You, Me and Him (22 page)

‘When Aggie’s not being insecure she’s funny, genuine, so unlike the girls I’ve dated in the past. It’s about time I found someone … El’s cute too. His language is appalling, though.’

‘My God, he’s a little terror! George called me a bitch the other day, and his father an arsehole. Guess who taught him those words? Finn was furious. It’s not funny.’

‘I know. I’ve got this system going. Each time she blasphemes in front of him Aggie has to put a pound in the jam jar. And each time El swears he has to forfeit watching
The Simpsons
.’

‘And what about you?’

‘I never fucking swear.’

I laugh.

‘If I had called my mother a bitch or Dad a bastard, can you imagine the punishment?’

‘He would have locked you in your room for a year!’

‘Yeah, and thrown away the key.’

There’s another short silence. ‘You’re one of the most important people in my life, Clarky,’ I find myself saying.

‘Aren’t I
the
most important?’ He smiles and then says, ‘What’s brought this on?’

‘I don’t think I say it enough, so I’m saying it today.’

‘Well, I feel the same, J.’

‘D’you remember that holiday we had in Spain?’ I start. ‘In the bank?’

‘What made you think of that?’ he asks, his voice warm with the memory.

‘I don’t know. I just had this image of you trying to cash your traveller’s cheques when …’

‘You’d told me the Spanish for buying a dozen eggs!’

We both laugh. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a tourist and sit on an open-air bus,’ I tell him. ‘What have you always wanted to do?’

He thinks. ‘Play my violin in front of the Queen.’

‘You will one day. In fact, I’m sure of it. She’ll invite you to tea.’

‘With cucumber sandwiches?’

‘Of course.’

‘Actually, I always think there’s something missing from a cucumber sandwich.’

‘Like a piece of salami?’

‘Exactly. What else would you like to do?’

I bite my lip as I think. ‘Learn to sail.’

‘You could go to Australia, the Whitsunday Islands. I’d like to drink champagne every day for lunch.’

‘Throw out all my clothes and start again with an unlimited budget.’

‘Date Michelle Pfeiffer.’

‘Marry Colin Firth.’ I laugh. ‘Dance like Madonna.’

‘Play like Yehudi Menuhin.’

‘Draw like Leonardo da Vinci.’

‘Talk like they do on
EastEnders
. Tell people I think they’re “silly cows”.’

‘Who would you call a silly cow?’

‘I don’t know … people who don’t give their seats to the elderly on the tube. Or nuisance callers telling me to switch phone companies, or mean traffic wardens.’

‘I’d like to call Ms Miles a silly cow or some of the competitive mothers, like Mrs Heaven whose children are all so super-talented. Hang on, though, you put the washing-machine man in his place, that was good.’

‘That was role-play. It wasn’t face-to-face. It’s difficult, isn’t it, always speaking your mind?’

‘It can be. What do you want to say?’

‘Lots of things.’

‘Like?’ I encourage him.

He’s about to say something when the bus abruptly jolts to a halt. The noise around us comes into focus. Passengers start to disembark. Clarky laughs as if he could have predicted this. He takes my hand as we climb down the steep steps. ‘That’s the story of my life,’ he says. ‘Something always stops me.’

*

Clarky and I wait at the school gates for George. He’s arranged to meet Aggie here too. She told him she might be late because she had to deliver a dozen frozen lasagnes across London.

The school bell rings and lots of children start to file out. A girl with two blonde pigtails pushes Eliot across the playground. Aggie arrives just as he is delivered to the front gates. She kisses Clarky full on the lips. ‘Hello, you.’

He kisses her back.

‘Hi, Josie.’

‘Hi. Thanks for letting me steal Clarky for the afternoon.’

‘That’s OK. But he’s all mine now.’ She kisses him again.

I turn away, unsure of where to look. Come on, George.

Everyone has gone except for Clarky, Aggie, Eliot and me. ‘There he is,’ Clarky finally says. ‘Why have they gone over there?’

‘Where?’

Clarky points to the outside loos, a small brick building to the left of the playing field.

