If My Father Loved Me

Jack was sitting in his accustomed place. There was plenty of evidence of toast, cheese, jam and yoghurt having been eaten. It was no wonder that he came home hungry. He would have had almost nothing to eat since breakfast because he went out with only enough money for a bus fare and a phone call home. We both knew that to take any more would only attract muggers. Jason Smith, he once told me, had had forty pounds in his pocket in school one day and made the mistake of mentioning it.

I made myself a cup of tea and swept up some of the food debris. I could feel Jack tensely waiting for me to say something. He had been waiting yesterday too, and the day before, and when I didn’t the relief had allowed him to fall into a doze.

I turned off the television and sat down with my tea. ‘I’ve just been to see Mr Rainbird.’

He flinched, just a little. I waited, but he didn’t volunteer anything.

‘I want you to tell me why you haven’t been to school for three days.’

His face was a crescent of misery. I had been keeping my imagination in check but now it broke loose and galloped away from me. I pictured drug deals, the skinny shifty kids who hung around by the canal, a leering fat man beckoning from a doorway. The images catapulted me out of my chair and I grabbed Jack by the arms and shook him hard. ‘Where’ve you been?’ I yelled. ‘Who have you been with?’

He stared at me. His eyes had rings under them and there was dirt and jam around his mouth.

‘Where? Who?’ I shouted again and my shaking made his head wobble.

‘Nowhere,’ he breathed. ‘Just … nowhere.’

‘You must have been somewhere.’

‘I walked around. Sat on a bench. Then when it was time to come home, I came home.’

‘For three whole days?’

He nodded, mute and despairing.

I sank back on my heels and tried to take stock. I wouldn’t gain anything by allowing anger to balloon out of my fears for him. ‘That must have been horrible. Much worse than going to school. You must have felt lonely.’

If he had let some pervert befriend him, if he had been sniffing glue out of a brown-paper bag, or stealing from Sue’s Superette on the corner, or buying crack or other things that I couldn’t even imagine, would he give me a clue?

He said, ‘I watched the pigeons. They’re filthy. Did you know that there are hardly any sparrows left in London?’

I closed my eyes for a second. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or infuriated. ‘Let’s not talk about birds right now, Jack. Let’s try to work out exactly what it is about going to school that makes you so miserable you’d rather sit alone on a bench all day.’

He appeared to consider the matter. I looked at the way that tufts of hair partly exposed the pink lobe of his ear and the prickle of recent acne along his jawline. In profile he resembled Tony, increasingly so now that his proper face was emerging out of the putty softness of childhood.

‘I dunno.’ The shrug again.

‘Yes, you do. Is someone picking on you? A teacher? Other kids?’

‘Not really. They think I’m sad. But I think they’re even sadder.’

The rock of his unhappiness held glinting seams of mineral disdain. Jack was sharp-witted and he wouldn’t have much time for losers, even though he might currently consider himself to be one.

‘All of them? Everyone? Isn’t there anyone you like or admire?’

‘Mr Rainbird’s okay. Most of the girls are just lame, they’re always sniggering and whispering and fooling about. Some of the boys are all right. People like Wes Gordon and Jason Smith. But they wouldn’t be interested in me. And the rest are dumb.’

This was the most information he had volunteered in about six months, since the end of the maddening old days when he used to respond to every remark or instruction with ‘why?’.

I supposed Wes and Jason would be the cool ones, big, blunt-faced boys surrounded by hangers-on like those I had seen swaggering out of school this afternoon. I couldn’t see Jack in their company any more than he could see himself.

I pushed my luck. ‘Go on.’

His face contracted with irritation and his shoulders hunched up. It was just like watching a hermit crab pull back into its shell.

‘That’s all,’ he snapped. ‘You always want stuff. There’s nothing, all right? I’ll go back to school on Monday if that’s what you want.’

‘I want you to want to go. What I want isn’t important.’

His head lifted then and he stared straight at me. It was a full-on, cold, appraising stare that told me Jack wasn’t my baby any more. ‘Is that so?’ he sneered.

I was still catching my breath when the doorbell rang. Jack turned the television on again and increased the volume.

It was Mel on the doorstep, with two carrier bags and an armful of red parrot tulips. I had forgotten she was coming. She took one look at my face. ‘You’d forgotten I was coming.’

‘No. Well, yeah. I’m sorry. I’ve just been having a set-to with Jack.’

‘Do you want me to go away again?’

‘Depends on what’s in the bags.’

‘Sashimi-grade bluefin tuna. Limes, coriander, crème fraîche, some tiny baby peas and broad beans, a tarte au poire from Sally Clarke’s, a nice piece of Roquefort …’

I opened the door wider. ‘Come right inside.’

Mel breezed into the kitchen. Her polished brightness made the dusty shelves and creased newspapers and sticky floor tiles look even dingier than usual. My spirits lifted by several degrees.

‘Hi, Jackson.’

Jack quite liked Mel. ‘Hi,’ he muttered.

‘I’ve come to cook you and your mum some dinner. However, that’s going to be tricky if I can’t hear myself think.’

‘Oh. Right.’ He prodded at the remote and Buffy went from screeching to mouthing like a goldfish.

Mel busily unpacked fish and cheese. ‘Great. How’s school?’

I tried to signal at her but she missed the gesturing.

‘It’s shit,’ Jack said.

‘So no change there, then.’

I thought I caught the faintest twitch of a smile on his face before it went stiff again. ‘No. None.’ He stood up and eased himself out of the room.

Mel started making a lime and coriander butter. I poured us both a drink and told her what had happened. While I talked I cut the ends off the sappy tulip stalks and stood the stems upright in a glass jug. The orange-red petals were frilled with bright pistachio green. The daub of colour in the underlit room reminded me of Lola’s jersey at the cremation.

‘I’m worried. Really worried,’ I concluded. ‘I never get to the root of anything with Jack. He clams up or walks away or shuts himself in his room. I never know what he’s thinking. What must it have been like for him, wandering around with nowhere to go and nothing to do for three days? Did he talk to the old dossers? I wonder how many weirdos tried to come on to him?’