BOYHOOD — an extract                                             

Lost

On a rainy day when I was still too short to reach the light switch in our kitchen, my father and I calculated how long it would take to reach a family friend’s house if we travelled at the speed of light. Our friends lived a two-hour car journey away, which felt like an eternity when you were strapped in the back seat of car forced to watch the outside blur into brushstrokes of green and grey. There were a few landmarks: the smiling chubby face of a mascot on a roundabout, the steep decline in the road that felt like it was falling away from under you, and the limestone houses of Chipping Campden. Despite their unremarkable nature, those markers of place and time were important to me. Once, I missed the roundabout with the mascot. We passed it without noticing and I started to worry about where we were. How long had we been driving? Were we lost? Where were we going? Time and distance had begun to warp. We were on the road to our destination but I still remember what it felt like to have time slip away, and not be able to do anything other than look out of the window at the passing trees.

Space

My father picked the large book from the top shelf and put it on the table. Sunlight had bleached the spine on which Cosmos was printed in grey letters with a red outline that had now faded to pink. The front cover was mostly black. There was a large cluster of red dots in the middle, with smaller red and white ones surrounding it, filling the rest of the cover – even those were fading. It had been on the top shelf for as long as I could remember. It was a fixture, an ornament.
         I was in the Saturn class at my primary school, and as a result I have a strange loyalty to, and interest in, Saturn. Space was endlessly fascinating to me, but nothing quite piqued my interest as much as the ringed planet. As I learned more about it I felt my connection to it grow stronger, and at certain points in my life I have felt I belonged more on Saturn than I do on Earth. I wanted to be an astronaut, of course. But I also thought you chose your career as you went through the alphabet until you found the right one, so then I wanted to be a builder, then a carpenter, then a dancer. I think the last one was fireman. My interest in the planets once prompted a family member to tell me “Women are from Venus, men are from Mars,” as if that was all I needed to know.
         My father brought it down and placed it on the table. What was once out of my reach was now closer than ever. Together we opened it, the pages unfurling in a flowing arc. As my father flicked through, I caught glimpses of black boxes on white pages. I kept jamming my fingers in and angled my head to better see them – they weren’t black at all. Plumes of red, blue, purple, and green spewed out of the darkness, their white centres glowing. Some of the pages even felt heavier, like the ink itself contained more than it was showing. Swirling galaxies, clouds of dust, ribbons of light, all of it was passing as the pages fell onto each other. I had so many questions.
        My father took a short intake of breath and pointed.
        “That’s it there,” he said.
        I couldn’t make any sense out of it. The numbers and letters together didn’t join up in my head, and yet there it was, in black and white.
        “Why are there letters?”
        “It’s an equation.”
        “What’s that?”
        “It helps to make really big numbers smaller, so you don’t have to keep writing out all the zeros.”
        “I feel like it would be easier with the zeros.”
        “I can assure you it wouldn’t be.”
        He grabbed a calculator and started punching in numbers. It didn’t read like anything I had seen before. He could see I was struggling, so he explained, to the best of his ability, how light operated. It was fast. Of course it was. It was stupidly fast, faster than I could even comprehend. He gave me examples of how long it would take to reach other planets. Then he mentioned lightyears. I had heard of lightyears before. I thought the calculator wouldn’t withstand the beating it seemed to be getting. I marvelled at his hands. So much bigger than mine, squarer, and far more capable. He always clapped loudly. Whenever there was occasion to: a goal scored, a witty one-liner, or announcing he was going to the shed, the sound of his clap would reverberate around the room and run inside your ear, as if he was clapping from inside your head. Someone once remarked that he must have leather hands. Walking down the road my little hand would hold on to his index finger, and it would feel like I was holding onto a metal bar.
        With a flourish he slammed the equals sign and turned the calculator to me. I must have looked confused because he smiled.
        “And, that’s it. That’s how long it would take to get there.”
        “But it starts with a zero.”
        “That’s because we would be going so fast, it wouldn’t even take a second.” He raised his hand and snapped his fingers loudly. “Faster than that.”
        Picking up the house phone he called our friends to tell them about our calculation. He repeated the number on the calculator and I could hear people laughing down the line. Then the conversation changed. My father moved to the window and I was left with the book. I knew that other objects dwarfed our home in comparison, that our galaxy was one of billions, that we could only see a fraction of what was out there. But it was no longer just in my head. The dots on the pages collected into an abstracted map. I had no point of reference, no understanding from which to make sense of it. The emptiness was larger than everything in it. Shutting the book didn’t stop me from imagining the vastness of it all. After finishing the phone call, he walked over to me, ruffled my hair and picked up Cosmos. As he put the book back on the top shelf, for the first time, I felt small.

