Remember Me (8 page)

‘Let’s just wait and see what happens,’ he cautioned.

I saw Bobby stiffen. Up until then he’d been beaming with pride. It suddenly dawned on me what the consequences might be if the plane crashed. But how could it? Mr Holterman had flown Lancasters. If he couldn’t make a plane fly, who could? I gave the prop a few more winds than I had the first time, felt the increase in resistance against my fingers, and held it ready.

‘Point it slightly downwards when you let go,’ said Mr Holterman.

I tilted the nose down and gently pushed. The plane left my hands and levelled off almost immediately. It flew
gloriously straight and true to the end of the yard where it gently dipped into a hydrangea bush.

‘Beauty!’ I screamed. I’d never had a plane fly straight and level before. They almost always ended up banking into the ground. I raced to get it. Bobby was beaming. His mother was beaming. And his dad had a really happy smile on his face. I let Bobby launch the plane next and between us flew it another half a dozen times with the same result. Now it was ready for the real test in the open spaces of Grey Lynn Park. I turned to Mr Holterman, my face flushed by the success.

‘Mr Holterman, will you come down to the park with us?’ I asked. ‘I can fly it from the top of the bank. I reckon it’ll go for miles.’ I’d forgotten about his missing leg and his need for crutches. The sharp intake of breath alongside me alerted me to my stupidity. But Mr Holterman just smiled.

‘Thanks, but no,’ he said. ‘Bobby can be my eyes. He can go with you and tell me all about it later.’

‘Can I really go with him?’ said Bobby eagerly. Here’s the funny thing. Bobby was rarely allowed to go down to the park with us, which was one of the reasons I’d gone around to his home in the first place.

‘Just don’t be late for tea.’

‘Thanks, Mr Holterman,’ I said. I was so overwhelmed I reached out and shook his hand. ‘Thanks for fixing my plane. You turned it into the best one I ever made.’ He smiled again in response. I think he was still feeling pretty
pleased with himself. On this flimsy evidence, the fact that Mr Holterman had fixed my plane and smiled, and I’d shaken his hand, I managed to convince myself he liked me.

Now I managed to convince myself he was the ideal person with whom to discuss Mack’s predicament.

The plumber held his left hand out towards me, holding a two-shilling piece between his thumb and forefinger. He closed his right hand around the two-shilling piece and held his fist out to me.

‘All yours,’ he said.

I thought he was challenging me to force open his fist on the basis that if I succeeded I could keep the coin. His fist was jammed tight but two shillings is a big incentive. I levered his fingers apart one by one and…came up empty-handed! I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was no coin in his hand yet I saw him take it. He laughed, repeated the trick but instead of offering his fist to me, held it up to his mouth and blew through it. As he did so he opened his fingers. Nothing! The coin had disappeared into thin air.

A
N EXTRACT FROM A THRIFT ESSAY
, ‘H
OW
M
Y
M
ONEY
S
AVED
M
Y
L
IFE
’

Saturday was a Mack-free day. It was a day apart from all the rest. Eric, Maxie and most of my pals went off to play rugby while Rodney, Nigel and I went off to play soccer. I hung around after my game to see if Nigel’s team was short and needed an extra player. Nigel hung around to see if Rodney’s team was short for the same reason. It was a rare day when we didn’t get to play two matches. Somewhere nearby Dad would referee a match between two senior teams. If everything worked out we’d all finish up about the same time and go to Blandford Park at the bottom of Grafton Gully to watch two first-division teams play. We’d get home wet and cold but with the day far from done.

First we’d have to face the inquisition if we’d lost or failed to score, stand shivering until it was our turn for the bath, hoping like hell there was enough hot water left and then get dressed for action. On a good night we’d get to go to a movie with our pals, on a bad night we’d get dragged off visiting with Mum and Dad. Mostly we’d end up playing Monopoly or Ludo at home alone with Eric and Maxie for company, swear with rare abandon and listen riveted while Nigel bragged about his latest exploit with the girl down the road. We’d try to stay up as late as we could. Despite our best efforts, by 9.30 our eyelids would be hanging down around our toes. None of us ever had trouble getting to sleep on Saturday nights.

It’s fair to say I’d forgotten all about involving Mr Holterman until I saw him in church. He was easy
to spot. He was allowed to sit while everyone else had to kneel. I don’t know whether he attended the church out of spiritual need, out of habit or to accompany Bobby, who had no choice in the matter. Bobby also belonged to the Church of England Boys’ Society and, like the rest of us, if he didn’t attend church on Sunday he wasn’t allowed to go to club the following week. Bobby lived for the club nights. They were almost the only times during the week he was allowed out to play with his pals.

Mr Holterman was a different man around the Church Army than he was at home. He wasn’t a big talker but he used to enjoy listening when the men stood around chatting after the service. Mrs Holterman was also different. She smiled and socialised with the women. Church seemed to bring out the best in her but that might have been because it was one of the few times she was able to relax.

