The Shell House (4 page)

Greg nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s good. And there’s the sound as well—
doomed youth
.
Oo oo
. A sort of rhyme. What do you call it?’

‘Assonance,’ said Mr O’Donnell, looming over their shoulders. ‘Yes, Greg. And what difference does that make?’

He moved on to Bonnie, who had taken her mobile phone out of her rucksack and was reading a text message.

‘Well, what difference does it make?’ Greg asked Jordan.

Jordan’s pen traced
oo ou
on the printed page. ‘A longer sound.
Oo
instead of a short
e
.
Dead
is sort of cut off, finished—the sound as well as the meaning.
Dead youth, doomed youth
— I don’t know—sadder again?’

Greg wrote
sadder
on his copy. ‘How do you spell assonance?’

Jordan spelled it out, then pointed to the word
Anthem
.

‘Churchy, like a hymn,’ Greg said. ‘The National Anthem—well, that’s a sort of hymn, I suppose.’

‘Does it have to be religious?’ Jordan reached into his rucksack for a pocket dictionary. ‘
Anthem
,’ he said, finding the place. ‘
A piece of sacred music sung in church.
Any dignified song of praise
. And it’s got
National
Anthem: song used by any country as symbol of its
national identity
.’

‘So you’re right. It doesn’t have to be religious. Ours is, though, ‘cos it starts
God save our gracious
Queen
.’

‘Anthem is good. Ironic.’ Jordan underlined it in the green pen he was using for notes. ‘Because you read the title,
Anthem
, but in the poem there are none of the things you’d expect. Instead there’s a list of no this, no that.
No passing-bells . . . no prayers nor bells
. . . I think he’s saying none of that has any relevance any more—church, hymns, prayers.’

‘Maybe he’s even saying God’s given up on them?’

‘I don’t know. Is it about God, or only about the rituals humans use to make sense of things?’

‘Rituals, I suppose.’

‘War makes all the old ones pointless and invents new ones of its own,’ Jordan said, writing in the margin.

That was good, Greg thought. He wrote it down too, then looked more closely at Wilfred Owen’s handwriting in the draft, noticing the firm downstrokes in black fountain pen, the precise shaping of the letters, the characterful
k
s and
p
s: it was neat but artistic. He imagined Wilfred Owen leaning over the page in just this way, considering his choice of words, crossing out, rewriting. Sassoon’s writing, in pencil, was scrawly, less careful. What would Owen think now if he knew that teenagers in a classroom were studying his every word, every change of mind? He’d have been amazed, surely, to find himself revered as the voice of the Great War; maybe he’d have found it amusing. Greg knew that Owen had been only twenty-four when he wrote this, twenty-five when he was killed a year later. From the convalescent hospital he had returned to the front line, knowing what he’d be facing. Would he have thought it worth dying, to be established for ever as a war poet, never to have the chance to move on to other subjects? It occurred to Greg that an Owen tragically killed at twenty-five was more interesting than an Owen who survived to become crusty, grey and hard of hearing . . .

He was on the point of saying something about this to Jordan when the door crashed open and a Year Nine messenger came in. Chewing sullenly, the boy handed Mr O’Donnell a folded piece of paper. Mr O’Donnell, who had been explaining something to Jenny Sullivan at the front of the class, straightened and glared at him.

‘You know perfectly well that’s not the way to enter a classroom. Would you like to go out and try again? And get rid of your chewing-gum while you’re out there.’

The boy, obviously not one to be intimidated by the curious eyes of sixth-formers, rolled his eyes. He slouched to the door, knocked, and came in again with mocking courtesy, proffering the note.

‘Yes?’ Mr O’Donnell prompted. ‘Try using words if it’s not too much effort.’

‘Got this note.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Dean.’ The boy’s tone implied that everyone ought to know.

‘Dean what?’

‘Dean Brampton.’ Again, the
What’s it to you?
inflexion. The boy’s gaze fell on Greg. Still chewing, he raised his chin and managed by a small adjustment of his features to give a look of contempt.

Dean. Dean woz ere
.

There were lots of boys called Dean . . .

‘Well, Dean Brampton, you can come back here at break-time and we’ll have a little discussion about manners and why they’re rather important. And you can explain why you’re still chewing gum when I just told you to get rid of it. Off you go.’ Only now did Mr O’Donnell look down at the note he’d been given. He passed it, still folded, across the desk. ‘Jordan, for you.’

