He should be at the front.
It's an odd thing to think at a funeral, that he should be sitting at the front with a family mourning a loss greater than any of them have ever known, but Nicholas can't help but think it. In another world, in a world fairer than this one, he was born into the right family.
(In another world, in a world fairer than this one, this funeral isn't taking place and the right family has Mark in his place at the table once again.)
Instead of sitting at the front, however, he's sitting at the back with his mother, his father, and the handful of his siblings that couldn't find excuses in time. He can't hear the service properly and it's too hot in this horrible room and the suit his mother thrust into his arms the night before used to belong to his eldest brother yet is still on the small side. Lewis keeps kicking him in the ankle and it is absolutely not accidental. Gina is reading a textbook behind her hymn sheet.
How can they not realise that the world has shifted?
Nicholas should be at the front because Mark Scafidi introduced him to music. Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Johnny Cash and their fellow storytellers; Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole and Dusty Springfield and their fellow swingers; and The Kinks and Blur and Cyndi Lauper.
Nicholas should be at the front because Mark Scafidi introduced him to football. Arsenal were the team and Nicholas was always invited on a Saturday or Sunday to watch the game, to memorise the formations and the team sheet, to pick up tips so that one day when he was eleven years old and trying to fit in at secondary school without incurring the wrath of Lewis he did a half-decent job of entirely accidentally replicating one of Thierry Henry's weekend goals. When he got made striker on the school team, Mark came down to see the games whenever he could.
Nicholas should be at the front because Mark told him about how it was more important to be happy than any of the stuff his parents liked to prioritise. Mark told him that it was more important to love and laugh and experience things than it was to follow a plan to the letter. Nicholas might be sitting with the people who did the deed that gave him life but in terms of the people who wanted to teach him how to live the people in the front row are a much better option.
But the world isn't fair. The world isn't fair because Nicholas is a Sykes and because families aren't chosen and because Mark is gone because of a war that wasn't fair either.
Nicholas is thirteen years old and at a funeral and at this thought, this all encompassing sense of injustice, he starts to cry.
Lewis kicks him again.
When the service is finally over and they've trailed out of the church to the sound of Forever Young he hangs around in the churchyard, hesitant to approach anyone. Lydia and Elizabeth are surrounded by those wishing to pay their respects. Ben is shrugging everyone off, unwilling to listen. Helen Sykes is making her presence known, pretending like she wasn't complaining about her assumed impropriety of the family a mere hour before the news broke. Nicholas is taking all of this in, wondering where to even begin, when a hand claps onto his shoulder, intentionally heavy.
"Did I see you crying in there, Nicholas?"
Although there's a right answer to this, it doesn't feel like there's a right answer to this. The boy looks down at his feet and scuffs at the ground underneath his school shoes. They might be second hand but they're perfectly polished - or they were until their current owner dragged them through the gravel. Yes, he wants to say. I was crying. It hurts. It hurts more than anything in the entire world. It would hurt less if it was anyone else. It would hurt less if it was you. But he can't say any of that and so instead he says, "It's not fair."
As expected, that answer is wrong.
"The world isn't fair, Nicholas. He was a good man. Good father. Good recruit. Wanted to help people, wanted to serve this country he loved. They'll miss him, his family, but what you've got to remember is that this is what happens. It's what needs to happen. No tears, no fuss; we live and we die and everything in between is set up for us to carry on decently and with success. We don't cry about it, you hear?"
Nicholas nods. John pats his shoulder again, still too heavy, and then walks away.
It's an odd thing to think at a funeral, that he should be sitting at the front with a family mourning a loss greater than any of them have ever known, but Nicholas can't help but think it. In another world, in a world fairer than this one, he was born into the right family.
(In another world, in a world fairer than this one, this funeral isn't taking place and the right family has Mark in his place at the table once again.)
Instead of sitting at the front, however, he's sitting at the back with his mother, his father, and the handful of his siblings that couldn't find excuses in time. He can't hear the service properly and it's too hot in this horrible room and the suit his mother thrust into his arms the night before used to belong to his eldest brother yet is still on the small side. Lewis keeps kicking him in the ankle and it is absolutely not accidental. Gina is reading a textbook behind her hymn sheet.
