rid of this now.” He reached up, grabbed the sign by its little red and white two-bed-terrace label and began to tug.
And that would never bring it down. I don’t know what came over me. Adrenaline or hysteria maybe. Joe and I had been partners in crime for our entire lives. If he wanted to graffiti-tag the railway bridge higher than anyone else, I would give him a leg up. He would hang on to the seat of my pants while I dangled over the top to make my mark. Wild laughter burst from me, and I sprang up onto the garden wall and grabbed the sign at the top. “All right!” I yelled, getting a grip. “Pull now!”
They made the damn things pretty sturdy. After ten seconds or so, we both gave up and stood staring at each other, breathless. Slowly I realised I could see the whole street from here. That the street and our gateway and the garden were all empty, except for the two of us. “Aaron,” I said, voice still unsteady with laughter. “Joe, did you…I didn’t even see him go.”
“Well, he’s gone. Very discreet.” Joe held up his hands, and I took them automatically and jumped down off the wall. “Who was he? And don’t tell me your mate. He was bloody gorgeous.” Not waiting for my answer, he wrapped an arm around my waist. “Fast going, Mattie! See—didn’t I tell you you’d do okay without me?”
Air left my lungs. “Joe, you…you’ve got no idea.”
“Well. All that’s over now, sweetheart.” The arm tightened, and I found myself being half tugged, half guided towards the open door. “Come on. Come on in, and let’s start over…Oh, wait up. Grab that plastic bag—don’t leave your champagne behind…”
***
I sat with my coat still on, in the living room of my old home. It was very cold. Joe was rattling back and forth between the fire and the kitchen, switching on lights, chattering. He was back. I’d been given the one thing I’d wanted, and with perfect Christmas timing.
There were lines in T.S. Eliot. I couldn’t remember which poem they were from, and hadn’t paid them much attention at school, but somehow nevertheless they had stayed with me. Something about the passage of time, and the way the world answers what we think are our needs. “She gives when our attention is distracted / And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions / That the giving famishes the craving. Gives too late / What’s not believed in, or if still believed, / In memory only, reconsidered passion.” I hadn’t liked those words. My twelve-year-old heart had rejected them, even while my brain recorded. They meant, didn’t they, I could want something forever—like getting into the Gateshead football squad—and burn and yearn and work my arse off for it, and when it came, it might not be worth it. Not even what I wanted anymore.
The Picture of Dorian Gray was a tough one for preteens, as well. I had just the faintest suspicion—nothing concrete, mind—that Dorian and the artist who paints him and maybe even the author of the story himself were all batting for my team and Joe’s. Not that I was about to impart this to our poor English mistress, who had wanted to enter a convent and instead ended up teaching forty sneering council brats in Shields. Back then, being young, I hadn’t thought much of Wilde’s theory that the inner life could taint the outer man, make such differences to him that a portrait in the attic taking all the hits and moral decay on your behalf could be an invaluable asset. Back then, no matter what Joe and I had been up to, we could raise such clear and incorrupted eyes to teachers and to parents that, unless they had proof, we got away with everything.
Joe hadn’t got round yet to the lamps we had scattered around the front room, soft ones on low tables that shed light through coloured glass or nice silk shades. The overhead was on, a pale yellow glare. “Joe,” I said as he came back into the room, and something in my voice made him stop. “Sit down a
And that would never bring it down. I don’t know what came over me. Adrenaline or hysteria maybe. Joe and I had been partners in crime for our entire lives. If he wanted to graffiti-tag the railway bridge higher than anyone else, I would give him a leg up. He would hang on to the seat of my pants while I dangled over the top to make my mark. Wild laughter burst from me, and I sprang up onto the garden wall and grabbed the sign at the top. “All right!” I yelled, getting a grip. “Pull now!”
They made the damn things pretty sturdy. After ten seconds or so, we both gave up and stood staring at each other, breathless. Slowly I realised I could see the whole street from here. That the street and our gateway and the garden were all empty, except for the two of us. “Aaron,” I said, voice still unsteady with laughter. “Joe, did you…I didn’t even see him go.”
“Well, he’s gone. Very discreet.” Joe held up his hands, and I took them automatically and jumped down off the wall. “Who was he? And don’t tell me your mate. He was bloody gorgeous.” Not waiting for my answer, he wrapped an arm around my waist. “Fast going, Mattie! See—didn’t I tell you you’d do okay without me?”
Air left my lungs. “Joe, you…you’ve got no idea.”
“Well. All that’s over now, sweetheart.” The arm tightened, and I found myself being half tugged, half guided towards the open door. “Come on. Come on in, and let’s start over…Oh, wait up. Grab that plastic bag—don’t leave your champagne behind…”
***
I sat with my coat still on, in the living room of my old home. It was very cold. Joe was rattling back and forth between the fire and the kitchen, switching on lights, chattering. He was back. I’d been given the one thing I’d wanted, and with perfect Christmas timing.
There were lines in T.S. Eliot. I couldn’t remember which poem they were from, and hadn’t paid them much attention at school, but somehow nevertheless they had stayed with me. Something about the passage of time, and the way the world answers what we think are our needs. “She gives when our attention is distracted / And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions / That the giving famishes the craving. Gives too late / What’s not believed in, or if still believed, / In memory only, reconsidered passion.” I hadn’t liked those words. My twelve-year-old heart had rejected them, even while my brain recorded. They meant, didn’t they, I could want something forever—like getting into the Gateshead football squad—and burn and yearn and work my arse off for it, and when it came, it might not be worth it. Not even what I wanted anymore.
The Picture of Dorian Gray was a tough one for preteens, as well. I had just the faintest suspicion—nothing concrete, mind—that Dorian and the artist who paints him and maybe even the author of the story himself were all batting for my team and Joe’s. Not that I was about to impart this to our poor English mistress, who had wanted to enter a convent and instead ended up teaching forty sneering council brats in Shields. Back then, being young, I hadn’t thought much of Wilde’s theory that the inner life could taint the outer man, make such differences to him that a portrait in the attic taking all the hits and moral decay on your behalf could be an invaluable asset. Back then, no matter what Joe and I had been up to, we could raise such clear and incorrupted eyes to teachers and to parents that, unless they had proof, we got away with everything.
Joe hadn’t got round yet to the lamps we had scattered around the front room, soft ones on low tables that shed light through coloured glass or nice silk shades. The overhead was on, a pale yellow glare. “Joe,” I said as he came back into the room, and something in my voice made him stop. “Sit down a
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