This is a story.
The people who appear here do not exist, and fortunately, none of the things that happen in it are real.
Despite not existing, Michael is its chief protagonist. He is sitting miserably on the steps of the deck-access flats where he lives, sniffling.
Michael is not our story’s hero. He is far too skinny and pinched to be a hero. His nose is leaking a revoltingly viscous green substance, which would make any of the rest of us rush for a tissue, and every now and again he wipes it away on a very shiny sleeve. His toes are cold in his slightly-too-small school shoes, and his bare fingers are so cold that they have become reddened and split around the remaining nubs of his fingernails.
Michael does not know that he is miserable. He is not given to introspection, and it would never occur to him to give a name to the numb-weary-dull feeling that both engulfs him and sits tightly in his chest at this moment. He does not have a key to the locked flat, and he has been waiting on the steps for a very long time.
He is waiting for his mother. He does not know where she is, but he is expecting that she will be back soon. He has been expecting this since five o’clock.
In fact, Michael’s mother is still sitting on a stool at the bar of the Station Hotel. She has almost finished her drink, and she has no more money. This means that we can stop worrying about Michael, because very probably she will be home in the next twenty minutes or so. She has been in the pub for some time. This was mostly at the expense of the two gentlemen who fucked her in the alley behind the betting shop half an hour ago, but they left immediately afterwards, leaving Michael’s mother with a last vodka and orange behind the bar by means of expressing their appreciation.
She is grateful for this consideration. Not many would be thoughtful enough for that.
Michael hears her coming long before he sees her. He recognises the sound of her slightly shambling walk, and knows from the sound of her footsteps exactly how drunk she is. She is not as bad as the worst times, but he knows already that she is so drunk that she will not have thought to bring pizza, or kebabs for dinner, and very probably she will be so confused and clumsy that she will struggle to find her house key.
She staggers a little, and leans on him as he fishes in her bag with his cold fingers, where eventually he unearths the key. I will not tell you about the detritus of condom wrappers, stiff tissues, empty matchboxes and smeary, sticky make-up that he has had to rummage through to find it. The lock is unyielding, and the key sticks. Michael has to lift it slightly and use both hands to persuade it to turn, but in the end it does, and they cross the threshold into their flat.
The flat is dark, so even though I expect you would be interested to look around, we cannot see it. We will not be able to see it until tomorrow, because the last fifty pence went into the meter yesterday.
This is no great loss, because it is not beautiful. Even in the dark we can tell that there are no carpets, because Michael’s school shoes clatter on the floorboards, and although last year the walls were painted in clean magnolia paint by Two Counties’ Housing Association, they are otherwise bare apart from a coffee stain and some greasy splashes in the kitchen and an abundance of dirty fingerprints everywhere else.
I am pleased to be able to tell you that it is not cold in the flat, even though it is November. This is because included in the council-subsidised rent, the block of flats has a central heating system that is switched on in October and off again in May, regardless of the weather.
Michael’s mother collapses on to the worn sofa and tries to pull Michael down with her. He knows that she wants to clutch him against her and tell him how much she loves him, but he does not like the feeling of her long fingernails scraping against his ears and scalp, and in any case, he needs to visit the bathroom. He has not eaten a very great deal today, but it needs to come out all the same, and he has been feeling uncomfortable for a while.
He bounds along the corridor and into the bathroom, where he does not need light to sit down on the cracked seat and to hunt around his feet for the old towel that he uses to wipe his nether regions.
The flush is not working very well, and after a couple of unsuccessful attempts he gives up. This would be an unpleasant sort of surprise for most people when they come into their bathroom, but it is unlikely that Michael’s mother will notice, or think much of it if she does.
Michael has had enough of today, and does not go back to the sitting room. His bedroom might be more accurately termed a mattress room, because this is all that it contains, apart from a scattering of unwashed clothes and a box which houses his collection of old comics.
The mattress is on the floor in the corner, covered by a very grey duvet. He has not done a wee in his sleep for over a week, so it is perfectly dry, and familiarity with the air’s special tang means that his eyes do not water the way that ours might, if we were to be invited to visit him in the mattress-room.
