Space Hopper

by Helen Fisher

  Mild jealousy aside, Louis is a big fan of Elizabeth and we talked about her a lot. He loved that she gave him the enamelled egg; it was a thing of beauty, and he knew that, whether or not he could see it. He was so proud to have this beautiful egg on the mantelpiece in his house for everyone to see.

  ‘It just shows how far I’ve come,’ he said one lunchtime at a café.

  ‘Meaning?’ I said, biting into a sandwich.

  ‘Well, when I was a kid I didn’t even know the shape of an egg, and now I’ve got a very expensive, beautiful, breakable one in my house. It is like a fuck you to the withholders of eggs.’

  ‘You don’t know it’s expensive,’ I said, my mouth full.

  ‘Don’t ruin it, it probably is. And your ring is bloody expensive.’

  ‘And fits me perfectly.’ I twisted it on my finger, which was a habit now. I had told Eddie it was a bit of costume jewellery to wear as my finger felt naked without my engagement ring.

  ‘Maybe it’s worth losing the other one?’ he said, not really meaning it.

  ‘Oh God, no, but a sweet and generous gesture. She didn’t have to do it.’ I paused. ‘Withholders of eggs?’ I said.

  ‘You know what I mean.’ We sat and ate in companionable silence for a while. The café was busy with people ordering takeaway lunches; one or two of them smiled at me in an admiring way, as though they thought I was doing a good deed taking the blind guy for lunch. I hated that. We were tucked away in a back corner, furthest from the entrance and the cold wind that whooshed in every time someone entered; it had been a warm October so far, but now a cooler autumn was knocking at the door.

  ‘Would you go back again, if it was you?’ I asked him. Louis wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  ‘I would. But that doesn’t mean you should,’ he said. ‘I don’t have kids, I don’t have a husband. I don’t really have anyone that relies on me or would miss me if something went wrong.’

  ‘That’s not true, Louis, I would miss you,’ I said. ‘I would.’

  ‘It’s not the same,’ he said. ‘I’m just not that important in the lives of the people that I know. I’m replaceable,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not replaceable,’ I said. ‘Louis, you are not replaceable.’

  ‘So if I had a box and wanted to go back in time to visit my dad or something, would you be encouraging me to do it?’

  ‘Well, if it’s what you really wanted to do, then yes.’

  ‘That’s because if I got lost or injured or killed, it wouldn’t have that much impact on the world. One day I’d go off in the box and then, when I didn’t come back, after a while someone would say, “Hey where’s that blind guy who was always kicking over my waste-paper basket?” And after a bit longer everyone would stop asking where I was and I would be just missing. My sister would be upset, probably presume I’d jumped in a lake because I was pissed off with being blind, then she’d sell the house, and get on with her life.’

  ‘Not true,’ I said, in a fierce whisper.

  ‘True,’ he said, calmly, confidently.

  ‘It’s not my truth,’ I countered. He just shrugged and bit his sandwich. ‘Don’t you ever go jumping in a fucking lake,’ I said. And then, in a pathetic little voice I said, ‘You’ve really upset me, Louis. You’re incredibly important to me. I need you.’

  ‘I need you too, and so do lots of people, but you keep threatening to get in a box and disappear for ever.’

  ‘You didn’t used to think like that, before Elizabeth.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But that stuff she said about not really knowing how this time-travel thing works worried me.’

  ‘Me too,’ I said. ‘I keep thinking if something as solid as a ring can go missing, what else could go wrong? Maybe something catastrophic. It’s weird because before, it felt like going back was actually making the present as we know it,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, well that hasn’t really changed,’ Louis said. He sipped on his drink.

  ‘What do you mean? I thought that because I’ve always had my engagement ring, the fact that it was stolen from Elizabeth means the timeline has changed.’

  ‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘That’s not the case. The timeline of your life, and when you had your ring, hasn’t changed, has it? You had it all your married life until the other day, and now you don’t have it. I’m thinking nothing’s actually changed as a result of your journey or the burglary.’

  ‘I’m confused,’ I said. ‘You mean there’s still nothing to say I would change anything if I go back again?’

  ‘No, except that I am starting to think you’ve only been back twice, and we can’t be certain of the rules.’ Then he thoughtfully held a finger in the air.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘If you do go back again you could take some money and pay Elizabeth for the skates, and bring your ring back, before it gets stolen; at least that way you’ll have it again and not piss Eddie off too much. When was the burglary?’