Jordan read it. He didn’t let Greg see, but Greg saw the expression on his face. Immediately Jordan got his things together, zipped his pencil case, folded his papers and stuffed them into his rucksack. Everyone looked at him. ‘Got to go,’ he said, pushing his chair back. He didn’t ask politely, but this time Mr O’Donnell didn’t pursue his crusade for good manners. He just looked at the open door with an anxious expression as Jordan’s footsteps retreated down the corridor.

‘What’s that about?’ Bonnie asked, aggrieved. ‘Can we all go?’

At Jazz’s

Greg’s
mental
photograph:
a packed room. The
camera is held at head height, rather shakily. The
shot is out-of-focus, as if seen through an
alcoholic haze. There are figures, male and female:
spiked hair, bare shoulders, one head aggressively
bald. A girl’s head is caught in mid-turn, long
hair flying as if in a wind machine. Someone is
raising two fingers at the camera, and someone
else holding up a joint and grinning inanely. The
air is blue with smoke.

With the new digital camera his parents had bought him for his birthday, Greg could download his pictures straight to the computer, bypassing the bother and expense of developing, then tinker with them using Photoshop. Last night he had downloaded his shots of Graveney Hall, and had cropped and enlarged and experimented. Finally he had printed out three, intending to show them to Jordan: the house from the dip in the driveway, then a view through the open doorway on the garden side, and the DEAN WOZ ERE rubbish and graffiti. In the common room at break he took out the three prints and looked at them, beginning to see how he could develop a sequence. From certain angles and in certain lights, you could easily think the house was still intact and inhabited; only at closer range did you see ruin and decay. If his photographs gradually closed in on the vandals’ territorial marking, it would give a sense of—what was that word Mr O’Donnell had used the other day?—bathos, that was it. Grand and imposing from some views, derelict and litter-strewn from others.

Greg took out a slip of paper from his pencil case and re-read it.
In photography everything is so ordinary; it
takes a lot of looking before you learn to see the ordinary.
David Bailey
, it said, in Jordan’s small, firm handwriting. Jordan had read it in a magazine and copied it for Greg, knowing of his ambition to be a photographer. They both liked the idea of
learning to see
. It was, Greg thought, more important than learning about apertures and exposures.

Where was Jordan now? Greg looked up at the doorway. He would have had Geography before break if he’d got back from wherever he’d been summoned. Madeleine, coming in, caught his eye and came over, with Bonnie trailing.

‘Why did Jordan have to rush off like that?’

Quickly, Greg put his photographs away in their folder. ‘Don’t know—he didn’t say.’

‘Is he in trouble?’ Bonnie asked eagerly.

Greg gave her a withering look. ‘Yeah, caught dealing crack behind the bike sheds, I bet.’

‘I expect it’s to do with his sister.’ Maddy’s friend Safia, who had been in Jordan’s form last year, was getting coffee from the machine. ‘She’s always in and out of hospital. There’s something wrong with her kidneys. He cleared off like that once before.’

‘How old is she?’ Maddy asked Greg.

Greg shrugged. ‘Didn’t even know he had a sister.’

‘Honestly—blokes!’ Maddy huffed, looking round at Safia. ‘They go round together all the time and don’t even know about each other’s sisters!’

‘We don’t talk about that sort of thing,’ Greg said, defensive.

‘She’s Year Ten, I think, only not here,’ Safia said. ‘She goes to St Ursula’s.’

‘Must be serious then,’ said Maddy, ‘if Jordan’s gone haring off?’

Safia shrugged. ‘I s’pose so. Don’t know any more about it than that, only what Suzanne told me.’

‘It must be so
bor
ing,’ Bonnie said, ‘going round with Jordan, after Gizzard. I wish Gizzard hadn’t left—he was always good for a laugh.’

‘Maddy doesn’t think Jordan’s boring, do you, Mads?’ said Safia, with a teasing glance. ‘She likes the silent type.’ Maddy coloured up. Greg looked at her in surprise; she saw him noticing, blushed even more furiously and turned away. ‘Oo-
oo
-ooh!’ Bonnie crowed. Jordan would hate this, Greg thought: being the subject of who-fancies-who gossip. But Madeleine . . . maybe she was the sort of girl Jordan might like—bright, unflashy, with a mind of her own.

Jordan didn’t reappear that day. Greg wasn’t sure what to do, not knowing how drastic the situation was. It must have been more than a routine alarm: Jordan’s face, when he read the note, had registered first mild curiosity, then shock and dismay. In the evening, he got the McAuliffes’ number from Directory Enquiries, unsure whether to phone or not—he didn’t know Jordan well enough to probe into a family crisis. But, in the end, he did phone; there was no answer, so he left a message on the answering machine and Jordan rang back just as he was thinking of having an early night.

