The Other Lives Page 8

  There are horns and screeching tyres, a crash and the whoop of a car alarm. I fall back with my face buried in the cool plastic seats, feeling the van lurch and heave through London’s streets.

  ‘What’s happening to me?’ I say, closing my eyes. ‘Who are you?’

  I fall into unconsciousness to the sound of the driver’s voice, growing distant, as if through a disappearing hatch.

  ‘Who we are is not important. Who we used to be is.’

  PART TWO

  SAY SORRY

  Cornwall, 1940

  ‘I’M NOT LYING, JAMES, I’m not!’

  James kept a firm grip on the brass handle. It was old and loose, like the larder door to which it was attached and, for that matter, everything else in the house. The thumps from inside, which were finally starting to wane with exhaustion, shook and rattled the worm-holed door against its frame, but with his shoe against the base he was able to keep it shut, and his little brother incarcerated.

  ‘Be quiet and say you’re sorry.’

  He tried to make his voice deep and solemn, the way his father’s sounded. Or at least, how he remembered it to sound, when he had looked up at him from the hearth rug that day the buses came, with a paper plane in his hand. He tried to remember the words, but really it was just the sound of them that remained. Even his face was becoming hazy and distant, threatening to disappear altogether behind the fog of pipe smoke if he didn’t concentrate hard enough. To forget what his father’s face looked like was his greatest fear — greater than death, greater than that terrible drone, and the bombs that fell with it.

  ‘I shan’t,’ said the quivering voice behind the door. There was a sniff and a whimper, followed by a renewed bout of hammering that lasted only a few seconds before, finally, his brother fell to the floor in a heap of tears.

  James rolled his eyes.

  ‘You shall, Billy. You’re telling fibs. And Mummy said never to tell fibs.’

  There was a scrabbling behind the door as his brother got to his feet.

  ‘I’m not James! I’m not I’m not I’m not oh please James let me out and don’t tell Mummy I’ve been fibbing please don’t please don’t let me out let me out let me out!’

  ‘Not until you’ve said sorry!’

  His brother heaved a deep and woeful sigh.

  ‘But it’s true!’ he sobbed. ‘It’s true I tell you! There’s a man in the woods! I know it! Smitt! His name’s Smitt!’

  ‘It’s not true, you little runt, it’s just another one of your stupid little stories. And there’s no such name as Smitt.’

  There were three feeble thumps.

  ‘Not a story, James. Not.’

  ‘And don’t start talking baby either. Mummy said you have to be a big boy now.’

  There was a moment’s silence. James relaxed his grip; he was sure this would be it now. Just a tiny, trembling sorry, and they could get on with their chores. But there was no word. Instead, he heard a sniff, and it sounded dangerously purposeful. James renewed his brace.

  ‘Mummy said other things too,’ said his brother, under some new well of resolve that made James at once angry and madly proud. It was at times like these that he thought his brother might just grow up into something other than the weak and hopeless daydreamer he had always been. He dropped his chin, searching for his deepest note.

  ‘Billy…’

  ‘She said you had to look after me.’

  ‘I’m warning you…’

  ‘She said you had to be kind to me.’

  James gritted his teeth.

  ‘I am being kind to you!’

  ‘Locking people in larders is not kind, James!’

  ‘It is if it’s for their own good.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel good. It’s cold and dark and I think there’s a mouse. James, I’m scared. I want Mummy, James.’

  There was another slump and some snuffles. James released the handle and rested his cheek on the door, listening to his brother’s sobs.

  ‘This isn’t our house, Billy,’ he said. He used his mother’s voice now, woody and warm like a clarinet. ‘We’re guests here and we have to behave. If you go around telling silly stories, Mr and Mrs Sutton won’t want us to live with them anymore. And then what will we do?’

  James heard sniffs and trembles through the door and the wet scrape and smack of wool across nostrils.

  ‘Go back to London?’ said Billy. There was the smallest upturn of hope on the last word.