‘Who’s he with? What are they doing?’ I ask, panic rising to the surface.

Clarky tells Aggie to take Eliot to the van. Reluctantly she leaves us.

I wish I could move quicker. Clarky runs across the playground and I follow as quickly as I can. Two boys have George pinned up against the brick wall. ‘Let him go!’ I screech at Jason. ‘Stop it!’ But it’s too late. Jason has punched him in the mouth. He starts to laugh. George’s lip is bleeding. ‘Spastic,’ he tells him, giving him another punch, this time in the stomach. George doubles over.

‘Hello, Daddog,’ he murmurs painfully.

‘How dare you hit my son! Fight back, George! Don’t let him get away with it. Hit him!’

‘He can’t fight.’ Jason spits on to George’s shoe. ‘He’s a spasmo.’

George throws himself at Jason then, arms around his hips, pulling him to the ground. ‘I’m not a spasmo!’ He’s thumping Jason’s chest now and is surprisingly strong. Jason is laughing but I can see that George’s thumps hurt.

I can’t watch any longer. Clarky prises them apart. He pushes Jason against the wall. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’ Then he turns to the others. ‘You too, for letting someone like
him
tell you what to do. Haven’t you minds of your own?’

Jason claps his hands in derision. This boy is seven, how did he become so nasty so young? ‘Who are you? You’re not George’s dad, are you?’

‘Go home,’ Clarky says. ‘All of you. No one’s interested in what you think. And don’t ever lay a hand on George again.’

*

‘Why aren’t you doing anything?’ I scream at the headmaster. ‘I have told Ms Miles, I have told all the teachers, that Jason bullies my son, but what do you do? Nothing!’

Calmly, Clarky tells Mr Phipps what happened.

‘I can’t believe this is going on in my school,’ is all he says.

‘Well, believe it! Look at him.’ I present George and his bleeding lip like an exhibit. ‘Why wasn’t there someone on gate duty tonight? If we hadn’t been there, who would have stopped Jason? There needs to be a teacher supervising at all times.’

‘Jason should be expelled for that kind of behaviour,’ Clarky adds.

‘If you’re not going to step in and take action then George has my full permission, and his father’s, to fight back.’

‘Mrs Greenwood, Mr Greenwood.. .’ The head looks at Clarky. ‘I can’t allow that. I’m a father, too, and between you and me, Jason deserved to be hit back. He is an aggressive boy. I understand why George did it, but I can’t condone tit for tat. I have to show the children at my school that fighting is not acceptable.’

‘Well, show them then!’

‘I will ring Jason’s mother, but it’s difficult. His father died only last week.’

There’s a painful silence, our own predicament put firmly into perspective.

‘Jason’s father’s dead, Mr Phipps?’ asks George, and he starts to cry.

Mr Phipps nods. ‘It’s all right, George. I’m not excusing his behaviour but he is a troubled boy, taking his anger out on the easiest target.’

‘That’s not fair on George,’ is all I can finally say.

‘I agree. And I will do something about it, I promise.’

*

George is asleep, Baby and Mr Muki beside him, and Rocky curled up at the end of the bed. I brought him home and bathed his face and lips with warm salted water while Dean fixed the washing machine. His stomach was bruised so I rubbed some arnica into it.

‘Ow, it hurts, Mum,’ he said. ‘Ow.’

‘Try and be brave. There’s a good boy.’

‘I’m not a spasmo, am I?’

‘
This is the hardest thing I find about ADHD
,’ Emma once wrote to me. She had told me Nat had been called ‘scum’ and ‘lowlife’. ‘
If no one else existed in this world my gorgeous boy would be the happiest he could be
.’

‘Why won’t Jason let me be in his football team then? I want to play.’

This is what I find so odd. Even after today, George still can’t see how badly Jason has treated him. He will go back to him; he
still
wants to play on his team because at least Jason gives him some sort of attention, even if it is negative.

‘Dad doesn’t think I’m any good at football either. He never plays with me.’