‘Greg? Got your message—sorry it’s late.’

‘Thought I’d better phone. I thought someone must have died or something.’
Stupid
thing to say!

There was a small pause, then: ‘We’ve all been at the hospital.’ Jordan sounded quite calm.

‘Safia said it must be something to do with your sister.’

‘Yes. Michelle. She’s OK now, but she was taken ill at school—she was having trouble breathing, so they took her into hospital as an emergency. They’re keeping her in for a couple of days. We’ve just been back to take the things she needed, and my mum’s spending the night there.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’ Greg asked, uneasy with illness and disease.

‘It’s a long-term thing. Her kidneys don’t work,’ Jordan said. ‘She needs a transplant. But till that happens, she has to go into hospital three days a week for dialysis. That means being plugged into a machine that filters all her blood. It takes five hours each time, and leaves her feeling washed out.’

‘It’s serious, then?’ Greg managed.

‘Oh yes, it’s serious. She nearly died two years ago when she had acute kidney failure. And if she doesn’t get the transplant she’ll be stuck with this for ever. She’s on a list, waiting. But she’s not actually in danger now, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I didn’t even know you had a sister.’

‘Haven’t I said? Yes, Michelle’s great—imagine putting up with all that! But she does. I’ve got a little brother as well, Mark—he’s only eight. If I’m a bit late tomorrow it’s because I’ve got to get him ready for school and take him there—I’ll have to miss training. Look, thanks for phoning. See you tomorrow, OK?’

Greg hung up and wandered into the kitchen, where Katy was arguing with their parents about getting her navel pierced.

‘Oh, you’re so
uncool
! Lorrie’s mum let her do it! It’s my body, isn’t it? I’m not asking for you to
pay
for me to get it done! Why do I have to be the only one with parents who treat me like I’m six years old?’

‘You are
not
going to mutilate yourself,’ said their father. ‘You’re too young, and besides it looks tarty.’

‘No, it doesn’t! What do you know?’

‘Give it a rest,’ Greg said. He went to the fridge for a Coke.

She turned on him. ‘Who asked you, gimpfeatures?’

‘Katy, for goodness’ sake!’ Their mother was boxing up a cake, tying it with shiny ribbon and running the blade of her scissors down the ribbon-ends to make them spring into curls. ‘If you can’t speak nicely to
any
one, go to bed! And try to wake up in a better mood tomorrow. I think we’ve exhausted the subject. We’ve said no and that’s it.’

Katy started banging about in the cupboard. She reached for a packet of biscuits, took one out and ate it, scattering crumbs. ‘Why aren’t there any chocolate digestives left? I bet Greg the Gannet’s scoffed the lot. Anyway, you’ve got pierced ears, Mum, so how can
you
talk?’

‘Tell you what, Katy, why don’t you get your lips stapled together?’ Greg suggested pleasantly.

Katy flounced out. ‘I’m going to phone Lorrie. I need to talk to someone intelligent.’

Their mother put the cake-box to one side and took the wire tray to the sink. ‘Oh, dear. Teenagers!’ She looked at her husband. ‘What did we do to produce such a monster of ingratitude?’

‘It’s just a phase,’ said Greg’s dad, flicking through the local free paper.

‘Lucky you’ve got me,’ Greg remarked. ‘Always charming, witty and sociable.’

‘You had your moments,’ said his mum. ‘Still do, sometimes. How about making us all some coffee, love?’

Greg filled the kettle, thinking about Jordan’s sister. What if it had been Katy rushed to hospital? Right now, he’d most likely think
bloody good job
— she was such a pain. But she was still his sister, and he’d have to forgive her for being as obnoxious as she liked if she had something awful like kidney failure. The threat of serious illness hanging over his family was hard to imagine—they were never ill, any of them, apart from ordinary coughs and colds. Really, when you thought of all the things that could go wrong, it was amazing that most people’s bodies were in perfect working order. He saw Jordan’s sister as a pale, sickly creature in St Ursula’s uniform (unsettling, as he thought of St Ursula’s as a posh school for daughters of the wealthy); then he pictured Jordan powering through the water, his shoulders gleaming. Michelle had drawn the short straw in that family, then.

‘Doing anything this weekend?’ he asked Jordan on Friday.

‘Inter-club swimming Saturday night, at Chelmsford. Apart from that it’s all family stuff. My grandparents are coming over to see Michelle—she should be coming home on Sunday. You?’

