But now I have nothing to show, and must hide even what I have, rubbing at my face with spit.
Jason
There’s a noise of knocking and creaking and I think I’m listening to the rocking chair. But the rocking chair is down in the TV room – the snug, you called it, a better name for it now the TV is dead. It’s the bedroom door I can hear. The draught from the window has set it off. It would be an easy job to fix the catch, but it’s low on my list.
I think I was dreaming of the rocking chair – because of the door creaking, probably, and maybe because of what happened with Simon earlier this evening.
I was in the kitchen and heard a racket from the snug. When I went in, the monkey was clinging to the side of the rocking chair, throwing himself one way and then the other and making those high humming notes that sound like laughter. Simon was sitting on the floor in front of the chair, watching the TV screen solemnly, absorbed by its blankness.
‘All right, Si?’ I said.
He didn’t look at me. He just said, ‘My head hurts.’
‘Too much telly.’
When he raised his eyes to meet mine, I thought at first he was annoyed at my stupid joke. Then I saw his puzzlement.
‘Uncle Jason.’
‘Yes, Si.’
‘Where are all the…’ He sniffed and hummed and his neck tightened, so I squatted to his level and waited for the word to pop out. ‘… people?’
‘They died, Simon, remember. They caught the virus and died.’
‘No they didn’t.’
‘It’s sad, I know.’ I put a hand on his arm. ‘I’d bring them back if I could.’
‘No, I mean on TV. Where are they all?’
‘Oh. They were just people too.’
Aleksy came into the room. ‘Come, Rasputin. I’ve a treat for you.’
The monkey clambered from the rocking chair to his shoulder.
‘Not the cartoons,’ Simon said. ‘They weren’t people. Sponge Bob, Dora the Ex… plorer.’
‘No they weren’t people. But people had to draw them and do their voices. People had to send them whizzing through space to our TV and make the electricity so you could switch it on.’
He thought about that for a bit. Then he said, ‘My head hurts a lot.’
Aleksy stopped in the doorway. ‘You have headache? I get you aspirin. How about that?’
Simon looked up at him with a blank expression.
‘Didn’t no one ever give you aspirin?’
Simon shrugged.
‘A pill to make your headache better?’
Simon thought about this, and said, ‘Baby cetamol.’
‘Baby seat moll?’
‘Zackly.’
‘I get you this, then. Baby seat moll. I mix it in water.’
‘And Urs’la…’ He paused. It wasn’t the sound he was struggling with but the memory. ‘Urs’la gave me rescue remedy.’
‘How many drops?’
Simon held up three fingers.
‘So one baby seat moll mixed up in water with three drops Urs’la’s special remedy.’
I followed Aleksy into the passage. ‘Aleksy, what are doing? We haven’t got any of that stuff.’
‘You know, Jason,’ he said, ‘you are not always so clever.’
Simon was saying my name, so I went back into the den and sat in the rocking chair.
‘When someone died, Urs’la mmm-planted a tree.’
‘That was nice of her.’
‘Can we, then?’
‘Can we what?’
‘Mmm-plant trees.’
‘I suppose.’
‘How many?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Count up how many.’
‘I can’t do that, Si, no one can do that.’
‘Count up.’ He was glaring at me now. ‘On your fingers. One for each person.’
‘Christ, Si, there aren’t enough fingers.’
Django came in. ‘What’s happening, Simon? Aleksy says you’re in pain.’
‘Calm down, Django. It’s just a headache.’
‘Don’t speak for him. He has his own voice.’
Aleksy reappeared, holding a glass with an inch of cloudy water in it. ‘Here you are, Simon. Drink up like good boy.’
Django put a hand between them. ‘What’s that you’re giving him?’
‘Nothing. Something for his head.’
‘So is it nothing, or is it something?’ Django gave an ambiguous smile. ‘You see, Simon, how they’d pull you along with cords of deceit.’
‘Take it, Simon,’ Aleksy said. ‘Will make you feel better.’
‘Cords of deceit like cart ropes. But you’re not a horse, are you Simon. You’re not an ox.’
‘For God’s sake, Django,’ I said, ‘let him drink it or not drink it, what difference does it make?’
Abigail stood in the doorway, drawn by our raised voices. I was conscious of how she must see us, confronting each other, ready to fight for control of Simon’s headache.
‘Simon,’ she said, ‘go and fetch some logs for the stove. Fill two baskets. Then you should go to bed.’
When Simon was gone, Aleksy raised his arms in a gesture of surrender, drank the cloudy water, and followed Simon to the door, swinging the empty glass. Django relaxed, as though the sight of this placebo had really unnerved him. He flashed me a smile that expressed either conciliation or triumph – I couldn’t tell which – and went out into the yard.
I was alone with Abigail. She hesitated then asked me what the argument was about.
‘Django’s got this obsession with controlling Simon, what he eats and drinks even. And Simon seems to think he’s got to go along with it. It really gets to me.’
She put a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t let it, though, Jason. I want you not to be angry.’
‘It’s not just about food. He’s filling him with weird ideas.’
‘We can cope with all that. But we have to be the grownups, you and me. That’s what we have to do now.’
I was conscious then, being close to her, that I’d sweated all day and hadn’t been to the spring yet to wash. She didn’t seem to mind and I was glad of that. I had a mad impulse to kiss her, but I didn’t. I’m glad of that too. Her stillness calmed me, as it always does.
After a moment she said, ‘I should help Maud with the milking,’ and I was alone with the rocking chair and the television.
The wind’s getting stronger, and the sound of the door comes louder and more frequent. I get out of bed and look around for something the right thickness to wedge under it. There are your old books, Caroline, in the alcoves on either side of the chimney breast, novels mainly. Even after you started reading on a tablet and declared yourself corrupted, you hung on to them. I hesitate to use anything you once loved.
It occurs to me that I should teach Simon to read. And I should teach him to count and do sums. We should get the TV out of the snug and put the room to better use. Except there’s nothing useful to be learnt now by sitting in a classroom.
On the top shelf, there’s an old computer manual, impenetrably useless even when computers still worked. I reach it down. I’m on my knees with the door shut and I hesitate, thinking of Simon and his headache. Remember how he used to climb into our bed, Caro, when he first came to live with us. After you’d gone we always slept together until we left London. One of these nights, I reckon he’ll need me again, and I don’t want my door shut against him. So I open the door as wide as its hinges will allow and jam the manual between its lower edge and the floorboards.