This Isn't the Sort of Thing That Happens to Someone Like You (4 page)

That’s what he was now. A situation.

He said to Mr Carson, he said, look, it’s only the school hall we’re talking about here. He was only going to stand at the back. He wouldn’t try and talk to her. Rachel wouldn’t even have to know he was there, he could hide behind another parent, he could slip out before the end. There didn’t need to be a problem here, he said. Mr Carson just stood there and said it was out of his hands.

Yeah I’ll take it out of your hands you four-eyed fucking twat.

He didn’t say that. He knew better than saying something like that, these days. He wasn’t there to make trouble. He was just there to see a nativity play. The shepherds were mightily afraid. The wise men followed yonder bright star in the east. All that. There weren’t no room at the inn. He held up his hands in surrender. A conciliatory gesture. He’d been learning about those, at the sessions. He even attempted a smile. He told Mr Carson, he said, okay, he was leaving now, he was sorry to have caused any disturbance, he hoped the performance went well and could someone perhaps tell Rachel that her father had said hello? Mr Carson did this disappointed shrug and said for him to take care. Not saying whether he would or he wouldn’t pass on the hello to Rachel, take note. There were other parents hanging back behind him, waiting to get in the school, not wanting to get involved. But standing just about close enough to hear what was going on, and then none of them meeting his eye when he turned and walked away. Like they didn’t know him or they didn’t know what was going on.

They knew though. They all did, round here. Some of them had even known certain things before he had, when it would have been useful for him to have been told. They all like to hear stuff but they’re none of them that keen on passing it on.

He got to the corner before he looked back. The other parents were all safely inside, and Mr Carson was closing the door. Bolting it, probably. Even saying something about how they couldn’t be too careful. He walked off. Calmly. He followed the line of hedging around the edge of the school playing field, where the road dipped down a bit and you could see out past the edge of the village. Someone was out ploughing, which seemed early but what did he know. The seagulls were following behind the plough. He got to the sign that said
School Property: No Dog Walking
, and climbed over the double-gate there. That was harder than it used to be. Used to come over this way when he was a kid and they were looking for somewhere to play football. Or, later, for somewhere to drink. He even came over here with her once or twice, before he’d got a car.

He didn’t really even have a plan, now.

He wasn’t here to make trouble.

He could just stand outside the hall and listen. Rachel had such a good voice he’d probably be able to hear her over all the others. She got that from her mother, the voice. Among other things. He walked across the playing field towards the hall. Walking calmly and casually, not running or ducking down or any of that. He wasn’t going to attract attention to himself. The curtains were closed, so no one could even see him. He listened right up to the glass. They were singing a song about the angels, and then when it went quiet he heard a little girl saying Joseph Joseph you must find somewhere for us to stay the baby is coming soon. That didn’t sound like Rachel. Probably an older girl would be playing the part of Mary. Maybe Rachel would do it another year, when she was older. There would be other years, after all. There wouldn’t always be this situation. But this was her first nativity. He couldn’t miss the first one.

He didn’t even know what part she was playing. He didn’t know anything about it at all. He’d only found out it was on when he’d heard some women talking about it in the post office.

He didn’t know if Rachel’s mother would be in there. She’d have a prime seat at the front, if she was. Guaranteed. He hadn’t seen her going in the whole time he’d been waiting up the road from the main entrance. But she’d got pretty good at sneaking around in the last few months. Since the injunction. So she could have easily found another way to get in. And she wouldn’t be hiding behind another parent, or tucked away at the back of the hall. She’d be right in Rachel’s line of sight, right where she could see her. And little Rachel would be delighted to see her, her little face would be all lighting up right now probably, in the middle of this song about the happy sheep coming down from the hills to find the baby Jesus lying in a manger, and that was fine, that was good, he was happy to think of her little face all lighting up the way it does. He just wanted to be there to see it sometimes, was all. He wanted to be the one who her little face would be lighting up about, sometimes, was all.

He saw Mr Carson coming across the field towards him, looking all purposeful and what have you. There were some others with him. He turned back towards the hall, sliding his face along the window to try and find a gap in the curtains, listening out for the sound of that one little voice he’d come to hear.

He didn’t even know how it had all started going wrong. With Rachel’s mother. He couldn’t really blame her, not like most of the others who went to the sessions had someone to blame. It wasn’t her fault. But it wasn’t really his fault either, and something like that didn’t just come up out of nowhere. Maybe it was both of their faults in a way. Maybe there were some things he probably shouldn’t have said, or done. Or broken. Breaking things had never helped. But just sometimes it was hard to know what else to do. When she said those things. When she purposefully misunderstood what he was trying to say.

He’d always made sure Rachel wasn’t there to see. That was one thing that could be said in his defence.

It was one way of getting to touch her again anyway at least.

Later, once the police had got the handcuffs on and were picking him up off the ground, he noticed that someone had opened the hall curtains, and he thought he could see Rachel standing on the edge of the stage wearing what must have been a sheep costume. She’d grown a bit since the last time he’d seen her. It didn’t take long. He tried to smile at her and call hello. But unless she was doing some very good acting she was looking pretty upset, pretty tearful and scared and what have you. Which made him wonder what was going on in there, if she’d maybe been pushed into doing the school nativity when she didn’t really want to, or if she’d forgotten her words and no one had helped her remember them. He wondered why no one was looking after her right now, while she was standing there on her own all tearful and upset-looking. He wondered what kind of a school this was that her mother was sending her to anyway.

