I rested my forehead on the wood of Robert’s bedroom door and listened. Some music tape he’d bought recently was playing, its beat relentless, the singer’s voice high and beseeching, even though it was a man’s.
Robert, I whispered into the gloss. A glass of coke, my pretext for knocking on his door, was cold and slippery in my fingers.
There was a clunk as the tape finished.
I pushed the handle down and stepped in to find him right there in front of me. We stood for a moment, face to face. He wore the same expression he’d been wearing ever since Kathryn had told him about the change of schools: an unblinking blankness, cheeks smooth, lips straight. It was as if he was utterly bored by everything he saw. Everything in this house, everything I said, everything his mother and I did.
‘I thought you might want a drink,’ I began.
‘I’m going out.’
‘Oh.’ I looked past his shoulder and into his room. It was a shock to realise that I hadn’t been in there for months.
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ I said, brushing by him, still holding the coke.
He shrugged, as teenagers are supposed to, and closed the door behind us.
There was a smell in there, a spicy, sweet smell; it was something like marigolds.
I looked around the room. We’d painted it for him a few years ago; everything had to be blue and plain, he was very clear on that particular rule. No patterns. Plain curtains, plain duvet cover. It made his room look a little like the whole thing was underwater, as if he was sleeping in a sea of blue.
Robert remained standing in the doorway, staring at me. His chin was lifted a little, and I recognised the gesture as his mother’s.
I tried not to look at the ring in his ear, but found my eyes fixed on the glinting gold loop. The word gypsy came into my mind again. Whenever she saw a woman in the street with gold hoops through her ears, Mum would nudge me and say, ‘Where’s her crystal ball, then?’ and laugh. Mum never wore earrings. Kathryn has a few pairs, small coloured gems that screw on to her lobes; they’ve always appeared to me to be devices for torture.
I looked away from the earring. In the corner, Robert’s old Midland Bank school bag lay in a crumpled heap.
I pointed to the bag. ‘Is the strap broken?’
He gave another shrug.
‘I could mend it, if you like.’
‘But it’s not broken.’
I put the coke down and flexed my cold hands. On the table beneath his wall mirror (I’d put that table there, with a chair, for his homework), bottles and tubes were lined up, along with two hairbrushes. I wondered why anyone would need more than one hairbrush.
‘So how’s the new school?’
‘Fine.’
‘You always get on well.’
He twisted his gold chain around with one finger.
‘We’re very proud of you. It’s good we made that change. Now you can concentrate on your exams. And your art, of course.’ I went over to the window and looked out on the back garden. Condensation had gathered in a little pool on the corner of the sill. I tried to wipe it off, but ended up spreading it across the glossed wood. Outside, the garden was asleep, covered by a dusting of frost. A few browned chrysanthemum leaves were holding on, limp with chill.
‘Look at that,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it incredible? Everything’s still. But nothing’s dead. It’ll all come up next year.’
Robert sighed.
‘Come and look,’ I said.
He came over to the window and looked out in silence. ‘Do you remember your garden?’ I asked.
‘It wasn’t a garden.’
‘It was a patch of garden. That’s much more than some people ever have.’
He traced a line in the water on the windowsill.
‘Those sunflowers were good that year,’ I said. ‘In the end.’
‘They were OK.’
‘You did a good job.’
He laughed then. ‘You did it, Dad.’
‘We did it together. It was our patch. Wasn’t it?’
As I turned to him, I was slightly surprised, as I always was, that his green eyes were level with mine.
‘Where did you get that pullover?’
He was wearing a white sweatshirt with a collar. Embroidered on his chest was the word ‘Champion’.
He looked down.
‘It’s Luke’s.’
‘It’s too small for you.’
‘It’s not,’ he said, plucking at the front of it.
‘Doesn’t Luke want it back?’
‘He’s lent it to me.’
‘He’ll want it back, though.’
‘Eventually.’
