Stones. Polly Johnson

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СКАЧАТЬ The Shrink Woman wants me to write in it at least once a week, but I doubt I will.

      The radio’s on and Dad hums tunelessly under his breath. He stops halfway home at a café and the warm air and clatter of knives and forks makes things all right again. There’s something so normal about cheese on toast. You can’t imagine traitors eating it for a last meal, or ordering Earl Grey tea with lemon-not-milk to go with it as we do now, trying not to swallow too loudly and watching the other people come and go as if we’ve only been shopping or something. I wonder what the Shrink Woman made of what I said; I wonder why I brought it up at all. I wonder what the tramp is doing now and how long it is since he had cheese on toast, so hot that it comes to his mouth still bubbling.

      Dad nods at me across the table. A little lump of cheese sits on his top lip.

      ‘You all right?’ he asks me, and the little lump drops onto the table cloth.

      I don’t say anything. Not because I can’t, but because I don’t want to. Dad waits a minute and then looks away, transferring his little smile from me to the waitress. Then we go home.

       6.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