with, he was never quite sure. Certainly, the sound of her sadness had spread itself backwards and forwards through time, and whenever he was able to tell her of some new school achievement, he was aware of a hidden pleasure in the idea that he might be balancing things out for her. Sometimes he felt with dismay that he, and he alone, stood between his mother and the lurking sadness which was still there, waiting to move in on her once more.
“You do look like your father,” she would say in a shy voice, for she knew that Roland did not want to look like anyone but himself. “He was very good-looking,” she would add defensively. Good-looking or not, Roland did not want to resemble in any way the man who had taken half the family money out of the bank and who had shot off – first to Australia, then to Canada – never to be seen again.
Yet though she might weep at night, during the day Roland’s mother (“the indomitable Mrs Fairfield,” he had once heard the principal of his school call her), had been staunch. She had found an office job, had taken a night-course in computer skills, and had worked hard and long. Life had occasionally buckled and sometimes even snapped during the first two years, but Mrs Fairfield had twisted everything back into some sort of shape; had mended or half mended the breaks so that things worked well enough to get from one day to the next. Slowly, she had won power over her altered world and had been able to afford, first a better nursery for the baby, Martin, and then, when the time came for Roland to go to college, fees for a school that was officially admired, and (unofficially) resented for the good opinion it had of itself.
“I know it’s a struggle to send me to Crichton’s,” Roland had once said tentatively “I could just as easily go to Huntsbury High, you know.”
“Oh, no!” his mother had cried, just as he had secretly hoped she would. “I’m sure Huntsbury is a good school, but Crichton’s has got something extra. They do really well when it comes to public exams and scholarships and so on. And style! It’s got style! Everyone says so. And, oh boy, we need all the style we can get in this life.”
7. LOOKING INTO AN INVENTED DARKNESS
When Roland opened the door that evening the sound of his brothers’ perpetual arguments burst in on him. Hearing this familiar sound, he grimaced a little. His mother was sitting by the heater and reading a magazine – a rare, restful luxury for her. But then Friday night was always an easy, fast-food night for the Fairfields. A rising politician was holding forth on the television screen, tilting his eyebrows and smiling confidently as he spoke, but the sound was turned down so that Mrs Fairfield’s reading would not be interrupted. Glancing at the screen, Roland immediately recognised the speaker.
“That’s old Hudson’s brother,” he remarked, his interest rather more sour than it would have been this time yesterday. “They reckon he’s a future prime minister.”
The future prime minister mouthed and gesticulated, but Roland’s mother was not interested. Nevertheless, her face had brightened. As she stood up, she gave him that familiar beaming smile he knew so well.
“So there you are at last,” she cried. “Is the car all right? Did you remember to lock it?”
“Yes, of course,” said Roland impatiently, tilting his left shoulder down so that his pack thumped on to the floor, while he dangled the car keys from his extended right hand. Amused by his irritation, his mother moved quickly on to the next question.
“So what do you reckon? Pizza or Chinese?”
“Chinese,” said Roland.
“Oh, well, that’s that,” said Mrs Fairfield. “Now, give me a kiss!”
But Roland was determined to get his confession over and done with. “Mum, you mightn’t want a kiss,” he said. “Listen! I got a ticket. Sorry!” Danny and Martin, playing some game at the table, both looked up sharply. Their argument had concluded as he came into the room, allowing them to move into an unspoken alliance against him.
“Oh, damn!” his mother cried. “How on earth did you do that?”
“You must have really tried hard to get one,” said Danny Roland now saw that he and Martin were taking it in turns to play a pocket-sized electronic game called Viper – a game that actually belonged to Roland himself. They must have stolen it from his room.
“Really hard!” chimed in Martin, Danny’s obedient echo. They enjoyed trying to cut him down to their own sizes. The Viper game played its maddening electronic tune three times in quick succession. “My turn! My turn!” yelled Martin.
“It was out by the mall,” explained Roland, speaking to his mother across the argument his brothers were now resuming. “I parked there for about fifteen minutes and…”
“But there’s a great big supermarket car park across the road from the mall,” cried his mother.
“Mum, I’m really sorry,” Roland interrupted, guilty but impatient at having to apologise twice. “I thought I’d only be a minute – well, I was only a minute – a few minutes, anyway…” His voice trailed away. “I’ll pay,” he offered rather stiffly. “I’ve still got that birthday money Grandpa sent me and…”
“Don’t even think of it,” his mother said impatiently. “You’re not to spend Grandpa’s present on a parking fine. Mind you, it’s a pity but…” Here she sighed with exaggerated force. “Anyway, just be more careful, that’s all.”
“You always say that to him,” shouted Danny, then turned quickly as the Viper peeped and sang again, this time between Martin’s fingers.
“I don’t mind paying,” said Roland, ashamed at feeling a surge of relief. But of course he had known when he made the offer that there was a good chance his mother would turn it down. His brothers knew it, too.
“He was just bull-shitting,” growled Danny. “He didn’t mean it.”
“Danny, I hate that language,” said their mother. “It’s real Huntsbury talk! Just for that, you can be the one to go and collect the takeaways – well, once we work out what we want. Where’s that menu they gave us last time?” She looked over at Roland. “Grandpa would want you to spend that money on something you really enjoyed,” she said.
“Roley enjoys Chinese food,” suggested Martin. “He could buy us dinner with his birthday money”
“Right on!” shouted Danny. Once again the game took advantage of his distraction. “Oh, blast!”
“Serve you right for getting too smart,” said Roland. And then there was a confused few minutes during which the three of them shouted at each other while their mother looked for the menu, finally locating it in a kitchen drawer. All four of them tried to work out just what meals they would be wanting, and a tremor of argument about what television they might watch while they ate their takeaways came and went during this discussion. It all took time, but at last everything was decided and finally Roland was able to think about making for the sanctuary of his room.
“And how’s Chris?” his mother suddenly asked playfully. It was almost as if she were flirting with him herself.
“What about her?” asked Roland, turning a little defensively. At the mention of Chris’s name both Danny and Martin looked up from the game of Viper
