Spare

Weeks later, back at Eton, I was walking past two blue doors, almost exactly the same blue as one of Gan-Gan’s kilts. She’d have liked these doors, I thought.

They were the doors to the TV room, one of my sanctuaries.

Almost every day, straight after lunch, my mates and I would head to the TV room and watch a bit of Neighbours, or maybe Home and Away, before going off to sports. But this day in September 2001 the room was packed and Neighbours wasn’t on.

The news was on.

And the news was a nightmare.

Some buildings on fire?

Oh, wow, where’s that?

New York.

I tried to see the screen through all the boys massed in the room. I asked the boy to my right what was going on.

He said America was under attack.

Terrorists had flown planes into the Twin Towers in New York City.

People were…jumping. From the tops of buildings half a kilometer high.

More and more boys gathered, stood around, biting their lips, their nails, tugging their ears. In stunned silence, in boyish confusion, we watched the only world we’d ever known disappear in clouds of toxic smoke.

World War Three, someone muttered.

Someone propped open the blue doors. Boys kept streaming in.

None made a sound.

So much chaos, so much pain.

What can be done? What can we do?

What will we be called to do?

Days later I turned seventeen.

31.

I’d often say it to myself first thing in the morning: Maybe this is the day.

I’d say it after breakfast: Maybe she’s going to reappear this morning.

I’d say it after lunch: Maybe she’s going to reappear this afternoon.

It had been four years, after all. Surely she’d established herself by now, forged a new life, a new identity. Maybe, at long last, she’s going to emerge today, hold a press conference—shock the world. After answering the shouted questions from the astonished reporters, she’d lean into the microphone: William! Harry! If you can hear me, come to me!

At night I had the most elaborate dreams. They were essentially the same, though the scenarios and costumes were slightly different. Sometimes she’d orchestrate a triumphant return; other times I’d simply bump into her somewhere. A street corner. A shop. She was always wearing a disguise—a big blond wig. Or big black sunglasses. And yet I’d always recognize her.

I’d step forward, whisper: Mummy? Is it you?

Before she could answer, before I could find out where she’d been, why she hadn’t come back, I’d snap awake.

I’d look around the room, feeling the crushing disappointment.

Only a dream. Again.

But then I’d tell myself: Maybe that means…today’s the day?

I was like those religious fanatics who believe the world will end on such and such a date. And when the date passes uneventfully, their faith remains undaunted.

I must’ve misread the signs. Or the calendar.

I suppose I knew the truth deep in my heart. The illusion of Mummy hiding, preparing to return, was never so real that it could blot out reality entirely. But it blotted it out enough that I was able to postpone the bulk of my grief. I still hadn’t mourned, still hadn’t cried, except that one time at her grave, still hadn’t processed the bare facts. Part of my brain knew, but part of it was wholly insulated, and the division between those two parts kept the parliament of my consciousness divided, polarized, gridlocked. Just as I wanted it.

Sometimes I’d have a stern talk with myself. Everyone else seems to believe that Mummy is dead, full stop, so maybe you should get on board.

But then I’d think: I’ll believe it when I have proof.

With solid proof, I thought, I could properly mourn and cry and move on.

32.

I don’t remember how we got the stuff. One of my mates, I expect. Or maybe several. Whenever we found ourselves in possession, we’d commandeer a tiny upstairs bathroom, wherein we’d implement a surprisingly thoughtful, orderly assembly line. Smoker straddled the loo beside the window, second boy leaned against the basin, third and fourth boys sat in the empty bath, legs dangling over, waiting their turns. You’d take a hit or two, blow the smoke out of the window, then move on to the next station, in rotation, until the spliff was gone. Then we’d all head to one of our rooms and giggle ourselves sick over an episode or two of a new show. Family Guy. I felt an inexplicable bond with Stewie, prophet without honor.