Alchemy

He came out into a space that took him by surprise. Directly in front of him was a wide road, and beyond the road ran a stream, its neat, green banks planted with intermittent willows. The road on this side of the stream was obviously used for the most part by trucks and vans coming and going between the loading bays that extended from the backs of various shops. But, looking across to the other side of the stream, Roland saw a parallel road and a row of houses… old houses, but well-cared for, their hedges and gardens neat and tidy, their walls cleanly painted. At that particular moment there seemed to be nothing moving. It was like stepping on to a deserted stage set. Riverlaw, he said to himself, and began to remember.

Here it was, a small suburb tucked away behind the mall. Years ago, the residents had passionately resisted the re-zoning that had allowed the supermarket development. There had been petitions and letters to the paper declaring that the riverbank should be sacrosanct. Property values had dropped. Many people had moved away. For, no matter how pleasantly maintained the river banks, no matter how beautiful the willows might be in early spring, the pleasure of walking under them must have been reduced by the intrusive proximity of shop yards, parked vans, cartons and, almost certainly, a lot of anonymous refuse.

Roland looked around wildly. There! There! Movement! A single moving figure – a Crighton School uniform crossing a narrow footbridge which arched over the stream a little to his right. “Yes!” he hissed triumphantly. “Jess Ferret!” She hadn’t managed to shed him. He was on her trail.

This time he had her in clear sight. He did not have to worry about any cars ahead of him or those closing in impatiently from behind. There were no doorways or crowds in which she might lose herself. If she had turned she might have seen him and would no doubt have recognised him just as easily as he was able to recognise her. But she did not turn. She simply crossed the bridge, the footpath that ran along the opposite bank, and finally the road in front of her. Moving a little unwillingly, Roland slid out from the protection of the shop walls, preparing to track her at a discreet distance.

But Jess had arrived at what must be her house. She was walking past a blue letterbox up a long drive between two neat hedges, towards a tall two-storied building set back behind other houses which peered enigmatically out between them. Heading towards the footbridge himself, Roland watched her as she made for a green front door, then hesitated in front of it, fumbling in her bag. She’s looking for her keys, he thought. That means there’s no one at home yet. As he speculated, Jess found her key, unlocked the door and stepped through. The door seemed to spring shut behind her as if it were every bit as anxious as she seemed to be to keep the outside world at bay. She was gone.

Roland suddenly began to laugh silently to himself, shaking his head as he did so. “Fabuloso!” said his inner voice sarcastically, making fun not only of the world but of Roland himself. What a day! (“Not now,” his inner voice instructed him. “Think about all that later.”) So! Dreary old Jess Ferret had imagined she could just shrug him off. Well, he had been too clever for her, hadn’t he? He now knew where she lived – there, directly across the river.

In spite of the frustrations of the hunt, Roland realised he had enjoyed himself and, unexpectedly, was still enjoying himself, alone in this overlooked piece of the city. He knew that the stream must be Carlings Brook, a tributary of the main river. Under the willows below these gates, close to the river’s edge, was a picnic table which seemed somehow surreal. A notice board caught his eye. There were to be stalls and raffles there next Wednesday afternoon. There was to be a magician. Riverlaw Kindergarten was hoping to raise money for its equipment fund.

Roland crossed the strip of green to look down into the water. For all its sleek, soft flow, it was edged not only with living cress, but with sodden cartons, cigarette butts, anonymous strips of plastic and Coke cans. Flow, flow, flow, something said, breathing into him as if it were trying to dissolve into his blood and to negotiate his pumping heart. That delicate chatter began once more. Unfolding, unfolding, transform, transform, transform! (“Back away,” his inner voice warned him. “Careful! Back away!”)

So Roland backed away by thinking of his car, waiting out on the main road beside a hungry parking meter. Home, he thought. I’ll go home now. As he walked up the lane once more, he puzzled, not over the breathy chattering (which he always preferred to ignore), but over his inexplicable moment of exhilaration. Realising he was grinning with pleasure, he reined in his wide smile, but then shrugged and let it spread again. Why not grin? Why not enjoy what was happening whenever he could. An adventure! I’ll work it out later, he thought. Heading for the car, he saw to his horror that a parking warden was standing beside it, writing out a ticket.

Roland marched forward as the warden moved on, to snatch the ticket from behind the windscreen wiper, grimacing as he did so. Frowning down at the ticket he felt himself changing back from being Roland the mysterious huntsman, into Roland the man of the family who must soon make some sort of confession to his mother. And this confession would probably have to be made in front of his two younger brothers – nine-year-old Danny, and Martin who was seven, both of whom watched him perpetually, waiting for him to make the sort of mistakes which would bring him down to their own level.

