PRETENDING THINGS

According to Grandma, the weatherman had promised Julian a white birthday. Julian listened to her and smiled. He knew perfectly well that the weatherman didn’t know him, or that it was his birthday tomorrow, but that you had to pretend sometimes, it made things more interesting. Just like Grandma wasn’t his real grandmother, that he and Katie just called her that because it seemed polite, and anyway, they didn’t know what else they could call her. She was his aunt’s mother; so all his cousins called her Grandma when they came home from college. Once Katie and he started coming here for their boarding school holidays, they did as well.

Anyway, the weatherman was wrong. Julian was pleased, because if it had snowed, he wouldn’t have been able to play with the one present he’d got that he really wanted. A real full-sized brown leather rugby ball with crisscrossed yellow laces. He’d have liked the signature stamped on it to be Hastie’s, the Scottish scrum half’s, not that of the English captain, but it didn’t matter too much, it would soon wear off, and the main thing was that it was a proper ball, not a kid’s one. His other presents had been alright, but the ball was the best one. It was funny how his parents had known what he wanted even though they hadn’t seen him for so long, especially cause he’d only told his aunt, hadn’t mentioned it to them. Everyone else took so long with their breakfast, but it was worth waiting quietly, because at the end, his aunt said he was excused from helping. “You go play with your toys”. He didn’t bother explaining to her about how the ball wasn’t a toy.

He was tying his bootlaces when she shouted out. “But Julian, if you’re going to play outside, make sure you put on your tracksuit”. His new tracksuit was from her and his uncle, and he’d thought about putting it on but decided against in case it got dirty. Now she’d told him to though, he couldn’t really be blamed. It only just pulled on over his boots, he hadn’t realized it had a zip. She might have said earlier, before he’d got started. But it was only a little rip, the sort you were bound to get playing a rough game like rugby.

He barely acknowledged the roar of the Murrayfield crowd as he carefully went down the slippery steps to the lawn. But in his head he could hear the familiar accent. ‘That’s young Julian McEnery leading them out, there’s a wealth of talent in this Scottish side’. He kicked the ball up high, but well away from the telephone wires, and other players joined in, Hastie, and Chisholm, all the Scottish team, as he ran backwards and forwards on the frost-covered grass. Occasionally, when the ball bounced awkwardly into the flowerbeds or soared with a slice into the huge rhododendron bushes, the commentator would have to adjust his commentary in mid sentence. ‘A fine kick, no, a bad kick by the English fullback. He’s under tremendous pressure from the Scottish forwards, almost relentless pressure’. And the search in the rhododendrons would become a full scale scrummage, before suddenly the ball would emerge again, on the Scottish side, and be worked swiftly across the lawn for another stunning, defence splitting try. Halftime came with a shout from Katie at the back door. “Julian. Julian, it’s elevenses”. He responded to the whistle, aware that despite Scotland’s superior play, there were only a few points in it. There was still all to play for in the second half. The crowd was in for a treat, he liked close matches.

His aunt had lit the fire in the sitting room. “Hello, old birthday boy, having a good game. We’re right out of logs under the stairs. Would you be a darling and get some in later?” Julian blushed a bit and nodded. Auntie Brenda started making a shopping list as they drank their coffees or squash. “After lunch, Katie and I are going into town. It’ll be a bit boring, we’ve got to get all the food for Christmas”. She paused. “Do you want to come Julian?” After he shook his head he reckoned his aunt winked at Katie and tapped her watch with her pen, but he still didn’t see why Katie started giggling like that. She was silly. Shopping was boring.

He was already playing after lunch when he heard the car drive off. The commentator almost made it an ambulance taking away an injured player, but it didn’t really fit. The wind was stronger now, it affected the high kicks, making them more difficult to judge, and he completely missed one, it swirled at the last minute, and bounced right up into his face. He felt the blood rush to his nose, but he threw his head back and gave an enormous sniff that seemed to stop it. ‘An awkward one for McEnery that’, he said, still sniffing hard. ‘But look how well he’s taken it, there’s a lot of courage in this wee lad’. And to make up for it he gave the biggest kick of the afternoon, putting it right up there for his forwards to follow, a magnificent kick that meant an almost certain try. Except as it started to fall, it hit full on top of one of the telephone wires, it made a real twanging noise, and the wire stretched down and then whipped upwards and over the next one. Julian let the ball fall, watching the wires in horror, hoping against hope to see them disentangle, but they finally stopped moving and stayed stranded together.

