Canvey Island (6 page)

The boy wasn't so keen on the food, of course. Perhaps it was a bit too adult for him, but I always said that it was never too early to cultivate taste, whether it was a braised pigeon or a kipper soufflé. Whenever he left any scraps on his plate, I would scold him: ‘Aren't you going to eat that?'

And Len would add: ‘You're all bones, boy. If you were any skinnier people would see right through you.'

In the evenings, we liked to get him to bed early. I checked that he had flannelled his face and hands, but he wasn't that keen on me singing and reading to him so I got off lightly. Some nights Len and I would go dancing for a bit of a foxtrot or quickstep and it was like old times. Martin was old enough to be left but he stayed awake until we came home. I think he was checking up on us.

People were starting to talk, of course, but I couldn't see how it was any of their business. It really wasn't.

Where did Vi get to, day in, day out? that's what I wanted to know. She was never there when I needed her and we didn't go out dancing even though I told her I was ready. I had to waltz on my own in front of the mirror, imagining a girl was in my arms and it was before the war when we had all the time in the world. Perhaps I should have waited and married her younger sister like I'd always hoped. Then we wouldn't be in this mess. And where had Lily gone? that's what I wanted to know.

I was taken out for walks like I was a dog and every time I came back I wanted to go out again. Even if it was in the rain. I wanted the wind on my face like I was on deck. I didn't want to be alone by the gas fire, staring at the picture of a man in uniform who looked a bit like me.

I made models out of matchsticks and walked up and down to get a bit of exercise but it was like being in solitary. And by the evening, I wanted to dance.

But Vi never came back until it was bedtime. She said, ‘I think that's enough for one day, George,' even though I wasn't tired and didn't want her cocoa.

Then she went out again. She never told me where.

She knew I was the best dancer. Everyone said so. Held myself tall. Never needed to look at my feet. Knew how to glide.

I was still handsome when she shaved me properly. Oh yes. Always one for the ladies, me. Got to keep the face nice and smooth even if I do have the twitch. That doesn't matter. I can calm that down if I need to. Have to concentrate. Shoulders back, eyes forward, back straight. I can do that. On parade.

I wasn't too sure about her uniform. Pale blue. Not much good for nursing. And she was always wearing too much lipstick if you ask me. It was as if she was wanting to attract other men even though she had someone perfectly good at home.

I had been a good catch but now it was like she'd thrown me back in the sea. Down, down to the bottom with the others.

She wasn't as frisky as she used to be either. That was another thing that had changed. Didn't get my oats when I wanted them. If she didn't watch it I'd have to find someone else.

I put the radio on.
Children's Favourites
with Uncle Mac.

Pity we never had any kiddies.

Too late now.

You're a pink toothbrush; I'm a blue toothbrush
Have we met somewhere before?
You're a pink toothbrush
And I think toothbrush
That we met by the bathroom door
.

All right for them.

I should find someone to talk to. A lady friend. Bit of comfort since Vi was away so often. Either that or take action. Couldn't go on like it was: stuck dancing round the house on my own. That wouldn't do at all.

Dad and Auntie Vi took Ade and me to the fair but the two of them acted like teenage sweethearts, buying candyfloss and going down the Cresta Run, bashing into us on the dodgems and laughing so much that anyone would think it was us taking them instead of the other way round. I won a goldfish on the darts but it died almost as soon as we got back home.

‘I don't know what's the matter with it,' said Auntie Vi, ‘I was just looking at it and it turned over and floated up to the surface.'

‘That must be what they mean by drop-dead good looks,' said Dad.

It made me sick to be in the same room as them. They were always giggling and giving each other looks and they couldn't wait for me to go to bed.

One night I dreamt of my mother's coffin in a dark chapel surrounded by candles. I was alone and my bare feet were cold on the floor. When I lifted the lid, I found that the coffin did not contain my mother but me.

I couldn't get back to sleep. I got out of bed and knocked on my father's door. I was sure I could hear rustling inside, a second person: her.

