The chicken fixed the young boy with a beady, malevolent eye, scratching a scaly foot in the hard dust. Colour drained from the boy’s slender freckled face and he shifted slightly, running an unsteady hand through his thick, sandy hair.
‘Robert! Robert, where are you lad?’
The boy gratefully dropped the bag of grain and sprinted back to the old farmhouse.
‘Lad, you’re sweating. You alright?’ Kenneth rubbed a calloused hand over his stubble; it was clear the boy was agitated. The early May sun was unusually strong and burned into Kenneth’s transparent white hair revealing a taut, pink scalp, like new skin. His homely face was screwed up against the glare. ‘Want a drink lad?’
Robert nodded. His mouth was tacky and his heart still racing.
The old man strode into the back door of the rambling house and Robert followed. On the cool flagstones of the wide kitchen, Robert pulled up an ornate wooden chair and let it catch him. The rich aroma of antique wood filled his nostrils. Kenneth produced a can of lager from an incongruous American style fridge and offered it. Robert hesitated, his hand hovering over the can.
‘It’s alright lad. I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.’ Kenneth’s laugh was rich and old. Robert snatched can.
‘How old are you now lad?’
‘fifteen.’
‘Time flies. I can remember you so high.’ Kenneth mimed the height of a small child. ‘D’you like school then lad?’
Robert raised his eyebrows.
‘Suppose not.’
Kenneth cracked open his beer and looked at Robert thoughtfully. A vague impression of the boy’s father could be seen in his delicate features. Other than knowing his father, Kenneth really didn’t know much about the boy. Robert reminded him of a Jack Russell terrier, small and fierce, all bark and bravado. He recalled the same bravado in Robert’s father. They had lost touch when Kenneth had retired from the building business they shared five years previously. Some months ago they had bumped into one another in the village and sparked up a conversation as naturally as if they had seen each other the day before. That was how Robert had come to be on the farm. Not that it was really a farm as such, a few chickens, a couple of cows; it was really more of a hobby than a business. Since the heart attack Kenneth had had to take his foot off the gas and it wasn’t easy.
As dusty sunlight filtered into the kitchen through the heavy framed windows, Robert looked up and met Kenneth’s gaze. Kenneth sipped self consciously at his beer, looking past the glowering teenager, studying intently an imaginary spot on the wall behind him. They shared an uncomfortable silence, Robert nursing his can, now equally interested in a spot on his own shoe. He wondered what Darryl was doing now. It wasn’t fair, Darryl got to spend a week photocopying and running for sandwiches at the solicitor’s office in the village. He was probably in the toilets right now wanking over that blonde receptionist, not listening to some old tosser witter on about chickens and bricklaying. If only he’d decided on his work experience sooner, there might have been something decent left.
Kenneth’s soft, rich Yorkshire accent invaded his thoughts.
‘D’you fancy a break from the animals Robert?’
Robert hunched his shoulders. ‘Whatever.’
‘I thought we could do some work on the extension. I’ve started a bit of restoration since the weather’s got warmer. Could do with a hand.’
Robert started up from his chair.
‘Finish your drink first lad. No rush.’
Kenneth disappeared into another room whilst Robert finished the last of his beer. He slumped in the chair, he wanted to sleep. His limbs tingled; he vaguely felt that they weren’t attached to him anymore. Kenneth returned to the room fifteen minutes later with a set of paint splattered blue overalls.
‘Sorry, took me ages to find a spare set for you lad.’
Robert was heavy lidded, flushed. The old chair dwarfed his small frame. Kenneth wondered whether the beer had been such a good idea after all.
‘You alright lad?’
Robert nodded.
‘Doesn’t your dad let you drink?’
‘Course he does. I’m not drunk.’
‘I didn’t say that. I just……’
Kenneth sighed and handed Robert the overalls. Robert took them and mumbled something, an indistinct acknowledgement. His dad would be phoning later to find out how he had behaved.
‘Come on then lad.’
Robert skulked round with Kenneth to the Victorian extension that Kenneth had been working on during the previous summer. The rest of the farmhouse was much older, probably sixteenth century. Kenneth couldn’t remember, his ex wife had sorted all the paperwork when they bought it and he hadn’t taken much notice at the time. Scaffolding had been neatly staged up the back of the outcrop of building.
‘Of course,’ Kenneth began to explain, ‘I could have asked your Dad to give me a hand with this, but I quite like to work myself on it. Keeps me active, you know.’
Shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun Robert squinted up at the web of scaffolding. Kenneth almost caught a fleeting look of enthusiasm.
‘I’ll go up. There’s a few odd and sods down here that need to be sorted. Come here and I’ll show you…..’ For only a second Kenneth had turned away to a pile of cement bags and tools, ready to show Robert what needed to be done. When he turned back Robert wasn’t there. He looked around and saw Robert already up the bottom ladder of the scaffolding.
‘What are you doing? Come down lad.’
Robert wasn’t listening. He lunged gleefully at the top rungs. Kenneth stood transfixed. Already in his head, he was running through conversations, explanations to paramedics, police, Robert’s dad.
‘Why the hell did I give him that can?’ He muttered. For the first time ever he was glad he didn’t have children of his own. He struggled to speak calmly.
‘Come on lad, I need you down here.’
Robert gazed down at him from the first platform for an indecisive moment, and then turned to scale the second ladder. Not knowing what else to do, Kenneth steeled his lithe old frame and began the ascent after him At least he could keep an eye on the boy up there, stop him from mucking around.
Almost immediately his breath evaporated and a sickeningly familiar crushing sensation invaded his chest. He tried to block out the pain. Robert was still clambering further up the scaffolding like a monkey. The sun burned down. Kenneth’s palms were greased with clammy sweat, the vice around his chest tightened, it was almost impossible to grip the ladder.
A triumphant Robert beamed down from the top of the scaffolding at where Kenneth had been below. Only now he wasn’t there. A white haired figure was on the ground, motionless, limbs splayed awkwardly. Then, without knowing how he had got there Robert was back on the parched grass kneeling beside Kenneth, staring, not daring to touch, as though Kenneth were an antique he might break.
‘Mr Lewis?’
He half whispered, like a child whispers to a sleeping parent. He didn’t expect a reply, almost didn’t want one.
Though Robert had never seen a dead man before, he felt an awful conviction that this was what it would look like. In blind panic he found himself running – it didn’t matter where. He ran through the farmyard, past the sneering chickens, scrambling awkwardly over the heavy gates into the woods beyond, sunlight breaking over his face in waves as he weaved through the ancient trees. His ears were filled with the roaring of blood rushing round his young veins, his head muddled by a million incomprehensible thoughts. In a clearing he stopped, panting, hair slick with sweat, eyes filled with self pitying tears. He held his face up to the angry blue sky, waiting for it to fall in.
CHARLES DICKENS - Oliver Twist
LUKE SUTHERLAND - Venus as a Boy
KEANE
