out of school. Everybody knows Dad. Most people know Mum. I get stopped in the street all the time by people I don’t know, talking about how great they are, how much they do for the community, how much more safe the area has been since Dad has been in charge, what it does for property prices. But if I’m stopped today I’ll crack. I’ll cry. I’ll faint. I’m so tired and out of it, and the pain in between my legs is really uncomfortable.
Finally I walk up the public footpath, past the church, and onto tarmac. This is where I stop, under a tree, at the corner of the surgery car park.
The surgery is an ugly dirty-salmon-pink-red and the bricks are too squared off and flawless. The windows are plastic, and the whole place is fronted by a waiting room with one wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. I stay under the tree, shaded from the harsh light out in the car park. There are a lot of people in the waiting room. There are lots of eyes. The counter where you go up and tell the receptionist why you want to see the doctor is at the far end. It’s set up so people don’t hear what you’re saying, but the door to the waiting room is often open and in any case there’s a window behind the reception into the waiting room through which they dole out medication and call people for appointments, so you can hear what the patients at the desk are saying.
It’s so much nicer outside. If I stand here, very still, then nothing is happening. My eyes drift over the building and I weigh up my options.
What are you going to say in there?
Shh. Don’t talk about it.
You’re just going to walk in there and blurt it out?
Shh.
You’re going to end up saying nothing. You’ll go in to tell her and you’ll chicken out and leave the surgery with eye drops.
Would you shut up? I’m thinking.
Max . . .
Shh.
Max . . . We need to go inside.
Sylvie
I only notice him because he’s there for so long, just standing under a tree, completely still, frozen like ice. I noticed him when the clock was chiming quarter past one. I didn’t think anything of it, then at twenty to two, I see him still there.
It’s pretty cold, but he’s just standing broodingly under this tree and staring at the surgery. I know him. I know this guy enough to know that Max Walker just isn’t the brooding type. He’s the football-playing-wonder-boy type. He’s one of the most popular of the popular crowd. He’s the son of the wondrous Walkers, the barristers who were in the newspapers because they prosecuted that media billionaire. Max Walker is the boring, bland, blond, golden boy type. He’s the sort of person who will always be referred to as ‘Max Walker’ and never as ‘Max’. I don’t usually go for schoolboys, but if I did, it wouldn’t be Max Walker. There are a few guys in school who are older-looking and dark-haired, a bit taller and more muscular. But I know Max Walker has his share of skinny bambilegged admirers. They trail around after him during lunch. Whenever I see him in the corridor someone is saying hi to him. He always says hi back, but you can’t read too much into that.
I watch him not moving. He’s a few feet away, but I almost don’t talk to him. I almost get caught up in all that nervousness about talking to the popular kid, but then I tell myself off, I tell myself to stop being so scared, stop judging people before I know them, stop being scared of taking a chance, and just freaking say
‘Hi.’
He looks up.
‘Oh, hello.’
I don’t read anything into it.
I look down at him, intrigued despite myself. The graveyard is to the side of and sort of above the surgery, on a little hill. So I’m sat on the grass, next to the wall, but I’m above Max, looking at him through the branches of the little tree.
‘It’s Max Walker, right?’ I say, because for some reason it’s good etiquette to pretend you don’t really know someone’s name, even when you’ve been at school with them for four years.
‘Yeah. Hello,
Finally I walk up the public footpath, past the church, and onto tarmac. This is where I stop, under a tree, at the corner of the surgery car park.
The surgery is an ugly dirty-salmon-pink-red and the bricks are too squared off and flawless. The windows are plastic, and the whole place is fronted by a waiting room with one wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. I stay under the tree, shaded from the harsh light out in the car park. There are a lot of people in the waiting room. There are lots of eyes. The counter where you go up and tell the receptionist why you want to see the doctor is at the far end. It’s set up so people don’t hear what you’re saying, but the door to the waiting room is often open and in any case there’s a window behind the reception into the waiting room through which they dole out medication and call people for appointments, so you can hear what the patients at the desk are saying.
It’s so much nicer outside. If I stand here, very still, then nothing is happening. My eyes drift over the building and I weigh up my options.
What are you going to say in there?
Shh. Don’t talk about it.
You’re just going to walk in there and blurt it out?
Shh.
You’re going to end up saying nothing. You’ll go in to tell her and you’ll chicken out and leave the surgery with eye drops.
Would you shut up? I’m thinking.
Max . . .
Shh.
Max . . . We need to go inside.
Sylvie
I only notice him because he’s there for so long, just standing under a tree, completely still, frozen like ice. I noticed him when the clock was chiming quarter past one. I didn’t think anything of it, then at twenty to two, I see him still there.
It’s pretty cold, but he’s just standing broodingly under this tree and staring at the surgery. I know him. I know this guy enough to know that Max Walker just isn’t the brooding type. He’s the football-playing-wonder-boy type. He’s one of the most popular of the popular crowd. He’s the son of the wondrous Walkers, the barristers who were in the newspapers because they prosecuted that media billionaire. Max Walker is the boring, bland, blond, golden boy type. He’s the sort of person who will always be referred to as ‘Max Walker’ and never as ‘Max’. I don’t usually go for schoolboys, but if I did, it wouldn’t be Max Walker. There are a few guys in school who are older-looking and dark-haired, a bit taller and more muscular. But I know Max Walker has his share of skinny bambilegged admirers. They trail around after him during lunch. Whenever I see him in the corridor someone is saying hi to him. He always says hi back, but you can’t read too much into that.
I watch him not moving. He’s a few feet away, but I almost don’t talk to him. I almost get caught up in all that nervousness about talking to the popular kid, but then I tell myself off, I tell myself to stop being so scared, stop judging people before I know them, stop being scared of taking a chance, and just freaking say
‘Hi.’
He looks up.
‘Oh, hello.’
I don’t read anything into it.
I look down at him, intrigued despite myself. The graveyard is to the side of and sort of above the surgery, on a little hill. So I’m sat on the grass, next to the wall, but I’m above Max, looking at him through the branches of the little tree.
‘It’s Max Walker, right?’ I say, because for some reason it’s good etiquette to pretend you don’t really know someone’s name, even when you’ve been at school with them for four years.
‘Yeah. Hello,
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