Rob Ewing - The Last of Us

Part of the ceiling got broken. Elizabeth says it’s because slates come off and no one fixes them. But at least the windows are fine. I’ve learnt that once a window’s gone everything starts to come to pieces.

‘Facts and opinions,’ Elizabeth is saying. ‘Does anyone know the difference?’

We’re looking through our folders: the stuff our teachers were keeping back to show the parents. I found mine in Mrs Leonard’s cupboard. We spent too long already staring at the things we used to care about, and looking for the signatures of our parents at the bottom of the assessment sheets – so Elizabeth changed topic.

Alex: ‘That is too hard to know.’

Calum Ian: ‘It’s easy . Facts are real, see? They can only be one thing. They’re top trumps to opinions every time. Opinions aren’t as high up as facts.’

Elizabeth: ‘Examples?’

We each have a turn. FACT – the giant tortoise can live to over 150 years of age. But OPINION – hippos are pretty. FACT – koalas usually sleep during the day. But OPINION – everyone should clean their ears. This last one, put forward by Alex, gets us into bother, because no one can decide if it’s a FACT or an OPINION.

Alex: ‘Mum used to clean my ears on the edge of the corner of the towel. That’s a fact.’

Calum Ian: ‘My dad said you don’t need to do it. Opinion.’

Me: ‘It smells bad but is useful. Fact.’

Elizabeth: ‘Maybe it can be both fact and opinion?’

Calum Ian: ‘No way. It can’t be both.’

Me: ‘What about God and Santa?’

Calum Ian: ‘God’s a fact. Santa’s an opinion that you only get with babies. So who’s a little baby?’

I don’t want to say that I am. Neither does Alex. He just looks at the dirt on the floor.

‘Maybe Santa can be both?’ Elizabeth says, as usual offering an answer to help us agree. ‘Here’s a fact: if you believe in something then it might just be true. If you don’t: well, that’s only your opinion.’

Alex: ‘What about zombies?’

Elizabeth: ‘The rule doesn’t apply for zombies.’

Just for cheek we find lots of other exceptions to mess with Elizabeth’s rule: like ghosts, werewolves and mermaids.

She gets grumpy and says to forget it.

‘Is heaven a fact or opinion?’ Alex asks. ‘Because if Mum isn’t still moving, she must not be breathing. I’m quite bothered if heaven is not a fact.’

Calum Ian: ‘Don’t worry, Bonus Features. If she’s not in heaven then she’s in hell.’

When Alex looks upset by this Elizabeth squeezes his hand. For distraction she asks instead if anyone wants to remember. When nobody volunteers she says, ‘Duncan did it last time, for the group. That was very brave of him. If there isn’t a person who definitely wants to go, then maybe I should?’

No one tells her not to.

Alex: ‘Please don’t remember any bad bits.’

‘OK,’ she says, and stands at the front of the class, folding her fingers like Canon MacAllan used to do.

‘I remember,’ she says, looking nervous. ‘First I remember that Mum had green eyes. She had kind hands. Ach! How can hands be kind? Bloody crazy of me.’

It didn’t sound crazy till she said it.

‘Before we arrived, Dad looked up the island in his map-book. It was away right far off the edge! I could never believe that – I mean, going to a place that far away.’

‘ You were the one far from us , ’ Calum Ian says.

Elizabeth points his way as if to say: fair enough.

‘Mum called it a Big Step. When we got here: best of all she loved the beaches. She liked it when I saw the seals on Curachan. And she was really pleased that I liked the school.’ She winds her hands around to show it’s where we are. ‘Specially as you can do projects. This first badge here – see? I got that because I did the tuck-shop kitty. This one, because I learnt about wind turbines and hydro schemes and helped plant the wildlife garden.’

She passes around her two badges. The first one says BANKER. The second, ECO-STUDENT. When she sees that no one is writing down her memories for her, she stops to write them down for herself.

‘Never minded winter,’ she goes on. ‘Christmas! Only Dad didn’t like winter so much. He wanted to get back to Bristol, because it was less windy, less rainy there. But me and Mum had other ideas. He said, “We’ll see out two years.” Pretty soon we’d been here three.’

‘Dad always said you could tell the incomers,’ Calum Ian grumbles. ‘They only last one winter.’

Me: ‘Weren’t you even listening? Didn’t you turn up your ears? She said it was three already.’

Calum Ian: ‘I can say what I want, Gloic .’

Me: ‘You were speaking stupid.’

This becomes an argument. When we begin to shout loud at one another Duncan gets up, and goes to the fiddle cupboard and takes out a fiddle.

It’s out of tune, so he scratches it like there’s a monster coming. We all stop talking. We start laughing instead, until it’s a funny sort of riot.

Duncan looks surprised to have made us laugh. He makes more monster noises, until it’s past funny, then tunes up the fiddle proper.

When it sounds right he plays ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’, slow and sad.

I used to laugh at the kiss-face Duncan made when playing, but now I don’t.

He plays through twice then stops. Then he cuffs the strings and plucks them without any tune or song.

‘I’m going to be world champion on the fiddle,’ he says. ‘For Mum. For Dad. That’s my ambition. Then I’ll come back and teach all the new young kids.’

‘Remember Mr Patterson?’ Elizabeth asks. ‘He was our fiddle teacher.’

We all think of him. I thought he smelt funny. Mum said his smell was the water of life.

‘I remember him at the summer concert,’ Calum Ian says. ‘All the parents were in. It’s crazy: thinking about all the mums and dads. Just sitting there.’

Duncan puts his fiddle away. He goes back to his seat. Elizabeth goes quiet as she writes out her memories, then pins her badges back onto her jumper.

‘I’m remembering next.’

It’s Calum Ian. He does a fake bow then goes to the front. Elizabeth looks pleased: she quickly tears him a new sheet of paper, and gets ready with her pen to write down every last detail of his experiences.

It takes him ages. Finally he says, ‘So they’re dead. They’ve all died. Or where the fuck are they? I’ve realised that Dad’s maybe in hospital. That’s why he can’t get to us, right? He got sick, he could’ve lost his strength, or lost his memory? Maybe if… if he fell off his boat, when he got to the mainland… could’ve bumped his head. That’s what happens with a bump, your memory goes until it comes back weeks later.’

He begins to breathe fast, like he’s running. He opens his mouth, puffs out. Then he says, ‘Want memories? Right. A big thing I remember is the first house we shopped in. Uncle Frank’s. Who wants to talk about that? Aye? OK, me then. His front door was shut. So we opened it and his dog Mo ran past.’

Duncan is saying no. Alex pulls up his jumper and holds it against his ears.

‘Well, it’s a fucking memory, isn’t it? That’s what we’re doing, you should listen.’ He kicks up a torn bit of floor then says, ‘My one true memory, write it! The dog had been eating him. She never hurt anybody, not before. But she had to eat him, to survive. Write it down, quick! It goes in the book. Before we all forget.’

Elizabeth isn’t writing.

Calum Ian shrugs and goes back to his seat.

Alex is still too scared to uncover his ears, or take his head from the desk-top.

Nobody wants to talk.