Dad opened the door, but only slightly, so I couldn't see him properly. ‘What do you want?'

‘I'm scared.'

‘Go to bed. It's all right.'

‘I can't sleep.'

I thought he wanted me to go away.

‘Where's Auntie Vi?' I said.

‘Don't ask me. What's wrong?'

‘I'm scared. I can't sleep.'

‘What are you scared of? Was it a bad dream?'

‘I dreamt I was dead.'

‘Look, son, there's nothing I can do about your dreams. I'm sorry. We all have to live with them. They're not real. You just have to ignore them, all right?'

‘All right.'

‘Now go to bed. It'll have gone in the morning.'

‘But, Dad …'

‘On you go, son. Don't start fretting.'

Mum would have taken me in beside her but Dad closed the door. I tried to listen for noises, movement and conversation, but he was waiting to hear my footsteps going away. He called out, ‘Go on. I've told you.'

I tried to stay awake and then I heard a door slam. ‘Hopeless,' I heard Auntie Vi say.

Martin started to hide things. They were small objects that we didn't notice had gone, little bits and pieces that could easily have been mislaid, like Len's Sunday tiepin, or my butterfly brooch. At first we thought it must be our own carelessness but then they'd turn up in old jam jars or Lily's button box, places where we would never have put stuff ourselves.

‘I think I can guess who's behind this,' I said. ‘Someone I can touch with a very short stick.'

But Martin always looked innocent and we never caught him in the act. I think he thought it was funny, as if he was waiting to see how angry we could get when we couldn't find what we wanted. Sometimes, when he was bored or tired of our questions, he would go and get whatever it was straight away, pretending I had left my ring on the washstand or my gloves on the table in the hall.

When Len asked Martin to confess he just kept lying.

‘It's not me, Dad. Honest. You're always losing things.'

Then he started to be faddy about his food.

‘I do my best,' I said to Len. ‘Sometimes I don't give him any vegetables at all and yet he still won't touch his meals.'

I tried everything: fried whitebait and pilchard splits, corned-beef fritters, steak and kidney pie, luncheon-meat surprise. We were strict with him and said he couldn't have a pudding if he didn't eat his main but that didn't stop him. At least it meant extra baked custards or apple turnovers for the rest of us, because I wasn't going to let anything go to waste.

The child was spoilt enough as it was. We gave him tuppence a
week to spend on gobstoppers, pear drops and Spangles; anything he liked, we were that good to him. Perhaps Martin thought he could live off that alone. He worked out the combinations that he could buy from the jars in Ivy's shop – four Black Jacks or four Fruit Salads or a Bassett's sherbet fountain. Some weeks he would buy a tuppenny stick of liquorice and try and make it last for days, keeping it in his pocket, nibbling bits off the end when he was nervous. But I told him all those sweets were going to have to stop if he didn't eat his tea.

I tried to be cheerful but it was damned hard. ‘Not hungry?' I would say brightly. ‘Never mind.'

It was a Sunday when it all blew up. We were waiting for the pub to open and Len was grumpy because it was that bit later. It had been raining and so we'd been shut up in doors as well. Len was pacing up and down, annoyed with the both of us probably, me trying to do my best in the kitchen, Martin kicking his football against the bedroom wall. Opening time at the Haystack was still a good hour away. I should have been back looking after George but Len had asked me to stay on and give him a bit of company since Martin was being so difficult.

It started with the usual thing. Six o'clock and Martin refused his baked beans on toast. This time he did not even bother to pick up his knife and fork but stared ahead like he was simple.

‘Come on, Marty,' I said. ‘It's your favourite. I made it special because you've been feeling poorly. Speak to me. Tell me what's wrong.'

His father said, ‘Come on, son. Eat it up. We can't go on like this.'

Martin turned and looked at his father all innocent, as if Len was the one that was mad, but he still didn't say anything.

‘Come on, don't be silly.'

