This hunted life

Crisis is definitely too strong a word; let’s just say I baulked, at a kind of mid-life hurdle. It was December twenty, another school year was over and I was, quite frankly, to use an expression I would never permit my students, stuffed. The nerves were stretched and I couldn’t face the thought of a hectic family Christmas; all I wanted was to be alone.

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The decision to do a runner was inspired. The old cabins in the hidden mountain valley at Abercrombie would be perfect. Connie had gone shopping with Rachel, our youngest, which meant, if I was quick, I could get away without having to explain. I knew it was selfish, but I didn’t care. I hunted down my old backpack in the shed, grabbed some things together, jumped in the car and took off.

For three days I walked and walked and slept and read and didn’t talk to a single soul. On the fourth morning I threw myself into the icy creek and washed with a vigour that was almost savage. I knew then I was ready for home.

In Targo I stopped for a haircut. The young hairdresser invited me to sit and asked me if I was ready for Christmas; had I done all my shopping? I said no, not really, I left that side of things to my wife. As for Christmas itself, I’d be spending it with family, immediate and extended. She said that was nice; it really was a family time. Then she started telling me about her son.

He was a biter. She didn’t know where he got it from because she and her husband had both been brought up strict. But as soon as he got with kids, he’d get all excited and start to bite.  She’d tried slapping, putting him in a room by himself and taking away his toys. It didn’t help. She brought him to a child psychologist, who assured her it was fairly common with two year olds, and that rather than punish, she should talk to the boy. That didn’t work either, and anyway, he was almost three.

She was dreading Christmas. Her sisters-in-law wouldn’t allow their children to play with her son, and he was never invited for a sleepover, or even a visit. And it really hurt the little fellow, because he was such a good kid really and he had a heart of gold.

I told her I was a teacher and I felt that kids, and maybe not just kids either, were sometimes actually afraid of their feelings for others. The intensity scared them, and this caused confusion, so that what they ended up expressing was opposite to what they actually wanted to say.

She stopped cutting and looked at me as though she were grateful.

“Yes, you’re right”, she said. “Sometimes Hunter climbs into my bed and…”

I’d stopped listening. ‘Hunter’! Who could believe it?

On the drive home I remembered when we’d just arrived out from England. I was a skinny, freckled kid and the teacher on duty in the playground asked me my name. I blushed. ‘Fox’, I mumbled, but she heard ‘Scott’, and I was too ashamed to correct her. It’s funny how names act on us in such powerful, mysterious ways.

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