‘Tonight’s the night,’ he said. ‘Tonight, the baby will come.’
And only once everything was over and my little brother was sleeping in his cot, would he fetch me. I looked at the toys Father and I had made for him together—a pull cart, a rocking horse and a castle—sawn and assembled from the planks he hoarded in the shed. Painted with a home-made mixture of birch leaves, beetroot, coffee and egg, prepared in glass jars by Mother. For the horse’s mane, I had searched the fences for wool, which I knew sometimes got caught on sharp protrusions; rubbing against them, the sheep would leave behind tufts of wool like small unravelled clouds. The horse was a white stallion, the mount of knights and princes. I watched the dust in the pillar of sunlight slanting into my room from the window and promised out loud —and for the thousandth time—to look after my brother, to teach him everything I knew, to take him out to play when the sun shone, play games with him at the kitchen table when it rained and protect him from whatever or whoever wanted to hurt him. When my father finally came upstairs, I could tell all was well. His eyes shone. He put out his hand and hugged me. My hand in his, we went downstairs side by side. I bumped my elbow on the banister, but ignored the pang of pain. This was a happy day.
One Saturday toward noon, wanting to help my mother who was preoccupied with my brother, I tried to lift a pot of potatoes from the stove with two thick oven mitts and scalded my arm. I had turned my face away from the hot steam escaping from under the lid and hadn’t noticed the pot was tilting. The lid slid off and a slosh of boiling water splashed over my arm. I dropped the pot, my scream cutting through my parents’ peaceful Saturday routine. A glass bowl toppled over and smashed to pieces on the floor. Mother wailed, Father quickly carried me outside and dipped my arm into the rainwater barrel, up to my shoulder joint. He was holding me like that when I fainted. I don’t know how much time had passed when I came round in the armchair, my mother carefully bandaging my skinned hand that was smeared with a tar-like herbal ointment. There was no supper that evening. When she was finished, my mother washed me, dressed me up and combed my hair, and I walked the long way to the doctor with Father, light-headed and with my pain-free hand in his.
The waiting room was empty, the ceiling high. The chairs creaked at the slightest movement. I counted the heartbeats of the throbbing pain in my hand. At two-hundred-and-fifty-seven, the door opened. I stood up and followed the doctor across a stream of blue tiles to the other side of the corridor. Father closed the door.
‘Let’s have a look at your arm,’ the doctor said to me, removing the bandages. He snorted when he saw the dark-grey ointment and inhaled its stench.
‘What is this?’ he asked Father.
‘A herbal ointment his mother made.’ The ointment was so thick and viscous the doctor wasn’t able to examine the burn. He turned to a cabinet and took out a tube of cream.
‘Apply this daily,’ he told Father in a stern voice. ‘For a week.’
He turned to face me.
‘What’s your name?’
‘David.’
‘Well, David. Come back next week,’ he said.
I nodded. He fixed me with his stare until I was so uncomfortable my cheeks started burning with embarrassment. He had large, brown eyes. Hairs curling at his temples.
Father settled the bill.
-
THE CHURCH CLOCK chimed six times. It was the first of September. My first day at work. Unfortunately, I was even more exhausted than when I had climbed into bed the night before. I would have had to get a grip, and make myself presentable. Everyone knows a good first impression is half the battle. My skin and hair felt greasy. A ray of sunlight crashed into the room like a silent battering ram, and in the brightness of morning, I suddenly noticed a large, green patch of mould on the wall. Repulsive stuff. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? I had time to spare and decided to look for some water and a rag or brush to scrub those armour-plated monsters from the wall. I put my shoes on and walked down the garden path, which was starting to look like a game trail, to the hand pump. To my annoyance, it was out of order, though I could hear a gurgling, sucking sound after pumping for five minutes. I cursed and went inside, aware that I would have to go to the school unwashed and certain that the Sisters—and even the boys—would jeer at my slovenly appearance. It was just as well I used some of the money Father and Mother had given me to buy a new suit. It would go some way to saving the situation. I was too nervous to eat a bite. Unwashed and with a rumbling stomach, but prepared for battle, I went to the boys’ school.
I knew they would already be waiting for me. Before going in, I dragged my fingers through my spiky hair, which I suspected the wind had blown into a jumbled mess on my way to school. An insect landed on my forehead, a daddy longlegs. Picking it up gingerly between thumb and index finger so as not to squash it, I threw it up in the air. I thanked whichever power had allowed me to get rid of the creature in time to safeguard my solemn entry. As I opened the door, a thin line of sweat trickled down my temple and lost itself in the jungle of my side whisker.
At that moment, the church bells chimed. I shut the door and stood for a moment, awkward in my suit. Sixteen eyes stared at me: challenging, shy. Marcus smiled. I marvelled at how calm and modest the boy always looked, and how, from the first moment, it had kindled a feeling of solidarity in me. Walking to my desk, I took care not to stumble over the stone step of the raised platform. Their heads turned to follow me. Dropping my schoolbooks on the desk with an impressive thump, I pointed at the cracked window pane.
‘We shall talk about this in a minute,’ I said. ‘First, I’d like to know who you are. Each of you will stand up in turn and tell me four things. One: first name. Two: surname. Three: your father’s profession. Four: your average marks of the past year.’
‘Whuk?!’ exclaimed the wiry beanpole with the shock of hair on the second row.
For a moment, I wavered between going over and boxing his ears for his insolent question and pretending I hadn’t heard it. I explained again what I wanted to know, in a sterner voice than before.
‘Whuk?!’ he said again. I came down from the platform, stood next to his desk, ordered him to stand up. He stood up hesitantly.
‘Jef. Schyttecatte. Contractor. And I didn’t understand the last thing we had to say.’
Jef was the tallest of the class, and tough-looking.
‘Mr Schyttecatte,’ I repeated slowly and gravely. ‘Truly a fitting name.’
The boys sniggered. Jef eyed me with suspicion. He didn’t know what would come next, and whether I was making fun of him. The confrontation with the toughest of the pack—a textbook case. His exercise book lay on his desk. When I lifted my hand to pick it up, he made a movement that thwarted my plans: almost imperceptibly, he planted his feet further apart and tilted his head toward me. It dawned on me he expected a thrashing. Did his reputation depend on it? Up to me, then, to disappoint his expectation, especially since I’d have bet anything he would take the beating without batting an eyelid. He looked at me: strong jawline, lips clamped shut like a boxer’s. Besides, I didn’t want to hit anyone.
‘What does “whuk” actually mean?’ I asked.
I had again thrown him off balance. The others, too, looked surprised. After a short pause, he stammered, ‘Whuk … er … that means that … er … I weren’t sure ’bout the last thing I were meant to say.’
‘Ah. Well, Mr Schyttecatte, you have taught me a West Flemish