  ‘Years after I first met her,’ I said. ‘That could work. But my money would be no good in the seventies.’

  ‘You can probably buy it on eBay,’ he said.

  ‘Buy 1970s money?’

  ‘Hmm,’ he said. Then shook his head. ‘No, it won’t work.’

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  ‘Because the ring’s already stolen. You can’t undo stuff, you can only make things as we know them to be, not change what’s already happened. And on second thoughts, you absolutely mustn’t pay for those skates.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Because Elizabeth said you never did that, so that would be changing things.’

  ‘Oh God, stop,’ I said, holding the sides of my head as if my brains might fall out.

  ‘Don’t go back; it won’t help, and it’s too dangerous,’ he said.

  ‘Make up your mind.’ I put my napkin over my plate; it was too hard to swallow anymore. ‘The downside of that is I never get to see my mother again. That’s all. Thanks.’ The argument for going back was going in circles: I wanted to go back, but the risks could be too high. If it weren’t for the ring, I probably wouldn’t have thought twice about it, despite the physical risk and all that I had to lose. It was blasé to not take more seriously all that I had to lose, including my life; knowing that, I had to engage my head, turn down the volume on my heart a few notches. I had to come to terms with the fact that I’d lost my mother again before I’d had the chance to say everything I needed to say to her. I felt I was losing her for the second time in my life or maybe the third. Every time I left her I was bereft. But wasn’t that going to be true no matter how many times or how brilliantly I managed to say goodbye? Now here was Louis, explaining once more that in fact I hadn’t changed anything – the stolen ring meant nothing – and my life as I knew it would remain untouched regardless of what I did in the past. I’d considered myself a more naturally cautious person; why was I risking everything I had? My expeditions to the past were always tinged with the fear of not being able to get back, and yet the addiction to return was physical, emotional, consuming.

  I got us some coffees and sat back down at the table again, lifting Louis’ hand and touching his cup with it. ‘Did you know I was adopted after my mother died?’ I asked him.

  ‘I guessed you were, or fostered. We’ve never talked about it.’

  ‘An old couple took me in, I called them Aunt Em and Uncle Henry. They were nice people, like cosy grandparents. It always felt like I was just visiting, even when I lived there permanently.’

  ‘How did it work out?’ Louis asked.

  ‘Good. They were kind, I didn’t cause them any trouble. They had their lives, they played bowls, darts. They had a gentle routine and I guess it was good for me. It was like one day my mother was there and the next she wasn’t; Em and Henry took me in, and then, I just stayed. I remember Sunday evenings: we would watch Bullseye on the television and eat pâté on toast and Cup-a-Soup out of actual red and white Batchelors Cup-a-Soup mugs.
Then Bergerac. And the Bergerac theme tune just feels like Sunday night to me; it meant school the next day. My mother was really a hippy I suppose and there was lots of love, and care, but I guess not always a lot of routine. Em and Henry probably saved me, stopped me going mad after she died. They really looked after me. They filed for adoption after a couple of years.’

  ‘They still around?’

  ‘Uncle Henry’s nearly ninety. They were nearly sixty when they took me in, can you imagine? Em died a decade ago.’ I sipped my coffee and smiled fondly because Louis had a frothy top lip and it looked like a tiny French moustache. I didn’t bother telling him.

  ‘Eddie thinks I should visit Henry and ask more questions about my mother, before it’s too late.’

  ‘What could he possibly know about your mum that you don’t know better since you visited her?’ Louis said.

  ‘Well, they never told me exactly how she died, so the story I know is she got a cold, and that was it. Well, that’s not right, is it? It must have been something else, a heart attack, cancer, asthma. I don’t know. They were protecting me, I understand that, and child psychology was not what it is today. They took me to her grave a couple of times, and maybe that was their idea of closure. But honestly, I wouldn’t even know where that grave is now.’

  ‘Then talk to Henry, ask him about it, what harm can it do?’

  ‘I don’t know, it feels like a potential can of worms.’

  ‘Just visit him and don’t ask him then, just see where the conversation goes.’

  ‘That’s what you said when we went to Elizabeth’s shop,’ I said.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘Not this time. I think I should go with Eddie and the girls. I’ll update you afterwards though,’ I said, squeezing his hand.

