Sweet Home?

Mum cried. Dad tried not to, but then he cried too. They both kept it up for some time. Neither of them looked too well. I tried to hope it wasn’t just worry about me. At the same time I was pretty confident that it was. I had made them sick with worry. They had visibly aged. Maybe it was because I had been living in full dramatic Technicolor but they seemed smaller and greyer. My room seemed weirdly irrelevant; not even mine: like a museum exhibit. ‘English teenager’s room. London suburbia, early C21^st.

They both complained I should have told them I was coming back. Of course they were right. I might have grown up in some ways, but in others, I had acted like a spoilt, selfish kid. I’d have to make it up to them. I had to fix a way to get money to them without telling them about Balarubu—what had they done to deserve a life of truth—and at least then they could have an easier life with fewer day to day worries. Because they really did look as if they were battling with life and losing. They looked worn out, dad especially.

They asked what my plans were and I answered straight away. I didn’t think about it for a moment, though I didn’t think I had made any decisions. I’d thought maybe I would do something big and impressive and ambitious with the money, but I hadn’t thought anything through. And when I was asked I just answered.

‘Like I said before I left. Gap year’s over. I’ll go and talk to Mr. Alexander, crawl a bit at school, go and do my A-levels. At least the Spanish should be a pushover. Then I’ll look at University.’

‘Did you spend all your savings? University doesn’t come cheap you know. You were hoping not to end University drowning in debt. Before you…’

I knew that pause spoke volumes for them; that my journey had caused a dozen volumes of heartache that they’d abbreviated, to cut short the pain, until it was now just a meaning-laden pause.

‘I did. I pretty well spent up. Then I earned some. Good money. And I can still design websites, like I did before I left. I’m sure they’ve moved on, but I can catch up. I’ll go to school, buckle down, study, get good results, go to University. I promise.’

‘I’d like that,’ dad said, in the smallest, most grateful and unhappy voice I think I’d ever heard.’

‘Is everything all right dad? Mum?’

‘Everything’s fine,’ he lied. Mum nodded. A small supporting gesture. Also a lie. Being a teller of truth made me very sensitive to lies. They could tell me when they were ready. I could hope that me being back would help. And that money could help too. Because hope is good. It isn’t always answered but it makes you feel better while you wait and see.

School went well. It was about the first thing that had gone well since I’d arrived back in England. I think maybe the day went especially well because I prepared the ground. I called for an appointment to see Mr. Alexander. I knew there was a regular application process, but because we had discussed my trip before we went away, and because while I was gone I’d picked up some pretty spiffy GCSE results (that, when mum told me, registered on my mental EEG chart like a grain of salt under a tablecloth) I was sure he’d meet me. No hesitation. I called at ten, he wanted to meet me at eleven.

Mr. Alexander showed me into his office. He had a mysterious look on his face. Like he knew something that I didn’t.

‘Young man.’ He said. ‘I am not as surprised to see you as I might be.’

‘No, sir?’

‘No, Micky. And when, this afternoon, after a pointless meeting at the education department, I eat in the Civic Centre canteen, I shall not be surprised to find the usual grey tasteless mess to be replaced by a feast, simultaneously delicious, nutritious, inventive, satisfying and in all ways joyous.’

‘You won’t, sir?’

No, Micky. I won’t be surprised because surprising things come in threes, they say. And I was less surprised than I might be to see you if a more surprising thing hadn’t happened already this morning.’

‘Really, sir?’

‘Really, sir,’ he mimicked. Yes really, Micky. This morning, in a plain unposted envelope, I received a donation of five thousand pounds.’

‘That’s marvellous news, sir. I’m sure you’ll find a use for it.’

‘Indeed I will, Micky. But do you know how often that happens, that large unsolicited and anonymous donations pop through the letterbox, marked for my personal attention?’

‘My guess would be… infrequently.’

‘That’s a fairly good guess, Micky. But I think you could do better.’

‘Never, sir?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Apart from today.’

‘Precisely. Just today. Such a surprising thing. And then, not half an hour later, who should call, but surprising Micky. Do you know anything about that Micky?’

‘You sound cross, sir. I should have thought it was nothing but good news.’

He stared at me. I smiled.

‘And on top of my arrival, I should have thought the money even better news.’

‘You’re a sharp one, Micky. I expect you’ll be wanting a place back in school?’

‘September term, sir. Spanish, French, English, Design.’

‘Four’s ambitious Micky.’

‘My Spanish is really very good. That wouldn’t take too much work. And the English isn’t too hard, so I should do enough to keep me busy. Idle hands, you know sir.’

‘I do. I understand all about that. And after talking over the decades with hundreds of smart boys, I understand the skills of misdirection. Like a good conjurer. Verbal sleight of hand, isn’t it Micky? You didn’t answer my question.’

‘I thought I did, sir. You asked if I wanted a place in the next year, I said I did.’

No Micky. You’re trying too hard now. The other question, Micky. Was the money connected to you in any way? It seems a funny question; there’s no reason why it should be connected. But the two things happen and I look into that face of yours Micky and I can only ask.’

