Boy Underwater

‘Yeah.’

‘Was he called Cymbeline?’

‘No, his own parents did not inflict that on him. His name was David.’

‘So …?’

‘Mum says he was an actor and that when she met him he was in this play by Shakespeare. Cymbeline. So they called me it.’

‘What’s the play about?’

‘No idea.’

‘You never asked your mum?’

‘Yes, and she told me. She even took me to see it.’

‘Well then.’

‘Have you seen Shakespeare? I’ve still no idea. It was impossible to understand and anyway we didn’t stay to the end.’

‘Why not?’

‘There’s this line in it. “Fear no more the heat of the sun.” It comes when there are people on the ground who are dead but you can still see them breathing. When this king dude said the line my mum just grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the theatre and took me home.’

I didn’t tell Lance that, once again, she’d cried when she’d done that. She cried all the way back. She put me to bed and the tears rolled into my hair as she clung on to me.

‘I hate my name,’ Lance said, as Marcus Breen did a forward roll into the piano.

‘Why?’

‘It’s Lance … who I can’t mention. He was a cycling hero but now he’s this super giant cheater, and I’ve got to wear his name forever.’

‘I know how you feel,’ I’d said, though now, waking up, it wasn’t my name that bothered me. That was a burden I’d always had to carry. Now there was something bigger, heavier, and I couldn’t get away from it. My dad. You’d think being dead would be the best way to leave someone alone, wouldn’t you? But my dad being dead was something even more real than if he’d been alive. It never used to feel like that, but now it did. And my mum felt it too. I could see that. My dad being dead was so big for her, a huge thing. It was so heavy that she couldn’t put it down. And so heavy that she didn’t have the strength to carry me any more, as well as it.

Uncle Bill was sitting on my bed when I woke up the next morning. He was smiling, but only with his mouth. The rest of him wasn’t smiling at all.

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I blinked, amazed and delighted to see Bill, as he’s loads of fun, though at first I was worried that he’d see Mr Fluffy. At school I deny the existence of Mr Fluffy, something I have to apologise to him for later. When Lance comes round for sleepovers I hide him underneath my pillow. Lance has got a purple cat that I pretend not to see when he shoves it down his sleeping bag.

Fortunately Mr Fluffy was out of sight somewhere, probably beneath the duvet, though that didn’t make me feel any less worried. Uncle Bill’s expression was weird. And we only ever see him at weekends – so what was he doing here now?

‘Where’s Mum?’ I said.

Uncle Bill scratched his beard. It’s black, with this little clump of white below his mouth, like he’s been eating a cream cake. You keep wanting to wipe it off. It maybe explains why he keeps having different girlfriends and is never able to get one to marry him so that he can have a kid like me.

‘It’s just for a few days.’

‘What is?’ I said.

Uncle Bill sighed. ‘She’s not very well, Cym. Your mum.’

I remembered what she’d said to me yesterday. ‘Has she still got her headache?’

‘Sort of. So she’s gone away,’ Uncle Bill said.

‘What?’

‘She’s gone away, Cym.’

‘Because of a headache?’

‘Sort of. Though …’

‘She’s in a hospital?’

‘Yes. A … hospital.’

‘For people with headaches, or other things too?’

‘Mostly headaches. But it won’t be for long. A few days. Just till she’s better, okay, champ?’

I stared at Uncle Bill and then I jumped out of bed. I ran into Mum’s room, not because I didn’t believe him but because I had to see for myself. That she’d gone. She’s my mum, after all. But he was right. Mum’s room was empty. Not empty empty, as there were lots of things in it, but empty of her. So really, really empty, all of her stuff just standing there, almost looking embarrassed.

Her duvet was creased up and it reminded me of the dream I’d had. Brown water, all choppy and angry, twisting round upon itself. It made me swallow so I turned round and went back out to the landing.

Uncle Bill put his arm over my shoulder and interfered with my hair.

‘Chin up,’ he said.

Now, at this point, I’m wondering what you out there in Reading Land are thinking. Perhaps it is ‘OUCH, the poor kid. It wasn’t like he was overly blessed with parents to begin with and now he’s down to NONE. That’s four–nil to Lance (at least until Cym’s mum gets better).’ But maybe you’re not. ‘Hold on,’ you might be thinking. ‘This Uncle Bill chap is clearly a dude. He bought our Cymbeline a Scalextric set, don’t forget. So maybe Cym is about to get some extra stuff from this Uncle Bill, to make up for the fact that his mum’s gone totally zipwire.’ Well, if you are thinking that, then in a small sense you are right. Uncle Bill led me downstairs and asked what I normally have for breakfast.

‘KitKats.’

‘Really?’

‘On Tuesdays. They’re my Tuesday breakfast.’

I’m not sure he believed me, but he let me have a couple anyway. Something must have happened to them, though, because they didn’t taste very good. I didn’t even finish the second one. Uncle Bill poured me a glass of milk and then looked up at the wall clock.

‘Better get dressed.’

‘What should I wear?’

He frowned. ‘School uniform. Yesterday’s will be fine, though you’ll need to find some pants and socks.’

‘Oh. We’re not going to see her then? In hospital?’