Visiting

Years later, on a visit home from university I went on a three hour bike ride in the W–– countryside. It hadn’t been my idea. It took a relation from Canada to take me out and see parts of the world that was outside my front door. We had just returned when my mother also came back from a trip out. She opened the door, dropped a couple of bags and very quickly left again, flapping as she did, briefly mentioning that she was going to see my aunt. My tired and slightly trembling legs were covered in dirt. Clumps of mud had got themselves tangled in the hairs of my legs. As I brushed them off tiny shots of pain pulled at me. I decided to shower. It was March, and despite the physical exercise on a surface level I was still cold. The hot water made my skin feel numb. Hastily I tried to warm up. Before long there was a knock on the bathroom door, quickly followed by someone calling my name. Who else could be in here? I thought as I angled my head round the shower screen to look at the door. I was told that my cousin was coming round to pick me up. Unusual, but a pleasant surprise. I stepped back under the stream of flowing water and something didn’t feel right. I glanced back at the door. Two shadowed dots were still visible under it. I called out and said I wouldn’t be long, and the shadow moved away with no reply. Something was off. Whether it was the dividing door between us or just my imagination, something in the tone of that voice was cut off. Even if it was reciting fact, it wasn’t telling the truth. I couldn’t place that tone or what it meant. I turned the tap off and looked around the modestly sized bathroom. It had been recently installed. The old one, while perfectly serviceable, had been ripped out and replaced with white floor tiles, new porcelain, light grey walls, a dark grey cupboard and a speckled stone surface at the end of a deep bath. It was so new that it still held the novelty of feeling like a hotel bathroom. My mind wandered. Within the small space, wet surfaces glistening, steam rising and swirling in the room, I felt strangely safe. Taking the towel from the hook I wrapped it around myself and stood in the bath as the last of the water ran past my feet and went down the plughole with a gargle. I don’t know how long I stood for but I knew that if I moved it would be towards the unknown. I went through all the possible and impossible scenarios that could have resulted in my mother returning home and leaving quickly, a strangled voice through the door, and an unexpected visit from my cousin. Nothing seemed to rise to the top. I stood there until the steam had dissipated and my hair had stopped dripping. Then came the silence. Something was waiting for me. At that moment everything was the same as it had been. Staring at the door, somehow I knew that if I opened it my life would never be the same. I took a deep breath. Even though it was unfamiliar, stark and bright, the bathroom was comforting. Outside this room the world had changed. I wanted to stand there forever. My feet were cold. I stepped out of the bath, dried myself off and opened the door. It’s only looking back that I think about how I turned the handle. Was it slow? Did I take my time? Was it fast? Did I want to get whatever it was over and done with? In truth, I don’t know.
        The car ride with my cousin Laura was accompanied by a very particular silence. It filled the gaps of our conversation. Every time we spoke it never went away it just got pushed around. One thing would break it, but my cousin wasn’t going to let that happen. She knew she could cut it like butter, but it would shatter like glass. The gear stick was wobbling under her hand, but her car wasn’t that old.
        "How’s uni?”
        “Fine.” It seemed like any more information on my part would be inappropriate. I didn’t know what I was going to have to answer to.
        “And Lucy?”
        “Yeah. Fine. She’s not found any work yet.”
        We stopped at a roundabout, traffic kept passing us, the indicator clicked, incessantly.
        “Where are we going Laura?”
        “Just to my mum’s.”
        “Why?”
        “Your mum is there. I think it’s best she explains to you.”
        “But—”
        “I’m going to be quiet now, okay?”
        And so I was quiet too.