How can they not realise that the world has shifted?
Nicholas should be at the front because Mark Scafidi introduced him to music. Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Johnny Cash and their fellow storytellers; Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole and Dusty Springfield and their fellow swingers; and The Kinks and Blur and Cyndi Lauper.
Nicholas should be at the front because Mark Scafidi introduced him to football. Arsenal were the team and Nicholas was always invited on a Saturday or Sunday to watch the game, to memorise the formations and the team sheet, to pick up tips so that one day when he was eleven years old and trying to fit in at secondary school without incurring the wrath of Lewis he did a half-decent job of entirely accidentally replicating one of Thierry Henry's weekend goals. When he got made striker on the school team, Mark came down to see the games whenever he could.
Nicholas should be at the front because Mark told him about how it was more important to be happy than any of the stuff his parents liked to prioritise. Mark told him that it was more important to love and laugh and experience things than it was to follow a plan to the letter. Nicholas might be sitting with the people who did the deed that gave him life but in terms of the people who wanted to teach him how to live the people in the front row are a much better option.
But the world isn't fair. The world isn't fair because Nicholas is a Sykes and because families aren't chosen and because Mark is gone because of a war that wasn't fair either.
Nicholas is thirteen years old and at a funeral and at this thought, this all encompassing sense of injustice, he starts to cry.
Lewis kicks him again.
When the service is finally over and they've trailed out of the church to the sound of Forever Young he hangs around in the churchyard, hesitant to approach anyone. Lydia and Elizabeth are surrounded by those wishing to pay their respects. Ben is shrugging everyone off, unwilling to listen. Helen Sykes is making her presence known, pretending like she wasn't complaining about her assumed impropriety of the family a mere hour before the news broke. Nicholas is taking all of this in, wondering where to even begin, when a hand claps onto his shoulder, intentionally heavy.
"Did I see you crying in there, Nicholas?"
Although there's a right answer to this, it doesn't feel like there's a right answer to this. The boy looks down at his feet and scuffs at the ground underneath his school shoes. They might be second hand but they're perfectly polished - or they were until their current owner dragged them through the gravel. Yes, he wants to say. I was crying. It hurts. It hurts more than anything in the entire world. It would hurt less if it was anyone else. It would hurt less if it was you. But he can't say any of that and so instead he says, "It's not fair."
As expected, that answer is wrong.
"The world isn't fair, Nicholas. He was a good man. Good father. Good recruit. Wanted to help people, wanted to serve this country he loved. They'll miss him, his family, but what you've got to remember is that this is what happens. It's what needs to happen. No tears, no fuss; we live and we die and everything in between is set up for us to carry on decently and with success. We don't cry about it, you hear?"
Nicholas nods. John pats his shoulder again, still too heavy, and then walks away.
He should be next door.
John Sykes is too old to be deployed now, the last time occurring two years previously when he was still too old but too knowledgeable to leave behind. He's too much of a risk these days. It's the reason for his perpetual bad mood.
Mark Scafidi is not too old to be deployed. He's about to be, in fact. It's June 2006 and he's off for another tour, due to leave his house at thirteen hundred hours. Which is in ten minutes.
Nicholas should be next door to say goodbye, but he isn't because it's lunch time and he's not allowed to get down from the table until everyone has finished. It feels like they're eating in slow motion. There's no point in asking again - the first time he does his mother insists that he'll have enough time to say what he needs to if he stops making a fuss - so he has to sit and stew and pout. His father asks him about his last week of school and the boy replies shortly ("nobody cares about the last week of school") and he'll likely pay for that attitude later, but then Helen starts to gather up the plates and Nicholas sees an opportunity.
He's off his seat and out of the dining room before anyone can tell him not to be, and that's good enough for him. The door doesn't provide an adequate obstacle - the last person to use it left it unlocked so it's just a matter of seizing it open - and nor does the wall that marks the dividing line between the two houses - Nicholas vaults over it with apparent ease. The first time he stops is to thud on the Scafidi door with the palm of his hand.
