The Trouble With Football

Freddie watched in horror as the vase wobbled on the edge of the table then crashed to the floor. The flowers scattered across the tiles, glass glinted in the sunshine, water soaked into his socks. Glancing at the door he grabbed a couple of the flowers from the floor and put them back on the table but he knew that he wouldn’t get away with this. He could see the football behind the door. Maybe he could blame it on the dog. Scampi was really clumsy, but Scampi was outside sleep in the sun. Freddy reached for another flower as the door opened.

“What the hell are you up to?” His mum stood in the doorway, her face flushed, hands clenched by her sides.
“Nothing, mummy.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing.” She moved towards him.
“I…I had an accident.”
She studied the scene, her face changing from flushed to furious. Then the smack came, hard and fast. Freddie flew off his feet and landed in the smashed glass and flowers. He cried out as the glass sliced into his hands and knees. Then she was yanking him to his feet.
“You stupid little boy! That was my best vase.”
“I’m sorry, mummy.”
“You will be!” She dragged him, by the arm, across the floor and towards the stairs. Freddie struggled under the onslaught of her anger.
“Little bastards like you deserve to be punished.”
“No, mummy, no!”
Freddie fought to get free.
“Shut up!”
“Please, mummy.”
“Shut up!!”
He stumbled against her legs as she dragged him up the stairs and along the landing.
“Get up there.” She thrust him towards the narrow staircase. “… and if I hear another sound I’ll thrash you.”
She pushed him on. Freddie climbed the stairs stumbling on the worn carpet.
“No, mummy!” he cried knowing that it was useless when she was so angry. She reached over his head and pulled the door open. The smell and the heat washed over him. A hard push on his back, the door slammed shut behind him, the key turned in the lock and he could hear her walking away, muttering curses on him.
Freddie stood in the darkness listening to his heart pounding in his ears. He blinked to try to focus but the blackness was impenetrable. He stepped backwards and felt the solid wood of the door against his back and began to cry. He knew that there was no point searching for a light, dad hadn’t got round to putting one up. He sank down onto the floor resting his chin on his bleeding knees. For a minute he let the tears roll down his cheeks onto his legs then he sniffed hard and wiped them away with his sleeve. He hadn’t been such a bad boy, had he? Mum would be back soon, she loved him really and he was sorry about the vase.

But mum was often cross with him. Her rage came out of nowhere. One minute she could be laughing and playing with him, the next her face had clouded and the storm of her emotion would beat down on him. In a way he was glad of the attic. When he was there she couldn’t hurt him.
He rested his head back against the door. The heat of the sun through the roofing sucked the breath from his lungs, suddenly he felt very tired. He had to find something to do. The only things there were the old tables dad had put up there to hold the trainset. Freddie longed for the trainset. In his mind he could see the track and the stations and hear the whirr of the trains racing round, but dad had no time with his new job and mum had no interest, so it remained in its boxes under the big bed.
Freddie pushed himself to his feet and started to walk around the edge of the wall. His fingers brushed against the rough surface. Six steps to the corner where the roof touched his head, left turn, twenty steps on the long side, twelve across the back, twenty steps, then six steps, add the steps, sixty four, then round again, heel to toe, more steps, then giant steps. The boards creaked under his feet, try to avoid the squeaky ones. Hop round, mind your head, then voices…

“You’ve done what?” It was his dad.
“He was being naughty.”
“So you locked him in the attic?”
“He broke my vase.”
“Jen, you’ve got to get a grip.”
“You don’t know what it’s like.” His mum’s voice was small, like a child’s.
“I know you don’t lock a seven year old in the attic for breaking a vase.”
“It was my…”
“I know, you said.” Freddie heard footsteps coming up the stairs. “You tell him off and send him outside to play.”
“But it’s dangerous out there.” There were tears in her voice. The footsteps stopped.
“We have a garden now. He can play there. You can’t keep him locked up.” His dad was calm. Freddie could see him in his mind, tall and strong.
“You are taking your tablets aren’t you?”
“They make me dizzy.”
“But they keep you calm.”
“I hate them, you can’t make me take them.”
“Oh Jen, what are we going to do?”
The footsteps began again. Freddie stood in the darkness as far away from the door as he could. There was a rattle of a key in the lock and the door opened. Freddie squinted in the sudden brightness which was then blocked by the shape of his dad.
“Fred?”
“Daddy?” Freddie ran across the floor.
“Hey, mate. You ok?” Freddie nodded and was gathered up into his dad’s arms. Over his shoulder Freddie saw his mum standing on the landing below. She looked up at him but there was no expression in her eyes, only tears.
“Come on Fred. Say sorry to mum, then we’ll go to the park, yeah?”
Freddie nodded.
“I’m sorry mum.”
She dragged a tiny smile onto her lips then turned away.
“I’ll go and lie down for a bit,” she said and slowly walked away towards the bedroom.
Dad let Freddie go.
“It’s ok. Mummy’s not very well.” He squeezed Freddie’s shoulder. “She’ll be alright soon. Go get your football.”
Freddie scampered off down the stairs. His football was on the table with the broken vase. The carving knife stood upright in its punctured heart.