Wonderboy Read online

  I glance at the clock. Five-fifteen. Forty-five minutes to fill before Tina comes to collect him. Each of these minutes will suck even more life out of me. I can feel my blood curdling.

  “What videos have you got?” Harry demands.

  “Sorry, the video got busted in the move. Let’s see what’s on TV.” All that’s on offer is a program in which enthusiastic children are brushing dirt from old bottles which they’ve dug up at a dump.

  “This is boring,” Harry announces.

  Doctor X is lying facedown on the carpet with his trousers off. I wonder if the wheat effect is kicking in, whether Harry’s stomach has started to inflate. He catches me staring at his belly and folds his arms firmly.

  “Shall we make something?” I ask, wondering how much longer I can keep this up, whether Tina will turn up to find two unattended children, and me, dead on the carpet.

  “What do you mean?” Harry asks.

  “Maybe biscuits, or something from card and glue…like a rocket. Do you like outer space?”

  Harry blinks at me, as if I have arrived from some distant planet whose inhabitants look like normal humans but ask too many questions and force wheat on people. “Yeah,” he brightens, “or I could go home.”

  Tod and I drop Harry off at the hairdresser where Tina and her customer are discussing illness. The woman, who has had vivid custardy stripes put through her hair, says, “He’s had the all-clear, but his bowels, they’re the main worry now.”

  Harry clambers into the racing car seat.

  “Back already?” chirps Tina.

  “Yes,” I say, “I think he’s had enough.”

  “That’s not like Harry. He’s usually very sociable.” She gives him a concerned look and doses her customer with hairspray. “Say thank you, Harry,” Tina adds. “We must have Tod over for tea sometime.”

  This, I realize, is the play-date equivalent of “I’ll call you.”

  “He’s clogged up,” the yellow-striped woman continues. “What he needs is that chronic irrigation.”

  When I glance back into the shop, Tina has lifted the front of Harry’s polo shirt and appears to be inspecting his stomach.

  We’re nearly home when Tod stops at Joe’s fence and says, “What’s he doing?”

  Crouching, with his back to us, Joe is laying out planks on the lawn.

  “Come on, it’s really late.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s not even properly dark yet.”

  “Stop staring.”

  Joe turns around and sees us and, I think, smiles. I pull on Tod’s arm, the way Suzie yanks Barney, her youngest, when he clings to the door handle of the bakers in Bethnal Green Road, bellowing for cake.

  “You said,” Tod protests, “that if ever I want to know something, I just have to ask.”

  “What do you want to know?” Joe asks at the gate.

  “What you’re making,” Tod says.

  “Want to see? You can help, if you like.”

  His hands, I notice, are brown and very smooth, more like a child’s hands than those of a man who hauls wood from skips.

  “Tod,” I say, “it’s past teatime.” I give his arm a gentler tug.

  “We’ve had tea,” Tod points out. “We had spaghetti that made Harry’s stomach blow up.”

  “That sounds serious,” Joe says, laughing.

  Tod is springing from foot to foot, saying, “Please let me help.”

  “Some other time, darling.”

  As we cross the road, I try to wipe the smile off my face but can’t.

  “Mum,” Tod says, as I stab my key in the door, “you look funny.”

  Later, with Tod huddled over homework—he has to answer ten questions about the Egyptians—I stand at the kitchen window, where Betty and Gordon’s net curtains still hang. Joe is hammering now. I think he’s nailing wood together. He keeps standing back, viewing the thing from a distance.

  Marcus wants to keep the net curtain because it stops people staring in. I despise it. I can think of no torture method more awful than being entirely cocooned in floral net. Tod likes to wrap his face in it, like it’s mummy bandages. I don’t know how he can stand it against his skin.

  “How do you spell Tutankhamen?” he asks.

  Joe’s outside light is on now and I can see him clearly, measuring planks with a tape. “T, U,T,” I begin. A fold of net curtain is trapped between my thumb and forefinger.

  “Then what?” Tod asks.

  “What?”

  “Tutankhamen.”

  “T, U…”

  “You said that.”

  “What was the question?” I am tweaking this curtain. Not tweaking, but twitching.

