Where the Moon Isn't Read Online Free PDF

those boys got to?’
    It was stupid really, because by this time Simon wouldn’t be able to stop from giggling. That didn’t matter though, because we all knew it was just pretend. And it was fun. The most fun thing was at this point Simon and me would leap out from behind the door, and wrestle Dad to the ground.
    That is what we used to do when Simon was alive, but now Simon wasn’t alive, I never got up before my dad. At quarter to seven he would still come into my room to find me lying awake, unsure of how to begin. That must have been hard for him.
    He came in every morning anyway, to sit beside me for a few minutes and just be there.
    ‘Morning mon ami, you okay?’ He ruffled my hair, in that way grown-ups do to children, and we did our special handshake. ‘You going to work hard for Mummy today?’
    I nodded, yes.
    ‘Good lad. Work hard then you can get a decent job and look after your old pa, eh?’
    ‘I will mon ami.’
    It started in France when I was five years old. This was our only holiday abroad, and Mum had won it in a magazine competition. It was something to be proud of, first prize in a True Lives writing contest, eight hundred words or less about what makes your family special. She wrote about the struggles and rewards of raising a child with Down Syndrome. I don’t suppose I got a mention. The judges loved it.
    Some people can remember way back to the beginning of their lives. I’ve even met people who say they can remember being born.
    The farthest back my mind can reach puts me standing in a rock pool, with my dad holding one of my hands for balance, in the other I’m clutching my brand new net, and we are catching fish together. It isn’t a whole memory. I just keep a few fragments; a cold slice of water just below my knees, seagulls, a boat in the distance – that sort of thing. Dad can remember more. He can remember that we talked, and what we talked about. A five-year-old boy and his daddy chewing the cud over everything from the size of the sea to where the sun goes at night. And whatever I said in that rock pool, it was enough for my dad to like me. So that was that. We became friends. But because we were in France we became amis. I don’t suppose any of this matters. I just wanted to remind myself.
    ‘Right then. I’m off to earn that crust.’
    ‘Do you have to go, Dad?’
    ‘Only until we win the lottery, eh?’ Then he winked at me (but not in a Steve way) and we did our special handshake again. ‘Work hard for Mummy.’
    Mum wore her long nightdress and the silly animal slippers Simon had once chosen for her birthday. ‘Morning baby boy.’
    ‘Tell me about France again, Mum.’
    She stepped into my room and opened the curtains, so that for a moment, standing in front of the window, she became nothing but a faceless silhouette. Then she said it again. Just like before. ‘Sweetheart, you look pale.’

 
    school runs
    I think of Mum zipping closed my orange winter coat again, and pulling up the hood again so the grey fur lining clings to the sweat on my forehead and brushes at my ears. I think of it, and it is happening. Hot honey and lemon drunk down in gulps from the mug I once gave to her – no longer special – and a bitter chalky after-taste of ground-up paracetamol.
    ‘I’m sorry about the other day, sweetheart.’
    ‘Sorry for what, Mummy?’
    ‘For dragging you past the playground, with the other children staring.’
    ‘Were you punishing me?’
    ‘I don’t know. I might have been. I’m not sure.’
    ‘Do we have to do it again?’
    ‘I think so, yes. You have your coat on.’
    ‘You put it on me. You zipped it up.’
    ‘Did I?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Then we should go.’
    ‘I don’t want to.’
    ‘I know that, Matthew. But you’re unwell, and you might need antibiotics. We need to get you seen. Did I really zip your coat up?’
    ‘But why now? Why can’t we wait until after playtime has finished?’
    ‘I don’t know. I haven’t worked that out