Nathan Filer - The Shock of the Fall

That is what we used to do when Simon was alive, but now Simon wasn’t alive, I never got up before my dad. At quarter to seven he would still come into my room to find me lying awake, unsure of how to begin. That must have been hard for him.

He came in every morning anyway, to sit beside me for a few minutes and just be there.

‘Morning mon ami, you okay?’ He ruffled my hair, in that way grown-ups do to children, and we did our special handshake. ‘You going to work hard for Mummy today?’

I nodded, yes.

‘Good lad. Work hard then you can get a decent job and look after your old pa, eh?’

‘I will mon ami.’

It started in France when I was five years old. This was our only holiday abroad, and Mum had won it in a magazine competition. It was something to be proud of, first prize in a True Lives writing contest, eight hundred words or less about what makes your family special. She wrote about the struggles and rewards of raising a child with Down Syndrome. I don’t suppose I got a mention. The judges loved it.

Some people can remember way back to the beginning of their lives. I’ve even met people who say they can remember being born.

The farthest back my mind can reach puts me standing in a rock pool, with my dad holding one of my hands for balance, in the other I’m clutching my brand new net, and we are catching fish together. It isn’t a whole memory. I just keep a few fragments; a cold slice of water just below my knees, seagulls, a boat in the distance – that sort of thing. Dad can remember more. He can remember that we talked, and what we talked about. A five-year-old boy and his daddy chewing the cud over everything from the size of the sea to where the sun goes at night. And whatever I said in that rock pool, it was enough for my dad to like me. So that was that. We became friends. But because we were in France we became amis. I don’t suppose any of this matters. I just wanted to remind myself.

‘Right then. I’m off to earn that crust.’

‘Do you have to go, Dad?’

‘Only until we win the lottery, eh?’ Then he winked at me (but not in a Steve way) and we did our special handshake again. ‘Work hard for Mummy.’

Mum wore her long nightdress and the silly animal slippers Simon had once chosen for her birthday. ‘Morning baby boy.’

‘Tell me about France again, Mum.’

She stepped into my room and opened the curtains, so that for a moment, standing in front of the window, she became nothing but a faceless silhouette. Then she said it again. Just like before. ‘Sweetheart, you look pale.’

I think of Mum zipping closed my orange winter coat again, and pulling up the hood again so the grey fur lining clings to the sweat on my forehead and brushes at my ears. I think of it, and it is happening. Hot honey and lemon drunk down in gulps from the mug I once gave to her – no longer special – and a bitter chalky after-taste of ground-up paracetamol.

‘I’m sorry about the other day, sweetheart.’

‘Sorry for what, Mummy?’

‘For dragging you past the playground, with the other children staring.’

‘Were you punishing me?’

‘I don’t know. I might have been. I’m not sure.’

‘Do we have to do it again?’

‘I think so, yes. You have your coat on.’

‘You put it on me. You zipped it up.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then we should go.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘I know that, Matthew. But you’re unwell, and you might need antibiotics. We need to get you seen. Did I really zip your coat up?’

‘But why now? Why can’t we wait until after playtime has finished?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t worked that out yet.’

I pass her back the empty mug, World’s Greatest Mum. I think of this and I am there again. She’s opening the door, reaching out her hand. I take it, and I am there.

‘No!’

‘Matthew, don’t answer me back. We need to go. We need to get you seen.’

‘No. I want Dad.’

‘Don’t be silly, he’s at work. Now you’re letting all the cold air inside. Stop it. We need to go.’

Her grip is tight, but I’m stronger than she thinks. I pull back hard, and snag at her charm bracelet with the hook of my finger.

‘Now look what you’ve done. It’s broken.’ She bends over to pick up the fallen chain, with its tiny silver charms littering the ground. I push past her. I push her harder than I should. She loses balance, arms flapping like pigeon wings before she falls. ‘Matthew! Wait! What is it?’

In a few strides I’m through the gate, slamming it behind me. I run as fast as I can, but she’s catching up. My foot skids off the pavement, I’m startled by the urgent blast from a speeding van.

‘Baby, wait. Please.’

‘No.’

I take my chance, running across the main road, cutting between a line of cars, causing one to swerve. She’s forced to wait. I round the corner, and the next, and am at my school. ‘Is that you again, Matthew? Hey, it’s Matthew again. Look, his mum’s chasing him. His mum’s chasing him. Look! His mum’s chasing him!’

I am ahead, and she is chasing. She’s crying out for me to stop. She’s calling me her baby. She’s calling me her baby boy. I stop. Turn around. Then fall into her arms.

‘Look at them. Look at them. Get a teacher, someone. Look at them.’ I am lifted from the ground, held by her. She is kissing my forehead and telling me that it will be okay. She’s carrying me, and I can feel her heartbeat through my stupid hood.

‘I’m so sorry, Mum. I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s okay baby boy.’

‘I miss him so much, Mum.’

‘I know you do. Oh, my baby. I know you do.’ She’s carrying me, and I can feel her heartbeat through my stupid hood.

In Bristol there is a famous bridge called the Clifton Suspension Bridge. It’s a popular hangout for the suicidal. There is even a notice on it with a telephone number for the Samaritans.

When my mum first left school, before she met Dad, she worked doing paper filing at Rolls-Royce.

It wasn’t a happy time because her boss was a horrible man who made her feel stupid and worthless. She wanted to quit, but was too worried to tell Granddad because he had wanted her to stay at school, and having a job was a condition of her leaving.

She was riding back on her moped one evening, but when she reached home she didn’t stop.

‘I kept going,’ she told me. She perched on the edge of my bed in her nightgown, having woken me in the middle of the night to climb in beside me. She did that a lot.

‘I had nothing to live for,’ she whispered.

‘Are you okay, Mummy?’

She didn’t know that she was going to the suspension bridge, but she was. She only realized, when she couldn’t find it.

‘I was lost.’

‘Should I get Dad?’

‘Let’s go to sleep.’

‘Are you sleeping here tonight?’

‘Am I allowed?’

‘Of course.’

‘I was lost,’ she whispered into the pillow. ‘I couldn’t even get that right.’

The night before my dead brother should have turned thirteen years old I was woken by the sound of him playing in his bedroom.

I was getting better at picturing him in my mind. So I kept my eyes closed and watched as he reached beneath his bed and pulled out the painted cardboard box.

These were his keepsakes, but if you’re like Simon, and the whole world is a place of wonder, everything is a keepsake. There were countless small plastic toys from Christmas crackers and McDonald’s Happy Meals. There were stickers from the dentist saying, I was brave , and stickers from the speech therapist saying, Well Done , or You are a Star! There were postcards from Granddad and Nanny Noo – if his name was on it, it was going in his box. There were swimming badges, certificates, a fossil from Chesil Beach, good pebbles, paintings, pictures, birthday cards, a broken watch – so much crap he could hardly close the lid.