Black Chalk

‘When I was little, when I was scared of the dark in my bedroom at night, sometimes I would count up to a hundred. And if nothing bad happened before I got all the way there, I’d tell myself everything was OK, I was safe from the monsters. But to make this work, I had to offer something in return, like a sacrifice. Very small sacrifices. If I didn’t get told off at school or hit by a foster-parent, I had to cut my hand with a penknife or stab my arm with a compass. And then, when I was eleven, I thought up this way bigger deal than anything I’d come up with before. I decided I’d write five hundred poems, I was always good at poetry at school when I was little. So this deal was with God, I was daring Him to exist, daring Him to let me go through with it. Anyway, I made a wish that, before I got to the five-hundredth poem, my father would find me. But I had to put something on the line. So I made this threat . . . Well, you know what that was, I don’t need to say it out loud.’ Dee was quiet for a while and then quickly she rubbed Chad’s forearm as if it needed warming. ‘So there you go,’ she said, ‘that’s one of my very best secrets. And I think you deserve to hold on to it in return for so many of yours.’

Chad tilted his head so his temple was resting on the top of Dee’s skull. ‘Did you ever try finding him, isn’t there anything you can do?’

‘Oh yes, we orphans have rights these days, not like poor Oliver,’ said Dee. ‘Apparently my mother refused to say anything. No one knew if she was seeing anyone at the time she got pregnant. All I can do now is wait.’

Staircase six was just a short way across a cobbled rise. They felt the press of the stones through the soles of their shoes. Dee’s head rocked on Chad’s shoulder and a loose hair made him want to sneeze but he didn’t brush it away.

He opened the door and gestured, after you. Dee went in and they climbed up through the creaks to the room at the top.

XLV

XLV(i)

Four hours on the road and we find the place without taking any wrong turns. My driver pulls onto the unpaved drive.

It is not a long driveway and the house is modest. Especially modest when you consider the acres of land all around. Two floors, gable-fronted, fifteen yards of porch. The wooden siding is cedar clapboard painted grey with no trim.

Soon after we pull up, before I have a chance to get out of the car, the front doors open. Wooden door, screen door. The screen clatters shut on its springs.

The man who comes out of the house is in overalls and an old flannel shirt. He wears a frayed cap that displays on its brow the Ford logo, florid swan, blue pond. And he carries a shotgun. But the way he handles it, knuckles pink and loose, the gun is not threatening but simply a presence, a yard of potential. He stops and stands on the wooden steps that descend from the porch. And then he spits.

This is perfect, this is just how I imagined it. I want to clap my hands with glee but decide against any sudden movements.

I open the passenger door and step out slowly. The sunlight gently stirs the pig-shit in the air. Palms showing, I raise my hands to my chest the way Jack used to do a hundred times a day. And then the brightness makes me shield my eyes.

Are you Mr Mason?

Who wants to know? the farmer replies.

A friend of your son, I say.

You English? the farmer says.

That’s right, I say. We went to college together.

And your friend in the car there? the farmer says. He go to Pitt too?