Kit de Waal - My Name Is Leon

Leon nods.

“Now,” she says, lighting another cigarette, “I don’t know if you’ve any idea what I’m going on about, so I’ll say it nice and simple. We get along. I like you and you like me. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“And more important than anything is the fact that my sister, Maureen, who ain’t well, loves us both.”

Sylvia smokes her cigarette for a bit.

“So I’m going to look after you until she’s well again. That means I need a dressing gown. That also means I need a working toilet and I don’t need attitude.”

Leon nods.

“Now, if that mincing prick comes back here with any of his nonsense, I’ll sort him out. I don’t know what he said to upset you because I couldn’t hear properly from where I was standing but you leave him to me. He’s already had the rough edge of my tongue. That’s the first thing. The second thing is, I don’t like any of that nonsense in the bathroom. How much money have you got in your bag?”

Leon says nothing.

“I’m taking two pounds off you for a new toilet seat. I’ll take fifty pence a week out of your pocket money till it’s paid off.”

She puts the kettle on and makes a cup of coffee. She gives Leon a drink of juice and a packet of chips.

“In a minute, you’re coming to the bathroom with me, we’re mopping the floor with bleach and then you’re getting in the bath. Bet your legs are itching.”

Leon nods. She smiles.

“Serves you right,” she says. Then she stops still and looks off into the distance. “I wet the bed till I was nine, and I shared with our Maureen. She stood up for me, she did. Said it was her so I didn’t get into trouble.”

Sylvia stirs the spoon in her mug.

“Hope she gets better.”

Something is wrong. For days and days Sylvia is on the phone and when Leon comes in the room she says goodbye or tells him to go outside or she starts to whisper. She hasn’t forgotten about the toilet paper and her best dressing gown. She hasn’t forgiven him for shitting where he sits.

Leon measures himself using the window ledge in his bedroom. When he was nine the window ledge was the same height as his elbow but tomorrow, when he’s ten, people will notice how he’s grown. Leon breathes in deeply and sees his chest grow. He feels his arms and shoulders for muscles. He needs to get strong if he’s going to carry a heavy weight.

He cycles up to the allotment straight after school. It’s a sunny day and there are lots of people doing something to their little gardens. Mr. Devlin calls him over.

“Off the bike, boy.”

Leon gets off and rests the bike on the ground.

“Have you seen your handiwork?”

“No.”

“Come and look.”

They walk to the wigwam of canes and each little plant has begun to twist around the cane. Some of them are loose and tall and some of them are stubby and strong.

“Will they get to the top?”

“And beyond. Eight feet or more. So you see, there’s no harm done if you delay planting. And planting in situ has many advantages. The seedlings aren’t disturbed. You put the seed where the seed grows, where it belongs, and then you don’t move it. Best results? Do what I do.”

He pours a gentle trickle of water on each seedling.

“Of course, if you have a proper greenhouse, like Mr. and Mrs. Atwal over there, you can get a jump on this method. Start them off in a seed tray or a three-inch pot. Replant them after a few weeks. They’ll come up all right, I suppose. Yes, yes, and the ever-present Mr. Burrows likes to tell us all about his achievements, but I’ll tell you this, there is a rightness about planting seeds the way people have planted seeds for generations.”

Leon looks at Mr. Devlin’s neat rows of runner beans.

“Not quite broadcasting but fairly close. There was a field outside the schoolhouse, just under an acre. Very quiet, on the outskirts.”

“Why do they call them Scarlet Emperor?”

“ Phaseolus coccineus. South American in origin. There are many varieties, in fact. When they get more mature, you will see the most beautiful red flowers, scarlet flowers. And another thing.” Mr. Devlin squats down and touches the delicate new leaves of the plant with his dirty fingers. He looks happy. “The Scarlet Emperor is a whole plant. That means you can eat the flowers, you can eat the beans, and you can even eat the root. This sort of plant can keep you alive for many weeks if necessary, if that’s all you had. There is a type of protein in the bean, even the bean pod itself is nutritious, the flowers are both attractive and flavorful, and there are tribes in Mexico who boil and eat the root. And then, of course, if you’re away from home, you can dry the beans and cook them. Never eat them raw. Never. Magnificent.”

Mr. Devlin’s eyes are twinkling and bright. He stares at the wigwam and then looks at Leon.

“How old are you?” he says.

“I’m ten tomorrow. It’s my birthday.”

“Ten years old. Summer baby,” says Mr. Devlin. “A ten-year-old boy. You’re well grown for ten. Well developed.”

“I’m going to have big muscles. I’m going to carry bricks in my backpack until my muscles are strong. I saw it on a TV show.”

“Bricks?” says Mr. Devlin. He puts his hand around Leon’s upper arm and squeezes. “I have something better than bricks. Come with me.”

He takes Leon into his shed.

“Let me see,” he says and begins moving things on the shelves and behind the chair. He keeps dropping things onto the armchair: a pair of brown leather shoes that are all moldy and creased, some china plates with chips on them, a tiny kettle, and a rolled-up checkered blanket. These are all things that Leon would like to touch but then he drops the gun on the blanket and Leon gasps. It doesn’t go off but Mr. Devlin wasn’t very careful with it. Then he throws more things on it, some magazines and a clock and some plastic rope.

“Yes, good. That’s the thing. Look here.”

Mr. Devlin is holding some weights like bodybuilders use; they’re made of black iron. He holds one out for Leon but when Leon takes it, it drops out of his hand. It doesn’t look heavy but it is.

“Steady now,” says Mr. Devlin.

He crouches down, picks up the weight, and closes Leon’s hand around it. He shows him how to bring it up and down, watching him closely, breathing in and out, smelling of oil and dinners and old people.

“Do you feel it?” he says.

Leon nods.

“Where do you feel it?”

“In my arms,” says Leon.

Mr. Devlin presses Leon’s chest.

“And here?”

“Yes,” says Leon.

Mr. Devlin presses Leon’s back.

“And here?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Now, a boy’s muscles are sinewy and undeveloped. You can’t build muscles on a boy, neither should you. A little light work doesn’t hurt but no vigorous bodybuilding. Not yet.”

Leon brings the weight up and down again just to show he can do it. After a while, Mr. Devlin smiles.

“Very good,” he says and stands up. “Here, take this.”

Leon takes the other weight and puts them both in his pack. It’s heavy now and difficult to hold. Leon takes his time doing up the zipper and making them fit straight at the bottom and all the time Mr. Devlin is standing at the door watching him.

“Hey, you!”

It’s Tufty’s voice outside.

Mr. Devlin turns round.

“Yes?”

He steps out of the shed and Leon hears Tufty shouting.

“What the fuck is this?”

Leon quickly goes to the old chair; he moves the magazine, the clock, the rope, and all the other things. He feels around until his hand closes on the butt of the gun. He grabs it and puts it in his pack. He mustn’t touch the trigger. He puts the pack on. It cuts into his shoulders as he steps outside.