Robert and Paul were friends for quite a few years, and, looking back on it, it seems strange that I didn’t take action before I did. By the time they were fifteen, the two of them were wearing the same outfits, singing the same songs, smelling of the same shower gel and deodorant.
After the London trip, we didn’t invite Paul on any more birthday outings. I managed to avoid seeing him very often, as Robert would go round to Paul’s house after school on most days, leaving us looking at the clock, waiting for our son’s return.
Then one day Kathryn suggested that Paul should come for Sunday lunch.
On the Saturday afternoon after work, she went to Hughes’s and bought a whole chicken. Usually we had pieces, as Kathryn doesn’t like the bones, but on that Saturday she came home from the library with a carrier bag full of bird dangling from her handlebars. I didn’t say anything as she rinsed it under the tap and stored it in the fridge, a bloody piece of kitchen towel beneath, ready for his arrival.
As always, I spent Sunday morning in the garden. The metal of the secateurs was cool on my knuckles as I cut back the chrysanthemums. It no longer pained me to cut things back fiercely. When I’d started gardening, I’d worried that I would go in too hard, overdo it, cut off my chances entirely with those stubby blades. But I was wiser now; things always came back, and they came back all the better for being cut down.
‘Hello, Mr Hall.’
Paul stood above me, shielding his eyes from the watery sun. His jacket was bright blue; his training shoes were bright white. Both looked as though they had been pumped full of air.
Robert wasn’t far behind. ‘Let’s go inside,’ I heard him say to Paul.
But Paul ignored him. ‘Doing some gardening?’
‘Pruning.’ I clipped off another stalk.
Paul stroked a pimple on his chin and waited for more.
‘Dad’s always gardening,’ said Robert. He touched the gold chain he’d taken to wearing around his neck and looked at Paul. They were about the same height, but now Robert was the more solid-looking. His arms and legs no longer seemed stretched; it was as if they had always been that size. They were settled into their pattern of striding and swinging, swinging and striding.
‘My mum says you’ve got the best garden in the street, Mr Hall,’ said Paul.
‘Let’s go inside,’ Robert said again.
‘She says you must be obsessed with gardening.’ Paul grinned down at me.
‘Robert liked gardening, when he was younger,’ I said.
Paul let out a hoot of laughter. For a minute I wished I hadn’t said anything, but to my surprise Robert didn’t flinch; he just stared at Paul until his outbreak of mirth passed.
Eventually Paul looked down at the grass.
‘He was very good at it, too,’ I said.
‘Dad,’ said Robert, with a small smile, ‘Paul’s not interested in that.’
I straightened up. ‘Well. You boys should wash your hands. I expect dinner’s nearly ready.’
As she took the tray of sizzling potatoes from the oven, Kathryn’s face was flushed and damp. Through the oven door, I could see the bird cooking in its juices.
‘Lay the table for me?’ she said, turning the potatoes in the hot fat.
I arranged the table as I usually did, but when she saw it she frowned. ‘No placemats?’
We only have placemats at Christmas and birthdays. We do have a full set – a wedding present; the transfers depict birds of the British Isles.
I spent a moment wondering whether to give Paul a blue tit or a magpie. I eventually decided on a magpie.
Kathryn came in and eyed my work approvingly. ‘Won’t be long,’ she said, ‘I’ll just make the gravy.’ I knew that today she wouldn’t be pouring boiling water on granules.
‘Anyone would think the queen was coming,’ I said in a voice I thought she might not hear, but she stopped in the doorway.
‘It’s important to him.’
As we stood looking at each other, Robert poked his head over his mother’s shoulder.
‘Have we got time to go out?’ he asked.
‘You stay here,’ I said. I looked back at Kathryn. ‘Why don’t we have some wine, then?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Why not?’
‘Why not?’ Robert chimed in.
It was a new thing for us, having wine in the house. I liked the brown bottles of Riesling with their elegant, tapered necks
and gold writing on the labels. That writing always reminded me of the lettering on the flyleaf of Mum’s old Bible. I used
to read Genesis sometimes, thinking that if I could read the whole book it would make me a better person. We were never religious,
but Mum kept the Bible on her bedside table, along with a framed photo of Dad and me in the river at Darvington, a porcelain
ballerina, and her teeth in a cup. Whenever I opened that book I smelled the mustiness of good words written on feather-thin
pages, but I could never read much beyond the first few chapters.
Robert tilted his glass towards me. I half-filled it. Paul also tilted his glass, and he got the same amount.
