CHAPTER TWO

Oliver races into his room along the corridor adorned with his school paintings, certificates and photographs. It’s Friday afternoon and tomorrow it’s the weekend. Sunday is his 8th birthday and on Saturday, to celebrate, I am taking him to the woods for a water fight at the small brook. I am taking Oliver along with three school friends to the water, and then the school friends, Karl, Richard and little Tom, are sleeping over and will be enjoying what has become Oliver’s traditional birthday breakfast: pancakes with fudge sauce and vanilla ice cream.

‘It is different to Shrove Tuesday Pancakes as we don’t have Lemon with these ones, we have fudge sauce and ice cream!’ Oliver proudly tells his friends.

Bursting in through his bedroom door that has a hand drawn picture of a guitar and some curly haired creature on it, Oliver throws his school bag onto his bed and kicks his shoes off. I follow more casually and sit down next to the discarded school bag onto Oliver’s second hand lumpy mattress. The door has half closed from when it swung open wildly in Oliver’s wake. He is struggling to remove his school shirt without undoing the top buttons. Blinded as he tries to pull the tight shirt up and over his forehead he trips on his toys and falls, half onto the bright green bean bag and half onto his grandfather’s toy soldiers. Handed down to me when I was six years old, and given to Oliver on his sixth birthday, two years ago in two days time.

Successfully removing his school shirt without popping the buttons, buttons that Oliver’s mothers Sarah has sewn on countless times. The shirt a little too small for Oliver, he is growing up fast. We get no hand downs from my family anymore, times are tight for everyone. With the conception of eBay everything is now sold for cash rather than passed down to family. But we can’t complain as the mattress I am sat on was given to us by my older brother. He was given it long before Oliver was born, and the wardrobe that is held straight by a screw and nail in the wall was given to Oliver on his fourth birthday by Sarah’s sister.

The dressing gown that lies wedged behind the bedroom door was the last hand down we were given from my brother. Its softness has long been washed out and it feels like being wrapped in woodchip wall paper when you put on. Oliver doesn’t know any better. Accepting what is given him and grateful for any personal gift.

Oliver now walks to the cork notice board that has drawings and cards pinned to it. Nailed central to the board is a jet fighter calendar with crosses marked up to today. He takes the marker that hangs below the calendar and methodically puts a cross through today’s date and stands back to see his work, before dropping the marker which bangs effortlessly against the wall below.

With his back to me he puts his hand upon his head and sighs, “two more sleeps,” he says whilst turning around with a wry smile and letting his arms drop moodily to his sides. With his naked chest and school trousers on, Oliver walks to the far side of his large room to look through the boxes of clothes that act as his chest of drawers. Searching for his favourite tee shirt he throws what little clothes he has into the adjacent box and looks dejected over at me.

“I think your mother has it.” Oliver doesn’t hear the end of the sentence. He is through the door, opening it quickly it bounces closed off his fallen dressing gown, searching for his mother. She was ironing in the kitchen as I followed Oliver into his bedroom.

I had plans with Oliver to build a little fort for his friends who would be joining us for the weekend. I had placed the random selection of chairs from the dining room into the bedroom that afternoon, ready for Oliver to organise how he wants his friends to sleep. I had borrowed extra blankets from our neighbour to make sure the children would have a plentiful canopy and stay warm in the fort.

I walk over to the boxes that act as Oliver’s chest of Drawers and do what I do every time I enter his bedroom: I tidy his clothes away. The smell of roast chicken comes in through the open window. The window I painted almost 8 years ago whilst Oliver slept in his cot. I know the smell is not coming from our kitchen. I stand up and close the window although it’s warm in the room.

I look around the large room, which sits lonely at the back of the house. Everything that Oliver asked for was there: chairs, blankets, torches, marsh mellows, extra pillows, some for sleeping some for fighting, just as he had demanded. Oliver’s parents will be sleeping without pillows this weekend.

I hear crying and Oliver’s raised voice from the kitchen. His favourite tee shirt, I already know, has not yet been cleaned or ironed for his party this weekend. I know it will be, and he knows it will be, as his mother promised, but for a young boy about to be 8 years old, he forgets the effort we have gone through to get this much done. He knows his mother will be up all night cleaning his favourite tee shirt for him, ironing it and have it ready for him to wear when his friends, Karl, Richard and little Tom arrive at 10am the following day, but for now he has to show off.

I walk across his bedroom, knowing I’ll have to be the one to assure Oliver his favourite tee shirt will be ready tomorrow. Opening the now almost closed bedroom door I pull the loose door handle and leave my seven years olds ‘for two more sleeps,’ room.