Blacklands

In all the years Steven and Lewis had been friends, Lewis’s dad had only ever said three different things directly to him: “Hello, Steven,” on many occasions, “You boys having fun?” whenever he accidentally stumbled on them engaged in spying, and once—embarrassingly—“Who traipsed dog shit through the bloody kitchen?”

In common with his much larger, more vibrant mother, Lewis generally ignored his dad. In Steven’s company he greeted everything his dad said with an eye-rolling tut or truculent silence.

Once Steven had gone to Minehead with Lewis’s family to see a sand-castle competition. By the time they got there a summer downpour had reduced the magnificent creations to vague, melting mounds, so that the fairytale castle looked like the Titanic, and the life-sized orca looked like a rugby ball. Lewis’s dad had nevertheless wandered from lump to lump in his Berghaus waterproofs, photographing each from several angles and trying to enthuse Lewis by repeating variations on the theme of “You can see how it would have looked!” All the while Lewis and his mother shivered under a flapping umbrella, rolling their eyes and whining loudly about getting inside for a cream tea.

While he hadn’t quite had the guts to abandon Lewis and show support for the sand castles, Steven had stood a little way away from his friend, his mother, and the umbrella. He preferred to get wet than to be associated with their scornful dismissal of such sad enthusiasm.

He thought it was a waste of a father.

Lewis brought him back to the here and now by adding temptingly: “Batten’s off the injury list.”

Steven shook his head. “Can’t.”

“But it’s Saturday.”

Steven shrugged. Lewis shook his head pityingly. “Your loss, mate.”

Steven doubted that; he’d seen the Blacklanders play.

Saturday was dry and, if not warm, at least not particularly cold for January. Steven dug two complete holes by lunchtime and ate a strawberry jam sandwich. He always made his own Saturday sandwiches, so never had to suffer the indignity of fish paste. He’d taken the crusts—nobody cared about crusts. One of them had a speck of mold on it and he picked it off with a grimy finger. It made him think of Uncle Jude.

Of all the uncles Steven had had, Uncle Jude was his favorite. Uncle Jude was tall—really tall, and had thick, lowering eyebrows and a deep, Hammer Horror voice.

Uncle Jude was a gardener and he had a four-year-old truck and employed three men, but his fingernails were always dirty, which Nan hated. Steven’s mum always said it was good clean dirt—not what she called gutter grime. Of course, that was before they broke up. After that, his mum’s only answer to Nan’s criticism of Uncle Jude was a slight tightening around the lips and a shorter fuse with Steven and Davey.

It was Uncle Jude who had given Steven his spade. Steven had told him he wanted to dig a vegetable patch in the backyard. Of course he never had but Uncle Jude was cool about it. He’d come into the kitchen and peer through the rain at the bramble-choked jungle and say: “How are the tomatoes, Steve?” Or “I see the beans are really taking off.” And he and Steven would exchange wry smiles that made Steven’s heart expand a little in his chest.

Sometimes after tea, Uncle Jude played Frankenstein, which meant he would chase Steven and Davey around the house, lurching slowly from room to room with his arms outspread to catch the boys, booming menacingly, “Ho ho ho! Run and hide but Frankenstein will find you!”

Steven was nearly ten at the time and old enough to know better, but Uncle Jude’s huge size, and three-year-old Davey’s hysterical shrieks, would inject genuine fear into him. He’d pretend to be playing for Davey’s sake, but—hidden behind the sofa or wrapped in the front-room curtain with his hair twisted up into the thick green cloth, waiting for Uncle Jude to find them—he knew that his shallow, fluttering breath and hammering heart could not lie.

Unable to bear the tension, Davey invariably cracked, and would bounce up from their hiding place and rush imploringly at Uncle Jude’s legs, crying: “I’m Frankenstein’s friend!” Steven would grab the opportunity to stand up too, rolling his eyes at Davey for spoiling the game; secretly relieved it was over.

The watery winter sun warmed his back a little as he thought of Uncle Jude. He was three uncles back. After him had been Uncle Neil, who had only lasted about two weeks before disappearing with his mother’s purse and half a chicken dinner, and most recently there was Uncle Brett, who sat and watched TV with religious fervor until his nan and his mum had a blazing row over his head during Countdown. When Uncle Brett told them to shut up for the conundrum, they both turned on him. After that he didn’t come back.

His mother was between uncles now. Steven didn’t always like his uncles but he was always sorry when they left. His was a small, lonely family and any swelling of the ranks was to be welcomed, even if it always turned out to be temporary.