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Gulliver and Aishe were perched on an outcrop of rock overlooking a lake. As lakes go it was a small one, but prettily surrounded by dense and verdant mountain forest that bustled with birdlife. Aishe glanced across at Gulliver, eating a sandwich, and thought again how thankful she was that the gap between them had finally closed up, at least as much as it ever would given that he was fourteen. Gulliver hadn’t brought up the subject of the family since that argument. Aishe knew he would not have forgotten, but assumed he’d decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. Gulliver was an easy-going boy, which he obviously got from his father, Jonas. Conflict wasn’t his thing.
It had been Gulliver’s choice to visit the lake. The track that led to it came off the end of a street in Marin’s wealthiest town. Aishe had heard that, per capita, the town was one of the wealthiest in the whole of the United States. Considering its population was less than three thousand, Aishe had to conclude that its denizens did not include anyone who waitressed at the Sunshine Café truck stop. Or anyone who patronised it.
Aishe wondered if Gulliver knew how they survived financially. She had never told him, but he was hardly a stupid child, so he must have worked out, as Benedict had, that a part-time waitress’s take-home pay was barely enough to keep the car in fuel let alone keep a roof over their heads. She should tell him. He was certainly old enough.
It occurred to her that she should tell him a lot of things. Like the full name of his father, for example. Aishe had always claimed that her pregnancy was the result of a one-night stand with a Norwegian man whom she only knew as Jonas. The risk that her son might regard her as a slut seemed significantly less than the risk that he might one day want to track down his father. Aishe had no intention of letting that happen. It was most likely that Jonas would run a mile if he suddenly found out he had a son. But, thought Aishe, you never knew how the years might change people. Jonas might have matured. He might even be eager to play a part in his son’s life. And Aishe wasn’t ready to share Gulliver. Not yet.
The money — talking about that was less of a risk, but it still came embedded with fishhooks. Aishe had built her life around being, and being seen to be, self-sufficient. She would rather be dead than feel beholden to anyone. When she’d found out that Frank had left her a considerable sum of money in his will, she’d been furious with him. How dare he? He knew how she felt! Worst of all, he was dead, so she could never pay him back! Damn him!
She’d told the surprised solicitor she wouldn’t take it. She said she’d expected Frank to leave it other family members, not to her. That’d be difficult, he’d replied. Frank had no immediate family still living. In fact, family-wise, the solicitor had said, she was it. She could give it away to charity, but otherwise, the money was all hers. ‘Congratulations, Mrs Lewis,’ he’d added.’ You’re a wealthy woman.’
The very idea of it had grated on Aishe like sand in sunscreen. She couldn’t be wealthy. Only self-obsessed, stuck-up cows were wealthy. Women who thought they were better than everyone just because they had money. Or, more likely, because they had a husband with money. Wealthy women weren’t independent and courageous. They were small-minded, narrow-focused – hog-tied for life by the binds of societal convention and expectation.
She’d been that close to acting on the solicitor’s suggestion and giving it away to charity. But then it had begun to dawn on her that having money could offer her choices she’d never had before. And although Gulliver was little then, only three, he’d be grown-up someday. She could save the money for him, and then he could have choices.
The difficulty was that she did not trust banks or investment advisors, or indeed anyone who purported to know what she should do with her money. The only way those slick creeps would get hold of it would be by robbing her grave. And even then she’d make sure she was buried extra deep.
It was a lot of money, though. Too much for a mattress. So Aishe had given in and, after swearing him to secrecy upon pain of death (she stressed the pain aspect), she asked for help from her cousin Patrick. As a result of his advice, she’d bought the house in Marin. It had seemed absurdly over-priced then, but Patrick had pegged the area as one with potential for growth. He was right – over the last ten years, the tiny house had doubled in value. Against Patrick’s advice, because Aishe could not bear to be totally compliant, she’d invested almost all the remaining money in the share market. Two months later it crashed, reducing the value of her portfolio to slightly less than that of a used bus ticket. Aishe was left with a mortgage-free house and (Patrick’s advice again, for which she was resentfully grateful) an investment account that earned her not quite enough interest each year to live on. Even though Aishe had long since determined never to put a job before Gulliver, she needed one or they’d be skint. And as it had been her fault entirely that most of the money had been lost, she’d chosen waitressing as a kind of penance — and as a reminder of the cheese-paring existence she might have had if Frank had never inveigled his way into her life. Into their lives. . .
‘Gull?’ she said. ‘Do you know where we got most of our money?’
Gulliver paused in mid-bite and gazed at her. This was not the usual kind of question his mother asked. ‘From Frank?’
‘What makes you say that?’ said Aishe.
Gulliver shrugged. ‘You own the house, and I don’t remember you ever having a job that would make you enough money to buy it. I always figured Frank must have left you some.’
So, he had been thinking about it. Or, and this idea irritated her, he had been discussing it with Benedict.
