Sweet Sorrow(12)

‘Well, I don’t know …’

‘It was a silly game. It’s a long story.’ Changing the subject: ‘What were you doing here again?’

‘Reading. Just a nice spot to read.’

She nodded, sceptical. ‘Nature boy.’

I shrugged. ‘Makes a change.’

‘And how’s Slaughterhouse-Five?’

‘S’okay. Not enough slaughter.’

She laughed, though I was only half joking. ‘I’ve heard of it but not read it. I don’t want to generalise but I always thought it was a boys’ book. Is it?’

I shrugged again …

‘I mean, compared to Atwood or Le Guin.’

… because if she was going to talk about literature, then I might as well push her into a bush and run.

‘So. What’s it about?’

Charlie, can you tell the class something about the author’s intentions in this passage? Your own words, please.

‘It’s about this man, this war veteran, who has been kidnapped by aliens and he’s in an alien zoo, but he keeps flashing back to scenes in the war, where he’s a prisoner …’

Yes, that’s what happens, but what’s it about? Keep going, Charlie, please.

‘But it’s also about war, and the bombing of Dresden, and a sort of fatality – not fatality, um fatalism? – about whether life matters or free will is a delusion, illusion, delusion, so it’s sort of horrible, about death and war, but it’s funny too.’

‘O-kay. Does sound a bit like a boys’ book.’

Use better words. ‘Surreal! That’s what it is. And really good.’ Thank you, Charlie, sit down please.

‘O-kay,’ she said. ‘Okay. Usually when people say “alien zoo” I switch off, but maybe I’ll read it. Have you read—?’

‘No, but I’ve seen the film.’ She looked at me sideways. ‘I’m joking, I just mean that I’ve not read much. I’m not much of a reader.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘that’s all right,’ then, as if there were some connection, ‘What school d’you go to?’

It was a dull question but decreed by law and I thought it best to spit it out: ‘Just finished at Merton Grange,’ I said and watched, expecting the usual emotions, the face you might reserve for someone who tells you that they’ve just left prison. Though I couldn’t honestly spot a trace of this, I still felt a twist of irritation. ‘You’re Chatsborne, yeah?’

She tucked her fringe behind her ear and laughed. ‘How did you guess?’

Because Chatsborne kids were posh, were arty stoners, were hippies. Chatsborne kids wore their own clothes to school, which meant vintage floral dresses and ironic T-shirts that they’d screen-printed themselves at home. Chatsborne kids were clever, were wimps, were wimps because they were clever, a school composed entirely of head boys and head girls, eating vegetarian tagine from self-carved bowls on furniture they’d made from reclaimed wood. Estate agents boasted of inclusion in its catchment area before they even mentioned the number of bedrooms, the circles of affluence and confidence and cool marked on the map like a radiation zone. Walk those streets on a summer’s evening and you’d hear the violin, cello and classical guitar calling to each other at Grade 8 level. Of all our tribal instincts, above team or label or political party, loyalty to school was the strongest and even if we hated the place, the bond remained, indelible as a tattoo. Even so, I already missed the brief moments before we’d fallen into our roles of Merton Grange boy, Chatsborne girl.

We walked a little further in silence.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to steal your dinner money,’ I said, and she smiled but frowned too.

‘I didn’t say anything like that, did I?’

‘No.’ I’d sounded bitter. I tried again. ‘I’ve not seen you around,’ I said, as if I roamed the streets looking for girls.

‘Oh, I live …’ and she waved vaguely towards the trees.

We walked a little further.

‘Your school used to have those fights with our school,’ she said.

‘Up the precinct, outside the Chinese. I know. I used to go.’

‘To fight?’

‘No, just to watch. Was never much of a fight. Everyone used to talk about blades, there’s going to be blades, but that was only if you counted a protractor. Mainly it was just kids chucking water and chips.’

‘Never bring a protractor to a water fight.’

‘Merton Grange did always win, though.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘but does anyone ever really win?’

‘War is hell.’

‘Fights up the precinct; it’s all a bit Sharks and Jets, isn’t it? I hate all that stuff. Thank God it’s over, I won’t miss that. Besides, look at us two now, completely at ease …’

‘Just talking …’

‘Getting along, breaking down boundaries …’

‘It’s very moving.’

‘So how d’you think you did in your exams?’

Thankfully, we’d reached the grounds of the big house, a rusted metal gate giving on to a patchy lawn, the great timbered mansion behind, imposing enough to provide a distraction.