She takes a left turn.

Another left turn.

Thirty-three miles an hour. She’s going slightly over. She slows down.

Traffic lights. Beeping.

A woman with a trolley judders across the road.

A roundabout. Second exit.

We turned into a parking space and the engine was cut. I let myself out. We walked together through the two garden gates. The door opened before I reached it, my aunty on the other side. Head down, she stepped away into another room. I walked in. My mother stood there, ashen. She raised her arms up to me. The door hadn’t even closed. She spoke, but I wasn’t there. I was on Saturn, worlds away, sat on a spinning ring, I watched a boy fall into out-stretched arms and heave, the air in his lungs harsh and coarse.

Gossip

My mother, a stand-up citizen, a much loved friend and owner of an unwavering moral compass, never could resist a good bit of gossip. She wouldn’t deal in hypotheticals, or the the ‘what ifs’ of the situation, she would just recite the facts as she knew them to be. But even so, you could tell that she enjoyed these little moments. As she leaned in closer to whoever she was talking to (most often her mother) a hush would descend on the room itself, and you could hear her talk in a staged whisper and hidden smile. I once asked her why she needed to speak quietly if she knew the person she was talking about was nowhere near, but both my mother and grandmother tutted and shooed me out of the room. During their conversations a transformation would take place, an intertwining of their minds. They would speak at such a pace that, to an outsider, it was difficult to tell who was talking.
        My nan would be fussing, taking mugs out of the cupboard arranging them in front of the kettle, my mother would speak and the transformation would take place:
        “I saw that number ten is up for sale. Yes, I saw that too. They’ve lived there for years haven’t they? The Buckley’s right? Emily used to go out with one of them? Yep. You know the dad, the one that drives that green van? Y-es. Emily said he got caught having an affair. Never! I know. Then it all came out of course, didn’t it. Eleven years. Eleven years he was with someone else. He’d been leading a double life. My goodness. I know, it beggars belief. Do you know who of was the other woman? No idea. But his children aren’t speaking to him. Maybe she was the other woman, you just don’t know do you? Stupid man. Oh, speaking of, you know the butcher’s daughter over the road? Yes, I do. What about her? She had her baby. A boy. How wonderful! Yes, they named him Charlie. Jill sent me a photo of him. Oh-oh-oh, he is a happy chappy isn’t he? Jill was over here the other day though. She’s been looking after him for the last couple of weeks. She said her daughter hasn’t taken to motherhood too well. Had a touch of the baby blues, if you know what I mean. What a shame. I saw her out walking with the buggy the other day and I thought something seemed off. Well, not off, but you know… I completely forgot to tell you! What? So silly, we were talking about it last week. What? You know the bloke up the road whose always fussing about the bins?

Dustbin Dick?

Ian! Don’t call him that, I’m not talking to you! Yes, what about him? He’s dead. What?

What?!

How? When? He was always out on a run whenever I saw him.

Yeah, running to the bins.

Ian! You’re not a part of this conversation. Shut. Up. Oooh we are bad, aren’t we?”
        After my mother had finished regaling she would turn to me and like a catch phrase she would say, “That doesn’t leave these four walls.” As a child I understood immediately the ramifications if I was to tell anyone about what I had heard, even if I didn’t understand why I couldn’t. It was a validation, an audible seal denoting that what you just heard was true — and was not to be repeated. It existed in that moment and that moment only. I guess it was then that I started to learn the value of what you don’t say. These conversations meant I held knowledge I wasn’t suppose to, and as a child that felt pretty amazing. It wasn’t about whether I would meet any of the individuals in question and spill all I knew about their life, it was that my mother was including me in something I had no right to be a part of. When she said “that doesn’t leave these four walls,” I became a keeper of secrets. My mother would have these conversations anywhere: in the car, in a field on a walk, on a narrowboat. Every time I was told, “That doesn’t leave these four walls.” Occasionally, I would protest and say that there aren’t any walls here, or what if we lived in a triangular house, would I still be held by this four wall code? My mother would give me a look that conveyed all it needed to. She could summon those four walls wherever she liked.
        I sat in a chair next to the vacant hospital bed. My nan, across from me, perched on the windowsill. My mother was in the process of being discharged and had gone for a quick walk down the corridor. Neither of us had said a word for a while. We couldn’t. The gravity of the situation was making its way to us, slowly, silently, but with an unrelenting pressure. Here I was, barely twenty looking at my nan, trying to understand how any of us were going to get through this. She looked at me and sighed. Her shoulders pulled down and her eyes, welling up, looked upwards searching for anything that made sense.
        “She’ll just be in another room,” I said breaking the hospital silence. “There won’t be a key. There won’t be a door. We won’t be able to go through, but she’ll still be here. She’ll just be in another room.”
        My nan nodded her head in that way you only can when talking would bring you crumbling down. I looked around the ward. The curtains around all the beds were drawn, the conversations behind them melding into one. My mother walked round the corner slowly, a nurse by her side. I turned to my nan, and reached for the only reassurance I could think of.
        “That doesn’t leave these four walls,” I said.
        Her lip trembled as she smiled. Mum climbed back into bed and I drew the curtains around us. As the three of us sat there I remember thinking that those curtains felt like the strongest four walls that had ever been built.