  “Mum,” comes the cry, “why won’t you listen to me?”

  I watch Joe as he straightens up, glances at our house, and carries an armful of planks to his front door. He turns, and although the nets are supposed to stop strangers from peeping in, I’m sure he sees me: Ro Skews, the curtain twitcher of Chetsley.

  chapter 9

  Daredevil

  March brings rain as unrelenting as Marcus’s workload. I assume that Nettie, his business partner, has stopped doing anything remotely useful, as he complains about running the place single-handedly, which is impossible, as not even Marcus can accompany clients to view properties and man the office simultaneously. As a result, he now catches a later train home, showing up when Tod is asleep. At least one night a week, he stays over in London for octopush. I am so starved of adult male company that I am ridiculously excited when the Dampblasters man bangs on our door.

  Mr. Leech has an air of mild disappointment, as if the eradication of rising damp and Anobium punctatum is having a detrimental effect on his psyche. “What I’ll do,” he explains, “is take off the plaster up to here.” He indicates a point on the back wall at around Tod’s height. “I’ll be injecting,” he adds sadly, “and it will be very disruptive.”

  It appears that I have acquired the job title of Boss of Renovations. I am unqualified for this position, and have been flung into this highly responsible role, involving the spending of thousands of pounds, with no previous experience or training.

  Mr. Leech blows softly into the tea I’ve made him. His head is sparsely covered with sandy hair, with pink scalp showing through. “This place has potential,” he says, “but you’ve got your work cut out.”

  My mother, Carl and now Mr. Leech are eager to stress the enormity of renovating an antique property. It’s a lot to take on. Like a difficult child, prone to mood swings and erratic behavior. You don’t “take on” a new place like Lucille and Carl’s, you just move in and hang your clothes in the wardrobe.

  Mr. Leech has brought a power tool called a Kangol hammer. He will use it to hack away plaster up to a yard above floor level. The Gordon-and-Betty layer will crumble away. It’s like an exfoliation treatment, but noisier.

  Lucille raps on the kitchen window. I must have invited her for coffee, because she saunters in, shrugs off a turquoise jacket and looks for somewhere to put it, as every item of furniture has been covered with sheets and a fine coating of dust.

  “We’re being damp-proofed,” I roar as the Kangol hammer rams into the wall.

  “Poor you,” Lucille says. Her hair is pulled back into a complicated French plait that looks as if it took several hands to construct. She fishes papers from her bag: a page from a lined jotter, on which she has listed temp agencies in Lexley, and the appointments page from the Lexley Gazette. “I’m sure you’ll find something here,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I say, scanning Situations Vacant: bar person, part-time gardener for country estate, general dogsbody at Barking Mad boarding kennels.

  “I’m looking for someone for the salon,” Lucille adds.

  “It’s not really me. I don’t know how to wax someone’s hair off.”

  “Not a therapist—for reception. I’m thinking of cutting down my hours. After school I’m a taxi service, running Adele to majorettes, ballet and tap…you kn
ow how it is.” She spreads out the pages from the Gazette on the sheet-covered table.

  I make her coffee and we sit in the dank conservatory which is as far as we can be from the Kangol hammer without going upstairs. Rain splats the windows, seeping in where the conservatory meets the house.

  “What did you do before that film archive thing?” she asks.

  “I worked for a greeting cards company, designing birthday cards.”

  “So that’s where Tod’s artistic streak comes from.”

  I shrug, swig my coffee. “I didn’t exactly design the cards. I thought I’d be drawing and painting all day, but mostly I just added lettering to other illustrators’ work.” I don’t add that this was the best bit; some days, I was sent out to collect dry cleaning for Donald, my obese boss, who lounged on a swivel chair, sprinkling ash onto his stomach. Four years at art college, and I’d wound up fetching the fat man’s trousers.

  “What do you want to do next?” Lucille asks.

  “I’m thinking of working from home, maybe dig out my portfolio, see if local businesses need posters or flyers.”

  “Wouldn’t you be lonely? I couldn’t stand it,” she says, shuddering, “being trapped in the house.”