‘You’re good at other things, like building your Lego, and you’re a very good swimmer, and do you remember that model you made of the
Titanic
?’ George spent three hours constructing it. I didn’t understand his explanation of why it wouldn’t sink, but I believed him when he described it so earnestly. ‘No two people are the same, that’s what you’ve always got to remember.’

‘But I want to play football. I want Dad to play with me.’

I try Finn again. His mobile was switched off earlier.

‘What’s wrong?’ he says when he hears the tone of my voice.

‘Can you talk?’

A chair is scraped back and he says, ‘Excuse me.’ I can hear his footsteps against a marble floor.

‘Are you eating?’

‘Just dinner with one of the lecturers and Alessia.’

‘It’s George. He was hit at school today.’

‘How badly?’

‘His lip was cut, he’s bruised.’

‘Who did it to him?’

‘Jason, the one we’ve been having trouble with for ages.’

I think Finn is almost in tears.

‘Don’t worry. Thankfully Clarky was there to break it up.’

‘Clarky?’

‘Yes.’

‘How come?’

‘He was just there. We spent the afternoon together.’

‘Weren’t you working?’

‘Finn! Does it matter?’

‘No.’

‘Can you have a quick word with George? I’ll take the phone up to him.’

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there,’ Finn says, so quietly that I can hardly hear him. ‘I should have been there. Poor George. Oh, God, I should be with you.’

‘How’s the conference going?’

‘Good,’ he replies half-heartedly. ‘Interesting.’

I hand the phone to George. ‘I’m all right, Dad. I hurt my lip and he hit me in the stomach.’ He listens to his dad. ‘Are you going to die? Jason’s father’s dead. I think that’s why he hit me. I hit him back, though. Am I bad, Dad? I don’t want you to die. Spiderman’s parents died, didn’t they? You won’t, will you?’

George listens again. Finally he’s laughing. Finn always has this magical effect on him, as if sprinkling gold dust over his hurt. ‘I love you too, Mrs Jammie Dodger. I’ll be all right.’ He hands me back the phone.

‘Finn?’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s OK. Look, you go back to your dinner. Call tomorrow.’ I hang up.

‘Dad said you had to switch my brain off tonight, Mum.’

I press the imaginary button.

George shuts his eyes and only minutes later he is asleep. I stroke his hair. The time when I love him most is when his face is calm. His arms are raised over his head and he seems at peace. I look at him and can’t imagine my life any differently. I would defend him to my death.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The children start to file out but there’s no sign of George. Since the bullying incident he is even more determined not to go to school. All my physical energy is spent getting him there when secretly a part of me wants to keep him at home, protected. I envy Finn for being away and I envy him for not having to be the parent who drags their son to school, hearing, ‘I HATE YOU,’ over and over again.

Aggie parks her white van across the road. ‘You did go out with Clarky, didn’t you?’ is the first thing she says to me and the question feels out of place, like a thistle in a bed of roses.

‘Hi, Aggie! Nice to see you.’

‘Sorry.’ She laughs quickly, clearing her throat. ‘I just wanted to know because …’

I stop her in her tracks. ‘I didn’t, OK.’

‘So there was never a drunken snog, never a
fling
?’

‘What is this? I haven’t had a great time recently with George and I could do without the interrogation! Sorry, Aggie,’ I say afterwards. Why do we always feel the need to apologise after raising our voice? Clarky’s right. They don’t do that in
EastEnders
.

‘I’m sorry about George, I really am, it’s awful, but I need to know. I can’t help thinking Clarky’s hiding something.’

‘He’s not.’

‘I’ve had one bad marriage, I don’t need another.’

Why did I ever lie about our one night? One small lie multiplies and what was so unimportant suddenly becomes a major issue. I’m tempted to just tell her, get it over with. Who cares anymore? ‘Uh-oh, here’s Ms Miles.’

‘Josie, you’re changing the subject.’ Aggie is still looking at me, as if under a magnifying glass, scrutinising my every expression and piece of body language.

‘There’s nothing between us and never has been. I understand your concern, but please stop going on about it, Aggie. There are bigger things in this world to worry about.’

