Dr Peacock smiled. ‘Ah. I remember birthdays. Jelly and ice cream and birthday cake. Not that I tend to celebrate nowadays. August the twenty-fourth, isn’t it? Mine was on the twenty-third. I’d forgotten until you reminded me.’ Now he looked thoughtfully at the boy. ‘I think we should mark the occasion,’ he said. ‘I can’t claim to offer much in the way of refreshments, but I do have tea, and some iced buns, and anyway—’ At this he grinned, suddenly looking mischievous, like a young boy wearing a false beard and a very convincing old-man’s disguise: ‘We Virgos should stick together.’
It doesn’t sound much, does it? A cup of Earl Grey, an iced bun and the stub of a candle burning on top. But to blueeyedboy that day stands out in memory like a gilded minaret against a barren landscape. He remembers every detail now with perfect, heightened precision: the little blue roses on the cup; the sound of spoon against china; the amber colour and scent of the tea; the angle of the sunlight. Little things, but their poignancy is like a reminder of innocence. Not that he ever was innocent; but on that day he approached it; and looking back, he understands that this was the last of his childhood, slipping like sand through his fingers —
Post comment:
ClairDeLune: I’m glad to see you exploring this theme in more detail, blueeyedboy. Your central character often appears as cold and emotionless, and I like the way you hint at his hidden vulnerability. I’m sending you a reading-list of books you may find useful. Perhaps you’d like to make a few notes before our next meeting. Hope to see you back here soon!
chrysalisbaby: wish i could be there too (cries)
13
You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy posting on :
Posted at: 01.45 on Tuesday, February 5
Status: public
Mood: predatory
Listening to: Nirvana: ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’
After that, Dr Peacock became a kind of hero to blueeyedboy. It would have been surprising had he not: Dr Peacock was everything he admired. Dazzled by his personality, hungry for his approval, he lived for those brief interludes, his visits to the Mansion; hanging on to every word Dr Peacock addressed to him —
All blueeyedboy remembers now are fragments of benevolence. A walk through the rose garden; a cup of Earl Grey; a word exchanged in passing. His need had not yet turned to greed, or his affection to jealousy. And Dr Peacock had the gift of making them all feel special — not just Ben, but his brothers, too; even Ma, who was hard as nails, was not beyond the reach of his charm.
Then came the year of the entrance exam. Benjamin was ten years old. Three and a half years had passed since his first visit to the Mansion. Over that time, many things had changed. He was no longer bullied at school (since the compass incident, the others had learnt to leave him alone), but he was unhappy, nevertheless. He had acquired the reputation of being stuck-up — a cardinal sin in Malbry — which, added to his early status as a freak and a queer, amounted to social suicide.
It didn’t help that, thanks to Ma, word of his gift had got around. As a result, even the teachers had come to think of him differently — some of them with resentment. A different child is a difficult child, or so thought the teachers at Abbey Road, and, far from being curious, many were suspicious, some openly sarcastic, as if his Ma’s expectations and his own inability to conform to the mediocrity of the place were somehow an attack on them.
Ma, and her expectations. Grown stronger than ever, of course, now that the gift was official, now that there was a name for it — an official name, a syndrome, that smelt of sickness and sanctity, with its furry dark-grey sibilants and its fruity Catholic undertint.
Not that it mattered, he told himself. Another year and he would be free. Free to attend St Oswald’s, which Ma had painted in such attractive colours for him that he was almost taken in, and of which Dr Peacock spoke with such affection that he had put his fears aside and thrown himself into the task of becoming what Dr Peacock expected of him: to be the son he’d never had, a chip, as he said, off the old block —
Sometimes Benjamin wondered what would happen if he failed the entrance exam. But since Ma had long ago come to believe that the exam was merely a formality, a series of documents to sign before he entered the hallowed gates, he knew that his worries were best left unvoiced.
His brothers were both at Sunnybank Park. Sunnybanker. Rhymes with wanker, as he used to say to them, which made Brendan laugh but infuriated Nigel, who — when he could catch him — would sometimes pin him between his knees and punch him till he cried, shouting — Fuck you, you little freak! — until at last he’d exhausted himself, or Ma heard and came running —
Nigel was fifteen, and hated him. He’d hated him from the very first, but by then his hatred had blossomed. Perhaps he was jealous of the attention his brother received; perhaps it was merely testosterone. In any case, the more he grew, the more he turned his whole being towards making his brother suffer, regardless of the consequences.
Ben was skinny and undersized. Nigel was already big for his age, sheathed in adolescent muscle, and he had all kinds of virtually untraceable ways of inflicting pain — Chinese burns, nips and pinches, sly shin-kicks under the table — though when he got angry, he forgot discretion and, without any fear of retribution, laid into his brother with fists and feet —
Telling tales only made it worse. Nigel seemed oblivious to punishment: it simply fed his resentment. Beatings made him worse. If he was sent to bed hungry, he would force-feed his brothers toothpaste, or dirt, or spiders, carefully harvested in the attic and put aside for just such an eventuality.
Brendan, always the cautious one, accepted the natural order of things. Perhaps he was brighter than they’d thought. Perhaps he feared retribution. He was also ridiculously squeamish, and if Nigel or Ben got a hiding from Ma, he would cry just as much as either of them — but at least he wasn’t a threat, and sometimes even shared his sweets with Ben when Nigel was safely out of the way.
Brendan ate a lot of sweets, and now it was really beginning to show. A soft white roll of underbelly hung over the waistband of his donkey-brown cords, and his chest was plump and girly beneath his baggy brown jumpers, and although he and Ben might have had a chance if they’d stood together against Nigel, Brendan never had the nerve. And so Ben learnt to look after himself, and to run when his brother in black was around.
Other things had changed as well. Blueeyedboy was growing up. Always prone to headaches, now he began to suffer from migraines, too, which began as strobing lights shot through with lurid colours. After that would come the tastes and smells, stronger than any he’d known before: rotten eggs; creosote; the lurking stink of the vitamin drink; and then, at last, the sickness, the pain, rolling over him like a rock, burying him alive.
He couldn’t sleep; couldn’t think; could hardly concentrate at school. As if that wasn’t bad enough, his speech, which had always been hesitant, had developed into a full-blown stammer. Blueeyedboy knew what it was. His gift — his sensitivity — had now become a poison to him. A poison creeping slowly through his body, changing him as it went from healthy, wholesome blood and bone to something with which even Ma found it difficult to sympathize.