Little Big Man Page 9

  ‘OK, now you’re scaring me,’ I say, passing a hand nervously around the back of my neck. ‘Because you’ve gone and put running and glorious in the same sentence.’ I say it with humour but in no way am I being humorous. I know how defeatist I sound; pathetic, really. It’s just the thought of going for a run with Laura, gazelle-like in her tiny Lycra things, me hippo-like in a billowing T-shirt …

  ‘OK.’ Laura shrugs, defeated. ‘I’m just saying, I think you should get other people on board who he’ll listen to, who he likes. And also to help you, Juliet, because you always do everything on your own when it comes to Zac and you do amazingly, but it’s hard making all the decisions.’

  I smile, while feeling like a complete fraud. You’ve not a clue, I think, how crap I am, how I don’t cope, how weak my so-called coping mechanisms are, including eating entire cheesecakes at four, and nicking food, telling myself it’s OK because I’m skint. You’ve no idea that I have such little self-respect I attack people when they reject me and get so wasted I can’t remember what I said to my ten-year-old.

  It’s strange, but these truths, my dirty little secrets, they’re hidden most of the time, in far-flung parts of my consciousness, because that’s the only way I can face myself, but this past week, since deciding I have to do something, I’ve become aware of them suddenly leaping out in front of me, like ghouls on a ghost train, giving me no choice but to stare them right in their ugly little faces. Not that I am ready to admit any of this to Laura.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say, ‘I do make all the decisions and it’s tough, but what are you suggesting? That Zac wouldn’t listen to me?’

  ‘No offence, darlin’’ – Laura gets up and carries both our lunch plates to the sink – ‘but when did you ever listen to your mum?’

  Damn it, she was right.

  ‘Just think about the other people in his life, that’s all; the people he loves and respects – get them on board. Make it a team effort.’

  I spend the following few days trying to do just that. I don’t have to worry about Teagan, having already spoken to her when I bumped into her hanging off the bars, as usual, on my day off. She was wearing a giant fake red flower in her hair, but no coat – in early March – and I asked her why she wasn’t at school.

  ‘I had an asthma attack last night. We had to go to hospital in an ambulance. The doctor said if we’d left it any later then it could have been a different story. He meant, I could have been dead,’ she added darkly, just to clarify things.

  ‘So what on earth are you doing playing outside with no coat?’ I said, which was when she told me how she was ‘never cold’ when practising her gymnastics and that her mum said it was better for her chest to be outside instead of inside with all the damp. I swear, if I ever win the lottery, I’ll buy Teagan a new house, not to mention gymnastics lessons. I’ve never been inside Teagan’s house but Zac says that there’s black up the walls and green fur on her bedroom blinds and he’s not one to exaggerate. Her mum, Nicky, is catatonically depressed. No wonder Teagan likes coming round ours so much.

  ‘They keep saying they’re going to move us, but there’s no spare houses at the moment so we have to stay here. Is Zac playing after school?’ She changed the subject as if to save my embarrassment and sense of helplessness at the wretched state of her life. This I saw as my opening to talk to her about him.

  Part of me wished I hadn’t.

  ‘So let me get this right, they prick his bum with a compass?’ I said, in disbelief.

  ‘Yep, then they pretend like his bum bursts like a balloon and they call him Jabba the Hutch – because his surname’s Hutchinson – and they say that there’ll be no water left in the swimming pool if he gets in, and whisper horrible things when he walks down the corridor.’

  That murderous feeling again, rearing up like a tidal wave.

  ‘And does he not fight back?’

  ‘Nope, and he says it doesn’t bother him that much, but I know it does because I then get his funny mood.’ The way she said it, hand on her chest like she was his long-suffering wife, made me laugh through the tears that had begun to threaten. ‘If it was me, I’d punch them in the face,’ she added before launching into a revenge fantasy involving locking the bullies in the paint cupboard at school for days, feeding them only gruel …

  We talked until our shadows were so long we looked like giants, looming over the estate, and it was so cold that I shared half my coat with Teagan.

  ‘In your opinion,’ I said, before I left, ‘as Zac’s best friend, do you think helping him lose weight will help stop the bullying?’