I stood at the head of the table. The crisped roast potatoes had their own warmed dish; the peas and carrots steamed under a sliding knob of butter. The gravy sat in its jug, next to a jar of cranberry sauce, unopened since Christmas. A ring of chipolatas surrounded the bird; each was pink on one side, deep brown on the other.
‘Want to carve, Howard?’ Kathryn handed me the knife and three faces looked up, waiting for their meat.
I knew my knife was too blunt for the job. I remembered that somewhere in the cutlery drawer there was a sharpening stick, unused. Paul’s father probably knew how to sharpen a knife on such an implement, wiping it back and forth along the granite at just the right angle, flicking his wrist like a painter. He’d know how to plunge the knife into the bird, puncturing the crisped skin with the tip of his blade and slicing through so that slivers of clean, gleaming meat folded down like yards of silk on a dressmaker’s table.
‘Leg or breast, Paul?’ asked Kathryn.
‘I’m easy, Mrs Hall.’
The two boys exchanged a smirk.
I sawed through the string that held the legs tight to the bird. It pinged back under the carcass, splattering my hand with pink juice. I stripped off clumps of breast meat and heaped them on the plates. Occasionally my blade hit a bone and there was a cracking noise.
I served myself last: two wings and a stringy piece of breast.
Robert picked up his fork, but before he could start to eat I raised my glass and cleared my throat. ‘We should make a toast.’
Robert held up his glass, and Paul followed.
‘What to?’ Robert asked.
I thought for a moment. The two boys leaned together, their elbows almost touching. I noticed that they both wore matching leather straps around their wrists.
‘To friendship.’
We all drank.
Afterwards, Robert and Paul washed up. Kathryn said we should leave them to it, so I poured myself another glass of Riesling and sat with the papers.
I tried to concentrate on the print in front of me, but I kept getting halfway down a column and then realising I hadn’t taken in a single word. Their laughter was interrupting me.
When I heard a squeal, I looked over at Kathryn, but she didn’t take her eyes off her book.
On the third squeal, I stood up. My head felt slightly woolly from the wine.
‘Leave them,’ said Kathryn.
‘They might have broken something.’
‘I didn’t hear anything.’
I sat back in the chair and folded the paper on my knees. Then I unfolded it.
There was another squeal, and a splash.
‘I think I should go and look.’
‘They’re fine, Howard.’
‘But I think I should check.’
I wasn’t sure if I wanted them to hear me open the door, or what I expected to find behind it, but when I stepped into the kitchen the two boys didn’t seem to see me at all. Both of them had wet hair; Robert’s was covered in soap suds. The kitchen floor tiles were streaked with foam.
I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could, Paul let out a loud hoot of delight as Robert grabbed him by the arm and whipped his behind with a wet rolled-up tea towel. Robert’s eyes were shining, and his forehead was damp with perspiration.
Then my son noticed me. Our eyes met, and I thought I saw something like shame in his face. A blush spread across his cheeks. He let the tea towel drop to the floor.
I closed the door and went back to the living room.
‘Do you think it’s – normal?’
We were in bed; Kathryn was trying to read.
‘What?’
‘The two of them.’
She closed her book and rubbed her eyes. ‘Haven’t we been through this before? And didn’t we agree that it’s good for Robert to have friends?’
‘But it isn’t friends, is it? It’s just Paul. And has been for years.’
She put her book on the bedside table and reached over for the light. ‘I think we should sleep now, Howard.’
Turning off the lamp, she lay down on her side. But I remained sitting, staring into the darkness.
After a while I said, ‘I think we should separate them.’
She didn’t respond.
‘He’s fifteen. He should be doing other things. Moving on. It’s time.’
She rolled onto her back. ‘We’ve been through all this.’
‘We could get him in at the other school. A fresh start.’
‘It wouldn’t make any difference.’
‘So you do think there’s a problem?’
‘I don’t know,’ she sighed. Then she added, ‘They’re friends. That can’t be bad, can it?’
We were both still. I wanted to put the light on again, but Kathryn turned on her side and curled her legs up towards her chest, as if she was about to sleep.
I let a minute pass, and then I reached over and stroked her hair. ‘Are you awake?’
‘Yes.’
‘A new school would be the best thing for him, I think.’ ‘We can talk about it tomorrow.’
‘I’ll ask about the other school. We can get him in there before he takes his exams. We should do it now before the term really gets going.’
‘It would unsettle him.’
