Charlotte Reid
Article
Charlotte was a copywriter and a primary school teacher before starting the Creative and Life Writing MA at Goldsmiths in 2013.
Email: charlotte.reid1963@gmail.com
View as PDF: Charlotte Reid - Mike not Quentin
Mike not Quentin
August 1960
In this photo you must be about four. You can’t read yet, or write, but I shall tell it for you. The others are Malcolm and Dinah. Malcolm is just a baby and from the protective tangle of sibling limbs it’s obvious you are a big brother to them both. All three of you are wearing sweaters because Thorpeness was never quite warm, only ever a cloud away from rain.
I am not born or even thought about but still I can feel the stiff salt wind on our mother’s back as she holds up the camera, and see it in my sister’s hair. There is milky black and white sunlight but shadows of cloud darken one corner of the photograph.
Malcolm is sitting on ‘the thing’; an abandoned, rusty mangle the three of you played on every summer until it was taken away for scrap. Your smile is small-boy-delightful, innocent and loving, making dark slits of your eyes and squeezing your cheeks into smooth apple curves. I can hear the knock of pebbles as you shift your feet waiting for the click of the shutter.
There. All done.
Mum puts away the camera and Malcolm is lifted off his perch into her freckled arms. Dinah picks up the two damp towels and, suddenly a little woman, shakes them out before tucking them into the basket next to the empty thermos. Then the three of you hobble across the stones to the sandy path which will take you to the village and to tea. You move slowly on tender soles, hugging your sandals close and looking out for feathers and lumps of tar. Our mother waits for you, holding out her hand.
Charlotte
11th August 1990
I lay on a beach in Bali with a baby in my belly, two days after my twenty-seventh birthday. I had to lie on my side now because it was too uncomfortable on my back. The breeze was warm but the sky was moody with clouds and I could feel the first prickles of rain on my thighs. Tim lay beside me, snoring softly, his pale abdomen rising and falling in time with the waves. I looked at the hairs on his stomach which trembled with each breath. How he had become so hairy without me noticing?
Up and down the stretch of sand people were getting to their feet and beginning beach chores to mark the end of the afternoon, winding sarongs and tipping sand out of their shoes before wading across the sand. It was time to go. Suddenly the curve of my stomach was interrupted by cartoon bulges as the baby stirred, stretching out tiny fists and heels against the wall of my skin.
And where was my eldest brother as I lay fecund and bloated on this island? He was on a bus to a garage in Pentonville Road to buy equipment which would kill him.
Was it like this?
It’s your day off, a Wednesday in August. You’re wearing your padded denim jacket with the porridge-fur collar over a t-shirt promoting a faded band. You haven’t shaved today and you need a haircut; gingery curls hang too long over your blotchy, bristly neck and at your temples the corkscrews of hair give you a mad professor look. You take the bus for forty five minutes and walk to a garage you know. You could have gone to Homebase. It would have been so much closer. But maybe that seemed too homely for your purpose, full of pastel sofas and gleaming taps. You want to do this properly, one last time. A guy in overalls with a beer belly and oily hands comes over to help you. They don’t get many punters in here and he’s helpful, chatty. Plastic tubing please, ten feet of it. Do you give him an excuse about DIY? Perhaps you don’t bother. He goes to the back of the workshop and comes back with what you asked for, draped over his arms like giant’s intestines. He tries to fold it into a carry-able package but it keeps springing apart and he looks embarrassed. There was a time when you would have helped him out by making a joke but right now you are somewhere else, intent on disconnecting. You have stopped caring about what people think. Planning this is the last thing you will take an interest in. You pay him in cash, counting out the coins from habit and as you walk away he calls out to you to have a nice weekend.
Quentin
September 4th 1963
I mostly like going in the car but not so much when it’s hot because sometimes I feel sick and also my legs stick to the seats. It’s good when it’s just me without Dinah or Malcolm who cries a lot because when he’s here we have to play silly baby games and keep stopping. I can’t work out what all the smells are exactly but I think one of the smells is leather. I like the way the seats are springy and if you go over a bump there’s a nice bouncy feeling under your bum.
It feels like a long way to my new school. We drive and drive and sometimes mummy turns her head and smiles at me but mostly she and daddy talk in quiet voices and sometimes I can hear them say my name but it’s not so I will join in it’s just something about me and I don’t think I like it.
