Читать книгу Stones - Polly Johnson - Страница 10

Thought Diary: Graffiti in the town: ‘I’ve heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason.’ Glinda, Wicked (the musical).

There’s something going on with Joe. He gives me a call on Sunday morning to say he needs to get out of the house, and then again an hour later to say he can’t. It’s obvious he has his hand over the phone, but I can still hear shouting and his voice is pulled tight as a fishing line.

‘I can’t come. Sorry … ’

‘Are you okay? What’s all the noise?’

‘…Yes. That’s right. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you.’

I wait, but there’s nothing more, and then the line goes dead and I’m left in silence. I wonder if he’s changed his mind about meeting and didn’t want to say so, but then I remember the way his voice sounded, and the yelling in the background. People don’t yell for nothing.

Mum’s in a strange mood too. I catch her standing outside Sam’s room with the laundry basket – as if she’s forgotten there is no more laundry. She turns as I pass and jumps like she’s seen a ghost, then goes inside and shuts the door. I stand outside and listen, holding my ear close – careful not to touch it – just like I used to when I needed to check if Sam was in or not. I can’t hear a thing though, except for my breath in its careful whisper against the wood.

I leave her to her ghosts and go downstairs, but the house is silent. Through the kitchen window I see Dad in his garden shed. He’s in overalls and obviously busy. I watch as he drags out bits of rubbish and old cans of paint. His face is relaxed and his movements easy, but then it changes. He comes through the shed door slowly, something red cradled in his arms. It’s an old three-wheeled bicycle. Sam’s I think. He stands holding it for a long time, and I don’t move even though he can’t see me. I hold my breath until I can’t stand it any more and have to let it go in a huge burst. When I look up, the bike is lying on the rubbish pile and Dad isn’t moving. Then he goes into the shed and shuts the door.

I take my coat off the hook and go out.

The promenade is crowded as usual. Mostly families again with kids made fat by bobble hats and puffy jackets, and dads skimming pebbles across the water. A little boy falls down and his mouth opens in a wide circle of rage. A girl runs across the promenade, screaming like a seabird, flapping her arms while her mum chases after her in a low crouch. I hurry on, eager to escape.

When I’ve gone almost as far as the nudist beach, I see the homeless man from yesterday. He’s standing on the hump of pebbles, staring at the sea, while a cloud of smoke bursts from his face to disappear into the air. He seems to be alone but I hesitate in case Alec the Shouter is around. It would be best to just leave, but I don’t. Instead I walk over until he can hear my feet on the stones.

‘Hi again,’ I say.

He twists, loses his balance and lurches sideways. One hand goes down and hits the pebbles hard, but it saves him. He stands up tall, trying to pretend it didn’t happen because he’s drunk, but I know better. I’ve seen it all before.

‘Hello,’ he says, ‘what brings you back then?’

I don’t know, so I can’t say. Instead I bend down and pick up a handful of pebbles. There’s a tin can down towards the water and I throw them at it.

‘I like the fact it’s stones here,’ he says, picking a couple up and rolling them in his palm. ‘If it was sand, it would get everywhere, and it’d be crawling with kids an’ that.’

I glance around. Of course he’s right; I’ve just never questioned it before. Stones aren’t much good for lying on or building sandcastles.

‘Why is it, though?’ I ask him. ‘Why not sand?’

He throws me a startled look and rubs a hand across his mouth.

‘You don’t know, do you?’ I say. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘Actually,’ he says, sitting down with a crash, ‘there is sand, when the tide goes out, but stones are more meaningful anyway.’

I hesitate. I feel stupid standing over him like this, but I can’t just walk away, can I? I drop down next to him; we’re so close that the sound of the wind cuts out. Now, sitting as we are on top of the rise, it seems like the sea is just below us and we’re on the edge of the world. I look at him sideways: long lashes, stubble; a nice face. Not a dirty, mad face like the other man.

‘Meaningful how?’ I say. ‘Aren’t pebbles just pebbles?’

‘Dig your hand down,’ he says, ‘pull some up. You ever think how many there are? Like people – millions of ’em and not one the same.’