"Am I too - " The blurted question comes as soon as Lydia opens the door, before he can take in the scene on the other side. They've been waiting for him. A sigh of relief is warranted, but the sight of all the Scafidis standing there for no reason also sends a surge of guilt through him; goodbyes drawn out because the boy next door wants to be involved.
"No, Nicky boy." Mark's voice booms too much as he picks up the meagre amount of belongings he chooses to take with him whenever he goes. "You're just in time."
Just in time has never sounded quite like this.
The family bundle out of the house, prompting Nicholas to step away from the front doorstep and move backwards down the driveway. It's funny; now that he's next door, it doesn't feel like somewhere he belongs either. Actually, he feels like that a lot. Perhaps it isn't funny at all.
"I just needed to... I didn't want to not say..."
Now that he's next door, he can't even say it.
The older man smiles, nods, accepts. He doesn't demand it. He doesn't even acknowledge it. "I want to hear Tangled Up in Blue when I get back, okay, Nic? Keep on practicing for me."
Nicholas nods, biting down at his lip to keep the suddenly threatening tears at bay. The word "okay" bubbles up in his throat to confirm that his dedication to Bob Dylan will be unwavering, but it can't quite break the surface because it gets stuck behind the lump there. Instead it's just a "ockkk" sound, complete nonsense, and even in the moment he wishes that he had something better to say.
Mark understands anyway. He doesn't hesitate in hugging the young boy in front of him, clutching his shoulders in a way that Nicholas can't remember his own father ever doing. It feels awkward, being this close to someone, and he's not sure he likes it. Despite that, he hugs back.
As expected, the man breaks away to return his attention to his own family. Liz is crying and when he hugs her she sobs into his chest, clutching the material of his shirt like she wants to burrow her fingers in and never let go. Ben is optimistic, and as Mark hugs him, the son begins jabbering about what they'll do when he gets back. It'll be Christmas. We'll see you at Christmas. Lydia gets a kiss - chaste and sweet against trembling lips - and when her husband breaks away he brushes a tear from her cheek. They share a few words in her native language. Nicholas doesn't know enough to understand what they say, nor can his thirteen-year-old self imagine what could be said. None of it feels like enough. Nothing feels like enough.
"We'll come up to the base with you." Lydia tries again, and there's a note of desperation in her voice. She's asked this a number of times. She always knows what the answer is going to be, but she always hopes that it's going to be different.
It isn't. Mark shakes his head, and holds his arms out for one more family hug. The three who share his surname pile on. Nicholas shuffles backwards and consequently stumbles off the curb of the pavement.
"I'll see you guys at Christmas, okay?" Mark says, and then, sniffling, he hauls his backpack into position.
"Okay," replies Ben, resolutely, and that resolve is what he needs. It's what they all need. Lydia smiles and Liz wipes her eyes and Nicholas stands up straight and Mark takes one last look and then begins his walk to the end of the street, where he'll turn right and disappear from view. The height of his backpack obstructs the top of his head. His boots make his footsteps echo echo echo. The four figures he's leaving behind stand in silence as he reaches the end of the road.
Mark doesn't turn right immediately. He turns back and lifts his hand in a half-wave, half-salute. His three family members wave back. Nicholas can't help himself, he doesn't even think about it; he salutes. Even as he does it he knows he'll be berating himself for it for years to come, although he can't possibly have a grasp on the total magnitude of the gesture. Mark smiles, turns right, and walks away.
John Sykes is too old to be deployed now, the last time occurring two years previously when he was still too old but too knowledgeable to leave behind. He's too much of a risk these days. It's the reason for his perpetual bad mood.
Mark Scafidi is not too old to be deployed. He's about to be, in fact. It's June 2006 and he's off for another tour, due to leave his house at thirteen hundred hours. Which is in ten minutes.