6. REMEMBERING MIDNIGHT TEARS (#ulink_9709a74c-2f80-564c-a517-983f6be08a51)

For the first few months after his father had disappeared, Roland would wake in the night to hear his mother crying in the darkness of her room, across the hall from his. She would be feeding the new baby and weeping wearily, almost as if she were lamenting in her sleep. The sound of that sadness, faint though it was, had pushed its way out relentlessly from under her door and in under his.

Roland had been eight years old when Martin was born, and his father had left them. Thinking back, it somehow seemed to Roland that, as his mother had staggered out at the front door, desperately counting money for the taxi fare (and pausing, every so often, to concentrate on the sort of breathing which would urge her unborn baby out into the world), his father had been racing through the back door, also eager to catch a taxi but not the same one. His father’s taxi would whisk him to the airport so that he could fly up and away, leaving them all behind him. It was a long time ago now, years ago, but, though he hoped his mother’s tears were over and done with, he was never quite sure. Certainly, the sound of her sadness had spread itself backwards and forwards through time, and whenever he was able to tell her of some new school achievement, he was aware of a hidden pleasure in the idea that he might be balancing things out for her. Sometimes he felt with dismay that he, and he alone, stood between his mother and the lurking sadness which was still there, waiting to move in on her once more.

“You do look like your father,” she would say in a shy voice, for she knew that Roland did not want to look like anyone but himself. “He was very good-looking,” she would add defensively. Good-looking or not, Roland did not want to resemble in any way the man who had taken half the family money out of the bank and who had shot off – first to Australia, then to Canada – never to be seen again.

Yet though she might weep at night, during the day Roland’s mother (“the indomitable Mrs Fairfield,” he had once heard the principal of his school call her), had been staunch. She had found an office job, had taken a night-course in computer skills, and had worked hard and long. Life had occasionally buckled and sometimes even snapped during the first two years, but Mrs Fairfield had twisted everything back into some sort of shape; had mended or half mended the breaks so that things worked well enough to get from one day to the next. Slowly, she had won power over her altered world and had been able to afford, first a better nursery for the baby, Martin, and then, when the time came for Roland to go to college, fees for a school that was officially admired, and (unofficially) resented for the good opinion it had of itself.

“I know it’s a struggle to send me to Crichton’s,” Roland had once said tentatively “I could just as easily go to Huntsbury High, you know.”

“Oh, no!” his mother had cried, just as he had secretly hoped she would. “I’m sure Huntsbury is a good school, but Crichton’s has got something extra. They do really well when it comes to public exams and scholarships and so on. And style! It’s got style! Everyone says so. And, oh boy, we need all the style we can get in this life.”

7. LOOKING INTO AN INVENTED DARKNESS (#ulink_a5dd70ae-f3cb-5bb0-958d-2dd27a92d1f5)

When Roland opened the door that evening the sound of his brothers’ perpetual arguments burst in on him. Hearing this familiar sound, he grimaced a little. His mother was sitting by the heater and reading a magazine – a rare, restful luxury for her. But then Friday night was always an easy, fast-food night for the Fairfields. A rising politician was holding forth on the television screen, tilting his eyebrows and smiling confidently as he spoke, but the sound was turned down so that Mrs Fairfield’s reading would not be interrupted. Glancing at the screen, Roland immediately recognised the speaker.

“That’s old Hudson’s brother,” he remarked, his interest rather more sour than it would have been this time yesterday. “They reckon he’s a future prime minister.”

The future prime minister mouthed and gesticulated, but Roland’s mother was not interested. Nevertheless, her face had brightened. As she stood up, she gave him that familiar beaming smile he knew so well.

“So there you are at last,” she cried. “Is the car all right? Did you remember to lock it?”

“Yes, of course,” said Roland impatiently, tilting his left shoulder down so that his pack thumped on to the floor, while he dangled the car keys from his extended right hand. Amused by his irritation, his mother moved quickly on to the next question.

“So what do you reckon? Pizza or Chinese?”

“Chinese,” said Roland.

“Oh, well, that’s that,” said Mrs Fairfield. “Now, give me a kiss!”

But Roland was determined to get his confession over and done with. “Mum, you mightn’t want a kiss,” he said. “Listen! I got a ticket. Sorry!” Danny and Martin, playing some game at the table, both looked up sharply. Their argument had concluded as he came into the room, allowing them to move into an unspoken alliance against him.

“Oh, damn!” his mother cried. “How on earth did you do that?”

“You must have really tried hard to get one,” said Danny Roland now saw that he and Martin were taking it in turns to play a pocket-sized electronic game called Viper – a game that actually belonged to Roland himself. They must have stolen it from his room.

“Really hard!” chimed in Martin, Danny’s obedient echo. They enjoyed trying to cut him down to their own sizes. The Viper game played its maddening electronic tune three times in quick succession. “My turn! My turn!” yelled Martin.

