#NaNoWriMo 2017: Day Seventeen
High Dependency
The previous chapters can be found here: https://medium.com/high-dependency
Chapter Seventeen
His father led him by his hand along the pavement, past the village pub, past a small methodist church and past a field with a horse in it. Fishing in his pocket for a sugar lump, his father handed it to him and picked him up so he could present the treat to the horse.
“Lay your hand flat so he can eat it” instructed his father.
The horse sniffed with giant nostrils flaring; its lips curling back exposing enormous teeth. The little boy was frightened — he could feel the hot breath of the horse blowing on his hand and arm. The horse gently pulled the sugar lump into its mouth with its lips and chewed it appreciatively.
“What’s its name?” asked the little boy.
“Blaze” replied his father. “Do you want to stroke him?”
The little boy didn’t want to touch the horse, but he did anyway, rubbing his hand on the horse’s coarse white hair above his muzzle. The horse was not soft like the family puppy. “I don’t like it” he cried and his father put him down. His hand felt dirty even though it looked clean and the little boy tried to wipe it on himself, examining his little pink fingers carefully.
The horse watched them with its great big black glassy eyes as the pair walked away.
“What does he do all day?” asked the little boy.
“He just stands there hoping somebody will bring him sugar lumps or an apple” replied his father.
They walked further down the pavement, past playing fields, an outdoor basketball court and a village shop. They crossed the road into a car park and approached a large building. There was a playground next door.
“Can I play on the swings?”
“Maybe after playgroup”
Inside the building there was a row of low coat hooks with tiny coats in bright primary colours hanging up. The little boy shrugged off his coat onto the floor and ran towards a set of double doors. His father called him back. “Hang your coat up” he told the little boy.
“OK, Dad”
“Dad, who’s Dad?” asked his father.
“You’re my dad” the little boy replied.
“Dad’s not a name. My name’s Mr. Firman”
“You’re silly, Daddy” giggled the little boy.
“I’m serious. My name’s Mr. Firman. You should call me by my name”
The little boy started to cry.
“Is everything OK?” asked a playgroup worker, poking her head through the double doors.
“Yeah, he’s never very happy about coming to playgroup I’m afraid, but his mother has to work” replied the little boy’s father.
“Awww, come here poppet. We’re choosing instruments so that we can go and wake up Mrs. Laithwaite. Come and choose something”
“Okaaaaaay” said the little boy, sniffling as he was led out of the corridor and into a large hall.
Marching through the car park, all the children banged on drums, tambourines, glockenspiels, triangles, wood blocks, or shook sleigh bells and maracas. They stopped in front of a house opposite the entrance to the playgroup car park.
“OK everybody. Shout WAKE UP MRS. LAITHWAITE” said the playgroup support worker. All the children shouted. “Bang your instruments” she instructed, and a cacophony of noises rang out as the children did as they were told.
A woman appeared in the window of the house, pretending to be shocked to see the assembled group of children, before throwing open her front door and standing with her hands on his face, feigning surprise. The children giggled.
“Everybody say GOOD MORNING MRS. LAITHWAITE”
“Good mor-ning mis-sus Lai-thwaite” the children all said in unison, slowly with a flat tone, as if they were incredibly bored.
Back in the hall, the children tossed their instruments aside as they dashed for three large chests of toys. “Put your instruments away, children!” bellowed Mrs. Laithwaite.
The little boy watched as his playmates grappled over the most desired toys, before spreading out to play with them on the floor. He examined the remaining pile and selected a rubber triceratops, pretending to make it walk along the ground. “I wanted that” said a little girl, snatching it out of his hand.
He picked up a red plastic teapot and pretended to pour from its spout. “That’s mine” said the little girl, trying to snatch it away from him. He gripped the teapot tightly and the girl did not succeed in wrenching it away. With a second almighty tug, she seized her prize.
The little boy watched the girl carefully. She held the dinosaur in one hand and the teapot in another, switching her attention between the two. He picked up a blue hairbrush and pretended to brush his hair. “Psssh pshhh pshhh” said the little boy, as he swished the brush near his head. The little girl started to cry. “I wanted that” she wailed.
“What’s wrong?” asked the playgroup worker.
“I wanted that” the little girl cried, pointing at the hairbrush.
“Would you mind letting her play with that?” asked the playgroup worker. The little boy handed over the hairbrush and took the dinosaur back.
“That’s mine” squealed the little girl. “I want it”
The little boy gave her back the dinosaur and picked up a green plastic flower with a mirror in the middle and pretended to examine his reflection, but he was waiting to see the reaction of the little girl.
“I want it” she yelled, crying even more.
“Want what?” asked the playgroup worker.
“The toys!” the girl screamed with frustration.
“Which toys? You have three and you’ve only got two hands”
“I want all the toys. They’re all mine. Don’t let him touch my toys” said the girl, pointing at the little boy. She ran over to him, pulled the plastic flower out of his hands, threw it onto the floor and hit him in the face. The little boy fell backwards onto his bottom.
“Why don’t you go over there and play with somebody else?” the playgroup worker said to the little boy. Unsure of what he had done wrong, he wandered off while she consoled the crying girl. A bigger boy ran up, kicked him in the knee and ran off.
“Why is it that you’re only naughty with me, Cosmo?” asked Mr. Firman. “You’re really well behaved with Arno. Is that because she’s a pretty girl?”
“I wish you were nice to me” said Cosmo.
“Why can’t you be nice like other children?”
“Other children are not nice”
“Yes they are. I saw a little boy your age the other day helping his mother do the shopping. Why can’t you be more mature and do things like that?” asked Mr. Firman.
“I do help” said the boy, defiantly.
“You’re being naughty now. Don’t answer back”
“You asked me a question”
“You’re being lippy. Do you want a clip round the ear?”
“No!” shouted Cosmo.
“You need to buck your ideas up then, sunshine”
The boy silently glared at his father.
“Don’t you look at me like that”
“Like what?” Cosmo asked.
“Like…” said Mr. Firman, and then grabbed the boy and pulled his trousers down, spanking his bottom. Cosmo ran off to his bed and curled up under a blanket, snivelling.
“What’s he done now, Horace?” asked Mrs. Firman, coming through the front door with a bag full of provisions.
“He’s. He’s. He… the kid’s got no respect” Mr Firman stuttered with frustration. “He’s badly behaved all the time”
“He’s four, Horace”
“He’s almost five”
“He’s not a dog. You can’t train him. He’s not going to be obedient and learn tricks. He’s a little person” said Mrs. Firman.
“He’s a little shit”
“Don’t talk about him like that”
“Yeah, that’s right Mrs. F. You’re always sticking up for him. That child is mollycoddled. You’ve always been too soft on him and he’s a spoiled little brat. Listen to him snivelling — it’s pathetic”
“You hit him”
“I didn’t wallop him. I just gave him a clip round the ear. How else is he going to learn?” asked Mr. Firman.
“There’s plenty of parents who discipline their kids without hitting” she replied.
“Yeah and I bet they’re all sensitive crybabies too. That kid is driving a wedge in-between us. He shouldn’t be still sleeping in our bed at the age of five”
“He’s four. Is this about S-E-X?” asked Mrs. Firman, spelling out the letters. “Awww. Are you pissed off that you’re not getting your end away?” she asked in a patronising tone.
Mr. Firman stood up rapidly and the chair he had been sitting on flew backwards. He took a menacing step towards his wife with his muscles tensed, then stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
The next chapter can be found here: https://medium.com/high-dependency
