The Boy Who Knew

By the age of seven, Mas had a wisdom about him that most of us go our whole lives and never find. It is hard to describe, but he just knew how the world worked.

I had known his mum since she walked into an office where I was doing a gig, and I fell for her in a heartbeat. We went out, and it was special and all that stuff, but it was not to be and that was ok.

She is a forever friend, always in my life.

That particular day, the night I was baby-sitting Mas, I had walked away from a girl I had been with for a while, although I don’t remember her name. It was my idea to split up, and I ran more than walked, really, but I still felt sad, even still miss her sometimes.

As soon as I walked in the front door, Mas knew. He didn’t say anything, not even hello. He left me standing in the hall, and ran off to the kitchen. He was back in a moment, dragging a chair and setting it down in front of me.

He climbed on the chair, still without a word, and held his arms out wide. I still remember the hug he gave me that day. It made everything ok, and even thinking about it heals me still.

That night, Mas played me like the novice baby-sitter I was, and still am. I think it was a first and last time for me.

First, he made me show him my ‘world famous fire-eating’ act. I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned it, just from the look his mum gave me at the time. It very definitely was not ‘world famous’ and it was barely an act.

Still, Mas loved watching me putting lit matches out in my mouth, and it is a cool stunt that you really shouldn’t try.

He liked the ‘Sambucca Stunt’ even more, probably because it was another thing you really shouldn’t be showing a seven year old. It was the same kind of thing as the matches, except I dipped my finger in a small glass of Sambuca, lit my finger, then put that out in my mouth. It is a heck of a way to drink Sambuca, and it took the whole glass before Mas had seen enough.

I had very clear instructions spelling out Mas’s 7.00pm bedtime, but somehow it was 9.00pm before I even noticed.

Mas announced he really wanted to draw a portrait of me. Partly because I was a novice, and partly because I wanted to see what he would do, I said ‘yes’.

Mas raced around the house, collecting an A3 sketch pad and a huge amount of pencils, crayons and paints. I had to sit completely still on a chair and only then did he begin his great work, almost.

He needed music to help him work, a Coldplay album. Then he needed a drink, a juice-box, which turned out to be a small carton of orange juice. Then, something to eat, a toasted sandwich. Then he had to start all over from the beginning because I had moved from my pose.

I had no idea that having your portrait drawn by a seven year old would involve quite so much, or take quite so long.

By 10.00pm my body was complaining about sitting still for so long, and my patience was shot.

“Mas, darling,” I said, and couldn’t help but laugh. “You need to finish the drawing, and get to bed.”

“It is not a drawing.” he replied, thoughtfully, like he did. “It is a portrait, and I need loads more time, I have a lot still to do.”

I cracked, and leaped from my pose, grabbed the paper and had a look.

There was a big sort of circle, with some spiky hair on top, pointed ears like a pixie on the sides, a couple of round eyes, a button nose and a big smile.

“Mas, it is great,” I said, and I really did like it, wish I had it still.

“No,” he said, all serious now, grabbing it back and starting back to it with his pencil. “I have loads to do yet.”

“What exactly do you still have to do?” I asked, serious too.

“Well, you know, Joe,” he said, not even looking up from his work, intent as can be.

“No,” I said, “I don’t know, so tell me. Please.”

Mas looked up briefly, and then went back to his work.

“Joe,” he said, “I have to do all the lines on your face. It will take ages and ages”.

“Mas!” I was aghast, partly in fun, partly serious. “How could you be so cruel?”

Mas put down the paper and pen, stood up and came over to me and held my face in his small, pencil marked hands.

He dead-eyed me, full beam eye contact from a couple of inches, and gave me the best advice I had that year, at the very least.

“Oh Joe,” he sighed, and shook his head a little.

“Deal with it.”