Running with ivan, p.7
Running With Ivan, page 7
Mr Joulain had brought us to the top of a set of wide marble stairs. At the bottom of the stairs was a brass door with a steering wheel sort of thing in the middle instead of a normal doorknob. Holding on with both hands, he turned the wheel thing a bit to the left, then a bit to the right and again to the left: it was the door to a safe! My mind went wild as I imagined a place piled high with jewels and gold and silver. But although it had hundreds of brass doors lining the walls, the room we walked into was empty. The doors themselves were different sizes. Some were narrow and some were wide. Some were as tall as a wardrobe while others were the size of a large envelope. But they all had one thing in common: a number engraved on a brass plate.
We followed Mr Joulain to a door with the number 223 and stood back to watch as he flipped up the brass plate to reveal a lock with two keyholes. From his pocket, he took out a key and fitted it into the first of the keyholes. Then he motioned Ivan’s mother to come forward. She took a small key from her handbag and slid it into the second keyhole. Together, she and Mr Joulain turned their keys — both at the same time — and the tiny door swung open. Inside was a steel container the size of a shoe box.
Mr Joulain pulled the container out like a drawer then took us into a small room with a velvet-covered table and two upholstered chairs. Once he’d placed the box on the table, he left, closing the door after him.
For a moment I was worried. What if we got locked inside? What if Herr Joulain just slammed that brass door closed and we couldn’t get out? I shot a look at Ivan’s mother to see if she was having similar thoughts, but she didn’t seem at all concerned. She was so busy searching through her handbag, I don’t think she even noticed Mr Joulain leave.
‘Here it is,’ she said, holding a folded piece of paper up in her hand.
‘The inventory,’ she explained when I looked confused, ‘so I can check everything’s still here.’
As she lifted the lid of the steel box, my heart quickened in anticipation. In my mind, I saw a treasure chest, overflowing with gold and diamonds and pearls and rubies. But when I looked inside, well, to be honest, I felt disappointed. Yes, there were diamonds and pearls and rubies, but not that many, and they were all in rings or earrings or strung onto a chain or threaded onto a necklace. I’d imagined dipping my hand into a mound of sparkling stones before letting them slip through my fingers as they fell back into the box.
I must have looked crestfallen because Ivan’s mother began to laugh. ‘Not really Aladdin’s cave, is it? Most of it’s sentimental, more than anything. A lot of pieces have been passed down through the family, too.’
She picked up a string of pearls and laid them on the velvet cloth. ‘These belonged to Martin’s grandmother,’ she said. Next came a thin gold chain with three diamonds at the front of it. ‘This, too.’
One by one, Ivan’s mother brought out necklaces, bracelets, rings and earrings. When the box was almost empty, she lifted out a narrow leather case. Putting it on the table, she lifted the clasp to open it. Inside was a watch. It was almost the same as my opa’s watch — the one in my mum’s music box — but with a dark brown strap instead of a black one.
Picking it up, Ivan’s mother cradled the watch in her hands. ‘It belongs to my husband,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve always said he should wear it, instead of storing it away, but he insists on using his old one and saving this one.’
She passed it to me and when I looked at it more closely I saw the back had been engraved. For Martin, it said, from Greta, with love.
After I’d returned the watch to her, she slipped an emerald ring on her finger. ‘This is the first ring Martin ever gave me — Martin and Ivan, really.’ Holding her hand out, she wiggled her fingers to make it sparkle. ‘It was before we were married. We were out for lunch, just the three of us. Ivan himself was not quite three. Martin had the ring in his pocket, but wrapped up, and he asked Ivan to give it to me. Of course, Ivan made sure he was the one to unwrap it, not me. And when he handed me the box — minus the wrapping paper — I found the ring inside.’ She gave a soft smile. ‘It was a sign, I thought, that things might turn out well for us: that the three of us might become a family. So instead of returning to England, where I’d always lived, I stayed in Prague with Martin and Ivan. This ring, this lovely ring, reminds me of that time.’