I could tell Martin was hungry because it was a Sunday and the sweet shop was closed. When I told people about it later, they said it was because he wanted attention. Well, he was certainly getting it now.

‘This is daft, son, daft.'

The boy just stared into space. He wouldn't say anything. He wouldn't even look at his father.

‘Come on … tell me why you won't eat. Is there something wrong?'

Soon it would come, Len's temper. I had not seen it for such a long time.

‘Why are you doing this? Come on, tell me. Why won't you speak? Why won't you eat? Tell me.'

Martin must have known that he could stop it at any point. All he had to do was to speak or to eat, but he just continued to stare down at the plate of food, refusing to look at either of us.

Then Len lost his rag. ‘Haven't we had enough problems in this family? Why are you doing this to us? We haven't done anything wrong. In fact, we've done everything for you. Everything, you little bastard.'

‘Len … don't call him that,' I said.

‘You're a selfish, ungrateful little bastard. Do you hear me?'

‘Len …'

‘No, Vi, don't protect him, his mother did that. I've had enough of this nonsense. After all we've done for you. Is this how you show your gratitude? Come on, tell me. Is this what you do? Perhaps I'm going deaf. Perhaps I can't hear you. But Vi can't either. Neither of us can. Because you're a wilful, selfish, ungrateful little bastard.'

‘Len, he's a child …'

‘I don't care what he is. Come here.'

He pulled the chair out backwards so that Martin fell towards him and on to the floor. Then he caught his son by the back of his jumper and dragged him towards the door.

Instead of struggling Martin tried to make himself as heavy as possible, collapsing his weight so Len would have to work harder.

‘Don't try that on me.'

Martin closed his eyes like he wasn't in the room and let his body be turned on to its side and Len pulled him away out of sight.

‘Come on,' he shouted. ‘Don't think you can get away with all this rubbish. I've had enough and it's going to stop right now.'

My feet banged against the walls. Dad was shouting, ‘I'll teach you, you little bastard. I won't put up with it any more. Do you hear me? No, of course you don't. Anyone would think you were deaf.'

And what if I was?
I thought.
Then you'd be sorry
.

‘I'm going to show you what happens to boys who don't know they're born. If you won't listen to reason then you'll listen to the back of my hand.'

He took me into his room and threw me on to the bed. I could tell he was reaching for some kind of weapon: a slipper or a walking stick.

‘Say after me: “I will eat my food.” Come on, say it.'

The first blow came down. It was a hairbrush. I could feel its spikes through my shorts.

Then he hit me again. ‘This won't stop until you speak. Say after me: “I will speak when I am spoken to.” '

I will not
.

‘I will not be rude to my elders and betters.'

My father began to speak and hit, speak and hit; the blows were like punctuation.

‘I will not steal.'

There will be six
, I thought.
I must not cry
.

‘I will leave a clean plate.'

I will let my father exhaust himself. I will not speak
.

‘I will stop being a miserable little bastard and a mummy's boy.'

Soon he will be gone and I will be alone
.

I felt the sixth blow.

‘And one for luck; not that we've ever had any in this damned family. Now start crying and don't come down until you've stopped.'

The bedcover had crumpled under my face but I could see the dressing table in the corner and the brush my father had hit me with. I remembered my mother being given it on her birthday and smiling.
Allure brushes beauty and fragrance into your hair
. It had wisps from the last time she had used it. I sat on the edge of the bed and began to pick out the pale-gold strands, curling them round my fingers.

I heard her singing in my head:

I see the moon,
And the moon sees me:
God bless the moon,
And God bless me
.

The next day I had to say sorry to Auntie Vi. She was sitting on the settee in a smart black dress but had crossed her legs in such a way that her skirt had ridden up. I could see the catch of the suspenders holding her stockings.

‘Martin has something to say to you,' my father began.

Vi smiled.

‘Well.' Dad pushed me forwards. ‘Speak.'

Outside it had started to rain again. ‘I'm sorry,' I said.