  ‘Yes. But I know what would help more.’

  ‘What would help him more, Teagan?’

  ‘Not being scared; at least a lot less scared than he is, because bullies can smell fear, you know, like dogs, and I should know because they used to pick on me. They used to call me a pauper and say I smelt funny because of the damp and I used to put up with it until one day, I just went mad. I’m not kidding. I was like the Incredible Hulk! My mum had to go and see Mrs Bond and I had to stay in at break time for a whole week. But it was worth it,’ she said, with considerable relish. ‘Because they left me alone after that.’

  ‘OK, so besides encouraging him to lamp them one, do you think you might be able to help Zac be less scared for me?’ I said. ‘Maybe lose a bit of weight, get fitter, just to feel better about himself? I’m not sure I can do this on my own, Teagan.’

  ‘Yeah, but I can’t just tell him what to do,’ she said. ‘He has to do some work too.’

  ‘Yep.’ I felt more determined. ‘Yes, I know that.’

  It was only when I got home that I realized the saddest thing about the whole conversation was that Teagan hadn’t even mentioned the chocolate incident, which told me she didn’t know about it. And this broke my heart all over again, because I realized Zac didn’t even tell his best friend the truth about all that went on. But then, I was one to talk.

  Get on board those that he loves and respects, Laura said, so I decide I should talk to Mum, because if there’s anyone in this world Zac loves and respects, it’s his nan. Not forgetting his grandad, of course; his grandad’s his hero. It’s just, where the food issue is concerned, it’s Mum I need to talk to. It’s how to broach the subject without an argument or the cold shoulder for days, though. Things are complex and fragile with me and Mum. If I was to say that to her, she’d say it was ridiculous, but I think that’s only because the reasons it’s true are so big, and so deeply rooted, she literally cannot speak of them.

  Then again, the moment you walk into my parents’ house, there’s my brother, right there. Mum and Dad live in one of those terraces where you walk straight into the lounge, and on the facing wall (and it takes up half the wall) is a photo of Jamie. I often wonder if the fact she can’t talk about these things is the reason her displays of them are so big, and all over the house, as if she’s saying, ‘Here. Here is my pain.’

  When everything that happened happened, Zac and I moved in with my parents for a short while, but then I moved out into my own place as soon as I could, no matter how shit it was, because this house was like a shrine: everywhere you looked was my brother’s face and my mother’s pain.

  In the picture that’s in the lounge as you walk in, Jamie is holding Zac, when he was about four days old. Zac’s wearing the tiger suit Jamie bought for him and Jamie’s wearing an expression which is a mix of joy, pride and the thought Holy shit! My sister just had a baby. You know what I see when I look at that picture, however? I see the person who links my son and my brother. I see the deep-rooted reason things are fragile between me and Mum.

  I see Liam.

  In all these years of her spouting vitriol about him, she’s never once blamed me for being with him in the first place, for bringing him into the family. But the blame is definitely there, in the undercurrent. I feel the coldness of its fingers, pointing at me.

  Baking: the smell wafts straight up my nostrils, making my
mouth water as soon as I’m inside. ‘Mum, I’ve made an Oreo cake!’ Zac shouts from the kitchen at the back of the house, and I think, Brilliant. I’m not quite sure which sort of brilliant: the sarky one or the one that could murder that whole cake right now. In order to give Zac moral support, I’m trying to be good and I’ve done really well today, but now I’m absolutely ravenous. Mum comes out wearing her ‘Keep Calm and Keep Baking’ apron, icing sugar down it.

  ‘Oh, hello love, you’re early,’ she says, running a hand through her grey-blonde hair. ‘As you can see we’ve been very busy this afternoon. Absolute chip off his uncle’s block this one – came up with the recipe himself.’

  Zac comes from the kitchen into the lounge holding his cake on a plate so proudly, smiling my brother’s cheeky, dimpled smile, and the most awful thing happens. In those steps – of which there are a few, because my parents’ kitchen stretches quite far back since their extension – I see how big Zac is. No less beautiful to me, but still big. I see for the first time that it’s hard for him to walk very fast, because his thighs rub together, and it absolutely floors me.

