shift. Thereâs bubbles in it. I also throw lots of plastic toys into the water, including the two Tiddlos. Shall I tell you why? Itâs for defense. When I was smaller Dad used to get into my bath because it saves energy and anyway itâs fun, and sometimes he still gets in with me. But he never likes baths having plastic toys in them as well as me because rolling around on those buggers hurts like hell, Son; ouch, theyâre murder! Well they donât hurt me so there!
Normally these days when I jump out of the bath I dry myself because Iâm six, but Mum is there with one of the large towels for grown-ups today. She folds it around my shoulders and pats me dry very softly, as if I was made out of tissue paper wrapped round old peopleâs bones instead of young bendy ones and highly effective skin. Arms up. Legs apart. Something about the gentle way sheâs touching me makes me go still and breathe more slowly. I feel smaller again, vertically minute. She smoothes everything dry and then turns me round to face her and I see she is biting the inside of her lip.
â These bruises, she says.
â Theyâre fine. Can I have some milk?
â But theyâre worse than . . . The state of your back. God, Billy. The inside of your leg.
â Donât worry, Mum, I tell her. â I am durable.
â What? What did you say to that lady about how you got these?
â I donât want to talk about her.
â But â
â I really donât really.
â Listen to me, Billy. That lady is very important. Understand? And sheâs worried about you because somebody saw . . . somebody said they saw . . .
Iâm holding my sides very tightly and shivering a bit even though Iâm actually quite warm, because itâs a sort of tactic for making myself not hear what sheâs saying, because I just want her to stop talking about it .
â Whatâs the matter? asks Mum.
â Itâs forgotten!
â What is?
â It! Dad said! So I donât want to talk about it!
She gathers me up in the towel again then and leans into me and strokes the back of my head while I cry a bit. The towel doesnât taste as nice as it smells. Dad used to eat Shedded Wheat when he was a boy, with hot milk, and cats occasionally suffer from fur balls. I calm down. And Mum, using a very soothing voice, and without taking my head off her shoulder, says that itâs all okay, itâs all fine, and all I need to do is tell the truth about what happened in the park, how I got the bruises, to the doctor the nice lady has arranged for me to see in the morning. Dad will take me. And yes, I can have some hot milk. I just have to tell the truth tomorrow and it will all be tickety-boo.
Â
Do you have dreams? I do. But I can never remember them.
Â
When I wake up the following morning the light is already coming through my blind which means I may be nearly late for school which makes me quickly roll over and stick my head back under my pillow like a lizard going for cover under a rock, only this rock would be useless defense because it is soft. Talons would punctuate it: it doesnât even smother out all the morning light! I shut my eyes and remember all of a sudden that itâs not school today, itâs excellent half-term instead, which means I donât have to hide under a rock to keep the day away or do the thing that always happens next anyway, which is getting out of bed to make a start, Son, because we all have to.
Eyes open, whap!
This news that I donât have to leap out of bed immediately is so exciting that I immediately do leap out of my bed.
And I didnât wake Dad up early today either because itâs late and Iâve only just woken up so I canât have. The news just keeps on getting better!
But have you ever had cold hands? I have, and once Mum suggested that a good way to warm them up would be to put them in a basin of
Normally these days when I jump out of the bath I dry myself because Iâm six, but Mum is there with one of the large towels for grown-ups today. She folds it around my shoulders and pats me dry very softly, as if I was made out of tissue paper wrapped round old peopleâs bones instead of young bendy ones and highly effective skin. Arms up. Legs apart. Something about the gentle way sheâs touching me makes me go still and breathe more slowly. I feel smaller again, vertically minute. She smoothes everything dry and then turns me round to face her and I see she is biting the inside of her lip.
â These bruises, she says.
â Theyâre fine. Can I have some milk?
â But theyâre worse than . . . The state of your back. God, Billy. The inside of your leg.
â Donât worry, Mum, I tell her. â I am durable.
â What? What did you say to that lady about how you got these?
â I donât want to talk about her.
â But â
â I really donât really.
â Listen to me, Billy. That lady is very important. Understand? And sheâs worried about you because somebody saw . . . somebody said they saw . . .
Iâm holding my sides very tightly and shivering a bit even though Iâm actually quite warm, because itâs a sort of tactic for making myself not hear what sheâs saying, because I just want her to stop talking about it .
â Whatâs the matter? asks Mum.
â Itâs forgotten!
â What is?
â It! Dad said! So I donât want to talk about it!
She gathers me up in the towel again then and leans into me and strokes the back of my head while I cry a bit. The towel doesnât taste as nice as it smells. Dad used to eat Shedded Wheat when he was a boy, with hot milk, and cats occasionally suffer from fur balls. I calm down. And Mum, using a very soothing voice, and without taking my head off her shoulder, says that itâs all okay, itâs all fine, and all I need to do is tell the truth about what happened in the park, how I got the bruises, to the doctor the nice lady has arranged for me to see in the morning. Dad will take me. And yes, I can have some hot milk. I just have to tell the truth tomorrow and it will all be tickety-boo.
Â
Do you have dreams? I do. But I can never remember them.
Â
When I wake up the following morning the light is already coming through my blind which means I may be nearly late for school which makes me quickly roll over and stick my head back under my pillow like a lizard going for cover under a rock, only this rock would be useless defense because it is soft. Talons would punctuate it: it doesnât even smother out all the morning light! I shut my eyes and remember all of a sudden that itâs not school today, itâs excellent half-term instead, which means I donât have to hide under a rock to keep the day away or do the thing that always happens next anyway, which is getting out of bed to make a start, Son, because we all have to.
Eyes open, whap!
This news that I donât have to leap out of bed immediately is so exciting that I immediately do leap out of my bed.
And I didnât wake Dad up early today either because itâs late and Iâve only just woken up so I canât have. The news just keeps on getting better!
But have you ever had cold hands? I have, and once Mum suggested that a good way to warm them up would be to put them in a basin of
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