‘Working Saturday. Nothing much else.’

It was Bonnie’s birthday on Saturday, and she and friends were going to the Forest Tavern. Greg had been about to ask Jordan if he wanted to go—partly through curiosity about how things might shape up with Madeleine—but now thought better of it. Jordan gave the impression of having a full and well-organized life; even the hospital crisis had been swiftly assimilated, without fuss. On his return to school, he had answered Greg’s questions without appearing keen to discuss the subject at length.

Greg ended up going to a party with Gizzard. He hadn’t meant to, but the doorbell rang just as he was getting ready to go to the Tavern. Gizzard, gelled and grinning, was on the front doorstep.

‘Hi, fleapit. Come to whisk you away from this humdrum life to a night of wine, women and song.’

‘I can’t sing.’

‘OK, wine and women, then. Two out of three’ll have to do. Your charabanc awaits.’

‘My what?’

Gizzard waved an expansive hand, gesturing towards the road outside; Greg saw a Mini parked under the street-lamp.

‘Shel’s just passed her driving test. We’re going out to celebrate, round a mate’s house. Thought we’d take you along. You allowed out? We’ll bring you back before you turn into a pumpkin.’

Greg didn’t realize till he reached the car that there were two girls inside—he’d forgotten about Gizzard’s attempt to set him up. Sherry/Cherie, in the driving-seat, was small and elfin, with a pert face and hair in short black spikes; the one in the back was all legs and breasts and sparkly hair. The Mini was a two-door, and he struggled past the forward-tilted front seat to squeeze in next to her.

‘You don’t know Tanya, do you?’ Gizzard said, getting into the passenger seat.

‘Not yet,’ said the sparkly girl; she made a pretence of moving away, but they were both tall and the back seat was cramped, and Greg was very conscious of her thigh against his. She leaned forward between the two front seats as Sherry/Cherie drove away, continuing a muttered conversation that ended in peals of laughter from both girls; her long hair brushed Greg’s arm, and he smelled musky perfume. She obviously thought she was sultry.

No, she
was
sultry. At the party—it was at the house of someone called Jazz, but Greg never did work out who Jazz was, nor even whether Jazz was male or female—she attached herself to him as if he were her project for the evening. Not knowing anyone, he didn’t mind that at all; being with such a striking girl meant he didn’t need to feel self-conscious, the way he sometimes did at parties. She’d seen him at the pool, she told him. She stood so close that he could see right down between her breasts; her musky scent filled his head. She wore a skimpy black top that ended well above her navel, which was pierced with a silver ring and stud. ‘Did that hurt?’ he asked, looking in fascination at the punctured flesh, thinking of Katy. ‘Yeah, like hell,’ Tanya said. ‘Worth it though, wasn’t it?’ ‘My dad thinks it looks tarty,’ he told her. Her eyes stared at him, round and astonished. ‘Your dad thinks I’m a tart? Do I know him?’ Greg explained about Katy; she laughed. ‘I like this sparkly stuff,’ he said, touching; she’d put it round her eyes as well as on her hair. It made her dark hair looked spangled with raindrops.

They shared a bag of tortilla chips. He downed his beer, drank another, and another, and began to feel pleasantly vague. Tanya pressed herself against him and in a drunken sway he found that they were kissing. Her hands were twining round him, fingers pushing down inside the back of his jeans. There was something teasing in the way she looked at him: as if she were testing him, pushing to see how far he’d go. The room was smoky and hot and loud and he could hardly breathe. Her tongue was in his mouth; he could taste garlic. The thrum of the music sounded in his ears with a hypnotic beat.

‘Let’s go upstairs,’ Tanya whispered, and nipped the lobe of his ear with sharp teeth. ‘Jazz won’t mind.’

She took his hand, pulling him through the crowded room. They’d reached the stairs before the thought reached his fuddled brain: Christ, was she intending to
do
it, right now, this minute? My first time, he thought, in a kind of delirium; at the house of someone called Jazz, on a bed piled with coats, with a girl called Tanya with spangles in her hair. It would be a triumph, an achievement, something to tell Gizzard about . . .

If he could do it. He felt as if his groin was on fire, but mixed up with it was sick panic—he had to get out, away from Tanya, away from this houseful of smoke and noise. He balked at the bottom of the stairs, resisting her grip on his hand. Tanya, already on the second stair, lurched back.

‘What’s up?’ Her face loomed close to his; he saw spiky mascara and the gleaming white of her eye.

‘Nothing.’