thrash about rather more realistically than
comically, three attendants converge to restrain him. I suspect who
they might all prove to be, but that's the end of the film or at least of
the clip. 'And now here's a solo by that graceful pudding Oliver
Hardy before he met his mate,' says the commentator.
'Can we see it again?' Mark crouches towards me, and his chair
gives an injured creak. 'I want to see it again,' he begs.
'Don't smash the place up, Mark.' He's far more demanding than
usual; perhaps he feels he can be now that we're alone. 'I take it you
liked it,' I say. 'What did you like?'
'It was funny. Can we see it now?'
'Anything else you'd care to say about it?'
'No,' he says, and even more impatiently 'Yes, I want to watch it
again.'
I wonder how common his reaction would have been when the
film was released. It struck me as a little too disturbing to be popular,
but perhaps it was ahead of its time if Mark is so taken with it. 'We
don't want to be late for the circus,' I say and switch the tape off. 'I'll
lend it to Natalie when I've finished with it. Let me grab a coat and
we'll walk over to the park.'
The slap of waves against equally non-existent rocks greets me on
the landing. A poster for a muscle-bound computerised heroine called
Virtuelle is guarding Joe's door. As I shut my computer down the last
shrill flurry of water sounds like giggling, which seems to be echoed
downstairs. A trumpet is chattering in the front room.
Tubby is back in the toyshop. The head that fills the screen is his,
unless it's the contents of a box. I retrieve the control from my chair
and extinguish him. 'Now, Mark, I said we hadn't time. Maybe we
can have another look at it when we come back.'
He giggles nervously as a preamble to saying 'I didn't touch it.'
'I'm sure you didn't touch the tape.'
Is he testing my limits or demonstrating his skill with words, or
both? I eject the cassette and replace it in its cover, abandoning the
other tape on the mantelpiece. How could I have been so thoughtless
that I left Tubby in the player while I went to my room? I run to leave
the tape on my desk and hurry downstairs. 'Time to move, Mark.'
He's still in the chair, and so wide-eyed with innocence that it
could almost conjure up Tubby on the screen. 'I truly – '
'Don't say it. I shouldn't think your mother would like you telling
fibs, and I'm certain your grandmother wouldn't.' I switch off the
television and wait for him to jam his feet into his trainers. 'Come
on,' I say to make friends with him, 'and we'll have another laugh.'
SEVEN - TOTEMS
We're nearly at the bottom of the street opposite the petrol
station, beyond which the night sky is trailing a crimson hem,
when I call 'We're not in quite that much of a hurry, Mark.'
He carries on as if the enlarged letters in the middle of the Frugoil
sign are urging him, and barely glances back to protest 'You said we
were.'
'No, I said we shouldn't get caught up in the video again. The
show won't be starting anything like yet, don't worry,' I say as I join
him at the kerb. 'I'm not an old film, you know. I feel as if you want
to speed me up.'
He looks at me over his shoulder. 'That'd be funny,' he says,
continuing to watch.
This isn't what jerks me forwards. 'Mark,' I shout or quite
possibly scream, but I haven't even completed his name when he steps
into the road.
His small body flares up as if spotlights have been trained on him.
They're the headlamp beams of the lorry that is bearing down on him,
horn braying. I'm too far away to snatch him out of its path, and
what can I shout that will help? I'm terrified that the glare and the
uproar and the sight of his imminent doom will freeze him like just
another species of roadkill. Then he dodges the vehicle with at least a
yard to spare and dashes across the road.
By the time I reach the opposite pavement he's trotting uphill past
the petrol station. 'Mark,' I say, folding my arms and gripping my
fists with my clammy armpits.
He
comically, three attendants converge to restrain him. I suspect who
they might all prove to be, but that's the end of the film or at least of
the clip. 'And now here's a solo by that graceful pudding Oliver
Hardy before he met his mate,' says the commentator.
'Can we see it again?' Mark crouches towards me, and his chair
gives an injured creak. 'I want to see it again,' he begs.
'Don't smash the place up, Mark.' He's far more demanding than
usual; perhaps he feels he can be now that we're alone. 'I take it you
liked it,' I say. 'What did you like?'
'It was funny. Can we see it now?'
'Anything else you'd care to say about it?'
'No,' he says, and even more impatiently 'Yes, I want to watch it
again.'
I wonder how common his reaction would have been when the
film was released. It struck me as a little too disturbing to be popular,
but perhaps it was ahead of its time if Mark is so taken with it. 'We
don't want to be late for the circus,' I say and switch the tape off. 'I'll
lend it to Natalie when I've finished with it. Let me grab a coat and
we'll walk over to the park.'
The slap of waves against equally non-existent rocks greets me on
the landing. A poster for a muscle-bound computerised heroine called
Virtuelle is guarding Joe's door. As I shut my computer down the last
shrill flurry of water sounds like giggling, which seems to be echoed
downstairs. A trumpet is chattering in the front room.
Tubby is back in the toyshop. The head that fills the screen is his,
unless it's the contents of a box. I retrieve the control from my chair
and extinguish him. 'Now, Mark, I said we hadn't time. Maybe we
can have another look at it when we come back.'
He giggles nervously as a preamble to saying 'I didn't touch it.'
'I'm sure you didn't touch the tape.'
Is he testing my limits or demonstrating his skill with words, or
both? I eject the cassette and replace it in its cover, abandoning the
other tape on the mantelpiece. How could I have been so thoughtless
that I left Tubby in the player while I went to my room? I run to leave
the tape on my desk and hurry downstairs. 'Time to move, Mark.'
He's still in the chair, and so wide-eyed with innocence that it
could almost conjure up Tubby on the screen. 'I truly – '
'Don't say it. I shouldn't think your mother would like you telling
fibs, and I'm certain your grandmother wouldn't.' I switch off the
television and wait for him to jam his feet into his trainers. 'Come
on,' I say to make friends with him, 'and we'll have another laugh.'
SEVEN - TOTEMS
We're nearly at the bottom of the street opposite the petrol
station, beyond which the night sky is trailing a crimson hem,
when I call 'We're not in quite that much of a hurry, Mark.'
He carries on as if the enlarged letters in the middle of the Frugoil
sign are urging him, and barely glances back to protest 'You said we
were.'
'No, I said we shouldn't get caught up in the video again. The
show won't be starting anything like yet, don't worry,' I say as I join
him at the kerb. 'I'm not an old film, you know. I feel as if you want
to speed me up.'
He looks at me over his shoulder. 'That'd be funny,' he says,
continuing to watch.
This isn't what jerks me forwards. 'Mark,' I shout or quite
possibly scream, but I haven't even completed his name when he steps
into the road.
His small body flares up as if spotlights have been trained on him.
They're the headlamp beams of the lorry that is bearing down on him,
horn braying. I'm too far away to snatch him out of its path, and
what can I shout that will help? I'm terrified that the glare and the
uproar and the sight of his imminent doom will freeze him like just
another species of roadkill. Then he dodges the vehicle with at least a
yard to spare and dashes across the road.
By the time I reach the opposite pavement he's trotting uphill past
the petrol station. 'Mark,' I say, folding my arms and gripping my
fists with my clammy armpits.
He
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