Michael crawls under the duvet and one sore little hand burrows into his trousers for his willie, and the other under the pillow for George.
George is another important protagonist in our story, because he is Michael’s best friend. This arrangement is made possible by George’s most obvious advantage over any other potential contenders for that title, which is that he is a stuffed toy and has no sense of smell. Michael has had George for a friend for his entire life, for so long that he does not remember where or how he got him, but actually George once belonged to his mother’s brother, the dead one, not the one in prison, and was given to Michael by his grandmother in his first weeks of life, even before he went on the At Risk register.
Michael likes George very much. I think it would be safe to say that Michael loves George, if he were to give the feeling a name. He does not know that it is love that he feels. He thinks that love is the feeling he has for his mother. This feeling is a blind mix of longing and resentment, adoration and anxiety, and might or might not deserve the title of love, depending on your opinions about loving people.
Michael’s feeling for George has none of those elements. George is soft and warm and safe, and predictably there. In all of Michael’s short life he has never once been without George, even when he went to foster care for a brief period. The fostering lady took George away and washed him, but when Michael came to bed George had dried already and was waiting for him, smelling of Daz and feeling somehow crisper than usual.
Michael likes to rub the velvety top of George’s black head against the corner of his top lip, which is one of his favourite good feelings. Sometimes he sucks it and feels the tiny hairs of the fibre brush against his tongue. This makes George feel very close and special, as if he is inside Michael’s chest and not just his mouth, so that Michael is warmed and strong and sleepy from the inside out.
Michael sucks the top of George’s head and goes to sleep.
This is a story about Michael, not his mother, but for those who are interested, she sleeps on the sofa, where she wakes at almost lunchtime the next day, with a raging headache and an agonising longing for more vodka, poor lady. Few awakenings can be less pleasant.
Michael is not at home to see this, nor to watch her crashing around helplessly, desperately hunting for any stray cash that might be converted into a headache remedy, because by then he has gone to school.
There are no clocks in the house, apart from the one on Michael’s mother’s mobile telephone, but Michael knows that if he gets up one minute after he hears Mr. Gregory’s footsteps tapping down the deck-access landing outside, he will have enough time to walk to school without hurrying, and be there in time for Breakfast Club.
It is Thursday, so there will be sausages and tomato sauce.
He is already dressed, which saves a great deal of time, but as he bends forward for his shoes, he feels a crackling in his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper about which he had entirely forgotten.
Michael is not very good at reading yet, but he remembers that Miss Fielding told them what it said, and with a stubby finger, touches the large words that he knows say
Show and Tell
I expect you already know what Michael is going to take for Show and Tell.
Of course, it has got to be George, because Michael owns almost nothing else. All the same, Michael does not think of him straight away, and his eyes run anxiously around the empty room, wondering if he might somehow show an empty pizza box or pair of frayed jeans.
When he thinks of George he does not, at first, believe this to be a good idea. Michael has no bag, and he does not feel sure that it would be sensible to try to carry George around with him all day. George might get lost, or fall in a puddle, or be taken by one of the other children. All the same, Michael, who has never considered this before, suddenly feels that it might be nice to have George’s comforting presence by his side in school, his velvety head available for an emergency suck for the whole day.
He picks George up, and in a moment of inspiration, unbuttons his shirt and stuffs George into the waistband of his trousers. He buttons his shirt again, and George is there, half-in, half-out of his trousers, but held tight and invisible against Michael’s body underneath his shirt.
Michael sets off for school, trying to adapt his body to the peculiar lumpy feeling of having George underneath his shirt. It is a good day, because Mrs. Freeman has made too many sausages, and Michael has four, with toast and tomato sauce and a glass of milk which gives him a white moustache to wipe off on his shiny sleeve. Then Miss Fielding calls their names and they sit cross-legged on the floor in a circle for Show and Tell.
Michael holds George close to him, wrapping his arms around their two bodies together, and listens as the other children get up one by one, to stand next to Miss Fielding and show their things to the class.