He’d definitely be coming back for some answers. There wasn’t any doubt about that. Just as soon as he’d sorted out this current situation. They didn’t need to worry about that, any of them. He’d be coming back, and someone was going to be asked, in no uncertain terms, to explain.

Airshow

Scampton

On the long drive back from the funeral, they took the grandfather to see the airfield where he’d been stationed during the war. They thought this was something he might like to do. They parked on a grass verge beside one of the exit gates in the perimeter fence, and helped the grandfather from the car. The ground was so flat it was difficult to see anything at all. It seemed to curve away from them. They looked at him looking through the fence. The wind was blowing in from the east, and the long grass near the fence dipped and swayed with a sound like a low shush. They looked at him looking at the runway and the hangars and the other low buildings in the distance. They couldn’t really see much from where they were. They waited for him to tell them something, but he seemed at a loss. He lifted a finger, as though to point something out, and withdrew it. They walked along the verge for a short distance. The grandfather wasn’t much inclined to talk about the place, it seemed. Instead, he talked about living in digs in the next village along, with his new wife and their baby, and about how his wife had only ever been able to walk along the road and back because the fields and woods were too muddy for a pram. The wind picked up. It got colder. They climbed back into the car and drove south.

Later, they learned that the grandfather had worked as an armourer, loading munitions into the heavy bomber aircraft and cleaning out the gun-turrets and bomb-bays when the aircraft returned. The task would at times have involved the removal of bodies and body-parts, but that was never discussed. From this airfield, squadrons had flown out to destroy whole towns; burying households beneath rubble, igniting crematorial fires, busting dams and drowning entire valleys. Some civilians were killed. The war was won.

On their way home, they passed the modern RAF base at Coningsby, driving alongside the perimeter fence for a mile or two before entering the town itself. As they passed the end of the main runway, they saw a small gravelled car-park on the other side of the road, sheltered from the wind on three sides by a thick line of gorse bushes. The car-park was full. People were sitting beside their cars in ones and twos, on folding chairs, with blankets across their knees and thermos flasks cradled in their laps. They had binoculars and long-lensed cameras and notebooks. They were waiting for the modern fighter aircraft stationed at the base to take off and land, so that they could take pictures and make notes and gaze in awe. They were also waiting for something called ‘The Memorial Flight’: a regular display by vintage bomber aircraft. As though vintage was a word which could be used about a bomber plane in the same way it could be used about a car, or a suit, or a set of buttons.

As they drove past, the grandfather turned to look at the people in the car-park. He didn’t say anything. He watched them through the back window. He didn’t say anything as they drove through Coningsby, past the church and over the river and out along the main road to the motorway. He waited until they got back to the house, and as they helped him out of the car he asked just what it was those people with the binoculars had thought they might be waiting to see.

We Were Just Driving Around

North Ormsby

We were just driving around.

It was late in the evening but it was still light. We’d been out for hours and it was one of those nights when it seemed like basically it was never going to get dark. We hadn’t seen anyone around, and a couple of times when we’d stopped and got out it had been totally quiet, like normal, but we had the music turned up loud in the car and it made things seem sort of hectic or like picturesque? With how far you could see across the fields, and the speed, and the light, and the music? Like when you’re walking around with headphones on and it makes everything seem like a film? Like that. Anyway.

Josh was talking about setting up a business selling handmade snacks. He said he wasn’t going to go to university, he was going to make his fortune straight out of school. His big idea was that you could get these like gourmet snacks made to order, right there in the shop. It would be like the deli-counter of the munchie world, he was saying. He was laughing about it, but he was totally serious, he was laughing because he thought it was so brilliant. Any flavour you want, he was saying, any snack you want! I’ll be a millionaire! He sounded like someone off
The Apprentice
. He was listing all the snacks he could think of, crisps and pretzels and Bombay mix and popcorn, and what they were all made of, and he was talking about how the economics of it were brilliant. Pennies into pounds, my friends! He kept shouting that. Pennies into pounds! He was shouting because the music was so loud but also because he was so excited about it? I didn’t really get it. Anyway.

Tom wanted to know if this shop was going to be located round here and if so then where did Josh think his customer base was going to come from? It didn’t look like Josh had thought about that. He waved his hand around a bit, meaning: like, around here somewhere? I don’t know yet, he said. There’s people around though, there’s like a widely distributed customer base, yeah? He pointed to a farmhouse over on the right, three or four fields away, and then another one a bit further off, the other side of the river. The lights in the windows were just coming on so it must have been a bit darker by then than it seemed. There you go, he said, that’s two of them right there. Tom said, what, are you going to do it like mobile? A mobile crisp van? Josh leaned over and punched him in the shoulder, and it was sort of a play-punch but he sort of meant it as well. No one said anything for a minute. It was just the music and the sound of the tyres on the road. I wasn’t even sure where we were. I could see the red lights of some television mast or something, and the sky all shadowy blue behind it. We went over a little bridge and it felt like the tyres left the road for a second. I don’t think Josh even knew where we were going. Josh said, don’t take the piss mate. This is serious, this is totally serious. This is going to work, yeah? It’s like, a totally unfulfilled market niche. And I’ll be filling in that niche, big-time.

That got us laughing for a bit, about Josh filling in an unfulfilled niche.

Tom wouldn’t let it go though, he was giving it all the economic model and the population density and the vulnerability of depending on impulse purchases and Josh was all nodding but then he goes Tom mate you don’t get it. You don’t get it. I’m talking about handmade gourmet snack products. Made to order! Like, locally sourced! They’ll come pouring in from every direction! They’ll be queuing up outside! He cut the music and put on this solemn face and a deep voice like from a film trailer and goes: If you fry it, they will come.