Pat Barker: Another World

So they go on outings. She and Gareth sitting in the back of the car, separated by Jasper, sticky, screaming, smelly Jasper, who keeps bashing them in the face with plastic toys covered in spit, and at the end of the day Fran asks in her tight voice whether they’ve enjoyed themselves, and Miranda says politely that she has, and Gareth says no, it was a load of crap, he’d rather have stayed at home, and the back of Dad’s neck goes red.

‘The garden,’ Gareth says, opening the door.

The terrace, a stretch of overgrown lawn, flower beds with roses — roses everywhere — and behind them the humped dark shapes of rhododendrons.

Gareth’s staring at her. ‘Are you going to be here all summer?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Mum doesn’t want you here.’

‘That’s all right, I don’t want to be here.’

‘So why are you?’

‘My mother’s ill. She’s in hospital.’

‘What sort of ill?’

‘Depression.’

Gareth hesitates, unaware of his ground. ‘You don’t go into hospital with that.’

‘That’s all you know.’

‘She’s mad.’

‘She isn’t.’

‘She’s in the bin.’

‘Hospital ,’ Miranda repeats steadily.

‘Your dad says you’re going the same way.’

‘Liar.’

‘He did, I heard him. He says, “I’m sometimes afraid she’ll go the same way, she’s such a moody child. It’s not natural to be so so… interverted.” ’

‘I don’t believe you.’

Gareth shrugs. ‘Suit yourself.’

Nick had said interverted, though not about Miranda. On one of their first trips to the Child Guidance Clinic Gareth was left alone in the playroom, while Mum and Nick and Miss Rowe went off to talk, but he wasn’t having any of that. As soon as the door closed behind them he went out on to the patio, looked round to make sure he wasn’t being observed, then dropped to his knees and crawled along until he was under Miss Rowe’s window.

Do you think he’s being bullied? Mum asked, and then Nick lost his temper and said all sorts of things. Piss-arse bastard. Shit. Gareth chipped away at the plaster underneath the windowsill, and noticed a chrysalis hanging there, as brown and dry as a dead leaf, though when he squashed it with his thumb yellowy-white stuff spurted out.

‘They were in bed, talking,’ he says.

They’re walking across the lawn, their feet leaving silver trails in the long grass. Behind the rose bed a path starts, bordered on either side by rhododendrons. Pale green shoots of new growth thrusting through this year’s dead flowers, already brown, covered with myriads of tiny insects. Miranda walks with her bare arms bunched together in front of her, not liking the sticky feel of the dead blooms on her skin.

Almost hidden by the rhododendrons is a small circular brick structure, capped by rusty iron. Gareth jumps on to it, looking down at her with narrowed eyes. ‘Do you know what this is?’

Miranda shrugs.

‘It’s a well. A girl drowned herself in it, that’s why it’s covered up.’ He waits for a reply. ‘She used to sleep in your room.’

‘Grow up, Gareth.’

‘She went mad and drowned herself and nobody knew where she was till the water turned green and —’

‘Nerd.’

‘She walks along the corridor in the middle of the night all dripping wet and groaning and the flesh is dropping off her bones and —’

‘Anorak.’

Bored with her now, he starts drifting towards the house, calling across his shoulder, ‘’S true.’

It isn’t true, he’s just saying it to frighten her. Everybody thinks old houses are haunted, but they’re not, it’s just rubbish. She sits down, only to jump as Gareth leaps on to the well behind her.

‘She’s still down there, you know.’

Miranda feels him squat behind her, his breath coming in quick excited bursts on the nape of her neck.

‘They never got her out.’

When she says nothing, he straightens up, slowly, uncoiling his spine one vertebra at a time, and stands for a moment, his scuffed-toed trainers jutting out over the edge of the well, before he jumps down and walks back to the house, beating the bushes on either side with his clenched fists.

She doesn’t move.Ding dong bellPussy’s in the well

It isn’t true.

Sometimes I’m afraid she’ll go the same way.

Probably Dad did say it. Gareth couldn’t make that up; he can’t even get ‘introverted’ right. She looks up at the house, working out which window’s hers, whether she’ll be able to see the well from her room, and closes her mind to the coming night.

Stars stream past as he soars up and away from the battle, raking the enemy ship with gunfire as he skims along its vast side. A cargo ship, slow-moving, easy prey, but then a hatch opens and dozens of one-man fighters stream out like seeds from a dandelion clock. Six lock on to him, no time to turn, he takes a blow on the shields, dives to the left, the sky tilting round him, and sees, dead ahead, five more –

He stares at the red fireball of his own death.

Think .

Rumble, rumble, clatter, broom-broom… Jasper zooming up and down the corridor in his car. Can’t bloody think. ‘Mum,’ he yells, standing accusingly in the doorway. ‘Does he have to make that noise? I can’t concentrate.’

‘Weather like this, you should be outside.’

‘Why can’t he go outside?’

‘Because he’s too little to go on his own and I’m changing the sheets.’

‘SHURRUP!’ Gareth roars at Jasper, who begins to whimper, sitting inside his red car at the other end of the corridor. ‘Just shut it, will you?’

Before Fran can speak Gareth goes back into his room and slams the door. On the floor, put out for her to clear away, are two plates covered in congealed tomato sauce. My God, he must think she’s running a doss house. She tries to open the door to give him a piece of her mind, but he’s locked it. ‘Gareth?’ She bangs with her clenched fist. No answer — only the flit-flit of laser guns. Jasper’s settled to a steady grizzle by the time she reaches him. ‘Come on, let’s leave him,’ she says, stroking his hair. ‘You’ve got a grumpy brother.’ We’ve never had enough time, she thinks. Right from the beginning there’s always been Gareth, as jealous of Jasper as a toddler, but without the charm that makes a toddler’s jealousy acceptable.

Getting herself, the plates, the car and Jasper through two safety gates, one at the top and one at the bottom of the stairs, takes a long time — time she spends becoming very angry. It’s all very well for Nick, admittedly he’s got his grandfather ill, and he has to go over and see to things, she accepts that, but meanwhile she’s expected to wash, iron, change sheets, cook, shop, clean — all on four hours’ sleep a night. Oh, and supply conversation and entertainment — the little darlings’ minds have to be stimulated. They mustn’t be bored. Well — ouch , she thinks, snagging her varicose veins on the second safety gate — she’s fucking fed up with it. If they want something to do there’s a whole house full of things to do, things that desperately need doing, and they can start by decorating the living room.

She goes into the living room, to remind herself of how awful it is. God, the wallpaper’s terrible. She and Nick planned to do the decorating together, after the kids were in bed, scraping away at paper when they’re already tired at the end of a hard day’s work. Well, no way, José. Tonight, as soon as Nick gets back from the hospital, there’s going to be a decorating party. She’ll get pizzas in, make it look like a treat, but in the end she’s determined that just for once they’re all going to behave like a proper family. It’ll be fun, she tells herself, looking at the wall.