My parents attended church infrequently. Mum got the three of us dressed and packed us off so early we were always among the first there. Of course it was Nigel who explained why. It seemed my parents liked to do what a lot of parents liked to do on a Sunday morning without fear of interruption. I remember feeling horrified when Nigel told me. Suddenly Mum’s giggles when I got up early and took them a cup of tea in bed made sense. So did my Dad’s lack of appreciation.

On the few occasions my parents did come to church, Dad seemed to get on well with Mr Holterman. Dad
always had a joke and was always carrying on. He was also prepared to run where angels feared to tread. I caught them once discussing artificial legs, a subject which, like cancer, was only ever alluded to in the most circumspect way. Yet Dad was openly discussing it. With his toolmaking background, he was seeing if there was any way he could make Mr Holterman’s artificial leg more comfortable. Amazingly, Mr Holterman seemed to appreciate Dad’s interest.

Mack was also at church. I tried to catch his eye but he looked right through me. There was no affront or rebuff intended, he was simply distracted or hung over or both. I think he was there out of a sense of obligation to Captain Biggs or as the result of a promise to him. Mum liked to use the word
melancholy
and that’s the word that sprung into my mind looking at Mack. If he’d been Eric I would’ve put my arm around his shoulders. If it had been me, Eric would’ve put his arm around mine. I wanted to put my arm around Mack but kids didn’t do that for adults. I did nothing. Mack drifted off home as soon as the service concluded. His plight underscored the need for action.

I hovered around pretending to be occupied until the group of men Mr Holterman was with split up. He was standing alone propped on his crutches waiting for Mrs Holterman to notice he was ready to leave. I walked up to him as tentative as a tightrope walker on a high wire in a stiff breeze.

‘Mr Holterman, can I come and talk to you one day after school?’

‘What about?’ His eyes narrowed, which was usually a warning sign.

‘A secret.’

‘A secret, eh? I know what you’re up to, son. If you want to pump me so you can write another of your essays you’ve got another think coming.’

Mr Holterman knew about my essays? I was stunned.

‘It’s not an essay,’ I said quickly, although just the suggestion of hearing and writing Mr Holterman’s story set my pulse racing. As if it wasn’t racing fast enough already. ‘I want to help someone who’s in trouble. I need someone who can give me advice and also keep a big secret. I promised with God as my witness that I’d never tell anyone.’

‘Maybe you should just keep your promise.’

‘But I want to help him.’

‘Who?’ Mr Holterman reached out and grabbed hold of my shirt. This was the Mr Holterman who scared the daylights out of me.

‘Mack.’

Mr Holterman let go of me and leaned back on his crutches. I could see he was thinking.

‘Mack?’ he said.

‘Yes. He’s my friend.’

Mr Holterman stared hard at me as though he was trying to look inside my head to see if I was lying.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow. Now buzz off.’

I buzzed off, elated and relieved. Mightily relieved. Mrs Holterman spotted her husband swaying impatiently on his crutches and almost ran in her anxiety to take him home. Like a rabbit bolting for its warren, Bobby was hot on her tail.

I went straight home and started working out what I’d say to Mr Holterman. It was no different to planning an essay. I knew I’d have to get to the point quickly, give an overview then expand upon it. I also knew I had plenty of time to organise my thoughts. Dad was doing his invoices. We always went out as a family on Sunday afternoons, sometimes for a drive and on hot days to the beach. The only issue was what time we went. Sometimes Mum packed lunch and we had a picnic. Other times Dad mucked around till well after three o’clock when the best part of the day was gone.

Nigel explained that to me, too. If we went late it meant Dad hadn’t got what he wanted that morning and he was deliberately finding things to do to get even with Mum. Again I was shocked. But the tight-lipped silences seemed to prove his point. I didn’t know whether to blame Mum or Dad and, since this was an adult issue beyond our scope of influence, I just had to accept it.

Inevitably we’d all pile into the car and sooner or later Dad would buy us all a Robinson’s Choc Bomb, which was our ice cream of choice. The frostiness would vanish for no good reason I could determine and we’d all end
up singing corny songs as we drove along. According to Nigel there was a code adults used. He reckoned that somehow Mum let Dad know that the morning’s play had been rescheduled. What I could never figure out was why she didn’t reschedule in the first place and save us all a lot of hanging around.

Sunday nights were always spent around our old, green, Pye radio. I needed to refine the case I was going to put to Mr Holterman on Mack’s behalf but the best BBC programmes were played on Sunday nights. We’d listen to
Take it From Here
with Jimmy Edwards and then a serialised drama.
The Day of the Triffids
, based on one of John Wyndham’s books, was my favourite. No movie I ever saw or book I ever read fired up my imagination like those BBC dramas. The silver screen inside my head was infinite, the action more real and terrors more frightening than anything any director ever managed to put on film. I went to bed reliving the dramas, happy to let Monday take care of itself.

When I turned up at Bobby Holterman’s place after school, his mother didn’t want to let me in.

