Ian McEwan - The Children Act

Now he was sitting she remembered him in hospital, leaning against the pillows among the teenage debris. It wasn’t his sickliness that came back to her, it was the eagerness, the vulnerable innocence. Even the word “anorexia” on his lips sounded like a hopeful jaunt. He had taken from his pocket a narrow strip of green cloth, something torn from a lining perhaps, which he rolled and rubbed between forefinger and thumb like worry beads.

“So this wasn’t so much about your religion, then. More about your feelings.”

He raised both hands. “My feelings came out of my religion. I was doing God’s will, and you and all the rest were plain wrong. How could I have got into such a mess without being a Witness?”

“Sounds like your anorexic friend managed it.”

“Yeah, well, actually, anorexia’s a bit like religion.”

When she looked skeptical he improvised. “Oh, you know, wanting to suffer, loving the pain and sacrifice, thinking that everyone’s watching and caring and that the whole universe is all about you. And your weight!”

She couldn’t help herself, she laughed at the po-faced self-ironic afterthought. He grinned at his unexpected success in amusing her.

They heard voices and footsteps in the hallway as the guests left the dining room and crossed to the sitting room for coffee. Then a staccato bark of laughter close to the library door. The boy tensed at the possibility of an interruption and they sat in conspiratorial silence, waiting for the sounds to recede. Adam was staring down at his clasped hands on the polished grain of the table. She wondered at all the hours of his childhood and teenage years, of praying, hymns, sermons, and various constraints that she could never know about, at the tight and loving community that had sustained him until it had almost killed him.

“Adam, I’m asking you again. Why are you here?”

“To thank you.”

“There are easier ways.”

He sighed impatiently as he replaced the strip of cloth in his pocket. For a moment she thought he was getting ready to leave.

“Your visit was one of the best things that ever happened.” Then, quickly, “My parents’ religion was a poison and you were the antidote.”

“I don’t remember talking against your parents’ faith.”

“You didn’t. You were calm, you listened, you asked questions, you made some comments. That was the point. It’s this thing you have. It added up to something. You didn’t have to say it. A way of thinking and talking. If you don’t know what I mean, go and listen to the elders. And when we did our song…”

She said briskly, “Are you still playing the violin?”

He nodded.

“And the poetry?”

“Yes, lots. But I hate the stuff I was writing before.”

“Well, you’re good. I know you’ll write something wonderful.”

She saw the dismay in his eyes. She was distancing herself, playing the solicitous aunt. She went a couple of steps back through the conversation, wondering why she was so anxious not to disappoint him.

“But your teachers must have been very different from the elders.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.” He added by way of explanation, “The school was enormous.”

“And what is this thing I’m supposed to have?” She said it gravely, allowing no hint of irony.

The question didn’t embarrass him. “When I saw my parents crying like that, really crying, crying and sort of hooting for joy, everything collapsed. But this is the point. It collapsed into the truth. Of course they didn’t want me to die! They love me. Why didn’t they say that, instead of going on about the joys of heaven? That’s when I saw it as an ordinary human thing. Ordinary and good. It wasn’t about God at all. That was just silly. It was like a grown-up had come into a room full of kids who are making each other miserable and said, Come on, stop all the nonsense, it’s teatime! You were the grown-up. You knew all along but you didn’t say. You just asked questions and listened. All of life and love that lie ahead of him—that’s what you wrote. That was your ‘thing.’ And my revelation. From ‘The Salley Gardens’ onward.”

Still grave in her manner, she said, “The top of your head has exploded.”

He laughed with delight at being quoted in turn. “Fiona, I can almost get through this piece by Bach without a mistake. I can do the theme from Coronation Street . I’ve been reading Berryman’s Dream Songs . I’m going to be in a play, and I’ve got to do all my exams before Christmas. And thanks to you I’m full of Yeats!”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

He leaned forward on his elbows, dark eyes gleaming in the awful light, his whole face appearing to tremble with anticipation, with unbearable appetite.

She considered for a moment, then said in a whisper, “Wait here.”

She stood up, hesitated, and seemed about to change her mind and sit down. But she turned away from him, crossed the room, stepped out into the hall. Pauling was standing a few paces off, pretending to be interested in the pages of the visitors’ book resting on a marble-topped table. In a low voice she gave rapid instructions, returned to the library and closed the door behind her.

Adam had pulled the tea towel away from his shoulders and was examining the collage of local attractions. As she returned to her seat he said, “I’ve never heard of any of these places.”

“There’s lots to discover.”

When the effects of the interruption had dissipated she said, “So you’ve lost your faith.”

He seemed to squirm. “Yes, perhaps. I don’t know. I think I’m frightened of saying it out loud. I don’t know where I am, really. I mean, the thing is, once you take a step back from the Witnesses, you might as well go all the way. Why replace one tooth fairy with another?”

“Perhaps everyone needs tooth fairies.”

He smiled forgivingly. “I don’t think you mean that.”

She succumbed to her habit of summarizing the views of others. “You saw your parents crying and you’re confused because you suspect their love for you is greater than their belief in God or the afterlife. You need to get away. Perfectly natural in someone your age. Perhaps you’ll go to university. That will help. But I still don’t understand what you’re doing here. And more to the point, what you’re about to do now. Where are you going to go?”

This second question troubled him more. “I’ve got an aunt in Birmingham. My mother’s sister. She’ll have me for a week or two.”

“She’s expecting you?”

“Sort of.”

She was about to make him send another text when he extended his hand across the table, and just as quickly she withdrew hers onto her lap.

He couldn’t bear to look at her or be looked at as he spoke. He put his hands to his forehead, shading his eyes. “This is my question. When you hear it you’ll think it’s so stupid. But please don’t just reject it. Please say you’ll think about it.”

“Well?”

He spoke to the table’s surface. “I want to come and live with you.”

She waited for more. She could never have anticipated such a request. But now, it seemed obvious.

He still could not meet her eye. He spoke quickly, as though embarrassed by his own voice. He had thought it all out. “I could do odd jobs for you, housework, errands. And you could give me reading lists, you know, everything you think I should know about…”

He had stalked her through the country, through the streets, walked through a storm to ask her. It was a logical extension of his fantasy of a long sea voyage with her, of their talking all day as they paced the rolling deck. Logical and insane. And innocent. The silence wound itself around them and bound them. Even the clunking of the fan heater appeared to recede, and there were no sounds from beyond the room. He continued to protect his face from her. She stared at the whorls of his healthy young dark brown hair, now completely dry and shining.