I can’t remember what prompted this story – perhaps just as well.
“What Are Little Boys Made Of?”
“You have to go and pay your respects, say goodbye to gran. It is expected,” his mum explained. “We can’t bring her home to ‘lie in’. There’s no room, and it costs too much. I want to get this over as quickly as possible. It’s best this way.” Then she had started to cry again. It was alright for mums to cry.
“What are little girls made of, what are little girls made of? Sugar and spice and all things nice. That’s what little girls are made of.”
“Jane and Sally were okay when I took them with me. They just said a little prayer, then gave gran a kiss goodbye. That’s all you have to do,” his Mum said.
“They were with you, and anyway, I don’t know any prayers,” Alfie replied, trying again to get out of it.
“They loved their granny,” Jack, his stepfather said, butting in as usual.
“They are only kids,” Alfie argued back, “probably didn’t even know she was dead, probably thought she was just asleep.”
“Just for that, I’m not going in the room with you,” Jack said. “It’s time you grew up and stopped acting like a kid yourself. You’re twelve now, in big school. Time to start acting like a man.
“She’s not my gran anyway,” Alfie mumbled, knowing what would happen, but not caring any more. Perhaps if he had a black eye they wouldn’t make him go to the hospital.
This time though it was the back of his legs and bottom that suffered, not his face. “You just get ready now,” his stepfather commanded, as he laced his heavy leather belt back into his trousers.
Resentment filled Alfie’s heart as he walked to the hospital with his stepfather.
He had hated the way his grandmother had made him play outside just because he was a boy and should play with a ball, while the girls could always play indoors. He hated her for saying that he was bad “ ….. just like your real dad,” she would often add, about a dad he could no longer remember.
“Gran lets the girls do anything, but I can’t do what I want, ” Alfie had complained to his mum after a few visits to his stepfather’s mother.
“That’s because she never had girls,” his mum had tried to explain. ”She likes to spoil them, dress them up and play with them. And Sally, of course, is her real grandchild. You know you and Jane had a different daddy. You have to be extra nice to her to make up for that.”
*
“Don’t you dare show me up in the hospital,” his stepfather threatened when they reached the gate and he put on his ‘Mr Charm the birds off the trees’ act for the nurses.
“No, Uncle Jack. I’ll be ok now. Promise.” Alfie tried to appease the man, hoping he would change his mind and come in with him.
The nurse left them at the door of the room.
“You’d better say you’re sorry for all the trouble you’ve been,” Jack whispered in the boy’s ear, “and ask her to forgive you so that she doesn’t come back to haunt you. And don’t forget to kiss her. She’ll tell me if you don’t.” He then shoved the boy into the room and closed the door firmly behind him.
His grandmother looked a bit like the wax models in the old museum. Her hair framed the top of her head, greyer and thinner than he thought it was usually. Her lips were compressed tightly together, a thin line, slightly darker than the rest of her face, purply. Just like when she was alive. He wondered, briefly, if she was wearing lipstick. If it was lipstick Gran would be furious. Alfie was shocked that anyone would dare to do that to his gran, even if she was dead.
It was then that the whispering began, quietly at first. Alfie’s heart constricted. He didn’t believe in ghosts but now he wasn’t so sure.
“Don’t haunt me, please don’t haunt me,” he pleaded as the whispering became louder. His mind flashed back to all the wrong things he had done: tearing the edge of wallpaper in the living room, deliberately breaking the hinge of the gate when he had been forced outside to play in the cold, spilling baked beans on the carpet in the dining room to see how they changed the pattern. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he cried.
Then the words became clearer. It was his grandmother whispering that horrible nursery rhyme, the one she encouraged the girls to sing to him when they wanted to tease him.
“What are little boys made of? What are little boys made of? Slugs and snails and puppy dogs tails. That’s what little boys are made of, that’s what little boys are made of.”
“You’re not here, you’re not here, not any more,” he whispered, holding back the tears that threatened to fall, squeezing his fists together to stop his hands from slapping his own face, reminding himself he was a man and men didn’t cry. He pushed his feet firmly on the floor to stop himself from running out of the room.
He closed his eyes and tried the deep breathing his social worker had taught him to help him control his scary feelings. Three deep, slow breaths, in and out, in and out, in and out. Breathe in again, hold it, then, breathe in a little bit more, even though you think you have gone as deeply as you can. Let this breath out very, very slowly. Do this three times before you open your eyes.
When Alfie opened his eyes, the hospital room seemed brighter. He could hear the faint hum from the fluorescent light bulb, but that was all. No hissing voice, not any more. No ghosts. Just the coffin and silence.
He had calmed down now, the whispering had stopped.
I just have to kiss her and then go out he reminded himself, breathing deeply to stay in control.
The ice cold cheek his lips touched shocked the boy as he stretched over and kissed his grandmother. Then her eyes flickered as the light in the room stuttered. The lips seemed to move. The whispering began again, urgently, loudly, filling the room with taunts.
Alfie panicked. He tripped against a trolley as he turned to find the door, scattering metal bowls and medical tools all over the floor. Anger surged and he turned back to his grandmother, tugging at the cloth over her body, trying to pull it up to cover her now staring eyes. When he didn’t manage to do this he began to scream.
Turning again, he pushed and kicked furniture out of his way as he ran to the door which flew open before he got there.
His stepfather was silhouetted in the doorway, furious. “You little bugger,” he yelled. “You’ll go inside for this. Borstal for you my boy, Borstal at last.”
Alfie slumped on the floor, weeping. He didn’t care. The voices had stopped when his step father had opened the door. Borstal would be okay. They couldn’t touch him in there. No-one could. He would be safe.