Page 37 of Christmas Every Day
He trudged to the door, turning back as he grabbed the handle. ‘You can’t tell them about this. They’ll only worry and fuss and end up making it worse. Promise you won’t tell them.’
‘Tell them what?’
‘Exactly! There’s nothing to tell.’
Oh, boy. What to do now? I looked at him trying so hard not to care, and knew exactly how he felt. I would have died rather than have my parents, or babysitters, or teachers, or anyone else full stop, know I had no friends. If I acted out of the upset charging through my bloodstream, I ran the risk of causing a load more trouble for a lonely, unhappy boy.
I took a deep breath. ‘I won’t say anything yet, if we can talk about it later.’
‘Please.’ His voice was a whisper. A fragment of heart snapped off and splintered my chest.
‘I won’t say anything without your permission.’ I wanted to hug him, press him tight against my middle and absorb some of that anguish, but I knew he’d crumble. ‘Go on. Shoulders back, chin up. Ignore them as best you can.’
Head down, shoulders slumped, he limped through the door.
* * *
It killed me inside because I hadbeenthat kid. Still felt Iwasthat woman. I had scuttled through most of my life, every action an apology for inflicting my existence on the world. And during those dark nights after Oxford, when my broken soul had seemed to be plummeting down a bottomless pit of despair and hopelessness, I had at times considered that not existing was perhaps the better option.
And to see Dawson – clever, interesting, thoughtful Dawson, with a family who loved and cherished him, a home that was warm and bright and healthy – to see him cowed and hurting tore me up more than I could have imagined. I wanted to storm into that classroom, fists flying, to fight his corner.
By mid-morning I was wound up so tight I could barely think, so I decided some constructive destruction of rubbish was called for. It took an hour to build a decent-sized bonfire, piling up reams of ancient paperwork and then applying what seemed like dozens of matches to get things burning.
It was a perfect day for a bonfire – the late February air carrying a faint whiff of springtime, the gentle breeze whooshing smoke up into the blue sky, far above the treetops. I pulled my jacket hood up, perching on Mack’s picnic bench while I sipped tea and wished I could send all of life’s trashy bits up and away into the atmosphere as easily as old magazines.
Early afternoon, Mack joined me, carrying two mugs of coffee. We watched in silence for a while, taking it in turns to throw another armful of paper on the fire every now and then.
‘Not working today?’ I asked eventually, in an attempt to stop freaking out about Dawson for at least a minute.
‘Iamworking.’
I swivelled to look at him.
‘I’m thinking. Sorting out some problems. Fires are a great focus for pondering, I find.’
‘I presumed you were making sure I don’t burn the forest down.’
‘That too.’
After another silence he asked, ‘Have you eaten lunch?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
He looked at me, face blank. ‘I’m getting a sandwich. If I make two that’s not me suggesting you can’t provide your own lunch. It just seems… neighbourly to not sit here scoffing my face alone.’
‘Thanks.’ Wow. How had we reached this place where a sandwich could be so complicated? ‘But I’m fine.’
Mack looked at me, face still inscrutable, for a beat before going inside. After pacing about the fire for far longer than it took to make a sandwich, watching it dwindle to glowing embers, I decided to survey the fire through the kitchen window instead.
Later, Ellen called. ‘Dawson’s been throwing up, so I’ve skived off my afternoon lectures.’ There was a loud crash followed by a wail in the background. ‘I have to go. I’ll call tomorrow and let you know what’s happening.’
‘Um, well…’ I groped about for something to say, how to say it.
Ellen misunderstood me completely. ‘I’ll still pay you, of course!’
‘No, you don’t have to do that, it’s not that, I…’
A much louder shriek. ‘Sorry, I really have to go, ’bye!’