‘Come back another day,’ she said. ‘Bobby’s busy.’

Busy crying. I was standing at the back door because only adults and important people like doctors ever went to the front door. Bobby’s bedroom was two rooms up the hallway and his door was closed, but I could still hear him.

‘Actually, Mrs Holterman, I’ve come to see Mr Holterman. He asked me to come today after school.’

Mrs Holterman stepped back, riven by indecision. On
one hand she wanted rid of me for the sake of peace and on the other she was reluctant to go against her husband’s wishes. She didn’t know what to do.

‘Who is it?’

As soon as I heard Mr Holterman’s bellow reverberate down the hallway I wished I’d heeded Mrs Holterman’s advice. I wanted to bolt. I could hear him cursing as he got up out of his chair. Bolting would only make matters worse, if not for me, certainly for Mrs Holterman and probably Bobby.

‘It’s the boy from the draper’s.’

The boy from the draper’s. See what I mean about circumstances defining who I was? She made me sound like an item of stock.

‘Who?’ Mr Holterman demanded.

The only time I’d heard so much anger in someone’s voice was immediately prior to a beating. Dad sounded like that when he’d caught me playing with matches or doing something equally stupid. Once I tapped three nails into a cotton reel and ran a length of wire from the reel to one of my Triang jeeps in the belief that if I filled it full of electricity I wouldn’t have to keep winding it up. Dad caught me just as I was about to stick my homemade plug into the power socket. He yelled at me and beat the daylights out of me but I still don’t think he sounded as scary as Mr Holterman.

Watching Mr Holterman work his way down the hallway towards me was more frightening than anything
John Wyndham ever wrote. Sometimes I think I would’ve been better off if my imagination hadn’t been quite so active.

‘It’s me, Mr Holterman,’ I said, amazed that my voice wasn’t as shaky as I felt. ‘You told me to come today, after school.’

The crutches caused Mr Holterman’s shoulders to hunch up in a way that made him look even more threatening than normal. He towered over me, eyes glaring. Then for no apparent reason his shoulders relaxed and his anger seemed to fade like a fire running out of fuel.

‘So I did, son, so I did. You better come in.’

Mrs Holterman stepped back to let me pass. She was clasping her hands in front of her so tightly her fingers had gone white.

‘Would you like tea or coffee?’ she asked.

‘For God’s sake, woman, don’t fuss!’

If Mr Holterman had prodded her with a red-hot poker I don’t think she’d have jumped any higher. I jumped, too. I think that same poker might have brushed me.

‘If I want tea I’ll ask for it. If I want coffee I’ll make it myself.’ Mr Holterman retreated towards the living room. ‘Follow me, son, and close the door behind you.’

Close the door. All I could think was how the closed door would block my escape if I had to make a run for it. I was stunned. My dad never spoke to my mum that way. I hadn’t a clue what I’d do if he turned on me. I’d had to go to see the headmaster once for misbehaving
knowing that I was going to get strapped, but that was nothing like as scary as following Mr Holterman into his front room and closing the door. Mr Holterman took ages to position himself before slumping back into an armchair that seemed to take up half the space in the room. He waved impatiently at me.

‘Sit down, sit down. You make the place look untidy.’

It’s funny how a silly comment can defuse a situation. That was something Mum said. I pulled a straight-backed wooden chair out from beneath a dining table that looked rarely used. The table was a showplace of framed photographs on doilies. Even though the curtains were half drawn and the room was almost as gloomy as chapel, I could see a photo of Mr Holterman standing in front of a Lancaster, and another with him and his crew in full kit. I could hardly pull my eyes away from them.

‘Now what’s this business with Mack?’

I had prepared my argument but wasn’t prepared for the reception I’d received. It took a moment to gather my thoughts and concentrate. I knew I had to get to the point quickly.

‘In June 1940 Mack got picked up by a German U-boat off Medlands Beach on Great Barrier Island. He didn’t report it like he was supposed to.’ Mr Holterman sat forward and pinned me with his eyes. I could tell I had him hooked. ‘The following day the
Niagara
was sunk off the Mokohinau Islands. Mack thinks it was sunk by the U-boat.’

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘But be careful what you say.’

I told him the story exactly as Mack had told it to me, told him of the moral dilemma Mack faced and the consequences; how in his shame Mack was destroying himself with booze. I told him how I’d inadvertently revived the memories and how I wanted to make amends; how I needed help so Mack would stop blaming himself and put the whole episode behind him. Mr Holterman heard me out without interrupting. He just sat there gently massaging his stump through his trouser leg. When I’d finished he leaned back in his chair and thought for a while. I sat and waited. When his response came it was measured.

‘Mack had no choice. Most people in his position would’ve made the same decision but that doesn’t make it right. He should have reported the U-boat and there is nothing I can say now that can change that fact or make it any less of a betrayal. I can’t help you, son, and I can’t help Mack. Nobody can. I’m sorry.’