Bird

I only passed it for a second, but the image stayed with me, as they so often do. It was a small white presence out of the corner of my eye as I ducked slightly under the overhanging branches of a tree growing out of a front garden. Shrouded by these leaves it sat unassumingly on the protrusion of a stone wall. At first I mistook it for a piece of litter not uncommon in these streets, but its placement was too orchestrated. As my eyes swept across the wall and down the road they were halted, and I gazed at it for the shortest time. It was like an artwork lost from an exhibition: a folded white tissue with a small blot of blood that had seeped through and had dried to a maroon in the heat, going on brown. Wrapped up inside of the tissue, poking out as if from a duvet was the yellow and green feathered head of a small bird. It was truly tiny. Its eyes were half- closed but were so small anyway that they seemed incapable of seeing even before they were lifeless. The vibrant colours of the feathers stood starkly against the white of the tissue and grey of the stone wall.
        In the second that it took to glance at the small dead creature it appeared that the colours were already fading to the brown of the dirt where it would eventually go. On this pedestal it felt like the bird could only die when being observed. First the feathers were colourful — blink — and they had changed. How strange it was that on this bird’s final journey someone had taken a tissue from their bag or their pocket and wrapped it around like some cloak and placed it here, above the ground where presumably it was found, a far reach from the sky which it called home. Covered by the hanging leaves it was as if I was already bowing to pay my respects. I was shocked by how small everything becomes in death. Wrapped in its tissue gown I couldn’t see its feet which were undoubtedly painfully delicate. From here it appeared so much smaller than if I had seen if flitting between trees.
        But beyond this bird that decreases in size the more I think about it, I think how life becomes smaller when death visits. He enters the world adding one, himself, and leaves with another, losing two. Along with the life that is taken away a vacancy is made. It looms so large and bears down on the recently bereaved that for a while they can only perceive the world through one lens. When death then shortly after visits a burning tower block or the site of a human atrocity of course you understand the pain and loss, and of course it is tragic — but somehow it seems smaller than his personal visit to you, taking away the love and laughter of someone you had never imagined you would say goodbye to so soon. This relative scale shifts and grows and is as inaccurate as all other human emotions. So instead death is rendered in that most impersonal of measurements: numbers. As the numbers rise, to an extent, so does our apathy. What is one more to the hundreds already? Cries of ‘that was a life, a person, someone with a family’ are not effective because we already know. We know the pain, but it is not always our pain. Our pain always feels more vicious, indescribable, incomparable to others — it feels as real as an open wound and yet invisible. So tangible that you can reach into that black hole of loss and cover yourself in the water that lies at the bottom.
        It is always a relief to cry, but who will cry for these feathers? Not the birds. Maybe the person who found this subtle corpse placed it delicately and let out a small sigh, possibly a tear. Maybe it’s me. But as soon as I’ve spotted it, still crouched, I’m walking out from under the leaves and down a street in North London with houses either side of me, the majority of which have been split into flats and I continue walking and think ‘what do you have to do to be able to afford to live here?’