  In fact I do worry about being shut indoors for too long, and wonder whether I would get any work done, being in such close proximity to the fridge. Home workers notice that the streetlights have come on, and they’re still wearing a dressing gown with gravy splattered down the front. They call their office-bound partners to report, “I’ve bought frozen peas,” and take an entire afternoon to seal an envelope.

  I might start caring about the condition of other people’s property. Marcus has moaned about the garden over the road, with planks strewn all over the grass, and suggested that I say something to that Joe person, since I know him well enough to accept a lift. I snapped that I didn’t know him, that his planks were none of our business and our garden wasn’t much better with its slimy shed and exhausted plants.

  “There’s a job at the bookshop,” Lucille says. “Part-time, I think. There’s a card in the window. You should speak to Julia.” She examines her nails, which are filed square at the tips.

  As she’s leaving, I catch Mr. Leech admiring her graceful brown legs, which are so utterly pampered—waxed, bronzed and moisturized—that they don’t even mind the cold. Then he looks sadly at me and rams his Kangol hammer back into the wall.

  Julia’s hair flows down her back like a streak of fox. She has a satin-smooth face and wears a Biro pen on a cord around her neck. I don’t like to come straight out with it, demanding a job, so I browse the shelves and work myself up to say something.

  Coffee & Books is lit with dim spotlights sunk into the ceiling. I flip through gardening books: Easy Herbaceous Borders, The Ultimate Lawn Guide.

  “Looking for something?” Julia asks.

  “Just browsing, thanks.” My tongue feels like it’s coated with chalk. I stare at a display stand of cardboard cubes called Boxed Brainwaves, which squeaks as I turn it. Each box contains fifty cards telling you what to do with your life. In the Beach Box, a card suggests having a treasure hunt of shells: who can find the most species? The gardening box includes hints on constructing a teepee from twigs, twine and a sheet, which it promises will take “one fun afternoon,” but you know will stretch over weeks and result in a tremulous structure and emergency couples counseling.

  The Seduction Box contains the following advice: “Play hide and cheek! Ask your partner to count to twenty. Go hide—wearing delectable undies—and wait for your lover to find you. Warmer, warmer, hotter, hotter… WOW!” I wonder how long I’d spend crouching behind Marcus’s filing cabinet, in my raspberry bra and knicker set, before he’d realize I was missing.

  “Brainwave 37: Saucy striptease! Don your favorite lingerie—raspberry knickers again—and your day clothes on top. To the sound of sensuous music, slowly peel off your outer layer to reveal the luscious delights beneath.”

  I am uncomfortable with the idea of peeling off layers while being stared at. I worry that, like a rubbish joke-teller, I’ll lose confidence and freeze, trapped in my knickers and massive boots. Marcus would snort at me, or assume that I needed medication.

  I have flipped through so many cards that I feel obliged to buy the Seduction Box, and hope that Julia doesn’t put it about that the new people in Gorby Cottage are experiencing sexual difficulties.

  “Anything else?” she asks.

  “A job?” I say hopefully.

  Me, Tod and a bike called Daredevil, minus stabilizers. We bought it last year, for Tod’s fifth birthday. To enhance its appeal, I had added an old-fashioned bell, squeezy horn and camouflage-printed panniers. Together, Marcus and I wrapped Daredevil in silver paper, crept into Tod’s bedroom and rested it against the wall. Of course he’d know what it was. You can’t wrap a bike and not make it bike-shaped.

  “Are you sure he’ll like it?” I asked.

  “Of course he will,” Marcus said. “He’ll be riding it by teatime.”

  Tod regarded Daredevil with the same level of enthusiasm he demonstrated with the rat. My last attempt to teach him to ride it, in the park opposite our old flat, resulted in Tod careering off the path and into the main road. He slammed into a decrepit car that was parked outside the mini-cab office. The car’s owner, a vexed little man who looked like he’d been squashed into a brick shape by a car-crushing machine, raced out of the office and examined the car, as if he cared about its condition.

  “I want to go home,” Tod says now. We are on Chetsley Common, facing each other over the bike, which lies on its side. Tod is wearing his school uniform, plus a cycling helmet with a bright yellow peak, which creates a top-heavy duck effect. There is a glimmer of sun, but Tod is shivering, forcing hands up opposite sleeves of his sweatshirt. “It’s too cold,” he adds, “for riding.”