‘No reason to be unsettled. He’s a confident boy. He’ll make new friends.’
She said nothing.
I pulled the sheets up around me. Robert had a duvet now, but we preferred sheets and blankets. I liked to feel their weight on me.
‘I’ll make enquiries in the morning. I’m sure they’ll be able to squeeze him in,’ I said.
He was studying for O level Art. The new school, we were told by the headmaster when we met him to discuss the change, had a reputation for the arts.
‘All our departments do well, of course, but the arts are a particular pride for us.’ He leaned forward and smiled at my wife. He was younger than I’d expected, and wore round steel-rimmed glasses. On his desk was a framed photograph of a collie dog, and a colourful paperweight in the shape of a snail.
‘That was made by one of our fourth years. Pottery class. Lovely thing, isn’t it?’
‘Lovely,’ Kathryn agreed.
‘Unusual,’ I said.
‘Some parents don’t seem to hold the arts in much esteem, but we think it’s very important to nurture the children’s creative sides.’
‘Robert’s always been keen on art,’ Kathryn said. Beneath the table, she took hold of my hand and held it.
‘Excellent.’
‘And we both think it’s very important.’
‘Even better.’
Kathryn gave my fingers a squeeze.
‘Oh yes. Our son’s very good,’ I said, ‘very good. On the artistic side of things.’
‘Splendid. I’ll put him down for Monday week, then. Best to start as soon as possible.’
In the car on the way home, Kathryn patted my knee. ‘Maybe it will be the best thing for him,’ she said.
I tried to think of a way I could soften the blow. What could I do that would help my son to adjust to the new school? I knew that whatever I said wouldn’t make it any easier for him, so I decided on a gift.
I bought him a professional-looking art set: a tin of graphite drawing pencils arranged by grade, 9B to 2H (as the man in the shop explained to me), a thick sketchbook with a hard cover, and a set of thirty-six Winsor and Newton watercolours, mixing palette and paintbrush included.
‘Thanks,’ he said. He ran the tip of the new paintbrush along his top lip. ‘They’re really soft when they’re new.’
We were standing together in the kitchen. It was Saturday afternoon. Kathryn was pouring out some tea. We hadn’t told him about the change of schools. Not yet.
‘Why don’t you do your mother and me?’ I asked.
‘Draw you?’
‘With your new pencils.’
Kathryn put the pot down. ‘Howard, I’m not sure – ’
‘Why not? We can be models.’
Kathryn and Robert exchanged looks.
Then Robert let out a short laugh. ‘Really?’ he said.
‘I’d like it if you would.’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Please.’
His face softened. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘All right. I’ll draw you.’
We sat on the bench at the bottom of the garden for the picture, framed on either side by sprays of purple asters. I put my arm around Kathryn’s shoulder and held her close.
‘You don’t have to smile,’ said Robert. ‘But you do have to stay still.’
We sat for what must have been an hour while Robert, balanced on a stool, squinted at us. It was the first time I’d seen him concentrate for so long; he shifted his gaze back and forth, his eyes darting from the page up to us, then down to his sketchbook. His eyes moved constantly, but his face stayed very still. Occasionally he rubbed at the page with an eraser and frowned.
The bench became cold and I felt my bottom going to sleep, but when I shifted, Kathryn nudged me. ‘Can’t wait to see how it turns out,’ she whispered, giving me a sideways glance.
‘Stop moving,’ said Robert.
He didn’t do that thing you see artists on the television doing – holding up the pencil to measure the perspective. He just sketched, and his touch was light, but deliberate. As he drew, I saw his determination to get it right, to see it properly: his frown was just like it had been on the day we’d watched the peacocks together at Brownsea.
At last, Robert held the sketchbook at arm’s length and screwed up his eyes. ‘That’ll do,’ he said.
Kathryn was the first to stand. ‘Let’s have a look then.’
Before he could protest, she had his sketchbook in her hand.
She stared at the page. ‘Look at this, Howard.’ She waved the book at me, as she’d done with his spelling book all those years before. ‘It’s just like us. He’s really got it.’
Robert bit his lip and looked away, but I saw his smile.
I stood next to Kathryn and we held the book together. There we were, in grey and white lines and smudges: a middle-aged couple sitting on a bench, surrounded by flowers. My hand looked big on her shoulder, and Kathryn’s nose was slightly too small, I noticed, but he had captured something. Perhaps it was her hopeful look, my questioning stare. Whatever it was, we were there, on his page.