Boy Underwater. Adam Baron
Okay then, how about this? Which of them, do you think, is the least likely to EVER be visited by someone from St Saviour’s School, Blackheath, Lewisham? I mean, like, NEVER?’
I never heard the man’s answer, so I can’t tell you what it was. My mum came in and saw me with her bank card in my hand. I thought she’d be mad but she just gave me a soft smile and pressed the red button on the phone before putting it down on the kitchen table. Then she interfered with my hair.
‘Australia, hey? A holiday?’
I looked at her. ‘No. We’re going to live there.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, though I thought about France first.’
‘France?’
‘Because of the chocolate croissants. But it’s too near. Rachel Jones went there on holiday last summer. She still bangs on about it. She might see me.’
‘And you don’t speak French.’
‘I know. So that’s why I thought of Australia. It’s the furthest country from us for one thing, but I saw an Australian cricketer on the telly last week. He was speaking English. Sort of.’
‘Right,’ Mum said, and I thought she was going to laugh for some reason. But the trembling of her lips didn’t turn into laughter. She was staring at me, hard, and then she reached out to take my hand. She was wearing her red jumper, the really itchy one, and the sleeve scratched against my wrist. She tried to mouth some words.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Cymbeline, I’m sorry I never took you swimming. I really am. I’m so, so sorry.’
And so she should have been! And I nearly said that. But what she did then stopped me. I’ve told you about her crying, haven’t I? But she’d never cried like this before. I thought crying was done with your eyes mostly, and your mouth a bit. But when Mum started to cry it was with all of her. Her shoulders moved up and down and her throat made this weird croaking noise. Soon her whole body was shaking, like the washing machine when it’s nearly finished, and all I could do was watch her. She kept saying sorry, sorry, over and over, or at least she tried to because she couldn’t get the word out properly. She clutched her stomach and shook, my wrist really itching now, but unlike the washing machine she didn’t slow down and go quiet again. She carried on, and on, and on, trying to say sorry, and I heard myself say it’s okay, it’s okay, it was nothing really, just the whole class seeing my willy after the best girl in the entire world had seen me floundering around and dragged me out of the swimming pool. Don’t worry about it. But Mum didn’t seem to be able to hear me. It was like – and this may sound weird – she wasn’t saying sorry to me at all. But someone else. It was like there was someone else there, with us in the kitchen.
Mum shook, and she shook, and I couldn’t make her hear me. There was nothing I could do, so eventually I took my hand back and went upstairs to my bedroom. It was quiet in there. Everything was really still. I took a Lego model to bits and put it back together again, though it didn’t look quite the same. I got an Asterix from the shelf, but for the first time ever nothing inside it made me laugh. Not even Obelix. So I just sat there, snizzling Mr Fluffy, until I heard footsteps on the stairs. But they went past, and I heard Mum’s bedroom door opening. And closing. I walked out on to the landing and listened, but I couldn’t hear anything. So through the door I said, ‘Mum?’
There was no answer. I tried again.
‘Mum?’
‘Oh,’ she said from the other side of the door. ‘Hi, Cymbeline. Listen, champ, I’m not feeling very well, okay?’
‘Oh. Can I get you anything?’
‘No, that’s all right, love. A bit of a headache. I put a pizza in the oven. Is it okay if you take it out when the bell goes and have it for supper?’
‘On my own?’
‘Yes, love.’
‘All right,’ I said.
‘You know how to do that, don’t you?’
‘With oven gloves.’
‘And turn the oven off. Then there’s ice cream in the freezer. Remember to push the little door shut tight, won’t you?’
‘Okay.’
‘And then …’
‘Yes, Mum?’
‘Can you tuck yourself up into bed? Clean your teeth first.’
‘All right.’
‘And I’ll come out then and give you a kiss goodnight.’
‘All right,’ I said again. She never did, though. I left the pizza in too long and it was black round the edges. I ate the middle. The ice-cream tub was wedged into the freezer compartment so tightly that I couldn’t pull it out. I had a yoghurt instead. And two chocolate biscuits. And another two chocolate biscuits. And a small packet of Haribos. I cleaned my teeth and had a wee, even though Mum hadn’t reminded me to do that, and then I had just one more chocolate biscuit. And then I cleaned my teeth again and lay in bed waiting for her. She always kisses me goodnight. Always, even if I’ve done something I perhaps, maybe, should not have, and she’s just spent half an hour doing LOUD at me.
But not that night.
I called out for her, and then went out on to the landing and knocked on her door. She didn’t answer. Or come out.
I went back to bed, sure that I’d never fall asleep, though I did in the end. I know that because I had a dream, a really horrible one, like what had happened to me that day, though the water wasn’t blue and shiny but brown and dirty and cold, and it went in my throat and eyes and I was turning over and over until I was spat out awake. It was terrible, believe me, though nothing compared to waking up the next morning. That was way worse, because of what I found out then.
My mum wasn’t crying any more.
And she wasn’t shut up in her bedroom.
My mum was gone.
Lance once asked me a question. We were in the hall doing PE, something I’d been looking forward to all week, but which turned out to be terrible. We were starting Year 3 then with Mr Ashe, who I happen to know is a boss footballer. He coaches the Year 6 team and we sometimes interrupt our Year 4 Saturday-morning training to watch their matches. Before every game he does kick-ups and catches the ball on the back of his neck while the Year 6 kids all groan. So I thought PE would be a chance to improve and perhaps even overtake Danny Jones. But it wasn’t. That term, Mr Ashe explained, as we lined up near the wall bars, we would not be doing football. Or rugby. Not even netball, which would at least have involved a ball. Instead we were going to be doing gymnastics, and if you don’t think that’s terrible it means you are probably a girl (though if you’re not, BIG SORRY AND RESPECT). The girls all squealed with delight, and soon I could see why.
Now I have to admit something. I like girls as much as the next boy, and maybe a little bit more, but I’d always thought that when it came to sport girls just weren’t quite as good. That day I found out that I was wrong. Hardly had the words left Mr Ashe’s lips than I was staring in mouth-wide amazement as girl after girl did the most incredible things. Laura Pinter did a cartwheel that was just like a real wheel going round, especially when she kept going and did three in a row. Rachel Jones then did another one but sort of twisted round halfway in the air so that she ended up on two feet, facing the way she’d come, her arms pointing up