  “Let’s just try. Come on, Tod, you should be able to—” I nearly said it: at your age.

  I hold him upright, cling onto the saddle and trot behind. Tod pedals with his knees thrust outward. He has already outgrown Daredevil. His helmet, which is still too big for him, shakes dangerously. Nothing fits properly. I break into a canter, and Tod lurches to the left, landing with a yelp on the gravel path.

  “You okay?” I ask, gathering him up.

  He shrugs me off and stomps away from the bike. “Tod, come back,” I yell after him. “Try again. It’s like horses—you have to get straight back on if you fall off.”

  “It’s not like horses,” he rages, pulling off the helmet and tossing it to the ground.

  This isn’t right. He’s six and he lives in the country. Babies can ride bikes around here. I’ve seen Harry streaking across the common on his sporty blue model, no stabilizers or panting mother, running behind. Tod is sulking on a bench, his face smeared with mud and tears. I am angry now, not with Tod, but with Marcus: aren’t bike lessons part of Dad’s job description? There’s a rip in the left shoulder of Tod’s sweatshirt, from his fall. Daredevil lies on the ground with its chain off.

  I hold him and say, “Think how proud you’ll feel when Dad comes home and you tell him you rode your bike.”

  He probes the gravel with the toe of his trainer. “I’m asleep when Dad comes home.”

  “Not tonight, you won’t be. You can stay up late. Watch a video. I’ll make vanilla popcorn in the microwave.”

  He manages a weak smile. “And doughnuts?” he asks.

  “We’ll get some.”

  Tod pulls up his sweatshirt to wipe his face. I fix the chain, and he straddles the bike. He exhales noisily, complains that his nose is cold, and we set off: Sit up straight, you’re leaning to the left again, that’s better—no, don’t look sideways, look ahead, LOOK WHERE YOU’RE GOING…

  This can’t possibly work. He’ll clang into the swings and crack his head open. This child still clonks his forehead on the wing mirrors of parked cars. We’re heading for A&E at Lexley General. Where is Lexley G
eneral? We’ll get lost again, wind up in that playground, with the cacti on trestle tables. Get me to a hospital. My son has a bleeding head.

  There’s no accident, no head injury. He is riding Daredevil.

  Then I see Joe striding along the top path—he has an armful of wood, he’s been collecting again—and run toward him, yelling, “Joe, he’s done it—look!”

  “That’s so brilliant,” Joe says, dumping the wood at his feet.

  “Letting go, that’s the scariest bit.”

  “Go, Tod!” Joe yells, clapping as if Tod’s achievement is something to him.

  Tod jiggles to a halt, slams down the bike and runs toward us. “Phone Dad,” he pants. “Tell him I did it.”

  Joe takes Tod’s hand, leads him back to the bike and helps him to climb on. I call Marcus’s mobile, which is switched off, then his office.

  “He’s showing a flat in Fulham,” Nettie says. “I’d expected him back by now. Is there a problem, Ro? You sound quite worked up.”

  “Tod rode his bike without stabilizers. I can’t believe it, Nettie. One minute he was hopeless, falling off every—”

  “Lovely,” Nettie says.

  “It’s his very first time.”

  “I’ll pass on the message.”

  Tod pedals furiously back to me. “What did Dad say?” he asks.

  “He’s very proud.”

  “Did you tell him I’m staying up late with popcorn?”

  “Yes, he says he can’t wait to see you.” As Tod sets off again, I text Marcus: TOD RODE BIKE PLS COME HOME ASAP.

  Then Tod, Joe and I walk home together.

  He lived in Perth, and at first I think he means Perth, Scotland, but he’s talking about Australia. That’s where his girlfriend lived as a child. They came back for his mother’s funeral and he’s decided to stay.

  “It feels right,” Joe says, “living in the house I grew up in. Same garden, same tree—though it doesn’t look as big and powerful as when I was a kid.”

  “What was it like then?” Tod asks, trotting beside him.

  “Still big enough to fall out of. You like climbing trees, Tod?”