After a long time of fields and bridges and sheep and some moor we drive past the mountain daddy calls Roseberry Topping and I shout out at them look, look, I can see Roseberry Topping! And they both laugh and look at each other. When I was little I use to think Roseberry Topping was a giant pudding and the white stuff was cream so if you were a mountain climber and you got to the top you could scoop up a big mouthful of the creamy stuff and eat it before you went down again. But it’s not like that really it’s just a big mountain and the white stuff is snow but that’s better in a way because the climbers would get really sticky boots if the white stuff was creamy topping like on trifle and anyway it might be slippy.
I am in the middle of thinking all this then daddy is slowing down and I hear the click click click of the indicator which is a really nice noise and the orange light like a sucky sweet sticks out on the side of the car and flashes on off on off and then we are going along a thin sandy road up a hill towards what looks like a castle. There are lots of other cars and people getting out with boys dressed just like me and daddy says We’re here. Suddenly my tummy does a somersault and I wish I was back in my bedroom at home playing with Fireball XL5.
Daddy and I get out and he looks around but mummy is still in the car doing her lipstick and looking at herself in the little mirror but then daddy notices I haven’t got my tie on yet, it’s still in my pocket and for a moment I think he’s going to shout but then he’s nice and he helps me put it on.
Then mummy gets out of the car and smiles a big smile and I feel better and she holds out her hand and we follow all the other boys and mummies and daddies up the path towards the castle. She is wearing gloves and the leather feels all soft and slippery in my hand. Inside the church the organ booms so loudly it makes my ears buzz and I want to cover them up. I am standing in between mummy and daddy and my legs hurt from standing up for so long but I know I can’t sit down so I try lifting one foot up and then the other to make it hurt less but daddy looks at me and shakes his head so I stop. The priest is talking into a microphone and his voice sounds so echoey I can’t hear what he’s saying it’s like the sound is bouncing off the walls one at a time and then the words go back into his mouth.
When have a prayer book each and mummy found the place for me but I can’t keep up with the prayers when they say them so after a while I decide to just open my mouth and pretend. I know some of the prayers from church at home but by the time I have thought of the words the other people have stopped talking and it’s gone quiet except for the far away priest.
There are lots and lots of people and all the pews are full. All the mummies have hats on and the daddies are wearing suits. I am trying not to stare because I know it’s rude but I want to look at the other boys. Most of them look bigger than me and I wonder how old they are and whether they will be in my class but it’s difficult to tell much from the backs of peoples’ heads so I look at the pictures of saints around the sides of the walls instead. They have thin pointy brown faces and long hair and my favourite is one who is fighting a serpent thing with a long spear. Some of them look worried with their heads on one side and I wonder how come there are no lady saints because I’m sure they must have done good things too though they probably didn’t slay monsters.
I put my head right back so my neck crunches and I imagine jumping up there on a trampoline to dust the ceiling or change a light bulb which must need doing sometimes although I can’t see any lights.
Then we are allowed to sit down for a bit and there’s a lot of shuffling and swishing as the people try to get comfortable. In the end it’s not much better than standing up because the wooden seat is so hard my bum starts to hurt but I know I must sit still so I try my best. After a lot more of the priest talking the organ starts again, louder than ever and we all stand up and I think Oh no, not more prayers but then daddy is looking around and putting the kneeler away and going to the end of the pew and so is mummy and it looks like everyone is leaving.
So we all go outside and it takes ages because there’s a long queue to get out of the church door and the organ keeps playing but no-one is listening because they’re all talking and I think that’s rude. Daddy keeps saying loud hellos over the tops of peoples’ heads but I can’t see who he’s talking to and then we lose him because he gets sucked into the crowd in front of us but mummy doesn’t seem worried so it must be alright. I am holding really tight to her hand because I don’t know what’s coming next but I think they might go soon and I am not sure how I will feel when that happens. We get out into the sunlight and it’s really bright after the church. My eyes water and my hand feels sweaty in mummy’s leathery one. Now all the boys and parents are going off in different directions and mummy says it’s time to go to the house. For a minute I think she means home and that they’ve changed their mind about this school but then I understand she means the house where I will be at school so we walk along the dusty yellow gravel path towards an old looking place with friendly windows which look really old with metal frames like my Aunty Pat’s house.
We go into the hall and it smells of polish and food and there is a monk in long black robes smiling at everybody and shaking hands with all the mummies and daddies and telling us to make ourselves at home and have some refreshments which sounds tasty. A lady in a black dress and a white apron brings mummy a cup of coffee on a tray so mummy lets go of my hand and says thank you very much and then the lady bends down and asks me if I’d like some squash and I say yes please. So she brings me some with a custard cream and I drink it and eat the biscuit and it’s nice but it’s weak, not strong like we have at home but I drink it anyway and all the time there is the bzz bzz bzz of voices above my head like loud birds shut in the attic which is a noise I know because it happens at home sometimes.
