‘Come in for a few minutes, anyway.’
Not really wanting to, Greg followed him indoors. Michelle was sprawled in an armchair, reading. She looked up, surprised and pleased, but her father led the way through to a book-lined study that adjoined the main room, evidently wanting to talk to Greg in private. He sat on a swivel chair and gestured Greg towards a small sofa.
‘Any more news of that boy, from the hospital?’
Greg shook his head. ‘No change, as far as I know. Michael Tarrant went in this morning.’
‘You don’t know where Jordan might be, I take it?’
‘No,’ Greg said. A wrench of regret grabbed him somewhere in the middle. ‘I saw him on his bike, earlyish, about ten, but only for a minute. That was near my house.’
‘Not since then?’ Stuart McAuliffe was watching him closely. ‘He went out about then—hasn’t come back or phoned since, and his mobile’s switched off. Where was he heading?’
‘Didn’t say. Back here, I thought.’
Jordan’s father compressed his lips and gazed out of the window. ‘He seems very upset about something. I’m worried, Greg, to tell you the truth. It’s not like him to go off without telling us.’
Greg swallowed. ‘Last night, you know, when you rang, he’d gone up to Graveney Hall. But he’s not there now, ’cos I’ve just come from there. And there are lots of people about. He’d want to be on his own, I expect—’
‘You’ve had a disagreement, I take it?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Tell me it’s none of my business, if you like. But maybe I can guess.’
Greg looked down at his hands. There wasn’t much point pretending; Jordan’s dad already knew most of it. ‘It’s like—we’re mates, and that’s it as far as I’m concerned.’ He picked at the edge of his thumbnail. ‘I mean, I’m not—you know—gay or anything. Definitely not! And there was nothing to make him think so. Only he must have thought—he got it all wrong—’
‘Ah.’
‘Then this morning, I told him I was with a girl last night,’ Greg said, to the nearest bookshelf. He didn’t know how to explain that Jordan was simultaneously the last person he wanted to hurt, and the one he wanted to hurt most. And what he’d just said—it sounded like bragging. Perhaps it was. He wasn’t even sure that his face wasn’t wearing a horrible smirk of self-congratulation.
‘I see,’ Stuart said; ‘yes, he’d take that badly. But then, if that’s how things are, he needs to know.’
Greg looked up cautiously. He almost added: I told him to sort himself out. He felt prickly with the shame and unfairness of that too-easy taunt.
Jordan’s dad sighed. ‘I’m sure it’s not the last time he’ll have to face this, but it’s the first time, and that makes it hard. It’s not going to be easy for him—he doesn’t take things lightly. Not that it’s particularly easy to be straight either, but being gay, at his age, still at school—I’m just grateful he had the courage to tell me. I’d hate to see him upset and have no idea why.’
‘I didn’t mean to . . .’ Greg stumbled, hearing how pathetic he sounded.
Jordan’s father looked at him. ‘No, I’m sure you didn’t. Difficult all round, I can see that.’
‘I can’t seem to help it. I open my mouth and upset people. My other friend, Faith—you know, Michael Tarrant’s daughter—she’s not the one I was with last night but she’s my friend, and she used to believe in God till I started arguing with her and asking questions to prove she’d got it all wrong, so that’s my fault too . . .’
He blathered on, wondering what had impelled him to start on this. Didn’t Jordan’s dad have enough to worry about, without being Greg’s agony uncle? But he listened attentively until Greg had finished, then appeared to give careful thought before saying: ‘It sounds to me as if you’re blaming yourself too much. This girl—Faith, did you say?—is bound to come up against problems and doubts sooner or later, and if you hadn’t made her question what she believes, someone or something else would have done. I’m a Jewish agnostic myself, and Ann—my wife—is a lapsed Catholic. We’re a family of lapsers, so I’m not the best person to talk to about matters of belief. But it may not be as drastic as you think. Faith may get her faith back, if that’s what she wants. Maybe you’ve raised doubts she already had. She’ll have to sort them out for herself.’
The study door opened and Michelle came in. ‘Mum says does Greg want to stay and eat with us, and wait for Jordan?’
Greg looked at Stuart; a glance confirmed that it would be better if he was not here when Jordan came home. ‘No. Thanks, but I’ve got to go.’