“It was out by the mall,” explained Roland, speaking to his mother across the argument his brothers were now resuming. “I parked there for about fifteen minutes and…”

“But there’s a great big supermarket car park across the road from the mall,” cried his mother.

“Mum, I’m really sorry,” Roland interrupted, guilty but impatient at having to apologise twice. “I thought I’d only be a minute – well, I was only a minute – a few minutes, anyway…” His voice trailed away. “I’ll pay,” he offered rather stiffly. “I’ve still got that birthday money Grandpa sent me and…”

“Don’t even think of it,” his mother said impatiently. “You’re not to spend Grandpa’s present on a parking fine. Mind you, it’s a pity but…” Here she sighed with exaggerated force. “Anyway, just be more careful, that’s all.”

“You always say that to him,” shouted Danny, then turned quickly as the Viper peeped and sang again, this time between Martin’s fingers.

“I don’t mind paying,” said Roland, ashamed at feeling a surge of relief. But of course he had known when he made the offer that there was a good chance his mother would turn it down. His brothers knew it, too.

“He was just bull-shitting,” growled Danny. “He didn’t mean it.”

“Danny, I hate that language,” said their mother. “It’s real Huntsbury talk! Just for that, you can be the one to go and collect the takeaways – well, once we work out what we want. Where’s that menu they gave us last time?” She looked over at Roland. “Grandpa would want you to spend that money on something you really enjoyed,” she said.

“Roley enjoys Chinese food,” suggested Martin. “He could buy us dinner with his birthday money”

“Right on!” shouted Danny. Once again the game took advantage of his distraction. “Oh, blast!”

“Serve you right for getting too smart,” said Roland. And then there was a confused few minutes during which the three of them shouted at each other while their mother looked for the menu, finally locating it in a kitchen drawer. All four of them tried to work out just what meals they would be wanting, and a tremor of argument about what television they might watch while they ate their takeaways came and went during this discussion. It all took time, but at last everything was decided and finally Roland was able to think about making for the sanctuary of his room.

“And how’s Chris?” his mother suddenly asked playfully. It was almost as if she were flirting with him herself.

“What about her?” asked Roland, turning a little defensively. At the mention of Chris’s name both Danny and Martin looked up from the game of Viper and began a rude howling. Danny made terrible sucking sounds.

“Chris! Chris! Chris! How about a kiss?” he shouted. “Oh, what luck! We can have a—”

“Shut up!” yelled Mrs Fairfield, cutting in just in time. “Stop it, you kids. I hate it when you speak like that. Just ignore them, Roland.”

“I am! I do!” said Roland. “They can be as immature as they like. I don’t care. Anyhow, Chris is away for the weekend… on the coast with her family. And, by the way, that’s my game of Viper.” His brothers howled again, but this time with dismay as Roland, stretching nimbly over Martin’s shoulder, snatched the game away from them and pushed it into the pocket of his blazer. Then, hoisting his backpack once more, he made for his bedroom… his sanctuary.

But tonight when the bedroom door closed behind him, the events of the day came crashing over him like an avalanche. His backpack thumped on the floor and he tumbled forward on to his bed, boots on the quilt, face burying itself deep in his pillow. The family cat, Scruff, who had complacently folded himself beside the pillow, shot away, ears back, looking highly aggrieved. Finding the door firmly shut, he had no choice but to sit down and treat himself to a good, hard washing, while Roland lay on his bed, gazing into self-imposed darkness and feeling the weight of his remarkable afternoon bearing down on him. At first, it seemed like a single weight between his shoulders, but then it divided, becoming not one burden but several.

There was the central one, of course – his confrontation with Mr Hudson. Then there was his failed attempt to command Jess Ferret’s grateful attention, followed by the complicated excitement of tracking her home. And, mixed in with all this, was something else – something uneasy and shapeless, something he could not name. I’m altering, he thought. (“Hey!” his inner voice commanded him. “Forget all that! Pull yourself together, mate. You are, what you are, what you are! Don’t try to be different!”)

“I’m not trying to be different…” he mumbled into his pillow, then broke off. “Oh, forget it!” he told himself impatiently.

Really, he thought, I should tell old Hudson to get stuffed. I should tell him to go ahead and let McDonald know everything. (Old McDonald had a school, he and his friends had sung years ago, Ee-I, Ee-I, O! And every teacher was a fool! Ee-I, Ee-I, O!) He had already argued his way through all this earlier in the afternoon, but he couldn’t help going through it again and again and again. OK, so if he did confess to the principal it would mean having to surrender his prefect’s badge, but then at least the whole business would be behind him – over and done with, and there would be none of this sneaking around trying to strike up conversations with Jess Ferret, and being rejected with something close to scorn. And, after a week or two, some other school scandal would push his doings into the background. Most people would quickly forget his fall from grace.