He didn't come to school for a couple of days which meant he was ill again. And then we had an assembly about him and that meant he was dead.
A bit later, there was a mass for him at school and his mother and father were there crying and clutching each other's hands - big people who looked bigger sat in a school hall full of little children.
John was a kid a couple of years older than me but in the same year at school. Different class but same year. He had been held back a couple of years because of his illness. I was nine and the age difference seemed huge, like he was already a man - a feeling helped by the fact that his hair was exactly like my dad's who was forty at the time. They both had light, wispy hair that grew in thin patches, not like the thick covering my mum and I and other kids had.
I asked my mum about John's hair and if he wasn't really a little man who shouldn't be at school. She said he had had an operation and that they had opened up his head to take something out. 'His hair grows thin because of his scars. Hair can't grow on scars,' she said. I asked if dad had scars on his head too and she said no, he was just old.
I asked what had been taken out of John's head and she said a tumour. I asked what a tumour was. 'Something that grows where it shouldn't and needs to be removed with an operation.' I asked if I might have a tumour in my head and she said no more questions.
I saw John on my walk to school. I didn't walk to school in winter - my dad would drop me off early on his way to work. But in spring and summer when the weather was good I walked. John walked too. He lived nearer to school than I did. Sometimes I'd see him up ahead and I'd run to catch up. Sometimes he'd catch up with me and sometimes I'd be walking past his house as he was stepping out. There were plenty of times when we didn't walk to school together but I liked it when we did.
John showed me his scars and told me about hospital. He had a lot of stories. I asked if he was all better now and he smiled and said, 'We'll see,' which is what my parents said when they didn't want to say no.
At school he was clever but he wasn't allowed to play out. At break times he sat in the classroom reading or playing something gentle. The rest of us weren't allowed to stay in at break time so he was always alone. We waved to each other sometimes.
John had complications because of his tumour and his operation and whenever he didn't turn up at school, I went to the school secretary at break and asked if he was okay. Mrs Furlong. She was nice. She would tell me he was just a bit ill. And usually he was back in school the next day or the day after. Once I told him I worried when he didn't come to school. He told me not to be soft.
Then came the time he was off for a few days. I told Mrs Furlong I was worried and she told me not to be, but I could tell that she was too. She didn't smile and she wouldn't look at me and she told me to go out to play.
It was a while later that we had our assembly. After it I hid in the toilets and tried to keep from crying too loud. Later still, we had mass. I couldn't take my eyes off John's parents. They must have missed their little man so much. I know I did.
That was years ago. I have my own kids now. I barely resemble the nine year old I was. I have no pictures of John except for the images in my mind which time and faulty memory have doubtless bent from reality. But I still think of him, mostly on suburban streets on sunny days - a little man who knew more about life and death than I've ever done, and now knows more about what lies beyond than any of us.