By the time Auntie Brenda and Katie returned, the log cupboard was crammed absolutely full. And he’d tidied his bedroom. He’d folded up all the bits of wrapping paper, and put them under the square chunk of clear plastic with the elephant in it that Katie had given him. “I’m very sorry”, he said again, after his aunt had tried for a while to get the dialing tone. “It was the wind, it just suddenly blew it”. It was worse, much worse, telling Uncle Don. Uncle Don looked straight at him the whole time while Julian tried to own up. But even though Uncle Don spoke quite sternly, he didn’t take the ball away. He said that Julian ought to play out on the playing field, which was near the house. And he wasn’t going to punish him, because the most important thing was that Julian had told them. If he ever did anything stupid, “the right thing is to tell us about it”. Julian still kept well out of the way when the telephone man came. Just in case. He watched him from his bedroom window untangling the wires, and then listened from the landing at the top of the stairs as he tested the phone. But after he’d gone, his aunt just laughed and said, “All fixed”.

Julian did go out once to the playing field that week. But he didn’t enjoy it, there were other boys who all knew each other and just wore their jeans. He felt a bit stupid kicking a ball round on his own. And how were they to know that when he dropped it, he was one of the English players. And down here in Sussex, they wouldn’t agree anyway, wouldn’t understand that in rugby he supported Scotland, cause they were the best, but when he ran he was English. The English were best at running; in fact, he didn’t know any Scottish runners. Julian wasn’t particularly good at running, at school he did the cross countries when he had to, or running as punishment. Being good at that meant hiding and walking, and not getting caught. But here he ran to the postbox to post everyone’s letters and that was good fun. He reckoned it was about a hundred yards, though you couldn’t see it from the gate because of the curve of the hedge, and it became his job almost straightaway. He hadn’t run to start with, but then one time when his aunt thought that she’d missed the post, he’d run as fast as he could, and everyone had said how quick he was. And it’d been really enjoyable, it’d been like a race, and the gate was the tape. So he always ran now, and there were some wonderful finishes, some really close ones.

For Christmas he got a watch and that was amazing. It was dead good, it was made in Singapore, and it didn’t just have the date and stuff like everyone else’s, but a stopwatch as well. His parent’s were dead clever knowing how he’d like it, and he told them in his letter. He said how he could use it for timing himself when he ran down to the postbox and things like that. That was his aunt’s idea, but he’d have thought of it anyway, so he could just pretend it was his. He couldn’t usually think of what to say in his letters but after his birthday and Christmas you could just list your presents. So he thanked them for the ball as well as the watch, though he decided not to mention the trouble it’d got him in. Katie had written five pages, he couldn’t think of that much to say, but he told them all about how many people were visiting today. Just listing out all his cousins, and their cousins, and aunts and uncles took up nearly a page. Katie and he called them aunts and uncles too, even though he knew they weren’t really, cause they were his aunt’s relatives.

Before they all got ready to go for a walk, Julian posted the letters. He ran really fast, and used his stopwatch, and there was a rumour, unconfirmed, that it was a world record. Everyone in the house was impressed at how quick he was, although of course he didn’t tell them about what David Coleman had said. He shrugged modestly, and said it wasn’t far. They were all putting their coats on, when Uncle Don suddenly said “Damn”. Julian was really impressed because his uncle hardly ever swore. Apparently he’d forgotten to post some important letter, and the post would’ve gone. Julian looked at his watch. “I don’t think it will have, Uncle Don”, he said, cause he knew it was exactly right to the second. “There’s a couple of minutes yet”. His uncle wavered, then went over to his bureau, and got out the letter. “Okay, but don’t post it if it’s gone, I’ll take it into town to catch the later one”. Everyone was busy getting scarves and gloves and sorting out leads for the dogs. “If anyone can catch it, Julian can”, his aunt said, and lots of people heard and agreed. He knew this was the big one. This was like the Olympics, all the rest had been training.

