house with their bags. Her mouth fell open, her eyes bulged as if they would pop out of their sockets at any moment, and she stared – how she stared!
“Come on,” said Carol, taking the bag from his mother and turning towards the stairs. “We’ll put your things in your room. It’s all ready for you. Okay?”
Matt followed the two of them up the stairs. He remembered that this had been a guest-house at one time, so there were plenty of rooms. They went up to the second floor, just as if they were still at Mrs Eldridge’s. “You can have this one,” said Carol brightly to her sister, stepping through a doorway. She looked back at Matt, and added, “The door behind you, Matthew. It’s small, I’m afraid, but I’m sure it will do for now.”
He turned and pushed at the white, panelled door before him. It opened onto a square box room, clearly used for storage: it was full of packing cases, cardboard boxes, old suitcases and bags, all stuffed full of things. Piled onto the boxes and bags were several years’ worth of assorted junk: ornamental lamps, a full length mirror, an old kettle, shoes, books, string-bound bundles of magazines, stacked dining chairs, bundled sleeping bags, a guitar without strings, what looked like a deflated paddling pool, a box marked xmas decs.
He took it all in. This was it, he realised. Everything had changed.
The junk had been cleared away from one side of the room so that a camp bed could be fitted in – the room was barely long enough to allow the bed to be fully opened out. Matt dumped his bag on the floor and leaned over to prod suspiciously at the bed. He went across to the small window. The room was at the back of the house and he found he was looking out over the garden and across to the next row of terraced houses.
He remembered sitting out there on the stone bench only the previous evening, listening to Gramps getting steadily more worked up until he had his fit, or whatever it was.
Carol’s voice drifted across the landing, like the incessant twittering of a caged bird. He walked across – four paces – and shut the door softly. He sat on the bed, and unzipped his bag. He found his books and his signed photograph of Michael Owen and arranged them along the mantelpiece of a boarded up fireplace, and then he lay back on his bed, folded his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.
So this is it .
It made his moods of the last few days seem so petty: sulking because the first couple of weeks of his summer holidays had been messed up. Everything was different now, all the certainty had been removed from his life. All the things he had taken for granted – home, friends, school, the relentless course of the next few years as he approached adulthood – had been cast into doubt.
And it hurt . There was a tight knot of pain buried deep in his chest, in his gut. He thought he might be sick, but he fought the feeling. He wasn’t going to let them do that to him. No tears, either.
Just the pain.
Had they actually moved to Bathside, he wondered? Was this to be his home, his future? Was he to have no say in it?
He tried to stop thinking, tried to ignore how much it hurt.
~
She came in to see him some time later. He didn’t know how long he had been lying there alone, staring at the ceiling, running the same thoughts round and round in his head as if somehow that would change anything.
She tapped at the door first. Then, when he said nothing, she pushed it open tentatively. “Hi,” she said, an uneasy smile breaking briefly across her face. “Comfortable?”
Sure, he was comfortable. Never better. He said nothing.
She looked around. Matt guessed she wanted to sit down so that she wasn’t looming over him like that, but there were no usable chairs and the bed was too flimsy for the two of them. She leaned on the wall, then straightened, then finally settled for squatting on her haunches with a shoulder against the wall. Getting down to the same level –
“Come on,” said Carol, taking the bag from his mother and turning towards the stairs. “We’ll put your things in your room. It’s all ready for you. Okay?”
Matt followed the two of them up the stairs. He remembered that this had been a guest-house at one time, so there were plenty of rooms. They went up to the second floor, just as if they were still at Mrs Eldridge’s. “You can have this one,” said Carol brightly to her sister, stepping through a doorway. She looked back at Matt, and added, “The door behind you, Matthew. It’s small, I’m afraid, but I’m sure it will do for now.”
He turned and pushed at the white, panelled door before him. It opened onto a square box room, clearly used for storage: it was full of packing cases, cardboard boxes, old suitcases and bags, all stuffed full of things. Piled onto the boxes and bags were several years’ worth of assorted junk: ornamental lamps, a full length mirror, an old kettle, shoes, books, string-bound bundles of magazines, stacked dining chairs, bundled sleeping bags, a guitar without strings, what looked like a deflated paddling pool, a box marked xmas decs.
He took it all in. This was it, he realised. Everything had changed.
The junk had been cleared away from one side of the room so that a camp bed could be fitted in – the room was barely long enough to allow the bed to be fully opened out. Matt dumped his bag on the floor and leaned over to prod suspiciously at the bed. He went across to the small window. The room was at the back of the house and he found he was looking out over the garden and across to the next row of terraced houses.
He remembered sitting out there on the stone bench only the previous evening, listening to Gramps getting steadily more worked up until he had his fit, or whatever it was.
Carol’s voice drifted across the landing, like the incessant twittering of a caged bird. He walked across – four paces – and shut the door softly. He sat on the bed, and unzipped his bag. He found his books and his signed photograph of Michael Owen and arranged them along the mantelpiece of a boarded up fireplace, and then he lay back on his bed, folded his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.
So this is it .
It made his moods of the last few days seem so petty: sulking because the first couple of weeks of his summer holidays had been messed up. Everything was different now, all the certainty had been removed from his life. All the things he had taken for granted – home, friends, school, the relentless course of the next few years as he approached adulthood – had been cast into doubt.
And it hurt . There was a tight knot of pain buried deep in his chest, in his gut. He thought he might be sick, but he fought the feeling. He wasn’t going to let them do that to him. No tears, either.
Just the pain.
Had they actually moved to Bathside, he wondered? Was this to be his home, his future? Was he to have no say in it?
He tried to stop thinking, tried to ignore how much it hurt.
~
She came in to see him some time later. He didn’t know how long he had been lying there alone, staring at the ceiling, running the same thoughts round and round in his head as if somehow that would change anything.
She tapped at the door first. Then, when he said nothing, she pushed it open tentatively. “Hi,” she said, an uneasy smile breaking briefly across her face. “Comfortable?”
Sure, he was comfortable. Never better. He said nothing.
She looked around. Matt guessed she wanted to sit down so that she wasn’t looming over him like that, but there were no usable chairs and the bed was too flimsy for the two of them. She leaned on the wall, then straightened, then finally settled for squatting on her haunches with a shoulder against the wall. Getting down to the same level –
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