He cycled around aimlessly for a while. It was dark and getting cold; eventually, driven by hunger, he went home. His mother met him at the front door. ‘Jordan’s dad just phoned again. He says to tell you Jordan’s come home.’ She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Mind if I ask what’s going on?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ Greg said. ‘Bit of a misunderstanding, that’s all.’
Oak Grove
Greg’s
photograph
(colour),
close-up,
enlarged:
Faith’s cross on its chain. The crucifix
is of plain design; its cross-piece catches the light.
The links of the chain necklace loop out of the
frame. The piece of jewellery is photographed
against a fabric background of matt green (Greg’s
pencil case).
From: [email protected]
Date: 7 October 2002 06.25
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: sorry
Never express yourself more clearly than you think. Nils Bohr.
That was all. Greg stared at the screen, scrolled down to see if there were any more, stared at it again. Typical bloody Jordan—clever, indirect, baffling. But it didn’t sound friendly, whichever way he looked at it. He turned off the computer without replying.
The weather had turned wet and gusty. Arriving early in the sixth-form common room, Greg found Jordan in his usual place in the corner, reading a
Guardian
which Greg could see was last Friday’s copy.
‘Hi,’ Greg said, trying to pretend nothing had changed.
‘Hi.’ Jordan looked up briefly and went back to his reading.
‘Got your e-mail,’ Greg said. ‘Nils Bohr?’
Jordan lowered the paper for a second. ‘Physicist.’
‘I know that, but what was he on about?’
‘Theoretical physics.’ This time Jordan didn’t even look out from behind the
Guardian
.
‘Where d’you get to yesterday?’ Greg tried.
‘Out.’
Still Greg hung around, counting out coins for the coffee machine. ‘Want a drink?’ he asked.
Jordan inclined his head towards the steaming cup on the table which made the question redundant. Greg got his own coffee and sat down two chairs away, remembering that he was supposed to have gone to the pool this morning for training; had Jordan expected that? He sat in silence, undecided; Jordan read on, taking no further notice of him.
People began to trickle in, Monday-morning subdued, moaning about the wet weather and undone homework and looming deadlines. Ben Cousins dumped his bag and came over. ‘Hey, you two—where were you Friday?’
‘Friday?’ Greg echoed. The day of Dean’s accident, the evening he and Jordan had talked by the Pan statue—he wasn’t sure he wasn’t going pink in the face.
‘Cricket! I had you two down to play. We were two short—’
‘Sorry,’ Jordan said. ‘Forgot all about it.’
Ben’s glance swivelled to Greg. ‘You as well?’
‘Yeah, sorry, mate. Went right out of my head.’
‘We lost, in case you’re interested. I’ll find someone else next time, as it’s too much trouble to show up.’ Ben gave them a withering glare. Greg looked at Jordan, hoping to find that Ben’s scorn had reunited them as friends, but Jordan had turned away and was fastening his rucksack.
First lesson was English with Mr O’Donnell. Jordan, arriving first, went to sit in the spare seat by Maddy, which left Greg with Bonnie. ‘In favour, am I? Wossup?’ she hissed, interested. ‘You two had a row or something?’
Greg shook his head, aware that Bonnie’s stage-whisper was loud enough to carry to everyone in the room. She was the second person today to use the phrase
you two
; now that it was no longer applicable, he wondered if people said it all the time, and how it was meant. God, did everyone know? But what was there to know? Did everyone
assume
, then? Maddy didn’t, obviously; her cheeks were glowing with pleasure because of Jordan’s choice of seat. She was heading for disappointment, Greg thought with malicious amusement.
‘You know this thing teachers have about mixing up boys and girls?’ he answered Bonnie. ‘To stop boys from under-achieving? Thought I’d give myself the benefit of your scintillating insights into world literature.’
Bonnie goggled at him. ‘Scintillating? It’d take a couple of pints on a Saturday night for me to do that. First thing Monday, you can forget it.’
Mr O’Donnell came in, observed the new seating arrangements without comment, and started the lesson.
