Richard Madelin

It was the boy's eleventh birthday. He was crying as he sat on the bridge, his legs dangling, as he waited, as he listened for the train. Down beneath him the railway lines glistened, ran to a point up through the cutting. It was evening and the big trees on the embankment were black. Through the branches he could see the purple of the sky and further along the track he could see yellow lights in houses. He saw a man come out of the back of one of the houses and walk to a shed. It was an easy walk, like there was all the time in the world. But there wasn't, not really, there wasn't all the time in the world. That was what his mother said. The man came back up the garden and the boy saw the yellow light through the door and then the door closed on the man.

The boy's voice was small in his head, taking refuge there. "I can do what I want," it said, "I can do what I want." It was like his mother's voice, her voice tiny, even when she was angry. But then the boy was shouting, as loud as he could. "I can bloody well do it if I want to," he called, the words tumbling down onto the track, onto the rails, onto the dark stone ballast under the sleepers. He liked the word ballast. He liked saying it out loud. His Dad had told him it, ages ago, one day in the park when he had sat him on the bridge, holding on to him so he wouldn't fall. "I won't fall, Dad," he had said but his Dad held on to him all the same. Dad had sat him on the bridge so they could look down onto the rails, waiting for the train.

Ballast. It was more than a word. It was like what it was. It was like swearing as well. Balls. He said it under his breath. It was like the words Gran used. She swore. Her words could hurt you. Gran's mouth clacked, made a noise as she talked, like she had stones in her mouth. For a moment he imagined his mother standing on the railway line, standing there awkwardly, the toe of her foot on the rail, her heel on the wooden sleeper. She wouldn't like it, not if he jumped. She wouldn't like to have to come to see him on the rails, wouldn't like it all.

Mum's words weren't like Gran's. They weren't like stones. They weren't like anything, except they were warm when he thought of them, warm in his throat and in his belly, in his arms and in his legs. She didn't give him a present in the morning, on his birthday, she didn't send him a card. She never got round to it, she said. She never got around to anything. He had waited for the post to see if there was one from her. He would like her to send it, for the postman to deliver it. But most of all he'd waited to see if there was one from Dad. There would be one, but Dad wouldn't post it, he'd bring it. He'd bring it today. He'd bring it to the park. It would be in one of those coloured envelopes, a big card with something funny on the front. You'd open it and there would be writing that made you laugh, something you hadn't thought of, and a message from Dad. He'd bring it to the park, with a present, too. Probably a Scalextric in a big box. Dad wouldn't wrap it up. He was useless at that. Mum had to do it when Dad was still at home. She had been good at those things. She wasn't now. The present from Dad would be in the bag they put it in at the shop. He didn't mind. He wouldn't say.

He thought of Mum down on the track, shivering, standing by his body, her arms wrapped around herself. No one else to wrap their arms around her. That was what she said. Not him. Not Dad. Not Gran. Gran wouldn't do it. She wouldn't do it in a bleeding month of Sundays, no fear, my boy. She said let her look after herself, she made her bed, let her lie in it. But Mum didn't make her bed. He made the beds now. Gran didn't like Mum. She was Dad's mum. The boy imagined a man in a uniform standing by Mum's side, pointing down the line. The man touched her arm. He was touching her because she didn't know what to do. She never did, she never knew. The man would help her, he would tell her what she needed to know. The boy was scared. There was so much you needed to know.

Would Mum miss him if he did it? Yes, she would. She would. But he wasn't going to do it. It was only pretend until he saw the train and then he would get off the bridge. She would miss him, though, if he did it, if he did do it for real. She would cry and cry and cry. The boy felt better for that and placed his hands on his knees. "I could do it," he said knocking his heels against the stone of the bridge. He felt funny imagining his mother standing on the track next to his body, funny in a way he had never felt before. It was a bit like when Dad left, but not completely, not the same. It was a bit like Mum's words, soft and warm, like he could say what he wanted and it would be all right. The stone of the bridge was rough and hurt his legs. "Balls," he said, but only in his head.

The boy came to the park in the evening every day. He didn't tell his mother. It was his place, the tall, dark trees, the pond with the ducks, the grass and the tarmac paths that crossed it winding their way, not a single one straight. Why did the paths do that? He knew the shortest distance between two points was a straight line, that was what Dad had said. Mum said no, no it wasn't. The shortest distance between two points was a crooked line to a broken heart. Why crooked, Mum? Because that's the quickest way to get really hurt, son. Why make the paths crooked? What was the point? But for all that, he liked the paths. Yet how could he like them when they were crooked, when they snaked across the grass? Well, he liked it because it gave him that funny feeling, in his head and in his belly, in his belly most of all. Sort of you don't know, and you do.

He liked everything in the park because it was his place. He liked the drinking fountain, the puddle of water that collected at its base, the shadows beneath the trees at this time of night, the shadows that made him afraid, the shed that was always padlocked and no one ever, ever, opened it, the gap between the planks in it so that he could look in but there was nothing to see, only a smell, a sharp smell that was like nothing else. He liked it all especially because it was where he had come with his father. It was their place, that was what Dad said. It's our place, son. Don't tell your mother. How can it be our place, Dad? It's the council's. It's our place, son. I bought it from the council back along. Just for us. But there are other people here, Dad. Oh, I let them come in, son. They need to see a bit of greenery, a bit of grass. It keeps them level headed. It keeps them sane. We can't have them doing silly things. What silly things, Dad? Oh, just things, son.