The goodbye bit is not how I thought and it happens really quickly. I wonder if they do that on purpose so the mummies don’t cry. Daddy bends down and gives me a big hug and a kiss and then pats me on the shoulder. Then mummy leans down and puts her lovely smelling cheek next to mine and holds it there for a second and whispers Be a good boy and we love you very much and I squeeze her round the middle and I don’t want to let go but I know I have to be brave and daddy is looking at me so I let go and then they are following all the other grownups out into the sunshine and they’ve gone.
Charlotte
2014
In those days our family car was a blue Humber. The three of you motored smoothly up to Yorkshire in it, Dad driving because he always did. In the boot, an unscratched navy trunk with your initials gleaming golden on the lid. Your new school uniform packed in tender layers inside, each garment labelled, declaring your name in astonished blue capitals. Mum would have convinced herself she was excited, tried not to think about coming home without you. That it was the start of a new chapter. She would have bought a new outfit specially; something neatly tailored and short-ish to show off her good legs. Probably a little hat for the church service and meeting your housemaster. She looked good in hats. It was early September and you were Quentin then. You sat obediently in the back, rocking gently as dad took a corner and excited to be the centre of attention.
You were seven years and eight months old. They were sending you away because dad had been happy at Gilling, and look how he turned out? As the miles fell away the world flattened out. Left and right you could see the prickly tortoiseshell fur of the Yorkshire moors, feel the wind pushing against the car windows. Mum and dad talked quietly in the front, sometimes throwing you a remark over one shoulder, allowing you a little window on their adult world once or twice while they still had you near. You could see the Brylcreem gleam of dad’s parting above the steering wheel as he drove, poised to be proud of you. Full of hopes for his golden boy in the back.
Quentin
October 9th 1963
Dobson who I sit next to in French (his real name is Charlie) got into trouble today and had to go and see Father Pat after prayers and when he came back his eyes were all red and I think he’d been crying but I could tell he didn’t want anyone to notice so I didn’t say anything. He seems to get in trouble a LOT and I wonder what he keeps doing wrong because I don’t want to get in trouble because daddy would be really cross. We played rugby today and it was freezing and I got thumped by Crealy but not on purpose and I had to go to matron but she said I was OK. It was shepherd’s pie for tea and it wasn’t bad even though it didn’t taste like mummy’s and there was no ketchup.
Quentin
November 20th 1963
Matron is poorly again today and I can’t get to sleep. They told us in assembly. I squeeze my eyes tight shut and pull the sheet up further. My fingers touch the satiny ribbon bit at the top and it feels nice like the blanket on my bed at home only this one is a sort of greeny colour and mine is blue. I stroke the satiny bit for a while thinking it’ll probably be alright, he probably won’t come tonight. But then I remember that matron isn’t here. I miss her soapy smell and her squeaky shoes when she comes in to tell us it’s light out. I can hear Morrish breathing in and out in the bed next door and on the other side is Watson but he sleeps without making any noise at all and sometimes I think he’s dead he’s so quiet. Thinking about the blanket on my bed has reminded me of home and I start thinking about Mummy and Daddy and our house and then Cleo curled up in front of the stove in her basket. When she goes to sleep her eyes close up into little slanted lines which are dark grey, darker than the rest of her face. She’s a blue point Siamese. The Siamese bit makes me think of babies joined by their heads like the pickled twins in the jar in the museum in Portugal which I always want to stop and look at but Mummy pulls me away because she says it’s Disgusting. I wonder if Cleo has grown since I said goodbye to her. She must have a really bendy spine to be able to curl right round like that. I love the way her tail tucks in under her chin making her into a circle.