  ‘Do you want a piece, Mum?’ He’s looking up at me so expectantly, so proud to be offering me something he’s made himself, and I have to look away because my eyes have filled with tears. I also know I must decline, even though I want a slice so bad it hurts. ‘I’ve just eaten, darlin’,’ I say when I’ve composed myself. ‘But save me some for later.’

  Zac goes into the lounge to watch telly and eat cake with Dad, so once I know the coast is clear, I take my chance.

  ‘Mum, can we have a little chat? About Zac?’

  ‘Oh, what about Zac?’ says Mum, backing against the worktop, as if bracing herself for attack.

  I take a breath and look out at the backyard, which is shrouded in darkness now. You can just make out the pebble-dash of the wall, the washing line and, beyond all that, the twinkly lights of the docks. It’s the same backyard Liam and I sat in, marvelling at Zac, the day we brought him home from hospital, unable to believe how lucky we were. I don’t want to have this conversation. I guess I’m just so glad Mum and Zac have a close relationship, because it could so easily have gone the other way, that I’m very wary of saying anything that might jeopardize that. Grief and anger have made Mum brittle-boned. She snaps easily; I tread lightly.

  I explain everything – his weight, the bullying, how I need her to help me, to help him – with more than a little eye-rolling and glowering on her part.

  ‘Look, I’m not saying don’t give him anything to eat when he comes round to yours. I just think maybe not a big meal, and can we reduce the baking?’ The look of horror on her face! ‘I know he loves it, Mum …’

  ‘Honestly, that poor child. As if life isn’t hard enough with no father figure around and now he can’t do the one thing he’s passionate about. He’s so like your brother, you know. It was always when he was happiest too, when he had his hands in a bowl of flour …’

  Part of me feels like saying, But Zac isn’t Jamie, Mum. He’s his own person and he’s my son, not yours, while the other part of me thinks, how can I take that away from her? That small pleasure she gets from watching Zac bake, and remembering lovely times.

  I sigh at the ceiling. ‘Look, Mum, I’m not suggesting stopping altogether. Just maybe not a cake every week. ‘It’s hard,’ I say with more resolve. ‘But I just think we’re going to have to start saying no to him; not always give in.’

  Mum folds her arms, lips pursed accusingly. ‘Well, that’s you, that is.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘That’s you who gives in to him, Juliet, and I know it’s all out of love …’

  You sneak, I think, wrapping it up in a backhanded compliment.

  ‘But it’s basically comfort feeding, that’s what it is. You say yes to him because you feel bad.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Tears immediately spring into my eyes. ‘You were the one who just called him, “poor Zac with no father”.’

  ‘Well, I just mean any father, not him, he’s no father. It’s not a shame he hasn’t got him.’

  ‘I just thought you’d be pleased I was doing something productive,’ I say. ‘Something to help Zac.’

  ‘I am!’ Her eyes fill with tears too then, and I feel bad. ‘Just, I like to bake with him, Juliet. It’s our “thing”. It was mine and Jamie’s thing too. Can’t you just let me have that?’

  If it was up to me, and this was about me, the last person I would ask for help from was Jason. Not because he wouldn’t help – because I know he definitely would – but because I feel like, after that year I put him through, I owe him, not the other way round.

  Still, I remind myself as I walk through the revolving doors of Your Fitness on the Saturday morning after the Wednesday I spoke to Mum, this isn’t about me, it’s about Zac, so I can leave my pride and rampant self-sabotage at home.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asks the girl on reception. Her name badge says Hayley. She has a spray tan and eyelashes like dustpan brushes.

  ‘Is Jason Stone around? I’d like to have a word with him if possible.’

  ‘Ooh, sounds ominous. I hope he’s not in trouble,’ she says, turning to consult a rota on a whiteboard behind her. She’s wearing a polo shirt in the uniform turquoise, and black leggings, and she’s so thin she has an actual gap from the tops of her thighs right the way down. How do people get so thin? I wonder. How do they not want to eat, like, all the time?

  ‘He’s in the gym,’ she says, swinging round before I am expecting it so I have to quickly avert my gaze, stop gawping at her thigh gap. ‘But you can go down if you like. It’s fine, I don’t think he’s with a client.’