  ‘We can’t go back to London. You know that, Billy.’

  They were quiet for a while, and James listened to the kitchen clock ticking. It was late afternoon and it would be dark soon. Outside he heard rain spattering, and the clank of a bucket.

  ‘James?’ said Billy at last.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  James sighed with relief and made to open the door.

  ‘I’m sorry…but it’s the truth.’

  James froze.

  ‘Billy, you…’

  ‘It’s the truth! There’s a man in the woods and he’s hurt and he needs our help, James! He needs our help and we have to find him! James please, please, let me out let me out let me out!’

  James grasped the handle tighter than ever.

  ‘You fat-headed little rat!’

  There was an icy blast as the kitchen door swung open.

  ‘What’s all this then?’ said a voice. James spun round. Towering in the door was a man with thick, black hair. He wore a blue boiler suit and mud-caked boots and his face was stubbled and ruddy, the skin having been so frozen by the biting, coastal air that James imagined it had never been soft and never would. He breathed hard with recent exertion, the air turning to steam in the dull winter light.

  ‘Mr Sutton,’ said James. Billy had stopped banging on the door and stood silent behind it. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I was trying to teach my brother a lesson.’

  Mr Sutton blinked and looked him over, as if his words had no meaning.

  ‘Get out of that larder,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Mr Sutton. Sorry, sir.’

  Mr Sutton took a breath that seemed to pull all the air from the kitchen into his lungs and push it out again in a steady gale. His chest moved the way mountains move — in a timeframe beyond the cares of normal men. He threw his gloves on the stove.

  ‘Go and help Rupert clean the chicken shed,’ he said, trudging off along the hallway.

  James watched him leave. Then he opened the larder door. His brother faced him, hesitating, before raising his chin. His cheeks were red and wet with tears.

  ‘Heads?’ said Billy.

  James smiled.

  ‘Heads.’

  He leaned forward and touched his brow against his brother’s, holding it there for a second or two with his eyes closed.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Before you get us in any more trouble.’

  THINGS THAT I KNOW HAPPENED ONCE

  AT FIFTEEN RUPERT WAS just a year older than James, but a childhood living on Lasswick Farm had made him much bigger and stronger. James watched him as they made their way across the yard. He was working his brush in swift, coarse strokes against the concrete floor of the chicken shed. His sleeves were rolled up and his forearms were already showing the rough-hewn lines of developed muscle that James had only ever seen on grown men. His legs were planted on the ground like tree trunks, and his back was taut and lean like a young bull’s. James looked down at his own spindly arms and the woollen trousers tied in a rope around his skinny waist. The nearest he had come to manual labour in London was carrying coal to the fire and washing pots after Sunday roast.

  He pulled up his sleeves and grabbed two brushes, passing the smaller one to Billy. The shed was only small, with one wall partly made up of a gate and a floor caked in layers of foul, black mess. The top was slick and fresh. Underneath was hard and cracked. Billy gagged into his sleeve as he caught the foul tang of excrement.

  ‘Do that corner,’ said James, pointing over a
t the gate. He thought at least the fresh air would prevent his brother vomiting like last time. ‘And no more games.’

  Billy dragged his brush over to the gate and began to scrape it on the floor. James caught Rupert’s eye and nodded.

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Rupert.

  James was well aware that his prim North London diction lacked the mystery of Rupert’s Cornish lilt. He tried his best not to copy him, or to grit his teeth and appropriate a rougher take on his city’s accent by using words like ain’t or dropping his t’s. He knew this made him sound like he was trying too hard. Besides, he remembered his father saying, ‘Be yourself, son; only fools try to do otherwise.’

  At least, that’s what he thought he remembered him saying.

  ‘Teaching little boys lessons,’ he said, going to work on the floor.

  Rupert glanced over at Billy, who had his back turned.

  ‘Oh aye. Telling stories again, is he?’

  ‘Lies, is more like it.’

  ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘He says there’s a man in the woods. Stupid.’