‘Did you work that out on your own?’
‘What do you mean?’
She couldn’t bring herself to ask directly. ‘Did you talk about it with somebody?’
Gulliver stared at her. ‘Like who?’ Then he twigged, and shook his head. ‘Nope.’
Aishe pulled a banana out of the lunch bag and began to casually peel it. ‘What do you two talk about then?’
‘You know.’ Gulliver stared out over the lake to the far side, where over the tops of the trees a hawk was wheeling lazily, hoping for some unwary small mammal to show itself. ‘Stuff.’
The day was clear and bright but Aishe felt exactly as if a cartoon storm cloud was hovering just above her head. She felt her temper surge, but their relationship still felt fragile, so she bit down hard on the banana, instead.
‘What kind of stuff?’ she said, indistinctly.
‘Music stuff.’ He shrugged. ‘Shit we see on the internet. Things like that.’
‘Does he talk about himself?’
‘Nope, not really.’ He pulled a water bottle from the bag and took a swig. ‘He tells me a bit about his school sometimes.’
‘Eton, right?’
Gulliver frowned. ‘No, it wasn’t Eton. What’s another one?’
‘Jesus, I’m hardly the expert on English public schools! I don’t know — Harrow?’
‘Nope. Started with W, I think.’
‘Oh, well, who cares?’ Aishe stuffed the banana peel roughly back into the bag.
‘It sounded really good,’ said Gulliver. ‘Nothing like schools here.’
‘Schools here aren’t breeding grounds for perverts and pederasts,’ remarked Aishe, tartly.
‘What’s a pederast?’
‘Why don’t you ask Benedict? He obviously knows everything.’
Gulliver gave her the kind of look Aishe was used to getting from Nico at the shelter. And it made her feel equally inadequate and guilty.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I just wish I’d been able to teach you all the subjects. Makes me tetchy to feel like a dummy.’
‘You’re not a dummy,’ said Gulliver. ‘You know the meaning of “pederast”.’
‘You’re taking the mickey now, aren’t you?’
‘I’m fourteen,’ he said. ‘It’s what we do.’
He unscrewed the top of his water bottle, and took a swig. Wiped his mouth on his forearm, another thing that made usually her crazy.
But not today. Today, she was grateful to be sitting here with her boy. Her young man, really; there was no way round it. She noted the way his back was broadening across the shoulders, the way his torso now tapered down to slim hips instead of a chubby roll above his waistband. She saw how long his legs were; he had grown even in the last couple of months and would soon need new jeans. His face had lengthened, too, chin and nose now both more prominent. Jonas’s nose, she observed a little reluctantly, but she supposed she could give him that, as everything else about Gulliver was pure Herne. He had her brown eyes, the unruly dark red hair of his uncle, and a look about the mouth that reminded Aishe of Anselo and, before him, their father. Both men had the same handsome, well-shaped mouth that on Anselo could be a little sulky and on her father forbiddingly stern, but which became mobile and alive when either was amused.
Her father had been amused more often than Anselo, thought Aishe. And a lot of the time, the cause of her father’s amusement was her brother’s seriousness. Poor Anse, she thought. He could never tell when Dad was pulling his leg. Dad did it because he wanted his son to relax and enjoy life more, but he only succeeded in winding Anselo up like a top.
Her dad would have loved Gulliver, she thought, and felt a catch in her throat. Gulliver was exactly the kind of young man he admired: thoughtful, self-contained, easy in his own skin. Her father liked energy, too, but wanted it to be productively directed; he despaired at her oldest brothers’ bone-headed approach to life. Though she could guarantee they’d calmed down now. Forced to by their wives.
The saddest thing, thought Aishe, was that her older brothers were the only ones who’d had any chance to show their father what they were made of. Anselo was just twelve when their dad died, and she wasn’t quite eleven. To Dad, they were still kids. He never saw them grow and mature. Never got to share their lives, their loves and losses. In her case, her own child. He would have loved it, she felt convinced, revelled in it. If there was a God, Aishe decided, he perpetrated an evil injustice when he took their father from them.
Aishe’s thoughts veered suddenly back to Benedict. He’d probably be relieved if his father died, she realised, and was surprised that the idea made her sad. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live starved of affection like that. But, she reasoned, what you’d never had, you’d never miss. Whereas twenty-two years on, her father’s loss still felt like someone yanking out her heart.
‘Whoa! Check it out!’
Gulliver shoved her shoulder and pointed down at the lake.
‘That bird got a fish!’ He made a diving motion with his hand. ‘Zoomed down there like a jet fighter and straight into the water — bam! Came up with a fucking fish!’
‘You’re swearing,’ Aishe pointed out. ‘I’m the only one allowed to swear in this family.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Gulliver beamed and punched the air. ‘Awesome!’