The boy came to the park each day because he might see his father there. See him by the drinking fountain. He'd say, don't get your feet wet, Dad, Mum'll be mad. Or he might see him by the shed, looking through the gap in the planks, or any one of those places. Thinking about it made the soles of his feet ache.

He didn't tell Mum he came here. She would be afraid. He didn't tell Gran because she would laugh at him. He knew he wouldn't see his mother in the park. She didn't go out, ever. She hadn't for nearly as long as he could remember, not since Dad had left. Ever since Dad went it had been up to him. Everything had been up to him. Mum stayed at home. He did the shopping, the washing up, worked the washing machine, he even changed the beds. It was all up to him. But he knew, the tiny voice in his head told him, that it wasn't really up to him. It was a game. It wasn't ever up to him. He wasn't old enough yet. It was up to Mum. It was only up to Mum. Mum said Dad had left them in the lurch but he knew he hadn't really. He was coming back today. It was the boy's birthday. He was coming to the park.

It wasn't up to him. Nothing was up to him. Sometimes he wanted to tell his mother but he was too scared to say it. Saying it would make it even more true. Sometimes his mother didn't sleep in the night. She woke him up when she put on the light on the landing, as she passed his open door and went downstairs. How could it be up to him?

He sat on the bridge and waited for the train. He listened, he listened down through the sides of the cutting, through the big tall trees, past the houses, the lights, the sky through the branches. He listened down past where the man with the shed lived, he listened down to where he knew the lines came to a point, but not really, it only looked like that. Parallel lines never meet, his Dad had said. They must do, Dad, somewhere down the line, somewhere down there they must meet. No, son, never. His Dad's arms around his waist, holding him tight. They never meet, he said. Maybe he was lying.

He thought he heard the noise of the train now, a rumble really, nothing much, but enough to know it was beginning. He kicked his heels against the stone of the bridge. He looked but there was nothing to see yet. It was time for the train, he knew that, he felt it. He knew the times. It was the big train, not the small ones that didn't go anywhere. This train was the big express, the one that went to the far side of the country, all the way down the line, all the way down the lines that never met. But this train went so far, so far away, that surely somewhere down there the lines met. Somewhere far, far away, further than he'd ever been before. He could hear it now, not a rumble, not a whine, but like something in his head. Not like words but a feeling. The train coming down the line.

He could jump off the bridge. They'd be sorry then. They'd wish that he hadn't done it. His mum, his dad, his gran. All of them. The man on the track in the uniform, he'd be sorry as well. They'd all be sorry. He could just move forward and do it. It would be easy. A light came on in a window, a blue light that looked so cold. He thought he could see the train now, right down through the cutting, right down through the line, the dark shape that was coming towards him, coming down the line.

Of course, he wouldn't do it, he wouldn't jump, because his dad was coming. He'd be there at any second putting his arms around his waist. Here it is, son, he'd say, your birthday card and your present. I don't care it isn't wrapped, dad, he'd say. I just don't care. His dad's chin nuzzling the top of his head, feeling his warmth. Here's the train, dad, he'd say, here it is coming. Any second now. Happy birthday, son, his Dad would say. And they would wait for the train.

"Here it is, here it is," he said to himself, his voice small in his head. He sat on the bridge and he waited, the train coming all the time. It would soon be there. Any time now, any time now, the big heavy train coming down the line. And Dad was creeping up behind him with the card and the present, he knew, creeping up so that he wouldn't hear. He wouldn't let on that he knew he was coming. He'd say nothing, he'd just wait, he'd just pretend. Just sit on the bridge like it was any other day. The train was coming. It was getting dark. The train coming. Just waiting, Dad, said the small voice in his head. His father coming, nearer now, so near. Just waiting, the voice said. The train coming. His father coming. He could hear him under the trees. Someone was coming.

At some place the parallel lines must meet. They had to. It was obvious. He knew it. His dad wasn't telling him the truth. The train was coming. He could hear it so loud. What happened when parallel lines met? Who would know? And then he felt the arms around his neck, the weight of a body pushed against his. It was a game, like all the things that were up to him, all the things he had to do. They weren't up to him, really. And this wasn't. It was only a game. It was his birthday. But it wasn't his father. He knew it wasn't his father. He could tell. His father's arms weren't like that. It was only a game.

Why should parallel lines meet so far away? Why couldn't they meet here, on this bridge, under this bridge? What would happen if they did? A man was holding him from behind. He wouldn't fall. It was only a game. No light on in the house on the embankment where he had seen the man. The door was closed. The house was dark. The yellow light had gone out as well. The man's head was close to his. He would know about the parallel lines but he wouldn't ask him. Maybe he wouldn't tell him the truth. The man was pulling him back towards him now. It was a game. It was his birthday. The man knew that. His father had told him. It was only a game. He could smell the man now. The train was coming. Perhaps this was where the parallel lines met. Perhaps this was the place.

PARALLEL LINES

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