CHAPTER TWO
My mother's shopping bags fall to the floor and her lips form a tiny "o" of shock as her eyes roam the scene – the biscuits ground into a pulp, the pool of treacle lapping at her heels, the plums, the juice…and fear chooses that moment to sink its fist into my stomach, to scramble my insides like eggs, to turn my legs to blancmange. What have I done? How can I explain this to her? She left me in charge, expecting me to be the dutiful, well-behaved boy she is used to, and she has returned to find a monster in its place. Oh no. Oh no. I am going to be for it now. Mum will punish me dreadfully as I am the oldest and she expects me to know better. WHY? Why do I have to know better? I'm nine years old. Why can't I just be a boy?
"What has happened in here, Peter?" Mum's voice is low and steady. She is trying to withhold her anger until she's sure of exactly what has gone on.
I can't speak. What price am I going to pay for giving in to my wild, untamed, animal side? Is it fair that I even pay a price in the first place? Aren't I entitled to my share of schoolboy japes? Granted, what I've done is something a bit more than that, but…I feel moisture forming on my forehead. I've got to say something soon. Good Peter. Helpful Peter. Trustworthy Peter. She'll never trust me again.
"Peter," my mother prods, a definite edge to her voice. "Tell me what has happened."
What's that I see in her eyes? A flicker of disbelief? Disbelief that her impeccably behaved little boy could be responsible for such mischief? A germ of an idea begins to bloom in my mind. Yes, Mum would find it difficult to believe this of me. But might she believe it of someone else? Someone younger? Someone not quite so discerning of right and wrong as I am?
Can I do this? Can I lie? Can I get one of my siblings blamed for something I have…
"Edmund did this, Mum." The words come tumbling out. "He ran off when I came in. I didn't know what to do. Please…please don't be too angry with him," I finish lamely as my mother turns on her heels to track down her errant youngest son.
Oh my, have I really done this? Was that really my voice speaking? Is my younger brother going to suffer for my sins? I dart after Mum, who has found Edmund in the living room. His eyes – large, dark and soulful – turn onto me. I expect to see anger in those eyes, anger and resentment, but instead it is confusion and fear which hold my gaze.
"Peter tells me you are responsible for the mess in the kitchen, Edmund," our mother says to him. It's increasingly a struggle for her to keep her voice calm. "Is this true?"
But she knows it's true. She's just waiting for him to confirm. After all, she heard of Edmund's guilt from Peter's own lips and Perfect Peter never lies.
Edmund is still staring at me. Still confused. Still scared. Big brother's not going to save you this time, Edmund. Big brother is a coward today.
He opens his mouth. Of course, he's going to tell her that I'm lying, that he saw me causing all the damage, but she'll never believe him. I am older. I am sensible. Edmund is younger. Edmund is reckless.
"It's true, Mummy. I did it."
To my utter amazement, THESE are the words my brother speaks.
Before I have time to mentally question what Edmund had just done – does he even know what he has said? – my mother shoos me from the room. Seeing the anger in her face, I don't dare protest. I run upstairs to our bedroom, leaving my little brother to face his judgement his punishment. My judgment. My punishment.
I pick at my supper that evening. Having wolfed down those five biscuits, I am not very hungry. I'm also feeling guilt, or what I imagine must be guilt. No one told me that guilt would eat at my insides like this or make me want to vomit the morsels that I am managing to swallow. No one told me that guilt would collect in my stomach like a puddle of bile.
There are five of us sitting around the table. Dad, Mum, Susan, Lucy and myself. Edmund, in addition to being smacked hard and barred from playing with his favourite toys for the whole week, has been sent to bed without his supper. Mum has told us in the firmest tones that not one of us was to smuggle food up to him. "Your brother has been a very bad boy," she said. "I want him to learn his lesson."
When he entered our room he was crying. Crying from the pain of being spanked? Crying from our mother's anger? Crying from my betrayal? Because that, I realised with a jolt, is what it is. I have willingly handed my brother the sentence for my crimes. Because I was scared. Because Edmund, so small, so naïve, so impetuous, was an easy target.
I held my arms out to Edmund, but in light of what I had done, it seemed a pathetic gesture. For a moment, he stumbled in my direction, and through his tears, I saw in his eyes a searching for protection. For comfort. But something held him back. He threw himself onto his bed, buried his face into the pillow and wailed.
"Edmund…" What could I say? I had caused my brother all this pain. What could I say, or do, to make it right? "Edmund…please don't cry. I don't like to see you upset."
If you don't like seeing him upset, why did you let him take the blame for you? a little voice in my head sneers.
