Matthew Moon, by Jo Wallis

At school he was always the awkward one in class, the one who made his teachers feel they really should try harder: try harder to find a latent talent, try harder to coax a smile or an opinion, try harder  to find him a friend.                                                                                                                                  

In final year at primary, Matthew had been last to be matched up in the school-wide penfriend scheme because he’d been unable to list any hobbies or interests; now fourteen and at secondary school he was still stolidly unknown.

Birthdays and Christmas had always been a challenge. Matthew didn’t make or draw things; he didn’t care for collecting; sports, music, and pets bored him; he didn’t like cooking, wasn’t keen on the outdoors. Book tokens expired dustily on his windowsill. Despite his mother’s suggestions, he would never agree to host a party because he didn’t know who to invite.

Matthew spent hours in his bedroom – a typical teenager, his mother said optimistically – and all he did was lie on his bed, staring silently at the ceiling.

He didn’t get into trouble; he didn’t get into anything.

One evening Mrs Moon noticed the back door was ajar and, looking out, she saw Matthew flat on his back in the middle of their little lawn (much prized in that part of London).

Whatever are you doing? she called.

Looking at the sky, said Matthew, his face mushroom-like in the kitchen light.

And most evenings that summer if Matthew wasn’t lying on his bed he’d be stretched out on the grass. Mrs Moon told her friends with some relief that she knew what he’d be getting for his fifteenth, since he’d developed a strong interest in astronomy.

Matthew didn’t shake the long cylindrical box he found on the birthday breakfast table, nor did his excitement quite match his mother’s when he finally opened it.

Mrs Moon expected Matthew to carry his telescope straight out into the garden that evening; instead he took it and his four cards quietly up to his room after tea.

I expect he’s waiting for it to go properly dark, Mrs Moon sighed, and then, later, he won’t get a view of the sky from up there, she worried, picturing banks of terraces one after another giddily jostling all the way to the city.

You’ll be better taking it in the garden, she called up the stairs.

Matthew didn’t reply. She guessed he’d turned in. He often went to bed early.

In the morning Mrs Moon asked Matthew if he’d liked his present. I’ve kept the receipt if it’s not right, she said.

Mum, it’s great, he said, I love it.

Oh, said Mrs Moon, thrilled by his show of enthusiasm, Oh I am glad.

That evening: a hammering at the door, an angry, impatient drumming. Alright, alright, said Mrs Moon, looking for her slippers as she left the sofa.

Mr Alford from across the road was on the doorstep. Your son, he said, disregarding her hello, your bloody gormless son.

Mrs Moon blinked, closed the door a little.

What’s the matter?

That telescope, spat Mr Rutherford.

Oh yes, Matthew loves his star-gazing.

Star-gazing..? How stupid are you? If he doesn’t stop training that bloody telescope on my Evie’s bedroom window I’ll make sure he’s seeing stars alright!

  

A Dark and Stormy Night, by Jo Wallis

                                          

It was three years since we met; three years and a few days; our first wedding anniversary had passed in the summer. I was thinking about this as I waited for you; struggling to focus on positives, but hindered by the strong winds crashing rain against our house.

Eventually I sensed more than heard the front door open and close behind you, felt anger in your determined effort not to slam it. You would be cutting the air as you moved across the sitting room to the kitchenette and the fridge, checking the surfaces were clean, the floor mopped and everything we owned tidied away in its correct place.

You stand in the door way, a can in hand, swaying slightly. In a ludicrously loud whisper you ask if I’m awake. Even without the thunder, sleep would have been impossible, but I don’t say that.  I smell rain on you, and sweat. I am absolutely bloody soaked, you say, and freezing cold. Even in the gloom I see the bottom of your trousers darkened, your shoulders the same sodden black.

Oh dear, I say, shall I get you a towel?

Shall I get you a towel? It’s going to take more than a towel to warm me up, my darling, you say, in tones that reproach me for appearing warm and dry in bed. I am actually incredibly cold, unable now to distinguish the hammering in my head from the storm outside. Your voice is dangerously high-pitched as you ask why I hadn’t reminded you to take your raincoat.

You stand close now, slam your can down on the bedside cabinet. Beer spills out; it will forever remain the smell of violence, but at that moment all I think is, mustn’t forget to wipe that up when you’re through with me.

In the morning you are smoothly conciliatory as you down black coffee and fasten your tie. You were so cold and so wet and I had been having a laugh, you say, I’d done nothing to help. For all I cared your suit could’ve been ruined. I’d brought it on myself. But really, sorry, I shouldn’t have been so rough. See you later.

I am sore all over and avoid the bathroom mirror. Would it have made a difference if I’d pretended to be asleep? Probably not: I can’t seem to help aggravating you. If only I had thought to put your raincoat out, or an umbrella at least. But yesterday morning had dawned fine and the forecast had been fair. And then it occurs to me, clear and unavoidable as if delivered by last night’s lightning: I hadn’t made it rain; I don’t have the power. It was not my fault.