Read Online What I Did by Christopher Wakling - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christopher Wakling
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Sometimes Mum does pilots which is quite similar.
â Your hair hurts? Why is that?
â Because of Dad.
She reaches across to the coffee table and picks up her folder.
â Why do you have a cloth one? I ask. She looks confused again. â Jeans, I say. On your folder. Normally they go on legs.
She opens the folder and says, â It was a present. Pretty silly, hey?
â Why do you use it then?
She smiles and shrugs. â Billy. Do you understand why Iâve come to visit you today?
â Yes.
â Why?
â Youâre delaying my predators.
â Excuse me?
Sheâs staring at me superhard now which is suddenly very tiring. And itâs Dadâs fault. She wouldnât be asking me all these questions if he hadnât told on me.
â What do you mean, predators? she says.
â There are two kinds of thing, I explain. â Prey or predator. If youâre prey you must run away or use other defenses like camouflage or armor. But predators donât stop trying just because of that. They still want to tear you apart because of nature.
â I see, she says, but from the stiffness around her mouth, very concentrating, I think she probably doesnât see at all.
â And Iâm here to stop these predators, you think?
â Well theyâre pausing because of you, but donât worry theyâll start up again after youâve gone.
Â
When I was very little, vertically two or three probably, I used to like writing nonsense in small notebooks. I didnât call it nonsense, though, I called it writing and I learned it by copying Mum and Dad, because they write with pens, too, but normally I had to write with pencils. Dad used to give me these small notebooks from work so they must once have belonged to the man, and when Dad didnât have any of the manâs notebooks to give me I made my own by folding bits of paper and sort of sticking them together with sellotape or sometimes staples. Careful there, Son, that thing bites. Mostly those books came apart. But anyway, whenever I had a notebook I would sit down and do hundreds of squiggles in it because I didnât know real letters yet because I was a very young idiot. Now when I write I do it using proper letters in words, but back then ages ago I just did little up-down-and-across marks with gaps. Everyone said well done keep going thatâs great, until my friend Georgeâs brother, Felix, who is in Year Four now but wasnât then, said no, thatâs not real writing at all, itâs just total rubbish.
Â
Butterfly writes some stuff very quickly in her jeans folder and smiles encouragements at me and what I think is this: So what? Youâre a grown-up and grown-ups are supposed to be able to write quickly, and anyway what youâre writing is probably still total rubbish. It makes me cross to watch her, but hold on, thatâs not fair, because itâs not her fault, itâs Dadâs. If he hadnât told on me to her we wouldnât have to wait here while she writes in her stupid book and I could be watching David Attenborough instead.
â Your hair, she says. How did your father hurt it?
â Viciously.
â What do you mean, though? Describe what he did.
I push my fingers through the front tangly bit of my hair but feel a bit silly so I tug on it to make the feeling feel worse.
â I see. And has he done this to you before?
â Oh yes, quite often, I say.
The woman prods her cheek with her tongue and writes something else. Then she says, â Can you tell me about your morning, Billy? In the park. What happened?
I have a think then and shall I tell you what the thought is? Okay, I will. It is this: I think Jesus was wrong. Not completely wrong, because he was excellently kind, and particularly impressive on humans, but he was wasnât impressive the whole time. He was rubbish at animals. Apart from fish. He made thousands of them out of
â Your hair hurts? Why is that?
â Because of Dad.
She reaches across to the coffee table and picks up her folder.
â Why do you have a cloth one? I ask. She looks confused again. â Jeans, I say. On your folder. Normally they go on legs.
She opens the folder and says, â It was a present. Pretty silly, hey?
â Why do you use it then?
She smiles and shrugs. â Billy. Do you understand why Iâve come to visit you today?
â Yes.
â Why?
â Youâre delaying my predators.
â Excuse me?
Sheâs staring at me superhard now which is suddenly very tiring. And itâs Dadâs fault. She wouldnât be asking me all these questions if he hadnât told on me.
â What do you mean, predators? she says.
â There are two kinds of thing, I explain. â Prey or predator. If youâre prey you must run away or use other defenses like camouflage or armor. But predators donât stop trying just because of that. They still want to tear you apart because of nature.
â I see, she says, but from the stiffness around her mouth, very concentrating, I think she probably doesnât see at all.
â And Iâm here to stop these predators, you think?
â Well theyâre pausing because of you, but donât worry theyâll start up again after youâve gone.
Â
When I was very little, vertically two or three probably, I used to like writing nonsense in small notebooks. I didnât call it nonsense, though, I called it writing and I learned it by copying Mum and Dad, because they write with pens, too, but normally I had to write with pencils. Dad used to give me these small notebooks from work so they must once have belonged to the man, and when Dad didnât have any of the manâs notebooks to give me I made my own by folding bits of paper and sort of sticking them together with sellotape or sometimes staples. Careful there, Son, that thing bites. Mostly those books came apart. But anyway, whenever I had a notebook I would sit down and do hundreds of squiggles in it because I didnât know real letters yet because I was a very young idiot. Now when I write I do it using proper letters in words, but back then ages ago I just did little up-down-and-across marks with gaps. Everyone said well done keep going thatâs great, until my friend Georgeâs brother, Felix, who is in Year Four now but wasnât then, said no, thatâs not real writing at all, itâs just total rubbish.
Â
Butterfly writes some stuff very quickly in her jeans folder and smiles encouragements at me and what I think is this: So what? Youâre a grown-up and grown-ups are supposed to be able to write quickly, and anyway what youâre writing is probably still total rubbish. It makes me cross to watch her, but hold on, thatâs not fair, because itâs not her fault, itâs Dadâs. If he hadnât told on me to her we wouldnât have to wait here while she writes in her stupid book and I could be watching David Attenborough instead.
â Your hair, she says. How did your father hurt it?
â Viciously.
â What do you mean, though? Describe what he did.
I push my fingers through the front tangly bit of my hair but feel a bit silly so I tug on it to make the feeling feel worse.
â I see. And has he done this to you before?
â Oh yes, quite often, I say.
The woman prods her cheek with her tongue and writes something else. Then she says, â Can you tell me about your morning, Billy? In the park. What happened?
I have a think then and shall I tell you what the thought is? Okay, I will. It is this: I think Jesus was wrong. Not completely wrong, because he was excellently kind, and particularly impressive on humans, but he was wasnât impressive the whole time. He was rubbish at animals. Apart from fish. He made thousands of them out of
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