Free The Last Weekend by Blake Morrison Page B

followed her. The departure made me feel awkward, as if we’d curtailed a cosy chat. I tried talking to Archie but all I got back were monosyllables — sometimes not even those. He kept glancing nervously at his father.
‘I need to put a clean shirt on,’ Ollie said. ‘Coming, Ian?’
‘In a minute,’ I said.
A weight lifted from Archie once he had gone.
‘How’s school?’ I said.
‘Yeah, you know.’
‘Never changes, eh?’
‘Too right.’
‘But they’re obviously not too disciplinarian.’ He shook his head, baffled. ‘I mean your hair.’
‘No, they’re OK.’
‘Personally I think long hair is fine,’ I said, and described the policy for dress at our school, where we’ve kids from many different ethnic backgrounds. Rather than look at me, Archie stared at his hands. I was obviously boring him. Time to go.
‘They’ve not told you, then,’ he said, as I stood up.
‘Who?’
‘Mum and Dad. About me not going to school.’
‘That’s the way with GCSEs nowadays, I hear — no lessons after Easter, just revision and exams.’
‘I’ve barely been since January.’
I wondered if he was exaggerating so as to shock me.
‘Have you been ill?’ I said, thinking of his pallor.
‘Not really.’
‘Did they exclude you?’
‘I wish.’
‘What then?’
‘Ian! Are you coming?’
It was Ollie, from across the garden, barefoot, tucking his shirt into his trousers.
‘I’m on my way,’ I shouted, but sat down again when he went back inside.
‘I just stopped going,’ Archie said, fingering his wristband. ‘I was bored.’
‘What about your GCSEs?’
‘The school wouldn’t let me take them. They were worried I’d fuck up their position in the league tables.’
‘Idiots. You’d have sailed through,’ I said, remembering how nauseatingly Ollie and Daisy used to celebrate Archie’s achievements in their Christmas round robin: top of the class, captain of cricket team, lead role in drama production, etc.
‘I expect you’re pissed off with me,’ he said, ‘what with being a teacher.’
‘I’m just sorry things have been bad.’
‘Ian!’ Ollie shouted again.
‘Coming,’ I shouted back.
‘You’re probably not meant to know,’ Archie said, as I stood up. ‘Don’t tell Dad I told you.’
‘I’m sure he will tell me. We only got here this afternoon.’
‘Still. Promise you won’t say anything.’
‘I promise. But let’s talk, shall we? I’m here till Monday.’
I took his silence as assent.
‘So are you coming to the restaurant?’ I said.
‘Nah.’
‘You don’t like seafood, eh?’
‘Not much.’
‘I’m sure there’ll be other things on the menu.’
‘I promised Em I’d look after Rufus,’ he said, stroking his neck.
You may have problems but you’re still a good kid, I thought. Here you are, missing out on dinner, in order to do a good turn.
Only later did it occur to me that he hadn’t been invited in the first place.
‘Close the door,’ Em mouthed as I entered the bedroom. ‘Have you heard about Archie and school?’ she whispered, once the door was shut.
I nodded. She was leaning into the oval mirror of a rickety dressing table to apply mascara. The room was low-ceilinged, with faded gingham curtains and a reproduction of Millais’ Ophelia over the bed.
‘Daisy told me,’ she said, keeping her voice down. ‘It’s been very upsetting for them. For her anyway. Ollie won’t talk about it. I’m surprised he even mentioned it to you.’
‘He didn’t. Archie did.’
I took the least crumpled shirt from my suitcase.
‘Daisy wanted to call us when he started truanting, to ask our advice. But Ollie wouldn’t let her. Plan B was to get Archie to call us himself. But Ollie vetoed that as well.’
‘He’d be embarrassed about involving us,’ I said.
‘But you’re Archie’s godfather. And I know about school refusers. We could have helped.’
‘I agree,’ I said.
‘Good. So you won’t object if I give Ollie a piece of my mind.’
‘I’d rather you