But I wasn’t thinking about the ring.
She’s not his mother. ‘So why does Ivan say you’re his mother if you’re not?’ I asked her.
She answered with another soft smile. ‘I have long considered myself to be his mother. Indeed, Ivan started to call me Mama right from the time we were married. He decided this for himself, even though he was only four. His mother died when he was just a baby, so he doesn’t really remember her at all.’
‘I do,’ I said, so quickly I must have interrupted her. ‘I remember my mother.’
She went quiet. Really quiet. ‘How old were you?’
I swallowed. ‘Eleven,’ I said softly. ‘My dad got married again, too. But I just call her Julia.’
‘And what is she like, this Julia?’
The question took me by surprise. No one had asked me this before and I wasn’t quite sure what to say. ‘She’s happy,’ I ventured. ‘She’s happy and she’s nice.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. She was right: it was good. But Cooper and Troy weren’t happy and they weren’t nice, and that wasn’t good. And for some reason, that’s exactly what I started telling her. Once I’d finished — after I’d told her just how much I hated them both — I waited for her to give me a lecture, to tell me it was wrong to feel like that, especially now we were supposed to be a family.
She just shrugged. ‘Some people are hard to like; sometimes the best you can do is to tolerate those people you can’t avoid.’
We didn’t get trapped in the bank, after all. There was a telephone in the entrance area and, once she was finished, Ivan’s mother called Mr Joulain to come and get us.
After that, we walked back to the hotel to have lunch in the restaurant. But when the waiter came to take our order, Ivan’s mother didn’t even look at the menu.
‘Fondue,’ she announced instead. ‘We’re in Switzerland so we must have fondue.’
Fondue?
What was that?
I remained puzzled when the waiter returned with a mini camping stove to place in the middle of our table. Once he’d set a pot of thick yellow soup on top of it and brought us a basket of bread and two long skinny forks with wooden handles, I was even more confused.
Ivan’s mother wasn’t confused, though. Without a moment’s hesitation, she stabbed a piece of bread onto her fork, dipped it into the pot, lifted it out, twirled it around and popped it into her mouth.
At first, I just stared at her, astonished. Then mustering up my courage — what if I dropped the bread, what if I couldn’t twirl it properly, what if it tasted really awful — I copied her.
When I bit into the bread and the yellow stuff, I frowned. Cheese. It tasted like cheese. But good, not like sandwich cheese.
A few minutes later, the waiter returned to our table. When he spoke, he sounded agitated. ‘There’s a call for you: an urgent call from your husband.’
The telephone was in the corner of the restaurant, just across from the toilets. ‘The cord should reach to your table,’ the waiter assured us. ‘Otherwise, I can transfer the call to your room.’
Ivan’s mother shook her head. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I’ll take it here.’
When she answered the call, her voice was high and rushed. ‘Hallo, Martin? What’s happened?’
I couldn’t hear his answer, I could only watch her face for clues. ‘No,’ she whispered as her eyes widened then closed. ‘Oh Martin, no.’
When the call was over, she just stared at me. ‘They’ve come to Prague,’ she said finally. ‘And no one stopped them.’
I had no idea what she was talking about. ‘Who?’ I asked her. ‘Who’s come to Prague?’
‘The Germans. They’ve taken over Prague, and all of Bohemia. Moravia, too. They just stormed in and took it. As easy as that. And I am here, and Martin and Ivan are still there.’ She was crying now, very softly, the tears running down her face and spilling onto the tablecloth.
It shocked me to see it. Don’t cry, I wanted to implore her, please don’t cry.
She put a hand in her jacket pocket and, pulling out a handkerchief, began to wipe her face.
‘Martin has forbidden me to return,’ she said. ‘He wants me to go to England and wait for them to join me. Months and months ago, I warned him. “Go now,” I told him. “It will only get worse,” I said. But there was always a reason not to leave.’
She took a deep breath.