I am beginning to feel sleepy now, mummy calls it floaty, thinking about my cat and the smooth red tiles on the floor in our kitchen and then I hear the door open at the end of the dorm. I open my eyes just a tiny bit and I see a yellow chunk of light on the floor like someone has spilt custard. I want to turn over because it might be Father Pat and I don’t want to see him coming but if I move I’ll make a noise and he’ll know I’m awake and I’ll get into trouble and I don’t want my temperature taken. The thought of it makes my throat go all hurty with wanting to cry but I mustn’t because then it’ll be worse. I can hear him closer now. His footsteps are slow and I think I can hear his toes spreading in his sandals as he puts down one foot and then the next, making his way along the creaky floor, checking the beds. It’s hard pretending to be asleep. The tighter I shut my eyes the more they ache and twitch and want to open. Now he must be even nearer because there’s the swish of material rubbing against itself as he walks. Then the dark gets darker above me and I know he is standing there, right beside me, looking down at me. I do a big swallow. I can’t help it, there’s lots of spit in my mouth and my chest is thumping hard like I’ve run the cross country course and I wonder if he can hear it through my pyjamas and the blankets. “Quentin Sillars! Why aren’t you asleep?”
I open my eyes because it’s no good, he knows I am awake and now I start to cry and I can feel the tears slide down past my ears and onto the pillow. I open my mouth to answer him because you get in even worse trouble if you don’t but nothing comes out and I know I can’t talk I just make a sort of choking noise like I’ve got a really sore throat and now my nose is starting to run. I can’t really see his face, just the edge of his glasses which look wet with shiny reflections from the light coming through the open door.
“My study. Now.”
May 1964
My mother is in the garden weeding a flowerbed with the radio on. She feels almost guilty about pulling up the embryonic emerald trefoils which have worked so hard to push through the chocolate soil but they will soon take over if not kept in check. It’s her favourite kind of weather and the air is pregnant with the soft sheen of spring and things in bud. As she digs she sucks up the smell of freshly turned earth she sighs to herself thinking how satisfying it would be to get this bed done before I wake up from my nap and Malcolm needs fetching from nursery school. She should never have made this border so big. Too much work with the children so small. Her thoughts are interrupted by the faint trill of the phone. She runs inside, pulling off her sweaty gardening gloves as she goes. She picks up the receiver mid ring, pleased with herself for having made it. “Hello? Staverton 412.”
A voice full of calm and distance fills her right ear. “Mrs Sillars?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Oh hello. It’s Father Hume from Gilling.”
There is a pause as my mother considers this, then gasps in alarm realising that a phone call from Yorkshire could only mean bad news.
“Is everything alright, is Quentin alright?”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. I wanted to talk to you about Quentin. Nothing has happened to him, don’t be alarmed…but we are…concerned about him. About his behaviour.”
My mother stiffens. She is already imagining the conversation with my father, the shouting, the chastisement, the spanking. “His behaviour? What do you mean? Has he been naughty?”
There is a chuckle across the miles and a reassuring slowing of vowels, “No, no, nothing like that…I’m just ringing because we - I – am a little concerned about Quentin’s…silences. He’s very quiet…reluctant to speak. Withdrawn, you might say. In the classroom and, well, everywhere in fact.” He paused to let this information sink in.
“His teachers have all remarked on it and we thought we should let you know.”
“Sorry – what do you mean ‘withdrawn’? I don’t understand.”
“Matron has also noticed that he is not eating very much.”
Now the tigress in her stirs. “What do you mean, not eating very much? Quentin loves his food. I’m sorry but I don’t understand what you are telling me. Why is he like this? Is he unhappy?”
She heard his chair creak as he shifted position.
“We believe he is, yes. It’s a difficult thing, boarding, and some take to it more quickly than others as I’m sure you know but in Quentin’s case we are not sure it’s the best thing for him. He does not seem to be thriving. You did say he was very quiet in the Christmas holidays, did you not? Not keen to talk about school.”
“Well, yes…but we thought things were better now. I know he found his first year difficult but you gave us the impression he was more settled this year.” My mother fell silent. “I don’t know what to say. Peter will be terribly disappointed.”
“There is one other thing I need to mention…”
“Yes?”
The creaking sound again. “It’s rather delicate actually. It seems that one of the monks has been rather…unkind…to Quentin. I feel I have to mention it in order for you to have the full picture.”
“Unkind? What do you mean?”
“Well, as I say, it is rather delicate and I don’t want to worry you unnecessarily but Father Gerald has been a little hard on Quentin at times and Quentin has taken this badly. I have spoken to Father Gerald and he is aware that he may have been too…forceful…in his approach.”
“Forceful? What are you talking about? Did he hurt him? What did he do?”
“Please, Mrs Sillars, I don’t want to alarm you. The situation has been dealt with and we have ensured that Quentin is now taught by a different member of staff for that subject. This call is to put your mind at rest…and to let you know that after discussion we all feel it would be better if Quentin did not return to us next term.”
