment. She didn’t know what he was talking about.
The last time Gabriel had seen the picture, it was on the living-room table. But it wasn’t there any more. His mother had probably taken it into her own room for safe keeping. She wouldn’t thank him for going in there and waking her up.
He went to school but didn’t pay attention to his lessons. He was beginning to think he was too old for school, or the school itself was somehow backward, or too old-fashioned for him. It didn’t give him enough to think about. As soon as he began to concentrate on a piece of school work, he became aware that more exciting things were going on somewhere else.
That morning, catching him jotting film ideas in his notebook before he forgot them, Gabriel’s teacher snatched away the notebook, saying, ‘Why aren’t you concentrating, Gabriel Bunch?’
‘It’s not interesting enough to keep my attention, sir,’ he replied, without thinking.
‘Not interesting enough! What do you think this is – an entertainment?’
‘If only, sir. If only.’
The other kids were laughing.
The teacher said, ‘I’ll come down on you like a pile of bricks.’
One of the other kids yelled, ‘The customer is always right, sir!’
Someone else chipped in, ‘One size fits all! One fit sizes all!’
‘Always follow the instructions!’
‘Don’t try this at home!’
‘Look away now!’
‘We’re on our way to Wembley!’
It was a madhouse.
Gabriel looked at the teacher and replied, ‘That’s all you are, sir. A big pile of bricks.’
‘Repeat that, Bunch.’
It was the only instruction Gabriel felt happy to follow.
The teacher refrained from striking him, but Gabriel was supposed to be in detention for a week. Not that he would turn up. Zak, who read a lot and used difficult words (he could even spell ‘precocious’), had said not to worry, the system lacked imagination and was so coercive that failure was the only distinction; conformity was a kind of death. And as Dad pointed out, it was supposed to be a school, not a lunatic asylum, and certainly not a prison.
Gabriel had been sent out of the schoolroom, and stood alone in the corridor, like a dog forced to wait outside a shop for its owner.
‘Fascism,’ Zak had mouthed, passing by. ‘Ring me.’
‘I will,’ Gabriel replied.
At school, he and Zak were now in different classes and barely met. To keep out of trouble for being middle class, Zak had had to become a librarian. Books, he had discovered, were good for hiding behind. Adults respected books, though no one had explained why.
Zak was bright; he took things in. He could work things out for himself, too. ‘Parents are funny,’ he said once. ‘What do they want from us? Our respect and for us to listen. But do they bother to respect us? How often do they listen to us and think about what we want?’
School didn’t interest Zak either. He put up with it because he knew he was just passing through. He could see how much there was ahead of him.
Gabriel had hardly seen Zak out of school since his father had left. Zak knew what had taken place – the same thing had happened to him, as it had to several others in the class. To be part of a ‘complete’ family was, these days, to be in a minority. But Gabriel hadn’t wanted to talk about the break-up. Words were as dangerous as bombs, as Gabriel discovered when he swore in front of his mother. They didn’t only describe; they did things to other people, or made things happen, and more than enough was happening at the moment.
Anyway, children understood tyrannies, he thought, living with those vicious moody bosses called parents, under a regime in which their thoughts and activities were severely constrained. The kids were anarchists and dissidents, operating underground, in secret cells, trying to find an inviolable privacy.
At that moment he didn’t feel like a glorious anarchist.
A passing teacher who had hardly addressed more than a handful of phrases to him, stopped for a moment and said, ‘I remember you, Bunch. That is your name, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘When you arrived here you were full of confidence. Now you look scared all the time.’ The teacher touched his face. ‘That twitch of yours has come back.’
‘Has it, sir?’
Gabriel had had a twitch in one eye, which flickered like a faulty camera shutter. When he was made conscious of it, it felt as if his face was inhabited by spiders; insects were rushing beneath his skin.
‘Look after yourself,’ the teacher said.
‘Thank you, sir.’
He would look after himself. The experience with Lester had taken him into another world, where he seemed to belong. He couldn’t wait to remind himself of it by examining the picture again.
That afternoon, when he got home, he couldn’t find it anywhere, not in his mother’s room, and not in his own.
He turned out cupboards and looked in the same place again and again, before going to Hannah, who was standing outside the bathroom.
‘Sorry, Hannah,’ he said in a businesslike voice. ‘I’ve got to go out to a meeting. I’d be grateful if you’d keep my supper warm.’
‘I’ll warm your arse in a minute!’ When necessary Hannah could find the appropriate phrase. She had made friends with other au pairs; in some ways, as London became richer, it was becoming more Victorian. Her friends must have been coaching her. ‘It’s bath time! Water all over!’
She pointed at the full bath.
‘You get in,’ he said. ‘You could do with a wash!’
She was even more shocked when he put his coat on, took the man’s shirt from the back of a chair, and went out of the house, announcing, ‘What a lovely evening for a stroll!’
She stood on the doorstep and cried in reasonable English, ‘Wait, wait! I am in charge!’