He ignored me, whether out of anger, or his misery, I don't know. I stood and watched as my little brother's tiny, thin frame laid shaking on his bed, watched as his tears stained his pillow, watched as he clutched Wilfred tightly, as though using the bear as a shield. I so wanted to run to my brother, to hold him in my arms, to kiss him and dry his eyes, but the shame of my actions had sprung up between me and the bed like Hadrian's Wall. I so wanted to go to him, but I couldn't.
So I didn't.
Now I am pushing the food around on my plate with my fork, feeling miserable, feeling guilty, feeling like the worst brother in the world. I am the worst brother in the world. How could I do this to Edmund?
Mum notices my behaviour and asks if I am ill. "No," I reply in a small voice. "But I don't think I can eat any more, Mum. May I be excused? I'll wash my plate up."
Mum smiles, strokes my head. "Of course, Peter. You're a good boy."
You're a good boy. It rings in my head as I walk into the kitchen – which still has remnants of biscuit crumbs, of treacle and of eggs on its floor – rings in my head, as I rinse and scrub my plate. You're a good boy. You're a good boy.
Edmund is bad and I am good.
A few evenings later Edmund is feverish. Mum and Dad say he has caught the flu. He has been sick several times, he complains of headaches and dizziness. Dad said he would make up a bed for me in the girls' room while Edmund is ill, but I refused it. I will stay in our room. I will stay with my brother.
The guilt which attached itself to me three evenings ago is still present, showing up again and again like an unwelcome relative, collecting in the pit of my stomach and spouting to the back of my throat like a fountain of dirty water.
Is it just coincidence that, just days after I made Edmund pay for my crimes, he has come down with an illness? He hasn't been ill since that spell in January when we all had colds. Why is he suddenly feverish now? Have I caused this? Is this the result of my dishonesty? Have I made my brother ill?
Haven't you put that boy through enough? the voice in my head demands. First you make him take your punishment, then you make him ill. How much more must he suffer before you're satisfied?
Shut up. I don't WANT him to suffer.
Then why didn't you tell your mother the truth?
Because…because I was scared. It wouldn't have been right for me to be punished ANYWAY. I shouldn't have to be good ALL the time. I'm NOT good all the time.
So Edmund should be punished instead? He is but a little child.
I'M a little child too!
Not as little as Edmund.
Shut up. Shut up. Go away and leave me alone.
I am perched upon my bed, watching my brother sleep fitfully. His forehead sparkles with sweat. His face, usually the colour of cream, is flushed a deep strawberry red. His tiny, thin arms hang limply by his side, one of them tucked around Wilfred the bear. His body twitches restlessly.
A cloth, dampened with cold water, lies on our bedside desk. I dab his forehead, trying to do my own small part to decrease his fever, my own small part to atone for the grievance I have committed against my brother, my younger brother, my only brother.
Oh, Edmund. I'm sorry.
I try to tell myself that, being as young as he is, Edmund would have done something silly soon anyway. I try to tell myself that he may as well be punished now for something he might do (and get away with) in the future. I know I'm just making excuses for myself, but I push that thought away. Edmund is five years old, he's inquisitive, he's adventurous, he pushes boundaries. How many times has he been scolded terribly by our mother for wandering off by himself and giving us all a fright? Who's to say he wouldn't have splattered our kitchen with eggs and treacle and biscuits and all the rest if I hadn't beaten him to it? I probably only acted out a drama in which, on another day, he would have been the principal actor. Using my nine-year-old's logic, I try to convince myself that technically, Edmund is the culprit. After all, I'm a good boy. Mum said so herself. That must mean…
I am good. Edmund is bad and I am good.
We learned a new word in school today. Dichotomy. Dichotomy is sort of a similar word to 'opposite'. It means the difference between people or things which are very unalike. Unable to remove my gaze from my brother, I ponder on our own differences and realise that this word can be applied to Edmund and me. There is a dichotomy between us. Many, in fact.
Edmund is dark-haired and I am fair.
Edmund has brown eyes and I have blue.
Edmund struggles with numbers and I find them easy.
Edmund can't play football and I am quite good.
Edmund is small and I am big.
Edmund is grumpy and I am light-hearted.
Edmund frowns and I smile.
Edmund is ill and I am healthy.
Edmund is bad and I am good.
Edmund made a big mess in the kitchen. Edmund is a bad, bad, bad, bad, BAD boy.
Edmund's head and body jerk, his eyelids flutter and, now awake, his gaze steadies itself onto me. He blinks several times, although there is little light to which he needs adjust; only a dim lamp in the corner saves us from being in total darkness.
"Peter?" he whispers.
"I'm here, Edmund." I lie myself next to him in his bed and place my arm around his shoulders. "Do you feel better?"
His voice is weak, hoarse. "Don't…feel…well."
I kiss his moist forehead. "You'll be better soon. I promise."
"Don't like being ill."