‘A diversion to start with,’ he told them, handing out sheets. The class was used to what had become known as his free-range slot, roaming from Pliny to Sylvia Plath to Primo Levi. Refusing to be hemmed in by the syllabus, he often read them something just because he liked it, or to make an interesting point, or to encourage them to read widely. ‘We looked at the extract from
The Return of the Native
a couple of weeks ago, and some of you know Thomas Hardy as a novelist—yes, Maddy,
Jude the Obscure
’s been filmed, as well as some of the others. But Hardy was also a very prolific poet. This one—
The Oxen
— is one of my favourites.’ He cleared his throat and read:
‘Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
“Now they are all on their knees,”
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers at hearthside ease.
We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.
So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said, on Christmas Eve,
“Come; see the oxen kneel
In the lonely barton in yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,”
I should go with him into the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.’
Mr O’Donnell paused at the end, looking at the students over the top of his glasses. ‘You know, I’ve read that poem countless times, but reading it again just now the ending sends a tingle down my spine.’
Next to Greg, Bonnie gave a little snort of derision, which she swiftly converted to a hiccup when Mr O’Donnell looked at her. ‘Bonnie? What do you think? Any tingles for you?’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘OK, who does?’ Mr O’Donnell scanned the class for offers. ‘Jordan?’
‘Well, it says at the bottom
Nineteen Fifteen
. That gives a context to the line
In these years
. . . the First World War. Hardy seems from this to be an agnostic who’d like to believe in God if he could—’
‘An atheist, you mean,’ Bonnie interrupted.
‘I mean an agnostic,’ Jordan said, not looking at her. ‘An atheist is someone who definitely doesn’t believe in God. An agnostic thinks God’s existence can’t be proved but can’t be disproved either. Thomas Hardy—or at least the person in the poem, not necessarily Hardy himself—can’t believe. I don’t think it was just because of the war, but because of Darwinism and advances in science—that could be implied. He thinks the idea of the oxen kneeling on Christmas Eve is like an old-fashioned fairy-tale, but all the same if he could see them do it for himself . . . he’s
hoping
, not just going along to see . . .’
Greg listened in some astonishment, as did Mr O’Donnell, while Jordan, who rarely volunteered to speak in class, explained the poem so well and fully that even Bonnie got the gist.
‘Thank you, Jordan. That’s very good,’ Mr O’Donnell said when he had finished. ‘It’s a subject that preoccupied Hardy—what kind of God could God be, if he exists at all, since he seems indifferent to human suffering? On Wednesday I’ll bring you
The
Convergence of the Twain
, Hardy’s take on the sinking of the
Titanic
. . . And now we’d better get back to our war poets, though the poem we’ve just read is certainly relevant, as Jordan says.’
Afterwards, Greg understood that this unusual volubility was Jordan’s way of showing that Greg wasn’t going to get him down. Greg could be crude, hurtful, disloyal if he liked: Jordan had self-respect and a sense of his own worth, that was the subtext. Greg thought about this later, during afternoon registration, when they were both summoned to the Head of Sixth. They knew what it was about, but neither spoke while they waited outside Mrs Leeson’s office, Greg sitting on a hard chair, Jordan standing, looking out of the window.
When she arrived, Mrs Leeson led them inside and asked Greg for an account of what had happened at Graveney Hall on Friday; then she explained that Mrs Brampton had phoned the Head to accuse Greg of bullying her son. It wasn’t really a school matter, she added, but she needed to get Greg’s and Jordan’s versions before replying.
‘It’s complete rubbish about the bullying,’ Jordan said. ‘If anything, the Year Nine boys were bullying us—following us, throwing bricks and yelling insults. Besides, Greg’s a trained first-aider—he was the one who looked after Dean till the ambulance arrived. I suppose she missed that out?’
Mrs Leeson asked a few more questions, said she was glad to have got things straight, and the interview was over.
‘Thanks for that,’ Greg said in the corridor outside. They had different lessons now: Greg Art, Jordan Geography.
Jordan shrugged, aloof again. ‘What else was there to say?’
Greg scuffed his feet. ‘You could have made things difficult for me if you’d wanted to.’
‘Not half as difficult as you could make things for me, if
you
wanted to,’ Jordan said, unsmiling, and walked away towards the Humanities block.
God! Greg screwed up his face, staring out of the rain-spattered window, unable to face his Art lesson just yet. That was true, of course—he could spread rumours and gossip about Jordan if it had occurred to him to do so. But did Jordan really think so little of him as to fear that he might? He wished he’d been quick enough to come back with
I’d never do that. You
know I’d never do that.