  Rupert stood up, stretching his back and leaning on his brush — another adult trait that James made a mental note of copying when he was alone, later.

  ‘Man in the woods?’ said Rupert. ‘That right, Billy?’

  ‘Don’t,’ said James. ‘You’ll only encourage him.’

  Billy paused his feeble brush strokes and stared at the wall for a second, before resuming.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Which woods is that then, Billy?’ said Rupert. He wasn’t mocking him.

  ‘The ones at the bottom of the cow field.’

  ‘Potter’s Copse?’

  Billy straightened up, as if something had just occurred to him, and turned round.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. He’s injured, and he’s very afraid.’

  He looked between James and Rupert.

  ‘He needs help. Somebody needs to help him.’

  James narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Billy, if you don’t…’

  ‘Potter’s Copse is quite dangerous, Billy,’ interrupted Rupert. ‘You haven’t been down there on your own, have you?’

  Billy shook his head.

  ‘Then how do you know there’s a man in there?’

  The little boy looked down at his brush and gave it a kick.

  ‘I don’t know. I just do. And I know it’s true and it’s making me sad.’

  Rupert smiled at him.

  ‘Ah, now then, Billy. Stories is all very well, especially good ones. But just ’cause they’re good don’t make them true now, does it?’

  Rupert resumed his scrubbing. Billy’s brow crumpled.

  ‘I swear, I swear, I swear, it’s true,’ he whispered, shaking his head.

  ‘I believe you, Billy,’ said a small voice from the gate. They all turned to see a little girl looking through the bars. She wore a grey smock and a long jumper down to her knees. A hat that had once been pink was pulled tight over her head, from which two brown pigtails sprouted like stiff twigs. She rested her nose on one of the bars

  ‘I do, and I like your stories.’

  ‘What are you doing here, Lucy?’ said Rupert. ‘Get back inside and help Ma with tea.’

  The little girl stayed where she was. A wind was whipping up around the yard, sending straw and dirt whistling past her calves — bare apart from the sparse fabric of her crumpled grey socks.

  ‘Ma doesn’t want my help. She told me to go away.’

  ‘Then get back inside and play,’ said Rupert. ‘It’s cold out here and we’re working.’

  ‘I’m not cold. I’ve got a hat on.’ She snapped the rim of her hat and gave a smile, from which two or three teeth were missing. ‘Where’s Poppy?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Rupert. ‘Probably down at the stream chasing frogs, stupid dog. Now get back inside, Lucy, before I tell Da!’

  Lucy ignored her big brother and shimmied her nose along the gate to where Billy was scrubbing.

  ‘Tell me a story, Billy.’

  Billy looked up at her, then back at James.

  ‘I…I…’

  ‘Please, Billy?’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said.

  ‘Pleeeeaaase?’ whined Lucy.

  Billy turned again to his brother, who shook his head.

  ‘Go on. Tell your stupid stories. See if I care.’

  He pretended not to notice his brother’s face light up in the gloom of the shed, or the rush of happy warmth he felt when he saw the little hand adjust its grip excitedly on its brush, or Rupert’s own smile — again, already older than his years.

  Billy edged closer to the gate.

  ‘They’re not stories, Lucy,’ he said.

  ‘What are they then?’

  ‘I don’t really know what they are. I suppose they’re like dreams, or things that I know happened once.’

  ‘Like memories?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose. Like memories, Lucy.’

  ‘Then tell me a memory, Billy.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one about the lady.’

  ‘The sad lady and the big house?’

  Lucy jumped up on the first rung of the gate and hooked her arms through.

  ‘Yes, that one, Billy. Tell me that one.’

  James watched his young brother look up at the sky. There was hardly anything of him — a small, thin boy with a small, thin voice and only a few years behind him. The pale blue was darkening, and clouds scudded across towards the hills, as if trying to flee the galloping night. For a moment, he thought he might be swept away with them.