‘I’m going to see Mum,’ he said. ‘I’m not a child.’
When he looked back he saw that she was intending to start off behind him, but it didn’t take him long to lose her.
His mother worked several streets away, and he was soon there.
The bar became raucous after work, filling up with office workers in black clothes. At the door a waitress tried to stop him. ‘You’re too young!’
‘Put me in jail.’
He saw his mother across the room, standing at a table beside a man he recognized without knowing where from. It was Strange: she was the most important woman in his life, and unimportant here, just another waitress. Worse, at that moment she probably wasn’t thinking of him.
‘Mum!’ He was standing on tiptoe.
At his voice she looked up. He could, suddenly, command her attention and make her his again. It was a wonderful power.
She hurried over. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is it? Tell me! Are you not well?’ She pressed her hand to his forehead. ‘You are hot!’
‘Course I’m hot! Where’s my picture? The one Lester gave me.’
‘Oh, that. Is that why you’ve come? What’s that in your hand?’
‘The shirt one of those sweaty men left last night.’
She took it and folded it up a little too neatly for his liking. She said, ‘I’ve put the picture away for safekeeping.’
‘Thanks. But I want it now.’
‘What for?’
‘That’s up to me.’
‘Don’t shout at m
e. I’m a single mother and I’ve got a headache!’
‘I’m surprised you can stand up at all.’
She had her hurt face on, making him feel that it was his fault, that his demands were unreasonable.
The waitress who had tried to stop him coming in went up to his mother. ‘Christine, there’s a customer waiting.’
‘Coming.’ To Gabriel, Mum said, ‘Go home.’
He said, ‘I want to look at it.’
‘Don’t mess it up. It’ll get damaged with everyone pulling at it,’
‘You mean Dad?’
‘That man’s an old hippie. They were a generation that didn’t want to understand the value of things. Why d’you think we’ve been poor all these years? Dad didn’t want to be “materialistic”. Where I’ve put the picture … it’ll be safe. You can have it – of course you can have it – when you’re older.’
‘Older! Will I never be the right age? I was old enough when he gave it to me. It’s mine and that’s a fact.’
‘A fact? A fact!’ she laughed. ‘But we’re family.’
‘A family!’
‘We can look at it as a family, when I say.’
Gabriel said, ‘I want Dad to look at it sometimes, too.’
‘I’ll think about that. He’s gone. He doesn’t want us. Why d’you think he walked out?’
Gabriel was shaking; he hated her and was afraid of his own fury. She refused to understand him, or take him seriously. She was even angry with his anger.
‘What I notice,’ she said as they walked to the door, ‘is how you come here only when you want something for yourself. Why, when I saw you, I almost thought you had come in to see how I’m getting on!’
‘How are you getting on?’
‘What? Fine,’ she said. ‘I like it here. Your father once told me that I have the mind of a waitress. Maybe he was right, eh?’
He looked up to see the black post-box of Hannah heaving through the door.
‘Bad, bad boy.’
She almost collapsed and had to lean against a table.
‘Thank you, Hannah,’ said his mother, returning to her work.
‘Boy,’ said Hannah. ‘Boy – come here.’
Outside, Hannah took his hand and tried to pull him across the road as though he were a short-legged child. He stumbled along behind her, reminded of being dragged by his mother and slapped on the legs by her as an infant.
At the edge of the pavement he stopped and wrenched his hand away from her; if she touched him, he would flatten her and take the consequences.
Hannah was looking at him: his eyes must have blazed; there was fear in hers.
‘O?, OK,’ she said. ‘Follow up.’ She started off in one direction, and then in another.
‘Which way?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Where are we?’
‘London.’ He added, ‘You’d better follow me.’
Turning the corner at the end of their street, Gabriel saw that Dad was standing outside the house. Gabriel took Hannah’s hand and pulled her behind a van.
‘I’m staying here,’ he whispered. ‘You go to the house. Let him see you.’
Hannah was perplexed but did what he said. When Dad saw her approaching, he walked away quickly and turned the corner without looking back.
Later, Gabriel searched for the picture again but couldn’t find it. He became increasingly annoyed with his mother and decided to wait until she returned, and interrogate her later. But when she came in he heard a man’s voice and decided to wait until the front door slammed. By that time, however, he was exhausted and had fallen asleep.
Chapter Seven
He awoke as suddenly as if he had been shaken. He switched the light on and looked about. There was no other hand in the room. He wondered whether he had been dreaming about death, as he used to. But it wasn’t that: he wasn’t sweating and frightened.
He seemed to hear a voice in the distance. At first, he thought it was his father outside the house, wanting to be let in. However, when he listened he knew it was Archie, calling to him. Archie had an announcement.
‘What is it, Archie?’ said Gabriel in a low voice. I’m here if you’ve got something to say. You better spit it out, little brother – I’m not hanging around.’
Archie began to speak.
