blobs on the boy’s eyelids.
The boy remained motionless, like a doll. Thomas carried the brush over to a desk by the door, where there was a big book lying open. He’d only had time to make one wide, gloopy streak before the lady came over and took him by the arm.
‘Don’t do that, naughty boy. What’s your name?’ she asked him. ‘Your mother hasn’t signed you in.’
Thomas, thought Thomas, but he didn’t say it. Didn’t she remember him? He remembered her. The lady at the mall crèche never remembered him either, but the lady at daycare did. This lady had big, red lips and hard, strong fingers.
Behind them there was a wail and Thomas turned just enough to take in the spectacle of his ruined work: the green, smeared whirl over the boy’s cheeks, the offending hands writhing at his eyes.
Maybe his name was in the book. He found a P, but his name began with a T. He lifted his face to begin explaining that he didn’t think his name was there, but he couldn’t be sure — because there was a T there, but it was in the middle of the word, not at the beginning of it — but the lady had hurried away to lead the boy to the handbasin on the far wall, where she wiped him up with wet paper. The paint had got into the boy’s eyes and he was yowling.
His mother was gone from the stuck bike and was instead coming out of a door at the back of the pool, changed into her togs with her long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. At the edge of the pool she turned and went backwards down some metal steps, lowered herself into the water and stretched the funny pair of bulgy eyes over the front of her face. She pushed off, staying underwater for ages, then she surfaced, swimming towards him.
Why wasn’t he there too? For a moment he’d thought he was — he had felt the water rise up his thighs, warm over his shoulders. Why wasn’t he down there, in the pool with his mother? He pressed his nose and lips against the glass, pushed the flat of his hands as hard as he could. His forehead wanted to press on the glass too, so he let it. Bang, bang, bang.
The boy had run to stand beside him just as Thomas’s mother flipped upside down, vanished underwater and reappearedto swim away again. Thomas gazed at the boy, whose closer eye had a bead of green paint glistening on an eyelash. A faint pulse of green sheened his beige cheeks. The boy was watching someone walking below them, along the side of the pool. It was a lady with her clothes back on, with her towel wrapped up and in her bag. Her wet hair dripped thin, straight and dark into the collar of her pink shirt. She was just like Doctor Xu Xian, who gave Thomas injections and looked in his ears. Looking up towards them now, she smiled and waved before she passed out of sight to come up the stairs.
Thomas leaned in closer to the boy and imagined him still painted, the way he’d made him look before, only better. It was all wrong, he could see now. The boy’s eyes were all wrong.
Then the boy was running over to where the crèche lady was talking to the boy’s mother — Thomas heard her say ‘green paint’ and saw the mother turn to look at him. She was smiling again, shrugging her narrow shoulders and signing her name in the big book while the still slightly green boy was hugging her legs and rubbing his face on her trousers.
Thomas’s mother said she was sorry to the crèche lady for forgetting to sign him in, and then asked if it would be all right if she sat down to give Sinead a bottle. He snuggled in beside her on the low couch, breathing in the smell of the pool still on her skin, the smell of Sinead’s milk. His eyelids felt heavy and downwards-drifting and he slept for a little while, dreaming of the boat-studded sea by the dragon. His mother pushed him along in his buggy — only it wasn’t his buggy, it was the stuck bike, which could work now — and he was on the handlebars, racing past the sea, which was foaming with swimmers who all lifted their
The boy remained motionless, like a doll. Thomas carried the brush over to a desk by the door, where there was a big book lying open. He’d only had time to make one wide, gloopy streak before the lady came over and took him by the arm.
‘Don’t do that, naughty boy. What’s your name?’ she asked him. ‘Your mother hasn’t signed you in.’
Thomas, thought Thomas, but he didn’t say it. Didn’t she remember him? He remembered her. The lady at the mall crèche never remembered him either, but the lady at daycare did. This lady had big, red lips and hard, strong fingers.
Behind them there was a wail and Thomas turned just enough to take in the spectacle of his ruined work: the green, smeared whirl over the boy’s cheeks, the offending hands writhing at his eyes.
Maybe his name was in the book. He found a P, but his name began with a T. He lifted his face to begin explaining that he didn’t think his name was there, but he couldn’t be sure — because there was a T there, but it was in the middle of the word, not at the beginning of it — but the lady had hurried away to lead the boy to the handbasin on the far wall, where she wiped him up with wet paper. The paint had got into the boy’s eyes and he was yowling.
His mother was gone from the stuck bike and was instead coming out of a door at the back of the pool, changed into her togs with her long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. At the edge of the pool she turned and went backwards down some metal steps, lowered herself into the water and stretched the funny pair of bulgy eyes over the front of her face. She pushed off, staying underwater for ages, then she surfaced, swimming towards him.
Why wasn’t he there too? For a moment he’d thought he was — he had felt the water rise up his thighs, warm over his shoulders. Why wasn’t he down there, in the pool with his mother? He pressed his nose and lips against the glass, pushed the flat of his hands as hard as he could. His forehead wanted to press on the glass too, so he let it. Bang, bang, bang.
The boy had run to stand beside him just as Thomas’s mother flipped upside down, vanished underwater and reappearedto swim away again. Thomas gazed at the boy, whose closer eye had a bead of green paint glistening on an eyelash. A faint pulse of green sheened his beige cheeks. The boy was watching someone walking below them, along the side of the pool. It was a lady with her clothes back on, with her towel wrapped up and in her bag. Her wet hair dripped thin, straight and dark into the collar of her pink shirt. She was just like Doctor Xu Xian, who gave Thomas injections and looked in his ears. Looking up towards them now, she smiled and waved before she passed out of sight to come up the stairs.
Thomas leaned in closer to the boy and imagined him still painted, the way he’d made him look before, only better. It was all wrong, he could see now. The boy’s eyes were all wrong.
Then the boy was running over to where the crèche lady was talking to the boy’s mother — Thomas heard her say ‘green paint’ and saw the mother turn to look at him. She was smiling again, shrugging her narrow shoulders and signing her name in the big book while the still slightly green boy was hugging her legs and rubbing his face on her trousers.
Thomas’s mother said she was sorry to the crèche lady for forgetting to sign him in, and then asked if it would be all right if she sat down to give Sinead a bottle. He snuggled in beside her on the low couch, breathing in the smell of the pool still on her skin, the smell of Sinead’s milk. His eyelids felt heavy and downwards-drifting and he slept for a little while, dreaming of the boat-studded sea by the dragon. His mother pushed him along in his buggy — only it wasn’t his buggy, it was the stuck bike, which could work now — and he was on the handlebars, racing past the sea, which was foaming with swimmers who all lifted their
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