I stared out of the window at the frozen garden, and there was a long silence.
‘You see each other a lot,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘His parents don’t mind?’
‘Why should they?’
‘Perhaps you should be studying more. You’ve got your exams in the summer.’
‘We study together.’
I caught the reflection of his face in the window. For an awful moment I thought he looked like Jack, his hair high on his head, his shoulders broad, his chin straight.
‘Has he given you anything else, this Luke?’
He laughed again and shook his head. ‘What are you trying to say, Dad?’
‘I think you should give it back to him.’
‘I will. When he asks for it.’
I nodded.
‘Dad?’
‘Yes?’
‘Will you stop staring at my earring?’
‘Sorry.’ I tried a smile. ‘Did it hurt?’
He shook his head.
‘No. I suppose the girls like it?’
‘What?’
‘Earrings. On boys.’
‘Maybe.’
On the wall above his bed there was a reproduction of a painting. It showed a naked woman standing on a shell, hair streaming out on both sides.
‘That’s a famous one, isn’t it?’
‘Botticelli.’
‘Right.’ I tried to think of something I could say about it. ‘It’s very – unusual.’
‘I like it.’
‘She’s very lovely, isn’t she?’
‘That’s because she’s supposed to be Venus.’
‘Oh.’
‘Goddess of love.’ He ran a hand through his thick hair.
‘Yes. So what have you been sketching lately?’
He gave me a sideways look.
‘I don’t suppose you’d show me something?’
‘Like what?’
‘Anything.’
He shrugged and opened a drawer. It was stuffed full with paper and paints. He pulled out a big hard-backed black book which said ‘Rob Hall, 5b’ on the front. Then he leant back on the drawers and flicked through the pages.
‘Most of it’s rubbish…’
As he flicked, I caught a glimpse of a watercolour of hills and sky, a line drawing of a girl with long hair sitting on a stool, a pastel study of the leaves of a rubber plant – all detailed, all precise.
‘I didn’t know you’d done so much.’
‘Here’s one,’ he said, and he held out a painting of my dahlias. I recognised them immediately: perfect ‘Holland Festivals’, deep orange petals tipped with white. He’d painted the wall of our house as background. He’d caught them at their peak; they looked like perfect orbs of flame.
‘When did you do this?’
‘Ages ago.’
‘Look at that. It’s very good.’ I reached out and ran a finger along the bumpy paint.
He gave a small smile. ‘It’s OK.’
He closed the book and put it back in the drawer. Then he looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go, Dad. I’m meeting Luke.’
‘Oh.’ I took a breath. ‘So is Luke – courting any girl?’
I saw his face flinch, just a tiny fraction of a flinch, but a flinch nevertheless.
After a moment’s pause, he sat down heavily on the bed and put his chin in his hands. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I’m interested.’
He was silent.
I gazed out of the window and tried to make my voice sound unconcerned. ‘You must know, you’re his best friend.’ ‘Why is it important?’ his voice was too loud.
‘It isn’t – important. I’d just like to know.’
‘Is that what you really wanted to talk to me about?’
‘Please don’t shout.’ I sat down on the other side of the bed.
He gathered the edge of the duvet in his fist and stared at it.
‘Robert.’
When he finally looked at me his eyes were bright with anger, but I ploughed on.
‘I don’t mean to interfere. It’s just that – ’
‘Please don’t interfere again.’ He almost whispered it, twisting the corner of the duvet around his hand like a mangled bandage.
‘I’m only saying this because I don’t want you to end up – ’
‘What?’ All colour had gone from his face now. Even the few freckles left on his nose were pale, like washed-out stains.
‘ – unhappy.’
He released the duvet and let out a long breath.
‘Don’t do it again, Dad.’
‘Robert,’ I said. ‘I just want what’s best.’
‘What’s best,’ he repeated.
‘What’s best for you.’
Then he stood up. ‘I’m going out now,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘Luke hates it when I’m late.’