He clicked the button on his watch as he shut the door, and then he was off. He kept to the outside edge of the path, it wasn’t as slippery. Coleman had him in fifth place as he tore along past the dead bracken, his eyes intent, always looking for the mud. ‘It’s very tactical, watch McEnery, he runs with his head’, he heard Coleman say, then ‘This boy’s fast at the finish, make no mistake. But it’s the Russian in front, the big Canadian in second place, McEnery’s moving up into third as they come towards the bell’. Julian liked the last lap best so the postbox was always the bell. He gripped the letter tighter in his hand as he got nearer, he mustn’t slip, he remembered it was muddy there from his earlier run. If you stuck out your left arm to grab it, you could swing on the box and push yourself off for the final lap. And then he was there. ‘They’re at the bell, the Russian first, the Canadian in second place, McEnery in third and the rest are nowhere’, Coleman shouted as he shoved it through, then started back. He felt his chest begin to tighten, the second run that afternoon, and not long since lunch. He didn’t dare glance at his watch, though he knew it was fast. This was the race that really mattered. He was running for country, and he’d caught the Canadian. There were cheers coming from the crowd, they were getting to their feet, they were beginning to wave, now it was just him and the Russian. Julian saw the gate ahead, his lungs were bursting. ‘You have to go through it, you have to break the pain barrier to win’. He was alongside the Russian. ‘It’s McEnery who’s finishing faster, he always has more, McEnery is going to get there. McEnery wins’. Julian clicked his watch. ‘The Russian is second’.

He went straight in, bent almost double. “My God, he’s back already,” said one of his cousins. “Well?” said another, questioning. Julian glanced down, pleased someone had asked, and managed to read the time. He could hardly stop panting.
“Seventy eight seconds”.
“But had it gone?” asked his aunt.
‘What?’ thought Julian, smiling but exhausted. Then he caught sight of his uncle and his insides knotted up.
“Did you look, Julian?” It was his aunt who asked. He shook his head. He couldn’t think of anything to say, his mind just went blank with fright.
“You stupid boy, you …”
Once his uncle started, no one dared stop him. He raged, exclaimed, asked all the others what they thought, how could anyone be so stupid, what possible thing could be easier, had they heard him say. “Well, had they?” What could be in the boy’s head, how empty could it possibly be, didn’t he think at all? Finally though he ran out of steam. Julian couldn’t look anywhere, there were so many people, all looking at him. He just looked at the ground and tried to stop himself crying.

“Julian, I think you’d better go down to the box and have a look”, his aunt said. He nodded. As he got to the door, one of his cousins joined him. “Here, Julian, I’ll come with you”. It was the kindness that did it; he could hardly stop sobbing as they went down the path. He didn’t know if she could tell, he hoped she couldn’t. They were halfway there before she asked him kindly, “Were you thinking about something else?” He shook his head miserably. “No. I just forgot”. He didn’t want her to know he was silly as well. Julian got to the postbox just in front, but his face gave nothing away, so she had to look. “You see”, she said. “All’s well that ends well”, and she smiled so happily he almost believed her.

He didn’t go on the walk though. He waited till they were out of sight and then he got his ball. He specially didn’t put on his tracksuit. There were some other boys on the playing field but he didn’t care, and they didn’t take any notice. He sulked. It wasn’t fair, his uncle had lied. His uncle had said you could be stupid as long as you were honest. Julian wished he hadn’t believed him. He wished he’d lied, pretended he’d looked. It wasn’t fair, everyone was always pretending things. Especially grown ups. They pretended about almost everything. Stuff like the man in the moon and Father Christmas. Or like yesterday when Grandma had told him that the best things in life were difficult. He knew for certain that wasn’t true. The best things were things like his ball and his watch and they were easy. Living with his uncle, that was difficult and that wasn’t best, so that proved it. He wished his parents were there, they liked him, they gave him all the presents he really wanted. He kicked the ball up as far as he could, wishing he was in the garden right under the telephone wires. It bounced the other direction from him, but he couldn’t be bothered to run. It wasn’t a match, or even a practice session, he was just kicking a ball.

And he was fed up thinking about it all. In a way, the post not having gone made it worse. Cause even if he hated his uncle, what hurt the most, the stupidest, most unfairest thing of all, which nothing could change, was that … the trouble was that he knew he should have looked at the post box. Nothing, nothing at all would’ve been different, except he’d have been a hero, instead of an idiot.