He told Gabriel where the picture was and that he should fetch it. Had there been two of them, he said, that was what they’d do, have an adventure, like the twins in Enid Blyton’s stories. Except that there was a little problem. Archie informed Gabriel that Lester’s picture was hidden in their mother’s bedroom, and of course Mum was asleep.
Archie didn’t seem bothered by this. Ordinary obstacles didn’t burden wraiths.
Once Archie had said where the picture was, Gabriel knew his brother was right; that was where it would be. He should have thought of it himself. Mum had no imagination when it came to hiding things. Or perhaps she underestimated his determination.
What determination?
He was sitting there in the cold and dark. The only sound was of Hannah snoring: the wind of her restless breath whipped under the door and froze his ankles. He wanted to slip under his duvet and go to sleep. But although he cursed Archie’s sense of humour, he couldn’t deny the dead boy’s percipience.
Gabriel had to follow the angel voice where it led.
He smoked half a joint, opened his door, went out of his room and stood on the landing. His mother’s door was always ajar: since he and Archie had been babies, she had left the door open to hear them if they cried.
He pushed her door and stepped into the darkness. He was in her room; he could hear her breathing. He took one more step before hitting an invisible wall and finding himself suspended in space. He landed on the floor.
Reaching out, he realized he had tripped over some shoes, big shoes like blocks of wood. These were not his mother’s. Her shoes, as well he knew, were always in a row under the window.
He was lying on the floor of her bedroom, still as a corpse and about as merry, holding his breath. At least he was face-down on the floor where he wanted to be. If she opened her eyes, she wouldn’t see him, though she might, of course, smell him.
As he listened he realized someone was in bed with her. Not only might she wake up, but the other person – whoever it was – might too, and there’d be four angry eyes condemning him.
There was enough light for Gabriel to drag himself across the floor until he reached the stanchions that supported the bed. He knew his way around under there. Children always noticed the underneath of things; for a long time, like foot soldiers and servants, they only saw the world from below, a good position for noticing how things worked.
The metal drawer was padlocked but the combination lock had given before, when he’d pulled and twisted it. Except he had to do it silently now. He worked as slowly and carefully as he could, but it refused to give way. He felt like crying. How could he ever guess the combination? He remained still and thought hard, before trying – as Archie seemed to be advising – the last four digits of their phone number. It didn’t work. Then he tried the year of his and Archie’s birth. Weren’t most mothers sentimental? The lock opened. He was in. He pulled the drawer.
The rolled-up picture was there, as Archie had said it would be. Gabriel had it in his hand. All he had to do now was get out without being noticed. That shouldn’t be too difficult.
As he went to move mere were hushed voices and even giggles; then the springs started a vigorous vibration. He didn’t think he’d make it across the room and out of the door without being spotted. He’d have to wait. The wooden bed legs were aching by now; in fact they seemed to be groaning, cracking and preparing to give way. Everything could come down with him underneath! He put his hands over his ears. It was terrifying but Archie was holding onto him.
Two in the bed, two under it, their lives living out, this night; and Dad in his room, not far away. Was he awake too?
When it was
silent again, and the couple’s normal breathing had resumed, Gabriel crawled out and carried the picture into his room, where he laid it out on his table.
What did he see in it? One big face and other, little faces; animals, lines, colours, movement. Obscure things trying to become clear. It was busy; there was a lot in it, as there was in Lester’s music, with a memorable melody at the front that everyone could enjoy.
This was a good way to look at a picture, or at anything, as if you were about to draw it yourself.
He went to his art cupboard.
Night passed. He stayed up until the morning, working. He had to cover the mirror again because when he looked into it he didn’t see his own reflection but that of Archie, a face the same as Gabriel’s but detectably different in ways he couldn’t have described, though perhaps Archie’s eyes were slightly further apart than Gabriel’s. Gabriel thought of a Plath poem he’d read at school, called ‘Mirror’. ‘I am not cruel,’ it went, ‘only truthful – / The eye of a little god, four-cornered.’
To keep him awake, Archie sang to him, Mozart, Sinatra, Ella and Joe Cocker. With Archie’s hand on his, he copied the picture – twice. Gabriel was used to copying; he knew how to do it, and he enjoyed it. Now there’d be enough art to go round; no one would be left out!
In the morning, Mum called him downstairs. ‘Gabriel, breakfast!’
A man was sitting at the table in the living room, dropping his ash into a saucer. Gabriel had to sit down.
‘This is George,’ said Mum. ‘George, Gabriel. Don’t you remember?’
They shook hands.
Mum was whispering at George about the bar and some dispute she was having with the people there. Then she sent Hannah to the market and went to get ready.
‘Is there any more tea?’ George asked.
In this light George looked younger than Gabriel remembered, in his early thirties, with long dark hair and haughty upper-class features.
Gabriel sniffed. ‘I think so.’
‘Would you fetch me some? I don’t feel too well. I almost caught pneumonia the other night.’
‘How come?’
‘I don’t remember.’