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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Childhood / Youth
- Published: 03/09/2014
30 mins to lights on
The boy huffed, puffed and dragged his way from the living room to the kitchen. He adopted the gait of a man walking to his execution; slow, painful, with any opportunity for delay or distraction taken. Skirting boards was immensely interesting. The woodchip covered wall a source of wonder and the BBC news middle-eastern correspondent, a man worthy of a ten year old boys interest.
A time lapse camera would have picked up on his progress but to the naked eye he was motionless.
‘Get on with it’ snapped his father.
The kitchen was filled with the echo of tea recently consumed. Dishes being washed, leftovers saved, the yellow Formica table shone brightly. Dishcloth damp. His wallpaper covered school jotter stuck to the wet surface and he desperately looked around for a reprieve. Anything would do.
‘The longer you delay, the harder it will be and remember you’re in at lights on’ his mother said calmly without turning around from the stainless steel sink.
Pots, pans, dishes and cutlery were mixed briskly in a gravy coloured soup.
The boy didn’t respond.
He opened his jotter and studied the contents. Numbers and symbols filling its pages, an alien script created somewhere far away from home. Kitchens and fractions, totally out of context, like Cowboys and Igloos. Instantly his mind drifted to a shootout on a high plane, rocks and boulders littering a mountainous landscape and the echo of multiple Winchester rifles filling the crisp cool air. He was looking down on them. The baddies, broken teeth and dark horses. His aim was true, theirs not. Bullets harmlessly ricocheted off the boulders surrounding him. He would win this standoff. It was an ultimate confidence bourn out of witnessing the scene hundreds of times before.
He always won.
20 mins to lights on
Outside the muffled sound of a ball hitting the gable end of the house brought him back to the kitchen and only served to increase his anguish. He should be out there in the late summer evening dribbling through wave after wave of defenders before smashing it, top corner, against the wall. The lack of chalk on the ball proving the point that it didn’t hit the post and come out. ‘It was a goal, see?’ He would say pointing to the clean plastic ball. They would study the ball for any scrap of goalpost chalk dust and then concede the goal. 10-7.
His mother leaned over and tapped the blank page in front of him before leaving the kitchen to join Dad in front of the TV.
The folded page of fractions was carefully spread on the table, his jotter open on the next blank page. Homework for Wednesday was carefully written at the top, underlined three times.
10 questions remained, from a total of 10 questions.
Question 1. ½ x ¼
The heading is underlined a fourth time.
TV sounds, music and chat, worked its way through the gaps in the door along with the smell of cigarette smoke. He hears a shout and another thump, goal scored or missed. 10-8.
15 mins to lights on
Question 1. ½ x ¼ =
What was the rule, multiply them side by side? Or opposites then add? Either 2/6 or 1/8. He guessed at 1/8 and moved to question 2.
The list of questions fell away on the page, reaching as far as his eyes could see, all the way to the paper horizon. No way he will finish them, no way at all. He heard his father’s voice from the room next door, deep and friendly.
No way to finish them properly.
Question 2. ¼ x 200 =
He scribbled 100 down on the sheet and moved on, Question 3 = 75, Question 4 = 2/3, Question 5 = 30
Question 10 ½ + ½ + ¼ =
He scribbled down 36 and closed the jotter.
Suddenly filled with a surge of energy he jumped up shouting towards the door ‘That’s me finished mum, can I go out now?’
‘Let me see’
He grabbed the jotter and burst into the living room, opened up his jotter and showed the list to his mother. Smoke filled the room. His mother was sat on the brown couch, father on the seat. A daily magazine show fuzzed through the TV in the corner. An uninteresting noise.
He stood skinny and agitated, awaiting her judgement.
Q1 = 1/8, Q2 = 30……. Q10 = 36
She studied the page. Answers but no questions.
‘Good lad. Now remember, lights on?’
‘yesss muuum’ he shouted running out of the house. Doors slammed and his departure left a cartoon void between the two adults.
Dad looked at mum his eyebrow raised. Mum smiled, shook her head and returned to the show.
10 mins to lights on
10-8. Two goals would salvage a point. Three would win it. With only ten minutes remaining it would be the upset of the season. Time to bring on the super sub and under a cacophony of cheers and music he calmly walked onto the pitch to join his fourteen team mates. The commentators were beside themselves with excitement.
He studied the opposition and carefully judged the perimeter of the car park pitch. Angus walked up to him and whispered in his ear ‘Watch out for the wee lassie in the red t-shirt. Sarah’s English cousin. She can really play’.
He nodded solemnly and ran after the ball as the street lights came on early.
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