Carolyn Maddox has shown her doll, who is called Princess Barbie, and then it is Michael’s turn. Miss Fielding looks at him doubtfully, because she does not really expect that Michael will have brought anything to show. There is going to be a Case Conference next week, and Miss Fielding is thinking what you are probably thinking, which is that it can’t come soon enough, because she feels quite sure in her own mind that the mother is drinking again.
Hence, she is surprised when Michael scrambles to his feet and comes to the front. Miss Fielding moves away a little, because although Michael is only a little boy, the smell that comes with him is acid, and as dark and overpowering as a midnight drowning.
Michael tugs George out of his trousers and upwards through the neck of his shirt. Miss Fielding looks at him for a moment, uncertain what he has brought, and smiles encouragingly, but Michael cannot think of anything to say. He thrusts George towards Miss Fielding and on to her corduroy lap, and waits.
Miss Fielding does not speak for a moment. She looks at George, and then back at Michael, and after a moment she says I think perhaps we won’t show this just now, I shall just put him in my desk where he will be safe.
She stands up and sweeps George away with her and that is the end of Show and Tell and the start of maths.
At lunchtime, Michael hovers outside the staffroom, to where he knows Miss Fielding has removed the limp body of George, now thoroughly wrapped in two carrier bags. She has a high, clear voice, and Michael can hear her talking to Mr. Tomlinson inside.
Quite shocking, she is saying, so upsetting to see. Filthy thing as well, probably out of a dustbin and totally inappropriate.
Michael does not know what inappropriate is, although he has a vague feeling that it might be something to do with kissing.
Have to do something, says Mr. Tomlinson, what if a black child saw it on the way home.
Miss Fielding does not come out before the bell rings, and so Michael has to wait for the end of school, with an empty space under his shirt and in the waistband of his trousers where George was.
Miss Fielding is expecting him, and smiles her brightest smile as he approaches her desk.
Just wait until the others are gone, Michael, she says, and we can talk about it.
She clasps her hands on her desk, and then unclasps them again. She does this twice, and Michael watches her and waits.
The thing is, she says, in her kindest voice, the thing is that we don’t allow things like that these days, because some people find them offensive. It could be very hurtful indeed, you know, if some of the children saw it. I have talked to Mr. Tomlinson, and I’m afraid we can’t give it back to you, but I have a wonderful surprise. We have had a look in the cupboard where we keep the presents for the children for Christmas, and we have decided to give you a very special present right now.
She opens her desk and brings out a soft stuffed rabbit. It has enormous brown eyes and shiny, floppy ears. Michael looks at it.
Where is George? he wants to say, but he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at the rabbit and back to Miss Fielding.
Miss Fielding gives it a little push towards him.
Go on, she says, it’s yours.
Michael tries to talk, but the words that come out of his mouth are choked and tiny.
Want George, he says.
Miss Fielding looks sympathetic.
I know, darling, she says, but really you can’t. People don’t have them any more nowadays. They aren’t very nice. It wouldn’t be very kind to the other children to let them see it, and we have to think of everybody, don’t we? Have the rabbit. It’s beautiful and clean, see its lovely silky ears.
Michael takes the rabbit by the ear and picks it up. He holds it in his hands for a moment, feeling its nylon softness. Then he puts it back on the desk and walks away.
Miss Fielding calls after him to ask his mother to give her a ring, but Michael just keeps on walking, until he has left our story behind him.
George’s part in the story ends two days later, when he is dropped into the skip outside Miss Fielding’s house. Miss Fielding has not expected Michael’s mother to telephone in relation to the incident, demanding the immediate return of George, and no surprise awaits her here. She is having a new kitchen put in, and the skip is the nearest repository when she empties her car after she has been to Tesco.
I am pleased to be able to tell you that on the following Sunday evening she is inspired to write an article for the TES about the small pockets of racism still to be discovered in primary schools, and effective methods of addressing them with warmth and empathy when dealing with very young children.
The TES pays her a hundred and fifty pounds, which makes her very happy indeed.
She spends it on a cerise coloured kettle from Le Creuset, which matches the edging on her dinner plates.
She lives happily ever after.
What a good thing she does not exist.