But even if he’d said it, why should Jordan believe him? What Jordan had offered, he’d chucked back in contempt. He banged his head against the glass and stood for a moment leaning against the streaming window, then Mrs Leeson’s door opened abruptly behind him and he stomped off to Art.
It was still pouring with rain when he met Faith by the church. She had taken cover in the bus shelter, but produced an umbrella as he approached and held it over both of them as they walked. Greg pushed his bike—his own bike, which he had just collected from the repair shop, grudgingly handing over a wad of notes.
‘I phoned the matron, Mrs Thorne,’ Faith told him, ‘but she said we won’t get anything out of Joe because he hardly talks. It’s for a project, I told her. Which it is in a way, though I expect she thinks I meant for school.’
‘I wondered about him talking. In the article there were quotes from two other people but not from him.’
‘It said
sprightly
, though, and
enjoyed his party
. So he can’t be completely ga-ga.’
Oak Grove was a large Victorian house set back from the common. Inside the lit front room, Greg saw a number of elderly people in armchairs angled at a TV set with the colour turned up to glaring brightness. Mrs Thorne, who looked almost old enough to be a resident herself, answered the doorbell. ‘Our Mr Baillie’s very popular at the moment!’ she gushed. ‘Never had so many visitors in twenty-five years as he’s had this week. Now I did warn you, didn’t I,’ she added to Faith, ‘that he’s not going to understand much.’
Greg mouthed,
‘Twenty-five years!’
at Faith as they followed the matron through the hallway. Longer than they’d been alive! Strident TV noise blasted out of the lounge door as Mrs Thorne opened it. Faces looked round, some of them alert, several completely vacant.
‘Now, Joe,’ Mrs Thorne said very loudly, approaching a large wing-backed armchair that seemed to have no occupant. ‘Here’s your visitors I was telling you about. Faith and . . . er—’
‘Greg,’ said Greg.
‘Greg. Isn’t that nice?’
One of the old ladies made a cooing noise; another started to clap her hands with great concentration. The first Greg saw of Joe Baillie was a gnarled hand, corrugated with blue veins, blodged with liver-coloured spots, that clutched the armrest. Moving closer, he saw a skeletal frame and a slack face with drooping eyelids. The head moved slowly round to face the visitors. The eyes did not flicker, though Greg noticed the squint: one eye seemed to look at him, the other over his shoulder, making him want to turn round to see if there was someone behind him.
‘You can’t talk in here—I’m going to pop you in the visitors’ room,’ Mrs Thorne said. She had the kind of tirelessly cheery voice that people must get from dealing with infants or the elderly, Greg thought. The old man nodded slowly, took the arm she extended and heaved himself out of his chair. His clothes—thick trousers and a knitted pullover—hung on his bony frame. Mrs Thorne supported him, matching his slow steps towards the door, talking all the while. ‘That’s the way! Just along the corridor—walking quite well today, aren’t we?’
Sprightly?
Greg thought. This was going to be hopeless, a complete waste of time. He grimaced at Faith, glad to get away from the blaring TV and the overheated room, and the stares of those residents capable of being curious. The visitors’ room was much smaller, with four chairs. Mrs Thorne settled Joe Baillie in one of these, then fetched a rug and tucked it round his legs. ‘I’ll leave you to have a nice chat,’ she told them. ‘Call me if you need anything.’
Faith pulled out a large white envelope and a box of chocolates from her school bag. ‘Happy Birthday, Mr Baillie,’ she said, loudly and clearly. ‘I’m sorry this is late. My name’s Faith and this is Greg. We’ve brought you some chocolates, soft centres. Shall I help you open the card?’ she added as Joe Baillie stared, not seeming to understand what it was. When she took out the birthday card and held it up to him, his face creased into a smile that showed more gaps than teeth, the smile of the photograph; he nodded slowly and reached out his hand, making a sound that Greg couldn’t recognize as a word. Joe opened the card; inside Faith had written, in large letters,
With
congratulations and very best wishes from Faith and Greg
. Greg thought it odd, this business of congratulating people for managing to stay alive. He’d never have thought of getting a card or a present.