"No one does. Do you need anything, Ed? Any water? Any medicine?"
"Need…need…"
I strain my ears to hear. "What, Edmund? You need what?"
"Need…love."
"Love? What do you mean?"
"Want…people to…love me."
"What are you talking about? People already love you. We all do, for starters."
"Not all of you," he mutters, gripping Wilfred more tightly. "Not all of you."
I hug him fiercely, cradling his head, stroking his neck. I kiss him again, this time on the side of his face. "Well I love you. I love you lots. Forever and ever."
His hand brushes mine. I think he wants to grasp it but he is too weak. "Mum...Mummy doesn't love me."
"Of course she does!"
"She doesn't. Not any more. Thinks I made that mess in the kitchen. She hates me."
"Ed, don't be silly!" I am shocked that he can think that, but remind myself that he's only five. "Mum loves you. She always will. She was angry for a while, but now she's worried about you because you're ill. We all want you to hurry up and get better."
"Wasn't me, Peter," he mumbles. "The kitchen…wasn't me."
Is this it? Is this where he confronts me? In his weakened, feverish state? I hold his hand. "I know, Edmund. I know."
"They all…think it was…me. Wasn't. Wasn't me."
"I know, darling. I know. It was me. I did it. You know. You saw me."
"They think it's me because I'm bad." There is moisture on his cheek and this time it's not perspiration. His voice cracks, more tears escape from his eyes. "I'm bad. I'm a bad boy."
I am good. Edmund is bad. Edmund is a bad, bad, bad, bad, BAD boy.
NO.
"Edmund, you're not bad. It's me. I'm the bad one." I feel tears pricking at my own eyes. Why had I done this? Why had I let my poor little brother take the blame for me? "I made that big mess and what's more I lied about it, I told Mum it was you. You knew it was me, Ed. You saw me. Why…why did you lie, Edmund? Why did you tell her you did it? Why didn't you tell her the truth?"
His bleary, tired eyes bore into mine. "So I could…save…you."
"Save me? Save me from what?"
"Save you…from getting…into trouble," he coughed out. "You're never…in trouble. You can't…be in trouble…ever. Wouldn't be…right."
"But Edmund, I should be in trouble. I deserve it. I'm the one who…"
"No," he interrupts, doing his best to be firm and, in his weakened state, not succeeding. "No…you're…good. You're…good, Peter. You mustn't…ever…be in trouble. Wouldn't be right. Wouldn't be right. Wouldn't be…right."
I am so ashamed of myself that I cannot bear to touch him. As gently as I can, I ease my body away from his and slide off the bed. I can hardly believe that Edmund, far from being angry with me, had been willing to take my punishment so he could protect me. I am the older brother. I'm supposed to protect him. And I had sold him eagerly into the devil's hands, to save my own hide.
Edmund is bad and I am good.
No. Reverse that.
Back to the dichotomy again.
Edmund is strong. Strong enough to take a punishment that should by rights be his older brother's. I am weak. Weak enough to lie, to blame my brother for my own misdeed.
Edmund is strong and I am weak.
Edmund is brave. Brave enough to face a punishment that isn't his. I am a coward. Too frightened to take discipline is correctly meted out to me.
Edmund is brave and I am a coward.
Edmund is loyal. Loyal to the older brother who sold him out. I am unfaithful to the brother who lied for me.
Edmund is loyal and I am unfaithful.
Edmund is generous. He sacrificed his happiness so I would not be punished. I thoughtlessly handed him to judge and jury like a pig that is about to be slain.
Edmund is generous and I am selfish.
Edmund is good and I am bad.
I'm sorry, Edmund. I'm so, so, sorry.
"Peter…"
"Yes, Edmund?"
"When you said…you loved me…you said…forever and ever."
"Yes."
"Did you…mean it…?"
I blink furiously, trying to hold back the ever-threatening tears.
"Yes, Edmund. I meant it."
"Love you…too…"
I bite my lip, hard.
"You love…me…"
Silence.
"Forever…and ever…Peter?"
"For…" My voice catches. "Forever and ever, Edmund. Forever and ever."
Then, unable to contain myself any longer, I stumble from the room and let my own tears flow.
I want, more than anything to run back inside to my brother, to hold him, caress him, and tell him a million times that I am sorry.
But I am too ashamed of myself.
So I don't.
Later, as I am downstairs bidding goodnight to my mother, she asks about Edmund's fever. She knows I have been watching him for most of the evening.
"He seems to be better," I tell her.
And I want, more than anything, to tell her the truth about what happened three days ago, to shout my brother's innocence, to tell her that it was I, Perfect Peter, Good, Helpful, Trustworthy Peter, who, in a fit of petulance, made a shambles of our kitchen.
But I am too scared of her disappointment, her anger and her judgment.
So I don't.