  I make my way through the labyrinth of passages and various swing doors, past herds of gazelles, with their tiny Lycra and taut brown midriffs. How do you actually get a stomach like that? It seems humanly impossible. You’d have to devote your whole life to it like some people devote their lives to the poor, or climate change. You wouldn’t be able to have a job.

  Eventually I find the gymnasium. There’s a crushing (literally) moment when I try to get in the door as a gym-goer is trying to get out, but we’ve both gone at exactly the same time – it’s merely unfortunate – which means for a few seconds we are actually wedged, until I turn my body in such a way as to un-wedge myself and therefore him. I’m sweating already, just trying to get into a gym. Also, Jason is with a client; he has this guy ‘sitting’ against the wall – the only catch being there is no seat – sweat pouring down his face, legs shaking, as he (Jason) paces forwards and backwards, perfectly calm, almost like he’s goading him!

  ‘One, two, three,’ Jason is counting. ‘Keep holding, keep holding. Four’ – pause – ‘five’ – even longer pause while client blows air out of his mouth, in desperation, spraying bits of sweat everywhere – ‘six …’ I can’t bear to stand back and watch this any longer.

  ‘Hey, that’s not fair. You’re doing even longer pauses between each count.’

  Jason does an about-turn. ‘Jules? Hello. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m asking myself that very same question,’ I say, looking around the place. ‘But you can have a rest now,’ I joke, calling over at the poor guy sitting against the wall with no seat. ‘I’ve saved you from yourself!’

  He stands up and mops his brow with a towel. ‘Actually, I pay him to do this,’ he says flatly. He looks extremely unimpressed with me interrupting his personal training session. He’s also so toned and pumped up I’m half expecting to see a valve on him somewhere, like a lilo.

  Jason wants to laugh, you can tell, but he is nothing if not professional. ‘I’ll be one second, Pete. Do you want to stretch out?’ he says and, like an obedient dog, Pete is down on the floor.

  Jason turns to me, one thick black eyebrow raised. ‘So what’s this all about?’ he says, a smile playing on his lips. ‘Trying to make sure I’ve got no job, as well as no girlfriend?’

  ‘I’m thinking of
joining,’ I deadpan, ignoring his dig. We’re at that stage now, over two years since we both finally accepted I was in no state for a relationship, where we can joke about it. He knows when I said ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ that I wasn’t just trying to flatter him. ‘I’ve signed up for a triathlon.’

  Jason rolls his eyes and glances behind me.

  ‘Is Zac here?’ The way his face lights up at the mention of his name touches me unexpectedly, and I remember with a pang of nostalgia how nice it was, me, Zac and Jase hanging out as a threesome. At least when I wasn’t being nuts, turfing Jason out in the middle of the night due to a sudden body image crisis. (I never could get over the fact he fancied me even though he was a fitness trainer and spent all day with size-ten model types.)

  ‘No, he’s at home,’ I say, ‘but it is about Zac, actually.’

  Jason’s face falls. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Yeah, sort of … Sorry, I didn’t know you had a client.’ I suddenly feel very conspicuous, aware of a line of runners facing me on treadmills, and I begin to feel like a baby elephant being pursued by a pride of cheetahs.

  ‘It’s all right, we finish in five minutes,’ Jason says, glancing back at Pete, his knee up by his chin on the floor. ‘Shall I see you upstairs in the cafe?’

  As I leave I hear Pete say, ‘Is that one of your clients?’

  It’s not often you can read the thoughts of perfect strangers, I think, but this time I can.

  We sit opposite each other in the gym cafe – a far-too-bright room if you ask me, surrounded by floor-length windows that make you feel like you’re in a goldfish bowl, being watched.

  There are only three other people in here but, again, I feel exposed.

  ‘Bullied? What about?’ says Jason, taking a swig of his fat Coke (doesn’t even have to think about his body weight, he lifts so many of the iron kind) and for a fleeting second I wonder if I’ve been making a huge mountain out of a molehill, that I’ve somehow let the school brainwash me, because if not, wasn’t it obvious?