after lunch: Maybe she’s going to reappear this afternoon.
It had been four years, after all. Surely she’d established herself by now, forged a new life, a new identity. Maybe, at long last, she’s going to emerge today, hold a press conference—shock the world. After answering the shouted questions from the astonished reporters, she’d lean into the microphone: William! Harry! If you can hear me, come to me!
At night I had the most elaborate dreams. They were essentially the same, though the scenarios and costumes were slightly different. Sometimes she’d orchestrate a triumphant return; other times I’d simply bump into her somewhere. A street corner. A shop. She was always wearing a disguise—a big blond wig. Or big black sunglasses. And yet I’d always recognize her.
I’d step forward, whisper: Mummy? Is it you?
Before she could answer, before I could find out where she’d been, why she hadn’t come back, I’d snap awake.
I’d look around the room, feeling the crushing disappointment.
Only a dream. Again.
But then I’d tell myself: Maybe that means…today’s the day?
I was like those religious fanatics who believe the world will end on such and such a date. And when the date passes uneventfully, their faith remains undaunted.
I must’ve misread the signs. Or the calendar .
I suppose I knew the truth deep in my heart. The illusion of Mummy hiding, preparing to return, was never so real that it could blot out reality entirely. But it blotted it out enough that I was able to postpone the bulk of my grief. I still hadn’t mourned, still hadn’t cried, except that one time at her grave, still hadn’t processed the bare facts. Part of my brain knew, but part of it was wholly insulated, and the division between those two parts kept the parliament of my consciousness divided, polarized, gridlocked. Just as I wanted it.
Sometimes I’d have a stern talk with myself. Everyone else seems to believe that Mummy is dead, full stop, so maybe you should get on board.
But then I’d think: I’ll believe it when I have proof.
With solid proof, I thought, I could properly mourn and cry and move on.
32.
I don’t remember how we got the stuff. One of my mates, I expect. Or maybe several. Whenever we found ourselves in possession, we’d commandeer a tiny upstairs bathroom, wherein we’d implement a surprisingly thoughtful, orderly assembly line. Smoker straddled the loo beside the window, second boy leaned against the basin, third and fourth boys sat in the empty bath, legs dangling over, waiting their turns. You’d take a hit or two, blow the smoke out of the window, then move on to the next station, in rotation, until the spliff was gone. Then we’d all head to one of our rooms and giggle ourselves sick over an episode or two of a new show. Family Guy . I felt an inexplicable bond with Stewie, prophet without honor.
I knew this was bad behavior. I knew it was wrong. My mates knew too. We talked about it often, while stoned, how stupid we were to be wasting an Eton education. Once, we even made a pact. At the start of exam period, called Trials, we vowed to quit cold turkey, until after the final Trial. But the very next night, lying in bed, I heard my mates in the hall, cackling, whispering. Headed to the loo. Bloody hell, they’re already breaking the pact! I got out of bed, joined them. As the assembly line cranked up, bath to basin to loo, as the weed began to take effect, we shook our heads.
What idiots we were, thinking we could change.
Pass the spliff, mate.
One night, straddling the loo, I took a big hit and gazed up at the moon, then down at the school grounds. I watched several Thames Valley police officers marching back and forth. They were stationed out there because of me. But they didn’t make me feel safe. They made me feel caged.
Beyond them, however, that was where safety lay. All was peaceful and still out there . I thought: How beautiful. So much peace in the wider
It had been four years, after all. Surely she’d established herself by now, forged a new life, a new identity. Maybe, at long last, she’s going to emerge today, hold a press conference—shock the world. After answering the shouted questions from the astonished reporters, she’d lean into the microphone: William! Harry! If you can hear me, come to me!
At night I had the most elaborate dreams. They were essentially the same, though the scenarios and costumes were slightly different. Sometimes she’d orchestrate a triumphant return; other times I’d simply bump into her somewhere. A street corner. A shop. She was always wearing a disguise—a big blond wig. Or big black sunglasses. And yet I’d always recognize her.
I’d step forward, whisper: Mummy? Is it you?
Before she could answer, before I could find out where she’d been, why she hadn’t come back, I’d snap awake.
I’d look around the room, feeling the crushing disappointment.
Only a dream. Again.
But then I’d tell myself: Maybe that means…today’s the day?
I was like those religious fanatics who believe the world will end on such and such a date. And when the date passes uneventfully, their faith remains undaunted.
I must’ve misread the signs. Or the calendar .
I suppose I knew the truth deep in my heart. The illusion of Mummy hiding, preparing to return, was never so real that it could blot out reality entirely. But it blotted it out enough that I was able to postpone the bulk of my grief. I still hadn’t mourned, still hadn’t cried, except that one time at her grave, still hadn’t processed the bare facts. Part of my brain knew, but part of it was wholly insulated, and the division between those two parts kept the parliament of my consciousness divided, polarized, gridlocked. Just as I wanted it.
Sometimes I’d have a stern talk with myself. Everyone else seems to believe that Mummy is dead, full stop, so maybe you should get on board.
But then I’d think: I’ll believe it when I have proof.
With solid proof, I thought, I could properly mourn and cry and move on.
32.
I don’t remember how we got the stuff. One of my mates, I expect. Or maybe several. Whenever we found ourselves in possession, we’d commandeer a tiny upstairs bathroom, wherein we’d implement a surprisingly thoughtful, orderly assembly line. Smoker straddled the loo beside the window, second boy leaned against the basin, third and fourth boys sat in the empty bath, legs dangling over, waiting their turns. You’d take a hit or two, blow the smoke out of the window, then move on to the next station, in rotation, until the spliff was gone. Then we’d all head to one of our rooms and giggle ourselves sick over an episode or two of a new show. Family Guy . I felt an inexplicable bond with Stewie, prophet without honor.
I knew this was bad behavior. I knew it was wrong. My mates knew too. We talked about it often, while stoned, how stupid we were to be wasting an Eton education. Once, we even made a pact. At the start of exam period, called Trials, we vowed to quit cold turkey, until after the final Trial. But the very next night, lying in bed, I heard my mates in the hall, cackling, whispering. Headed to the loo. Bloody hell, they’re already breaking the pact! I got out of bed, joined them. As the assembly line cranked up, bath to basin to loo, as the weed began to take effect, we shook our heads.
What idiots we were, thinking we could change.
Pass the spliff, mate.
One night, straddling the loo, I took a big hit and gazed up at the moon, then down at the school grounds. I watched several Thames Valley police officers marching back and forth. They were stationed out there because of me. But they didn’t make me feel safe. They made me feel caged.
Beyond them, however, that was where safety lay. All was peaceful and still out there . I thought: How beautiful. So much peace in the wider
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