Kidultery

Fifty-year old Simon sat quietly while David took care of his mother.
Simon had tried to make her see that what she was asking of her son was wrong and unhealthy, but she wouldn’t listen, flying into a rage and throwing him out the house when he dared to question her actions.
‘Higher,’ she moaned, her face buried into a pillow. ’Higher! Higher!’
Her tone became more urgent as thirteen-year old David searched for the right area for his mother to be fully satisfied.
‘That’s it! That’s it! Now stay there…Aaghh.’ She groaned in contentment for several seconds before sniffing tightly. David struggled to stay focussed and wore a face full of concentration. He’d always wanted to please his old Mam.
‘Is that nice, Mam?’ he enquired, looking up to the clock above the door. ‘It’s quarter to nine, you know.’
‘I know, I know. Please, just a little longer, honey,’ she bleated, rubbing her head as if a headache was on its way.
David said nothing. He had to concentrate again, but the clock was ticking and he’d be late for school.
‘Now go harder, David. Harder! Faster! Go on, that’s it! Ooouuu..Aaagghh.’
David’s fingers ached. The tips lacked sensation and, as he watched the seconds tick by on the clock, he wondered how Mrs Ackbourne would react to his tardiness this time.
At last, her moaning subsided and he saw her body go limp, safely into the state of gratification that would allow him to run to school. He had made the journey there in seven minutes once, so he could do it again, although he would have to forego making his sandwiches. He hadn’t even had time for breakfast. His stomach groaned with the thought of another day spent watching others eat or thinking about it.
‘Thank you, David. That was lovely,’ she said after a short interval. ‘Now you’d best get off to school. You don’t want to be late again.’ Another sniff.
‘No, Mum,’ he replied, tip-toeing on the floor with his fingers to find the strap of his satchel. ‘I won’t be late, don’t you worry about that.’
And off he went, into the misty morning.
As she lay there motionless, Simon put his newspaper down and opened his mouth.
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that, Eva. He’s not even had his breakfast and now no sandwiches for the day.’ He could have made them if he’d wheeled himself over to the kitchen. It’s not as if he didn’t, or couldn’t, make it to the kitchen. He was wheelbound but he wasn’t incapable of getting about. Not with twenty-five grand’s worth of kit from the NHS.
She had none of it, increasing the volume on the telly as she said, ‘If you’re so worried about him, why didn’t you make his sarnies?’
That shut him up. That and the volume. The sports section played a big part in the end. Mc Coy was riding at Ludlow, and he liked Ludlow. The three-twenty sounded good… eight runners…Mc Coy on the favourite. Yes, that was what did it.
As David raced against time, he couldn’t get the image of Mrs Ackbourne out of his mind. Along the grass verge, through the passageway and onto to the playing fields via the burrowed hole in the fence, he chased away the thoughts of how she might make a laughing stock of him in front of the class, breathless, sweaty and frightened.
As he reached the school gates and saw other members of his class still lolling around by the entrance, he slowed down and began to walk in an orderly way.
Why did his mother ask him to do this? And in the morning before school? Simon had fingers. Surely he could scratch her back for her.
But David knew only too well that his mother hated to be touched by Simon, whose fingers were like sausages, puffed up from years of working on truck-engines.
‘Look at them,’ she’d say, throwing his hand away. ‘They’re disgusting.’
And they were, it has to be said. After biting them to the quick throughout his life, each fingernail had embedded itself into the cuticle and defiantly stopped growing. Besides that, he only had one arm. The other one was amputated after three decades of filterless smoking. Taping gaffer around each of his fingers had worked for a week, but the rounded knives were soulless. They lacked David’s je ne sais quoi.
Simon’s right arm’s gone and so’s his left leg. He looks like a forward slash when you stand him up straight.
David reached the steps that led to the school entrance and was greeted by his classmates.
‘Alright, Davey?’ said Jim, his new best friend.
‘Yeah, you?’ replied David.
‘Yeah, good. Guess what,’ he said, clicking on his mobile. ‘Got an email from Geggsy last night. He’s coming back for the weekend. Great, innit?’
David didn’t have a computer, or even a mobile. He nodded, excited by the prospect of seeing his old best-friend for the first time since he’d had to move away.
‘When’s he coming?’ asked David.
‘Not sure,’ replied Jim. ‘He’s gonna text me later. Hey, we could go to the marshes with some cider.’
David nodded again. ‘Yeah. Sounds good.’
The last bell went so they ran to their class.
Although Jim’s folks knew David’s, they’d only really mixed at the start of that year.
They were twelve; their first year in secondary school.
Though they’d never been told, they came from the same father. Neither of them had ever met him, so it probably wouldn’t have meant much anyway.
Both bore a striking resemblance to their absent father but not so much to their mother.
Jim had wavy blond hair and David’s was dark and curly.
They only lived six doors from each other, but their folks were a funny lot.
Left to your own devices, you can get really backward together. That’s what these boys’ lives had become, governed by wild parents; backward.