A New Leaf

Jake was five the first time his father hit his mother. He didn’t actually witness the attack; he was sitting on the floor of his bedroom surrounded by multi-coloured bricks and a menagerie of plastic animals. It was a game he called The Animal Kingdom, and all the animals had names, and some had special titles like Lord Alligator and King Alfred, a lion with a missing leg.

But the row downstairs between his parents was making this game difficult. He couldn’t think of the words for his characters to say because the violent words his father was shouting kept shoving them from his head. He was using words Jake knew he wasn’t supposed to hear, including the F word and once even the C word. He heard his mother’s voice too, high and hysterical, but unyielding. Suddenly silent.

Jake held his breath. And the silence stretched on. He imagined his father sitting in his favourite chair in the living room, switching on the TV – World of Sport would be in full swing on ITV – and lighting his pipe. He loved to light a pipe and watch sport. His mother said he was like an old man, which wasn’t far from the truth - he was about 20 years older than her. But then the front door slammed, the resulting vibration toppling a lanky giraffe from her blue brick tower, and Jake heard a long, horrible wailing rise from below. It took him a few seconds to register that it was his mother making the hideous noise.

After this first attack, they became more frequent. Jake thought they had something to do with his dad’s work being difficult – he was the director of a textile company and, apparently, nobody liked the kind of textiles his company produced anymore. Jake didn’t really understand what his dad actually did or what textiles were – just that the job made his dad very angry a lot of the time.

“Jake, how would you like to go and live with Aunty Lisa for a while?” his mum asked one Saturday morning while his dad was out watching the local football team play.

“When?” Jake asked. He didn’t want to say yes straight away as Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was on that evening and he really wanted to see it and Aunty Lisa’s TV never worked properly – it always had zig-zaggy coloured lines rolling across the screen.

“Your dad has to go away to a conference on Tuesday for two nights,” said his mum, clearing breakfast things off the table and piling them in the kitchen sink. “I thought we could go then.”

“Will I get to miss school?” asked Jake.

“Yes, but don’t mention it to Mrs Foggett. I’ll call her when we get to Aunty Lisa’s.”

“Why can’t I tell Mrs Foggett?” asked Jake, watching his mother wash up from his seat at the table. He didn’t like the idea of lying to his teacher. He loved her almost as much as he loved his mum.

“I just think it will be better to make this a secret – even from dad.”

Jake knew something important was happening, but couldn’t quite work out what. He just shrugged and crawled under the table where several plastic animals were waiting for him to bring them to life.

His dad obviously wasn’t looking forward to the conference. He sat in his chair all Saturday evening drinking cans of beer and chuffing away on his pipe until the living room was foggy with it and Jake and his mum had to go and sit in the back room where they could breathe.

Jake noticed a brown package in the middle of the dining table. It was small, not much bigger than a birthday card, but thicker than a card would be. Jake reached out and prodded it. The package was soft and spongy.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Just some nice tobacco I bought for your dad to take away on his conference.” His mother seemed distant. “I think you should go to bed early tonight.”

“Why?” protested Jake – it wasn’t even dark yet.

“Well, at least go and play in your room.”

“What’s wrong with him?” his dad was standing in the doorway, smouldering pipe in one hand. His face was red and sweating, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the bottom, showing his fat, hairy belly.

“Go up to your room, Love,” said his mum. “Play with your toys.”

Jake decided not to argue. He had to brush against his father to get through the door, breathing in the stench of tobacco, beer and sweat.

He was halfway up the stairs when he heard the slap and his mother’s shocked cry. Usually, there was a row before his father hit out. Jake hurried up the remaining stairs and into his room. Now his father was shouting, his voice slurring from the alcohol.

There followed a brief moment of silence, then his father’s voice. “What’s this?”

“A present for you,” his mother replied. “Special tobacco. I thought you could take it away with you.”

“Fuck that. I’ll have some now. Who the fuck are you to tell me when I can smoke my own tobacco?”

Jake cringed, waiting for another slap, but his father was obviously more interested in filling his pipe than lashing out again.

Jake woke up a few hours later, badly needing the toilet. His bedroom light was still on, and he was fully clothed. Why hadn’t his mother been in to put him to bed properly?

He stumbled onto the landing and pushed open the bathroom door. Someone was sitting on the toilet — a large, slouched figure, features indistinguishable in the dark. Jake froze in the doorway. The room stank, not just of shit, but of something like tobacco, but sweeter-smelling than the stuff his father usually smoked.

“Dad?” He expected the figure to leap up and cuff him across the head for walking in on him. But it remained unmoving.

“Jake?”

Jake squealed. His mother placed a hand on his shoulder.

“We need to go,” she said. “Let’s pack some clothes for you. You can choose two toys to bring.”

Jake stared at the slouched figure. “I need to pee.”

“You can go in the garden before we get in the car.”

“Won’t Dad need the car to drive to his conference?” asked Jake, pulling the bathroom door closed.

“No,” said his mother. “He won’t be needing it.”