tangle of emotions that wrapped up and constricted his real thoughts.
He couldnât believe heâd been told to
read the book
â not after yesterday, after the childishly vicious thing Roddy had done to him; after all that humiliation. He was furious at his father.
But not just him. At Sarah too, for not feeling the way he did. And at the Fearful for trapping him. And at Jenny for breaking the rules when he didnât dare.
Although the people he was angry at were nowhere near as important as the anger itself. He could fool himself into believing that it had a purpose, a momentum â feeling like this was almost as good as actually doing something about it. He punched his pillow, battered it flat; slammed his wardrobe door, savoured the bang. And, of course, blaming everyone else stopped him from blaming himself.
Heâd missed his chance. He hadnât had the courage to tell his father what he really felt. Next Saturday was still next Saturday. He was still going to be the Mourner.
It hadnât just been an argument heâd been worried about; he could handle raised voices and a slanging match. The truth was, he didnât think his father would have started shouting anyway. It would have been a much worse reaction. Bill wouldnât have believed that Tim didnât believe â it was an impossible thought. There would have been a complete lack of understanding and an almost palpable disappointment.
He thought about his father sitting on the edge of his bed, about how heâd looked. Apart from one or two stray threads of grey in his beard he looked exactly the same as he had last year, and the year before. Bill didnât change.
When Tim was younger Bill used to tell him scaryadventure stories about being an explorer. Tim had believed them completely, because with his scruffy hair and beard his dad looked just like explorers should look, hadnât he? But the stories were all about exploring the lake shore, because Bill had never travelled far, never seen much of the rest of the country, and had certainly never been abroad. Not that Tim cared. The stories were too good to worry about that kind of thing back then. Now, however, they seemed like such small stories compared to the ones that could have been told.
Old Williamâs diary was a small story about a small legend.
Read the book
, Bill said.
Read the book.
The diary was his answer to everything. But what hurt most was the way heâd told Tim to grow up. âYouâre not a little boy any more. The book is about growing up. Youâve got to be a man now.â
Well, when Sarah stayed over tomorrow night, that would be being a man, wouldnât it? He wouldnât be a boy any more after that, would he? There were plenty of ways to be a man.
Read the book.
FUCK
the book!
But throwing tantrums in his bedroom was no way to deal with all these feelings, all this anger. He needed to react. He needed to lash out, fight, hurt someone back.
Out of his window he could see a couple of windsurfers skimming across the lake, the people on the shore at WetFun. If Jenny could go there then so could he. If she could break the rules, he could too.
Mutiny seemed like an excellent choice. He grabbed his coat.
Jenny
THE ANGER CARRIED him as far as the waterâs edge before dumping him back on his own two feet. It had hurried him down the stairs and bustled him out into the garden through the main door, but now he felt it let go its grip. He stood for a moment, staring across the lake towards the water-sports club, confused that his temper had so suddenly cooled. Maybe it was the wind.
He panted heavily, as though he was trying to catch his breath. Did he really want to disobey his father? Was it so important to be so defiant? He looked back at Mourn Home. Then turned to face the lake again.
There were three bright sails out there this morning: one small boat cutting through the water east to west and two windsurfers who
He couldnât believe heâd been told to
read the book
â not after yesterday, after the childishly vicious thing Roddy had done to him; after all that humiliation. He was furious at his father.
But not just him. At Sarah too, for not feeling the way he did. And at the Fearful for trapping him. And at Jenny for breaking the rules when he didnât dare.
Although the people he was angry at were nowhere near as important as the anger itself. He could fool himself into believing that it had a purpose, a momentum â feeling like this was almost as good as actually doing something about it. He punched his pillow, battered it flat; slammed his wardrobe door, savoured the bang. And, of course, blaming everyone else stopped him from blaming himself.
Heâd missed his chance. He hadnât had the courage to tell his father what he really felt. Next Saturday was still next Saturday. He was still going to be the Mourner.
It hadnât just been an argument heâd been worried about; he could handle raised voices and a slanging match. The truth was, he didnât think his father would have started shouting anyway. It would have been a much worse reaction. Bill wouldnât have believed that Tim didnât believe â it was an impossible thought. There would have been a complete lack of understanding and an almost palpable disappointment.
He thought about his father sitting on the edge of his bed, about how heâd looked. Apart from one or two stray threads of grey in his beard he looked exactly the same as he had last year, and the year before. Bill didnât change.
When Tim was younger Bill used to tell him scaryadventure stories about being an explorer. Tim had believed them completely, because with his scruffy hair and beard his dad looked just like explorers should look, hadnât he? But the stories were all about exploring the lake shore, because Bill had never travelled far, never seen much of the rest of the country, and had certainly never been abroad. Not that Tim cared. The stories were too good to worry about that kind of thing back then. Now, however, they seemed like such small stories compared to the ones that could have been told.
Old Williamâs diary was a small story about a small legend.
Read the book
, Bill said.
Read the book.
The diary was his answer to everything. But what hurt most was the way heâd told Tim to grow up. âYouâre not a little boy any more. The book is about growing up. Youâve got to be a man now.â
Well, when Sarah stayed over tomorrow night, that would be being a man, wouldnât it? He wouldnât be a boy any more after that, would he? There were plenty of ways to be a man.
Read the book.
FUCK
the book!
But throwing tantrums in his bedroom was no way to deal with all these feelings, all this anger. He needed to react. He needed to lash out, fight, hurt someone back.
Out of his window he could see a couple of windsurfers skimming across the lake, the people on the shore at WetFun. If Jenny could go there then so could he. If she could break the rules, he could too.
Mutiny seemed like an excellent choice. He grabbed his coat.
Jenny
THE ANGER CARRIED him as far as the waterâs edge before dumping him back on his own two feet. It had hurried him down the stairs and bustled him out into the garden through the main door, but now he felt it let go its grip. He stood for a moment, staring across the lake towards the water-sports club, confused that his temper had so suddenly cooled. Maybe it was the wind.
He panted heavily, as though he was trying to catch his breath. Did he really want to disobey his father? Was it so important to be so defiant? He looked back at Mourn Home. Then turned to face the lake again.
There were three bright sails out there this morning: one small boat cutting through the water east to west and two windsurfers who
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