‘Who’s Phyllis?’
So the little shit had opened it, of course he had. Shit. Christopher fought to remember what he had written. Had there been any mention of Phyllis being his mother?
‘Who is she?’ Jack drew the letter from the envelope.
‘She’s no one,’ Christopher said. ‘Look, is something wrong? Has something happened? Are you with Dad?’
Jack shrugged, screwed up his piggy little eyes. ‘If she’s no one, then why are you living with her?’
Jack. Scowling, spoilt, snot-nose Jack. He was fourteen. Christopher searched his face. Was it possible he didn’t understand? What the hell had he written in that letter?
‘She’s… she was my girlfriend, that’s all.’ It was worth a punt. He looked up, as if he’d spotted something in the sky. When Jack looked too, Christopher seized the letter from his brother’s hand – oldest trick in the book.
‘Oi, give that back.’
He held it high, skim-read it. I realised on the train that I had quite forgotten to wish you a Merry Christmas… There was no overt mention of Phyllis being his mother. He handed the letter back to Jack
‘Take it, since you’re so interested,’ he said. ‘She’s just a friend. We’d been corresponding. She was my pen pal. It’s really none of your business.’
‘So are you married to her?’
‘Don’t be stupid. We’re friends.’
Jack’s eyes widened. ‘So you’re living in sin? Mum’ll kill you.’ Poor boy. Thinking to threaten him, when instead he was throwing him a lifeline.
‘Grow up, Jack. What are you going to do, tell tales? We’re not kids any more. The only person you’ll hurt is Mum.’
‘Why don’t we go to yours then?’
‘Not a good idea,’ said Christopher. ‘You can come another time, when I’ve given her some warning. Look, I’ve got my car. I’ll take you into town and we can go for a cup of tea. You can have some cake.’ He was already walking back towards the car. ‘Besides, there’ll be too many people in the house now. The other student teachers, you know. They’ll be using the kitchen, it’ll be chaos.’
‘Doesn’t look like chaos to me,’ said Jack as they passed the front gate.
‘Aye, well, that’s how chaos works sometimes. You can’t always tell from the outside, can you?’
They got into the car and Christopher did a three-point turn and drove back the way he’d come, took a right down Ivy Street, left onto the bottom of Heath Road. Phyllis would be wondering where he was. But there was no question of taking Jack Junior into the house. He would not let his snot-nosed little brother, of all people, sabotage things now.
‘There’s a café by the canal,’ he said. ‘We can go there.’
They drove in silence. Under the expressway, and on towards the old town. The road swung left and down. To the right, they passed the Wilsons. Christopher kept his eyes on the road. The old swimming baths, then the drab parade of shops: a chemist’s, the post office, a nightclub: like all nightclubs, by day nothing but dead. He turned left, parked up by the canalside.
‘Why don’t you ever come home?’ Jack said, as if to fill the silence.
Christopher switched off the ignition and got out. ‘Lock your door,’ he said over the roof of the car, once Jack had dragged himself upright. ‘Squeeze the handle while you shut it, then it’ll stay locked.’
‘I know how to shut a car door, you know.’
Christopher walked ahead. ‘There’s a place at the top of Ellesmere Street does a cheap cup of tea.’
‘I don’t want tea,’ said Jack, in that sulky voice he had. ‘I came to ask you why you never come home. Mum’s not herself.’
‘All right, let’s walk. We can go along the canal.’ Christopher walked up towards the water. Having no choice, Jack followed, half a step behind. They stepped onto the hump of the grass verge. ‘What do you mean, not herself?’
‘Dad says she’s got depression. He said you dropping us like stones hasn’t helped. He said you don’t want to know us any more now you’ve got educated.’
They had reached the gravel path. Beyond, willows wept, reflected in the flat brown surface of the water. Ducks bobbed along, oblivious. An empty 7 Up bottle cruised behind them like a bald imposter hoping to pass as one of the brood. Christopher shook his head, as if he could shake his thoughts away, and looked from left to right, and left again. Further up, to the left ran the road they had driven along to get here – a bridge now, at this level, arching over the canal. He headed for it.
‘I haven’t dropped you,’ he said to Jack, who half-ran to keep up with him. ‘I haven’t dropped anyone. That’s simply not true.’ The heat of the lie burned his insides, cut a sharp edge on his voice. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me or education or anything else. I’ve grown up, that’s all. Found my place in the world. That’s what happens. People get qualifications, they get jobs, they buy a house where their job is and they live there. They have kids and those kids grow up and get their training or their education or whatever it is and then they leave and have kids of their own. It’s the way it is. And it’ll be your turn next, Jackie boy.’
‘Don’t call me Jackie. That’s a girl’s name.’
They had reached the bridge. In its shadow, more litter huddled, concentrated here, substantial: not Coke cans and crisp packets but the dented remains of a rusted oil drum and a grimy tarpaulin. Among the dog shit and the domestic rubbish cast down by walkers, a length of rope blackened with grease, an old anchor that looked as though, if polished, it might be worth something. A mooring post lay at the water’s edge where something – a barge, of course, what else? – had clearly bumped it off its foundation. Christopher turned to look at Jack. The boy’s scowl had given way to confusion; fear possibly. He had never heard Christopher talk this way – with force or any kind of strength. He must think he had become someone else. And in a way, he had. He was Martin, known as Christopher, but Martin nonetheless. He was Martin because Martin was who he had chosen to be.
‘Grow up,’ he said to Jack, though more kindly. ‘You’re Margaret’s son. More than I can ever be. I’m not blood. I’m not a Harris.’ He was about to add, I am a Curtiss and I have another family, my family, but he stopped himself and said instead, ‘You look after her. You’re fourteen. You and Louise can take care of her. Look, does she even know you’re here?’
Jack shook his head. ‘I told her I had a school trip.’
‘What time’s she expecting you back?’
No answer. But clearly, no one knew where he was, who he was with. There were just the two of them, alone on the canalside in the falling light of a spring afternoon.
‘Look,’ Christopher said eventually. ‘You belong there. I… I don’t.’
Jack’s face reddened and his eyes watered, as if Christopher had slapped him hard. ‘Why are you saying that?’