In her smiling, animated son, Aishe glimpsed both the young man he was and the small child he had been, and was gripped by an emotion so strong it punched the breath right out of her.
What would happen when he left home, not too many years from now? What if he did go and track down his family? And what if he wanted to stay with them, make a home in the UK? If Aishe wanted to see him, she’d have to swallow her pride and crawl back home, or sit in the house, alone, waiting by the computer for emails, compulsively scanning his social media posts...
Aishe didn’t want to ask the next question but couldn’t help it.
‘When are you next seeing Benedict?’
‘Rock school,’ said Gulliver. ‘He’s bringing Izzy with him. She’s really talented.’
Aishe went very still. ‘Izzy?’
‘She’s another nanny. For some friend of Harry’s mum, or something.’
Jesus, she could get better quality information by trying to communicate telepathically with that hawk over there. But Gulliver was already looking at her slightly askance, and Aishe knew she was pushing it.
But who the fuck was Izzy? And what the fuck-shitty-fuck was she doing with Benedict? At her own son’s rock school, no less. Benedict had never invited her to come to Gulliver’s rock school with him.
The small voice in Aishe’s mind said: That’s your fault. You were getting close to him and then you blew it, and he’s been keeping his distance ever since. Didn’t come round last time Gulliver was out, did he? You know he didn’t, because you waited for him. Waited all afternoon.
Shut up, Aishe ordered the voice. There could have been a very good reason why he didn’t come round.
You were the reason, said the voice. He bared his soul and you knocked him on his rear end. You told him he wasn’t man enough for you. He may be young but he doesn’t lack pride. Which is why he’s gone out and found someone else.
I hate you, said Aishe. I’m glad you’re dead.
The voice faded out, chuckling. Aishe felt an urge to go find something to hurt. The irony was not lost on her. The only reason she’d got close to Benedict was to enrol him as an ally in repairing her relationship with Gulliver. But she should have known it would be repaired without help – that was Gulliver’s nature. She should have been patient, had faith, but she’d been taken over by fear. And now, because she’d panicked, she’d got close to another person and ruined that relationship, instead. If she were any good at maths, Aishe would say that was irony squared.
Her pride tried to tell her that she didn’t miss him, but that was before another woman had come on the scene. Now, her pride was telling her to get up and get fighting. This was now a contest, one she would not lose. Especially not to someone called Izzy.
‘How come Benedict gets to go to rock school?’ she said. ‘I thought they discouraged parents?’
‘Benedict plays in a band with the guy who runs the school,’ said Gulliver. ‘You know, Eddie?’
‘The guy in his fifties? Wears the pork pie hat?’
‘Yeah. He and Benedict play in some blues combo. I think they have a regular gig in San Anselmo or some place.’ Gulliver squinted up as another bird flew above them, but it was only a blue jay. ‘Benedict helps out at the school sometimes,’ he continued, ‘when they’re short of teachers. That’s how I got in. He pulled a favour with Eddie.’
‘Why did you need a favour to get in?’ Aishe’s hackles rose on behalf of her child. ‘You’re really good.’
Gulliver nodded. ‘Thanks. But so is everyone else. There was a waiting list. Benedict got me bumped up.’
‘Hmph.’ Aishe had to acknowledge that this had been pretty good of Benedict.
‘Does this Izzy person play too?’ she said, after a moment.
‘Sings,’ replied Gulliver.
Aishe didn’t have to ask to know that Izzy, whoever damn-her-to-hell she was, sang well.
‘So she’s a nanny, and she’s musical,’ said Aishe. ‘Chorus of Chim, Chim, Cher-ee, anyone?’
Gulliver rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, we made that joke already,’ he said. ‘Benedict does a great impression of Dick Van Dyke’s crap Cockney accent.’
‘How do you know it’s crap?’ Aishe demanded. In her head, the word “we” flashed like a faulty neon sign. ‘When have you ever heard a real Cockney? I’m from north London, don’t forget. There’s a difference.’
‘I’ve watched a bunch of Bob Hoskins movies,’ he replied. ‘And a few episodes of EastEnders.’ He gave his mother a sideways look. ‘Do you want to come to rock school?’
Aishe hesitated. Being honest would make her sound needy. ‘Wouldn’t want to cramp anyone’s musical style.’
‘We could give you tambourine to shake,’ Gulliver said, straight-faced. ‘I mean even you couldn’t mess that up.’
Aishe wheeled, only to see that her son was grinning.
‘If you’re not careful,’ she said, ‘I will turn up in my gold latex mini-dress, the one I used to go clubbing in, in the nineties.’
‘Sure, why not?’ Gulliver shrugged. ‘You’ll just have to be prepared for Eddie to follow you home. Probably on his knees.’
‘That’s a disturbing picture,’ Aishe said. ‘But I think I’m more disturbed that it came out of your head. You’re fourteen!’
‘Yeah,’ said Gulliver. ‘Not a kid anymore.’