I push my hand down, like I must have done a hundred times before, but this time I look properly. All the colours are different and some have shapes or patterns like scales, or holes that bore right through them. The tramp is looking at me, smiling.

‘Sometimes,’ he says, ‘you find a stone that’s like a message – you know?’

I realise I’m meant to answer, but what can you say to something daft like that?

‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘really. If you got something on your mind or you don’t know what to do, you make a decision, and then you wait. If it’s the right one you’ll find a stone. Then you know.’

I stare at him. ‘Then you know what?’

‘If it’s the right decision, it’ll be a special stone, not just any stone.’

‘Good,’ I say, ‘because who’d notice an ordinary stone here, right?’

He catches my eye and we laugh. ‘Try it,’ he says, then drops his head and gives a little sigh.

‘I think it sounds nice,’ I say. ‘Something helping you out – what would it be, though, that made you find it?’

‘I dunno… Maybe God…’ He must see my face because he looks down again, ‘or maybe the devil. I told you, I dunno.’

I don’t know what to say. He doesn’t seem the type for God. He smells like he’s been drinking something heavy, and he looks tired and rough. I should leave, but I don’t want to. There’s something about him that makes me feel warm.

‘They say,’ he goes on, ‘that in Heaven there’s a stone for everyone. Underneath, it has a new name for you, so all this… doesn’t matter any more.’

His hands tremble in his lap. I can’t stop looking at them. He laughs and I know he’s embarrassed. ‘Take no notice,’ he says. ‘Tell me your name.’

My muscles tense with the scared feeling and I should just get up and walk away.

‘It’s Coo,’ I find myself saying, ‘short for Corinne.’

He puts out his hand and I have to shake it. ‘Banks,’ he says. ‘If you come again, bring us a cup of coffee would you?’

‘Sure,’ I say, and then my mouth goes on, ‘I’ll come in the evening if you like.’

He smiles, lets go of my hand and I get up. ‘You be careful,’ he says.

‘Careful of what?’

‘Just careful. There’s bad things out there.’

I don’t know what to say. Bad things again. Bad things everywhere.

I tell Joe about it on the way to school next morning and he gives me a sideways look. ‘Which one is it?’ he grins. ‘The one who was shouting at you? I told you he fancied you.’

I give him a jokey swipe around the head and he ducks like lightning. His expression changes like cloud shadow on the grass and he walks on without waiting for me.

‘Joe? You okay?’

‘Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘I dunno. You just…’

He sniffs and wipes his coat sleeve across his face, then in an instant he’s all right again. ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Tell me about your alky – is he crazy too?’

‘Get out, don’t be mean. He reminds me of Sam.’

‘Sam?’

‘My brother,’ I remind him. ‘That was his name.’

‘Oh yes,’ says Joe. ‘But that’s not good is it, to remind you of your brother?’

‘I guess not, but Banks is different.’

‘He’s still a tramp, Coo. Not really the best of company.’

‘At least he’s there, and he listens to me.’

Joe says nothing, but the look on his face says it all. I remember my meeting with Banks and wonder if I’m losing it. Perhaps I shouldn’t go again, but I know that I will.

All the time we’re walking, I think about Sam. Lots of people lose brothers, but the usual noises of sympathy are no good to me. I lost mine a long time before he died, and I hated him and loved him like two sides of a sheet of paper. There are also the secrets. The secrets Sam told me when he was drunk and desperate, which I carry inside me like dark stones. Only someone like Banks could listen and not find them strange. He must spend all his time in dark and dirty places – my secrets would mean nothing to him.

It wasn’t always like that – hiding things and being scared. The change came slowly, like a dark stain in clear water. I was a late baby. There were eight years between me and Sam so I didn’t realise he had problems at school or that he was skipping it. Then, one day, there was a huge row between him and Dad, and after that, there was little else. He started hanging round with older people, and maybe he felt better with some booze inside him – more confident, more equal – but it didn’t stop there. You wouldn’t think a little thing like a drink could do so much, but it did. In just a few years it turned Sam into a monster. When he came home our house became a frightened place, and at night I lay in the darkness with a desk pushed across my bedroom door. How do you tell most people a thing like that?