The first morning in the new house was uncomfortable. I felt self-conscious, like the first day with a new haircut. We ate breakfast, stiff and still, like we were strangers in a hotel. Dad tried to brush the atmosphere away: ‘We’ll paint your room first and sort out the spare room. You can use that for your painting. Loads of natural light – it’ll be perfect. I’ll have the outhouse as my workroom. We’ll be straight in no time …’ He was sat in his dressing-gown, thin and tired, staring ahead. Dark eyes and stubble like passing clouds in front of his face. I nodded. He was trying hard. I looked around the kitchen at the jumble of chairs and the stained table, at the damp patches on the far wall, the pile of junk in the corner and the filthy windows. I smiled at Dad and tried not to think about the old house and our old life.
He collected the bowls and cups off the table and said, ‘When we have the house sorted out a little we’ll go into town, get our bearings, find out where the shops are and get your new blazer.’ A small shiver ran across my back. With everything that had happened the thought of starting a new school had been buried at the back of my head, deep down. Suddenly it rose up for a second and I was surprised to discover that I even cared. I think Dad noticed me tense, he didn’t say any more, just rested his hand on my head as he left the room.
My old school was OK. First I went to the primary school at the end of our road and made friends there. When it was time to move to the high school we all went to the same one – there was only one in town. Before the summer holidays we had a practice day. We all left the primary school together and met the children from the other schools. There was an assembly, we met our form teacher and found out where our classrooms were. I even knew some of the kids from other schools already from around town, from friends of my parents. It was bigger and noisier, but I got used to it. I settled straight away.
There were loud kids, quiet kids, funny kids, stupid kids, leaders and geeks. There were the sporty ones, the clever ones and the useless ones. I wasn’t one of the popular kids but I wasn’t with the nerds either. I was the art-room kid. It didn’t matter that I didn’t have the best clothes or that I had strange eyes or that my dad didn’t do a job like the other lads’ dads. I was OK. I was accepted I suppose. I had a few friends and we were mainly left alone. I spent most of my time in the art room and that was accepted. That was my role.
I even started getting a bit of interest off some of the girls. Shy looks and giggles, that kind of thing. My mate, Ian, told me they thought I was mysterious. He told me that girls loved artists, ‘They think they’re mysterious … you think you could teach me a bit of drawing?’ He slapped me on my back and laughed.
I was glad it was the summer holidays, but I knew that as far away as the school term seemed now, it would come and one day I would be climbing into a different uniform and walking down strange crowded corridors and I would be the new boy with the dead mum. But what worried me most was having to start again. Everything was settled at my old school. It wasn’t always brilliant but I knew who to avoid and who to trust. I knew my way around. This would be a new school in a strange town and everyone would be established. I would have to start again, earn my position from scratch and I didn’t know if I had the energy. I didn’t know if I cared enough any more. But still, every now and again for the rest of the day, a cold sliver of fear shot through my stomach.
We settled into some sort of routine for the rest of the week. I would help Dad in the morning as we half-heartedly painted, scrubbed and chucked out junk. It didn’t seem to make any difference to our tumbledown house though; however much we cleaned and tidied it looked a wreck. After lunch I would help for another hour and then dad would send me off. ‘Watch TV– do something kids are supposed to do.’ He needed to drink and brood. I chose to paint. A pile of rocks and stones.