For once I am pleased that Ms Miles is standing in front of us. The last time she came to the gates she told us that George had spun Eliot around in his wheelchair so fast that he had fallen head first into the badminton nets.

She clears her throat before announcing, ‘George asked one of the other boys to close the window today because it was cold enough to … “freeze his balls off” I think was the vulgar expression he used.’

Eliot bursts out laughing.

‘El made me do it, Mum,’ George pipes up.

Ms Miles flinches. ‘Of course he didn’t.’

‘Why not? Because he’s in a wheelchair?’ I blurt out, sick of him not being accused of anything, ever. From the corner of my eye I see Eliot sticking his finger up in my direction.

Aggie turns on me, affronted. ‘Well, it’s true,’ I say. ‘George’s disability is invisible; Eliot’s chair does him a lot of favours. He’s just stuck his finger up at me now, for instance.’

‘No, he didn’t,’ she answers back.

‘Excuse me but he did, and it’s not the first time.’

‘I didn’t do anything, Mum.’

My mouth is wide open. Little horror!

‘I’m sure you didn’t, El,’ Aggie says, staring at me frostily. ‘Come on.’ She leaves after a quick goodbye which I ignore.

I am
furious
.

Before Ms Miles can issue a punishment I tell her, ‘Eliot’s language is filthy and he does tell George to say things. So, in future, unless you have something positive to say about my son, I don’t want to hear it, OK? Is that understood?’

*

On the walk home I ask George what he ate for lunch today.

‘Sausages. I was so good going round the shop that day, wasn’t I?’ he asks again. George has talked constantly about how good he was at the supermarket.

‘Yes, you were such a good boy.’ Ruffle of the hair.

‘Thank you. They like Eliot at lunchtime because if they push him in his chair they go to the top of the queue,’ George explains to me, ‘and they get chips and ketchup. They like Eliot in school but they don’t like him in the street. There they ignore him or poke him and call him “carrot head”. El’s my best friend. I like him wherever he is.’

A large part of me is proud to have a son who’s different. As well as petrified. ‘George, don’t run on. Wait!’ I pull him back but he’s seen something and wriggles free.

It’s in the middle of the road and looks like a squashed hedgehog. ‘STOP, GEORGE!’ I scream now. There’s a car coming towards him and it isn’t slowing down. I run out as fast as I can and grab him by his jumper. ‘Let me go, Mum.’ A car beeps its horn furiously at us as it does an emergency stop.

I raise my hand in apology. ‘Poor hedgehog,’ George says. ‘Can we take him home, Mum? Bury him in the garden?’

The driver winds down the window. There is a build up of traffic behind him now. ‘For God’s sake, can’t you control your son?’ I don’t hear what he says next.

‘George, come on.’ I drag him away from the hedgehog and onto the pavement.

The driver sets off again. I can see him shaking his head.

I kneel down. Whatever I say today, whatever instruction I give, it won’t make any difference tomorrow. Other children progress, they learn a routine and become more independent by the day. But for George there is no such pattern. He is about to see Dr Nichols to have his height and weight recorded, blood pressure taken, may have a blood test to check his glucose levels, and then we’ll see Sandy the pharmacist who dispenses his Ritalin. But why are we even bothering to do all of this? Nothing makes him better. Oh, Finn! I need you. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do it, can’t do it, can’t do it.

I grab George and force him to stand still. ‘You NEVER run out on to a road. You could get killed. When will you understand what I’m saying to you? Do … you … understand?’ I shake his shoulders, emphasising each word.

‘But I’m not sure if he’s dead or not, Mum. Someone will run over him again if we leave him on the road and then he’ll really be dead,’ George says anxiously.

I take a deep breath. ‘I know it’s sad that the hedgehog has suffered but I’d rather have a “without doubt” dead hedgehog than a possibly dead George. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’ But he’s looking at a woman walking past us wearing a bright purple skirt.

I don’t know how to get through to him. ‘Take my hand and don’t let go,’ I tell him as we walk on. He turns round once more to look at the squashed hedgehog. ‘Animals go to heaven, don’t they?’ he asks.