Oh truly, truly how you can tire of truth.

‘Yes sir. I sent it. I have lots more like it, and I didn’t think it could hurt to have you in a good mood the day I reapplied. Which means I thought I’d get a simple response and I underestimated you. Sorry. Between you and me, being selfish, if you wanted to hire a really good language teacher or two, by offering a nice bonus, or some perks maybe, I could help. But I’d prefer it if you didn’t ask any more, if you could just take my assurance, my hand on my heart, on the name of my God [I thought her name] that it was not illegal, that no-one was hurt, that the money is mine, and that no-one else on this continent knows about it. Just you, me and God.’

‘You’re very sure God knows, Micky. You seem keen to bring God into it.’

‘Well doesn’t God know the truth of everything, and isn’t God fond of the truth too sir?’

‘You’re a strange one Micky.’

He handed a form across the desk.

‘Sign at the bottom. We’ll fill in the rest. Thank you for the money. We’ll take it. We’ll not be needing any more for now, but if an emergency should arise, I’ll bear you in mind.’

‘Thank you very much, sir. I won’t let you down.’

‘I’m sure you won’t. We’ll send you reading lists to help prepare. I’ll have an essay sent for each subject too if you don’t mind. You’re out of the studying habit, now if you don’t mind, Micky, you’re excused.

That was a result. I didn’t expect him to see through me quite as easily, but in some ways it was easier if he knew what an asset I could be. I expected my position with Balarubu might lead to some awkwardness here and there. I wasn’t sure how, but stuff happens, and it couldn’t hurt if Alexander was disposed to give me a little slack. I walked home, cutting across the sun baked expanse of Wanstead Flats. I saw a few of the regulars walking their dogs and nodded hellos from a distance. Slowly I was starting to rebuild some kind of a sense of belonging.

At home, mum and dad, who should both have been at work, were at home. They looked terrible. They were sitting side by side on the edge of the sofa like some stilted cameo shot.

‘Everything OK?’ I asked.

Dad looked near me, at a point on the wall that let him look straight past my head. Mum looked straight at me.

‘There’s no easy way to say this, Micky. Your dad’s got cancer.’

‘I looked back. I knew my mouth had opened. There was nothing happening.’

‘They think, the doctors, they think it’s incurable. They’ll know by the end of the week..’

No words.

‘And if it is, it will be fast.’

Now dad looked at me. There was a lot of pain in my eyes, and in his too. He didn’t want to see me hear that he was going to die. But that was me being selfish again. I thought there was also a lot of pain in his eyes for the hard , brutal reason that he was in a lot of pain and he knew the only way it would end would be when he died. What do you say? Why? I guess the answer to that can only be—Because.

I crossed over and sat on the other side of dad. I held on to him.

‘Dad,’ I said, quietly. I held tight. Mum held tight from the other side. Slowly, gently, we sat and hugged and sobbed.

Dad went to bed early. He was weak and he was taking a lot of powerful painkillers.

I watched mum while she pottered around the kitchen, wiping surfaces and moving things from here to there and back.

‘He needed you to know,’ she said. ‘He won’t last. He wanted me to tell you as if there was a chance. Soften it just for now. So I did. But I don’t think that helps. You should know. It will kill him. He probably has just a few weeks to go and he won’t be himself for some time at the end. You needed to know.’

I left the house without saying a word. I walked into the middle of the park, out into the big empty open space, hundreds of acres of Wanstead Flats around me. She could hit me with thunder and tornados if she wanted but at least I was out of Hi-Lux range.

By the time I stopped in the centre my pulse was racing, my blood was trembling and my brain fizzing.

‘NOOOOOO!’ I screamed.

‘NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!’

‘I haven’t lied for you. I’ve done what you said. You can do anything. I don’t want to lie. I want to tell the truth. I always want to tell the truth. Listen to me Balarubu.

I was yelling at the very top of my voice; telling so hard it hurt. Throwing my message into her place, wherever that was.

‘Listen. I want to tell the truth. I’m no doctor. I know nothing about my dad. What do I know about his cells? I know nothing. So if I say something, you can make it true.’

‘Listen. I say it. Make it true.’

I didn’t have much voice left, and it was getting harder. From nowhere a wind had whipped up and sleet was driving at me. Summer sleet.

‘Listen to me, Balarubu. Listen to me. My dad doesn’t have cancer. He’s OK. He doesn’t have cancer.’

I was through. I walked back through the warm dry evening. The warm dry evening. The storm had left as the challenge faded.

Mum opened the door for me, looked me up and down as I dripped on the mat.

‘He’s OK now,’ she said.

‘Please Balarubu!’ I thought. So fast, so simple. How did she know so fast.’

‘Can I go and see him?’

‘He’d like that. He’s at peace. We can sit with him. He wanted peace. He had the drugs, he just took a few more. The doctor will understand. He had cancer. It happens all the time. He was spared.’

‘Peace? Spared? He’s dead isn’t he?’

‘Yes he is. He’s dead.’