Nicholas should be next door to say goodbye, but he isn't because it's lunch time and he's not allowed to get down from the table until everyone has finished. It feels like they're eating in slow motion. There's no point in asking again - the first time he does his mother insists that he'll have enough time to say what he needs to if he stops making a fuss - so he has to sit and stew and pout. His father asks him about his last week of school and the boy replies shortly ("nobody cares about the last week of school") and he'll likely pay for that attitude later, but then Helen starts to gather up the plates and Nicholas sees an opportunity.
He's off his seat and out of the dining room before anyone can tell him not to be, and that's good enough for him. The door doesn't provide an adequate obstacle - the last person to use it left it unlocked so it's just a matter of seizing it open - and nor does the wall that marks the dividing line between the two houses - Nicholas vaults over it with apparent ease. The first time he stops is to thud on the Scafidi door with the palm of his hand.
"Am I too - " The blurted question comes as soon as Lydia opens the door, before he can take in the scene on the other side. They've been waiting for him. A sigh of relief is warranted, but the sight of all the Scafidis standing there for no reason also sends a surge of guilt through him; goodbyes drawn out because the boy next door wants to be involved.
"No, Nicky boy." Mark's voice booms too much as he picks up the meagre amount of belongings he chooses to take with him whenever he goes. "You're just in time."
Just in time has never sounded quite like this.
The family bundle out of the house, prompting Nicholas to step away from the front doorstep and move backwards down the driveway. It's funny; now that he's next door, it doesn't feel like somewhere he belongs either. Actually, he feels like that a lot. Perhaps it isn't funny at all.
"I just needed to... I didn't want to not say..."
Now that he's next door, he can't even say it.
The older man smiles, nods, accepts. He doesn't demand it. He doesn't even acknowledge it. "I want to hear Tangled Up in Blue when I get back, okay, Nic? Keep on practicing for me."
Nicholas nods, biting down at his lip to keep the suddenly threatening tears at bay. The word "okay" bubbles up in his throat to confirm that his dedication to Bob Dylan will be unwavering, but it can't quite break the surface because it gets stuck behind the lump there. Instead it's just a "ockkk" sound, complete nonsense, and even in the moment he wishes that he had something better to say.
Mark understands anyway. He doesn't hesitate in hugging the young boy in front of him, clutching his shoulders in a way that Nicholas can't remember his own father ever doing. It feels awkward, being this close to someone, and he's not sure he likes it. Despite that, he hugs back.
As expected, the man breaks away to return his attention to his own family. Liz is crying and when he hugs her she sobs into his chest, clutching the material of his shirt like she wants to burrow her fingers in and never let go. Ben is optimistic, and as Mark hugs him, the son begins jabbering about what they'll do when he gets back. It'll be Christmas. We'll see you at Christmas. Lydia gets a kiss - chaste and sweet against trembling lips - and when her husband breaks away he brushes a tear from her cheek. They share a few words in her native language. Nicholas doesn't know enough to understand what they say, nor can his thirteen-year-old self imagine what could be said. None of it feels like enough. Nothing feels like enough.
"We'll come up to the base with you." Lydia tries again, and there's a note of desperation in her voice. She's asked this a number of times. She always knows what the answer is going to be, but she always hopes that it's going to be different.
It isn't. Mark shakes his head, and holds his arms out for one more family hug. The three who share his surname pile on. Nicholas shuffles backwards and consequently stumbles off the curb of the pavement.
"I'll see you guys at Christmas, okay?" Mark says, and then, sniffling, he hauls his backpack into position.
"Okay," replies Ben, resolutely, and that resolve is what he needs. It's what they all need. Lydia smiles and Liz wipes her eyes and Nicholas stands up straight and Mark takes one last look and then begins his walk to the end of the street, where he'll turn right and disappear from view. The height of his backpack obstructs the top of his head. His boots make his footsteps echo echo echo. The four figures he's leaving behind stand in silence as he reaches the end of the road.
Mark doesn't turn right immediately. He turns back and lifts his hand in a half-wave, half-salute. His three family members wave back. Nicholas can't help himself, he doesn't even think about it; he salutes. Even as he does it he knows he'll be berating himself for it for years to come, although he can't possibly have a grasp on the total magnitude of the gesture. Mark smiles, turns right, and walks away.