‘My husband owns a factory, you see, a paint factory: one that has been in the family for many years. It has an excellent reputation and we have many clients. Everyone uses Mandl paints: even the national rail system. When Ivan was little, Martin would point the trains out to him. “See that?” he would say. “That’s our paint; that’s Mandl paint.” So whenever I spoke of leaving Prague, there was always the factory to consider and how it would continue without him. I understood his concerns. They were reasonable concerns. But these are not reasonable times.’ She shook her head. Over and over she shook her head. ‘“I’ll think about it.” That’s all he’d say. And the decision would be put off for a few months, then a few more.’
Her face was pale now. ‘We’d planned to come here together — the three of us — to attend to the jewellery and some other banking matters, but also to have a holiday. At the last minute there was a problem with the factory so, instead of us all having a holiday, I ended up coming alone.’ Her voice tightened. ‘And now, in Prague, it’s a catastrophe.’ Her eyes were darting around, as though she couldn’t quite gather her thoughts.
‘The jewellery,’ she said, her voice so quiet she could have been talking to herself. ‘I’ll need to take it with me.’
‘To England?’ I whispered.
She nodded. ‘In case I need to sell it.’
I hesitated. ‘All of it?’
For a moment she said nothing. She just gave me a small, sad smile. ‘I don’t know,’ she said finally. ‘I hope not.’
I wanted to comfort her but I didn’t know how. ‘What can I do?’ I asked her, my voice very soft. ‘To help, I mean.’
It was a silly question. I knew that. I mean, how could some kid like me do anything at all? And, feeling myself blush, I waited for her to tell me just that.
But blinking back her tears, she took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got no idea how you’ve come to be here,’ she said slowly, ‘but there’s something special about you. And for some reason, I trust you. It seems to me you’re a good person, and I need you to look after Martin and Ivan. Can you do that for me, Leo?’ Her voice was sharper now, sharp and panic-stricken.
All I could do was stare at her. How could I look after anyone else when I could hardly even manage my own life?
She was pleading with me, actually pleading. ‘Please, Leo,’ she said, ‘please.’
So what could I say?
Yes.
That’s what I told her.
Yes, I would look after them. Of course I would.
But it felt like a lie and the moment I said it, I began to feel sick. Really sick. Pushing my chair back, I ran from the table to try to get to the toilet on time. I only just made it, my stomach spasming hard as over and over I vomited. I vomited so hard my eyes watered and my stomach ached, my whole body weighed down by the promise I’d made to her. A promise I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep.
People had made promises to me. All sorts of people had made all sorts of promises to me. My mum would get better, they tried to tell me. But she hadn’t, had she? And no one had been able to do anything about it. Especially not me. I hadn’t been able to make her better — I’d just watched her get sicker and sicker instead.
And now, how could I possibly look after Ivan and his father? How could I possibly protect either of them?
There was a large mirror over the sink and, as I stared into it, I tried to practise what I would tell her. ‘I’m sorry.’ That’s how I’d begin. ‘I’m really sorry but I’m not the right person. You’ll need to find someone else.’ It wouldn’t be easy to say, but at least it would be honest.
I took a long, last look at myself in the mirror before I pushed the door open to step back into the restaurant.
11
But I didn’t step back into the restaurant at all. For the restaurant was gone, and I was back where I’d started, standing in the doorway to my secret room. Behind me, the music box was still playing, slower and slower until finally it stopped.
To be honest, I was relieved. I wouldn’t have to face Ivan’s mother after all. I wouldn’t have to look her in the eyes and say, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do it. I can’t look after them for you.’
I could hear voices coming from the house. Cooper and Troy were still sounding upset and Julia and Dad seemed to be trying to soothe them. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but I didn’t really want to know. Whatever had happened with Cooper and Troy and their father, well, I just wanted to keep right out of it. So I stayed in my hideaway room, and only when things had quietened down did I venture back into the house again.
The bedroom door was slightly ajar and, pushing it open, I walked inside. It was very quiet and for a moment, I thought I had the room to myself.
But I didn’t. Cooper was there, too, sitting on the floor, knees pulled up tight, his head resting against the bed.
