in the earth. ‘Nature abhors a vacuum’, his mother had told him once, when she was weeding her flower-bed.
A
realized by the graveside that his mother had filled a space in him. A vacuum that even nature refused. Maybe that anyone would refuse but a mother.
It was a hard sensation for a child to frame. It was a bit like when his father had taken down the hallway mirror.
A
had always glanced in it when he went past. Not from vanity,
A
was not equipped to be vain; more from brooding curiosity, to see what it was that made him so despised. After the mirror was gone
A
continued to look there for weeks, and the space always filled him with a yearning dread. When what he wanted was evidence that he existed, there was something horrific about finding just a blank wall, with a hole where a nail had been. That’s how it was when he buried his mother.
It had been frosty for days. He could still see the caterpillar tracks in the grass of the miniature JCB they’d had to use for the grave.
On the vicar’s direction,
A
and his father both took a handful of the hard earth. Which scattered and bounced on the coffin lid, like a soft drum roll. But nothing happened. There was no trick, no Paul Daniels to make it not be true.
The barely reverend R M Long finished with a drone that confirmed this was just work to him. Work that was nearly done. There wasn’t going to be a reception for
A
’s mother.
A
had to go back to the home with Terry. His father had to sort out some affairs.
Though he was not supposed to, Terry left the two of them alone for a few moments before they got into the car. A chance for them to speak unencumbered by the presence of strangers. Something they had not done in nearly two years.
As it turned out, they didn’t have a lot to talk about. When there’s so much, where do you begin? They shook hands, brittly. And
A
’s dad told his son that he loved him, and that he’d come and visit soon; as mechanical as the digger in the distance.
A
said that he loved his dad too, and that he’d look forward to it.
A lie for a lie. A truth for a truth.
A month later
A
received a letter from his father. It explained that he had been offered work abroad. Part of a government contract in the rebuilding of Kuwait. Part of a protection plan, to shield him from the hate and the hysteria. He said he had to leave immediately, wouldn’t be able to visit before he went.
An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.
They weren’t the only family separated that winter.
Terry told himself it was nothing, at first. Ignored the fact that his wife had started to rush to pick up the phone at certain times. Times when she was in any case lurking near it. Not setting any great store by his own appearance, Terry was curiously sensitive to that of others; and on some level he was aware that she was now wearing to work clothes which had previously been reserved for occasions. But he liked to see things used, and thought that this was good, marked a change perhaps in her hoarding habits. Even when a certain pair of French knickers appeared in the spiralledAli-Baba basket. A pair of white silk pants that aroused him even in thought. That he had only ever known her to wear when she wanted him to see them. Even when he found them dirty for the third week running, he could still believe that nothing was wrong.
Some people would simply not have spotted the signs, but little got past Terry. Friends, of whom he had many in those days, would describe him as acute, sensitive, intelligent; he was not a man easily duped. But above anything else they would call him optimistic. He was more determinedly positive even than Oscar, his hyperactively happy Labrador. Terry could set a spin on dark facts at which unemployment statisticians would hesitate. Engrossed as he was with his new charge, and the nagging question of whether the boy might indeed be as innocent as he continued to protest, Terry was easily able to sweep aside little inconsistencies in
A
realized by the graveside that his mother had filled a space in him. A vacuum that even nature refused. Maybe that anyone would refuse but a mother.
It was a hard sensation for a child to frame. It was a bit like when his father had taken down the hallway mirror.
A
had always glanced in it when he went past. Not from vanity,
A
was not equipped to be vain; more from brooding curiosity, to see what it was that made him so despised. After the mirror was gone
A
continued to look there for weeks, and the space always filled him with a yearning dread. When what he wanted was evidence that he existed, there was something horrific about finding just a blank wall, with a hole where a nail had been. That’s how it was when he buried his mother.
It had been frosty for days. He could still see the caterpillar tracks in the grass of the miniature JCB they’d had to use for the grave.
On the vicar’s direction,
A
and his father both took a handful of the hard earth. Which scattered and bounced on the coffin lid, like a soft drum roll. But nothing happened. There was no trick, no Paul Daniels to make it not be true.
The barely reverend R M Long finished with a drone that confirmed this was just work to him. Work that was nearly done. There wasn’t going to be a reception for
A
’s mother.
A
had to go back to the home with Terry. His father had to sort out some affairs.
Though he was not supposed to, Terry left the two of them alone for a few moments before they got into the car. A chance for them to speak unencumbered by the presence of strangers. Something they had not done in nearly two years.
As it turned out, they didn’t have a lot to talk about. When there’s so much, where do you begin? They shook hands, brittly. And
A
’s dad told his son that he loved him, and that he’d come and visit soon; as mechanical as the digger in the distance.
A
said that he loved his dad too, and that he’d look forward to it.
A lie for a lie. A truth for a truth.
A month later
A
received a letter from his father. It explained that he had been offered work abroad. Part of a government contract in the rebuilding of Kuwait. Part of a protection plan, to shield him from the hate and the hysteria. He said he had to leave immediately, wouldn’t be able to visit before he went.
An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.
They weren’t the only family separated that winter.
Terry told himself it was nothing, at first. Ignored the fact that his wife had started to rush to pick up the phone at certain times. Times when she was in any case lurking near it. Not setting any great store by his own appearance, Terry was curiously sensitive to that of others; and on some level he was aware that she was now wearing to work clothes which had previously been reserved for occasions. But he liked to see things used, and thought that this was good, marked a change perhaps in her hoarding habits. Even when a certain pair of French knickers appeared in the spiralledAli-Baba basket. A pair of white silk pants that aroused him even in thought. That he had only ever known her to wear when she wanted him to see them. Even when he found them dirty for the third week running, he could still believe that nothing was wrong.
Some people would simply not have spotted the signs, but little got past Terry. Friends, of whom he had many in those days, would describe him as acute, sensitive, intelligent; he was not a man easily duped. But above anything else they would call him optimistic. He was more determinedly positive even than Oscar, his hyperactively happy Labrador. Terry could set a spin on dark facts at which unemployment statisticians would hesitate. Engrossed as he was with his new charge, and the nagging question of whether the boy might indeed be as innocent as he continued to protest, Terry was easily able to sweep aside little inconsistencies in
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