  ‘It was cold and dark,’ said Billy. His voice was suddenly not so small, not so thin. ‘I remember it was always so terribly cold and dark…’

  FOLLOWING POPPY

  BILLY FELT AS IF somebody had been calling his name from a deep sleep for a long time. But nobody had. As the shapes and shadows that made up the chicken shed folded together again, he could only hear the sound of his own breathing, and of the wind, and of the clanking bucket outside in the yard.

  The other children were standing around him in silence. Lucy was still on the gate with her face wedged between the bars, eyes wide with astonishment. Rupert had lit a kerosene lamp and was holding it up, lighting all their faces in a burned orange. He was looking Billy up and down, mouth agape, head shaking slowly.

  James glared. His jaw was set, his hands were clenching, his breaths were trembling. He was either furious or terrified; Billy could not tell.

  ‘That was a bit different that time, Billy,’ said Lucy.

  Billy’s eyes were sore, as if they had been open for a long time. He rubbed them, nearly fell over, and steadied himself on the wall.

  ‘James, what…what was I…?’

  James took a step towards him and raised a finger. His voice was hoarse and faltering.

  ‘Don’t you ever, ever, speak like that again. Not about that filth, not about your family, not about your father, not about anything.’

  ‘But…but it wasn’t about Father, or our family. It wasn’t about—’

  ‘I don’t care!’ snapped James. The sound made Lucy jump and nearly fall from her gate.

  ‘But James,’ pleaded Billy. ‘I swear it wasn’t about us, it wasn’t me, I don’t know who it was, please, I can hardly remember…’

  ‘Stop lying!’

  ‘I’m not lying!’

  James took another step towards his brother, blocking him from the lamplight. Billy shuffled into the corner.

  ‘James,’ warned Rupert, putting a hand on James’ shoulder. James shook it off.

  ‘You are! You’re nothing but a little fibber who likes telling dirty stories and scaring people!’

  ‘I am not! James, I am not, I promise you, I’m not lying, I’m not I’m, not I’m not. It’s like the man in the forest, I don’t know how I know!’

  James took a deep breath and pursed his lips. He thought to himse
lf that this was how adults looked before they had to do something they did not want to do but that had to be done nonetheless. This was the way his father had looked when he had stood up from hugging him, his shoes shining, his kitbag fresh and plump over his shoulder, his hat firmly on his scalp, kissed his mother, taken one last look at their house and marched across to the bus stop with the rest of the men that day.

  He’d known he would not see him again. They were laughing, the men, the fathers and husbands, joyful amongst the tears of the women who lined the street opposite in their best dresses and too much lipstick. They were laughing, though only some would return, and his father would not be among them.

  And this was how his mother had looked as she knelt with them at Paddington Station, wiping their faces with her own tear-soaked handkerchief, trying to tell them things above the din of whistles and the cries of other children. This is the face she had made as she pulled herself together and stood, letting them be swept away with the rest to board their train.

  This is the face you made when things had to be done.

  James flattened his palm and raised it above his head. Billy cowered.

  ‘Mummy!’ he whimpered.

  ‘James!’ said Rupert.

  ‘Poppy!’ cried Lucy.

  They all turned to the sound of distant barking that was carrying in on the wind. Lucy jumped from the gate and scrabbled across the windswept yard towards the field, shouting the dog’s name in singsong.

  ‘Lucy!’

  Rupert leaped over the gate and followed her, lamp jangling and hissing in the rain. Billy looked up at his brother, breathing hard. They looked at each other in the near dark, until James finally let his hand fall to his side.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, and grabbed his brother’s arm.

  The four children ran down the field towards the river. Lucy was out in front, wild and uncaring, following the sound of Poppy’s urgent yelps. Rupert was close behind, calling her with his lamp swinging. James ran as fast as he could with Billy next to him. His feet thundered across the wet ground, hitting divots and rocks that sent him either flying or falling. The darkness seemed to close in as the farm disappeared behind. Before them was only grass, water and thick trees swamped in the approaching night.