‘Oh,’ I said, taken by surprise. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
Cooper’s head bobbed but he didn’t reply.
I’d never seen Cooper like that before — so quiet and, well, so sad. I had no idea what I should do.
Give him some space, I decided. That’s what I’d want. So I grabbed my book — Adrian Mole, because it made me laugh — and headed back out again.
I was in the doorway when I turned back to look at him. ‘You okay?’
At first, he didn’t reply. ‘Yep,’ he said finally, his voice low.
‘That’s good,’ I murmured before I closed the door behind me.
*
As I passed through the school gates the next morning, an arm dropped over my shoulders. It was George. ‘I’ve thought of the best way to get out of PE,’ he announced.
I smiled. George was always thinking of ways of avoiding PE.
‘So, what is it this time?’
‘Diarrhoea. I’m going to fake it.’
I grimaced. ‘How?’
‘Who cares? I mean, no one’s actually going to ask for proof, are they? And who’s going to make me do a whole lot of running and bending and jumping if they think I’ve got the squirts? So I’m just going to fake it.’
‘You reckon that will work?’
‘Probably. Better than making myself vomit.’
‘Make yourself vomit?’ Just thinking about it made me feel queasy. ‘Can you actually do that?’
‘Don’t know — never tried. Never tried injecting myself with milk either.’
That was a weird thing to say. ‘Why would you inject yourself with milk?’
‘To get a fever. That’s what you do if you want to give yourself one.’
I swallowed. ‘Inject yourself with milk? How?’
He shrugged. ‘With a needle, I suppose. Like when you get immunised or whatever. You know, they stick it in your arm, or in your bum.’
I got a tetanus shot when I was bitten by a dog, so I knew what he meant. And my mum used to have needles. She had to have them a lot. Don’t go there, I warned myself, don’t think about it, especially not now.
Beside me, George hadn’t stopped talking. ‘After you inject the milk into your body, you get a really bad fever that makes you sick for days. That’s why I decided to fake diarrhoea instead. I mean, I don’t want to knock myself out, I just want to get out of doing laps around the oval.’
It worked: George got out of PE but instead of being sent to the library, like he’d hoped, he had to time the races instead.
He gave it one last shot. ‘But, miss, say I infect the rest of the class?’
Mrs Moore gave him a withering look. ‘Listen, George, it’s a bit of a coincidence to have this happening just in time for PE. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt this time but don’t push it or I’ll send you out with the rest of the class, diarrhoea or no diarrhoea.’
He didn’t push it.
We were all on the oval now, clustered around Mrs Moore.
Her eyes swept over the lot of us but landed on me. ‘Next week is the school carnival and today we’ll be focusing on the eight-hundred-metre race. I want to see how fast you can run when you put your mind to it.’
It was a challenge: one that seemed to be directed straight at me. And I found myself wanting to rise to it, wanting to run just as hard as I could, so I could show her exactly what I could do.
I started fast, fast enough to be right at the front. Then I ran even faster. Faster and faster. So fast my head was throbbing as I reached the final straight; throbbing so hard I thought my skull might burst.
George clocked it: 2:20.34.
It was a Personal Best.
It was my best time ever.
Still buzzing with excitement, I just about sprinted to training that afternoon.
A PB! I’d done a PB! Mr Livingston would be pleased. He’d be really pleased.
And he was.
‘A PB, Leo,’ he said, a smile hovering on his lips. ‘That’s really quite something.’
‘For the eight hundred?’ asked Sandy.
I nodded. ‘2:20.34,’ I said, trying not to sound like I was showing off. I couldn’t help smiling though.
‘And that’s a PB?’ Sandy sounded surprised. ‘I thought you’d be faster than that.’
The smile froze on my lips as I felt myself flush.
‘I think a simple “congratulations” is in order, Sandy, don’t you?’ asked Mr Livingston. His voice was measured but there was a note of warning in it. ‘Leo is new to this endeavour and his achievement is a strong one. You of all people should understand that.’