  ‘This is good,’ Louis said, his voice reassuring, strong. He held my hand tight. ‘This is progress. This is what normal people do when they want to find out about the past: they speak to living people who were actually there, rather than getting in a time machine. This is a step in the right direction.’

  24

  Uncle Henry is jowly – always has been – and reminds me of Droopy, an American cartoon dog. Droopy had to hold up a sign saying ‘I am happy’ because just by looking at his face, it was impossible to tell. It was much the same with Uncle Henry, but he was far from a miserable man. If I had only two adjectives to describe him they would be ‘solid’ and ‘content’; a man who made you feel safe by doing nothing at all except being present. Even now, his firm hold of my hand as I perched on the edge of a sofa next to his wheelchair was the grip of a man who knew no different than to give heart; reassurance was in his fingertips.

  When I think about the first night I stayed with Em and Henry, the image I remember is a plate of biscuits laid out in a pattern: caramel wafers in their shiny red and gold wrappers fanned out in a circle like sunrays; the gaps in between them filled with chocolate teacakes in silver foil, and then pink wafers, naked in comparison. Too many biscuits to eat, but just the right amount to make the pattern work. It wasn’t weird, it was nice. They treated me like a very special guest, and were lovely to me.

  Now that he was very old, Henry was getting jowlier; it was the only thing about him that changed, there was nothing wrong with his mind. When we arrived at the home, he chatted to Esther and Evie, asked them about school, and their trip to France and asked them what the worst thing was about each. He always asked what the worst thing was about your day, your holiday, your weekend because, he said, everyone always asks what the best thing is and it’s good to be different. Evie climbed into his lap and he put his arm around her. She gingerly held the loose skin of his droopy cheek and lifted it slightly.

  ‘What’s under here?’ she asked conversationally.

  ‘Sweets!’ he said, and pulled a bag out from a pocket, like a pannier, on the side of his wheelchair. ‘I got some out for you earlier, from under my cheeks, and bagged them up.’

  This was a routine we always went through, when we visited. The first time Evie had come with me to see Henry, the first time she could speak that is, she crawled all over him, and I was mortified when she lifted his face and enquired what lay beneath. But he laughed and told her a family of tiny birds lived under there. And the next time he said it was sweets, and was prepared with the real thing.

  He and I now sat next to a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the gardens and watched Eddie and the girls playing hide-and-seek outside.

  ‘You had many visitors recently, Uncle Henry?’ I asked.

  ‘Most days, love,’ he said. ‘But when you get to my age, and your visitors are made up of the bowling team and their wives, gradually their numbers diminish,’ he said, matter-of-fact. ‘It’s a terrible part of getting old, when you outlive everyone; you’re basically condemned to see your friends die.’

  I squeezed his hand. ‘I was hoping I could ask you some questions, Henry, about my mother. Things I never asked before.’

  He closed his eyes. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Before it’s too late.’

  ‘I didn’t want to say that.’

  Henry held my hand a little tighter and stroked the top of my hand with his thumb.

  ‘Your Aunt Em and I, we loved you, I still love you, of course. I hope you know that you brought us a lot of joy,’ Henry said. ‘Em, my darling Em, couldn’t have children, and it was a great sadness in our life, but we loved each other and we surrounded ourselves with friends, and activities. It was harder in those days if you couldn’t have children.’ Henry’s voice went scratchy and it made me want to clear my throat. ‘It’s always hard for a woman who can’t have children, if she wants them. But what I mean is, in those days, it could be harder to find another purpose to fill your time, distract you from the sadness. When you lost your mum, and came to us, we had already come to terms with the child-shaped hole in our life. The hole never closed, we just got used to it being there.’ He stared out of the window, unblinking. ‘You probably don’t remember, but you used to drop in with your mother now and then, and Em would make such a fuss of you. She adored children.

  ‘You were more like a grandchild to us, because of our age, but Em – and I – we loved you like you were our own. And you were such a good girl, you really brought us happiness.’

  ‘You were good to me, Uncle Henry. I’m glad you were both there for me.’

  We sat in silence for a while. I was agitated because Henry must know I wanted to know more about what happened to my mother, and he wasn’t volunteering anything. I was going to have to ask.

  ‘When I was little,’ I said. ‘When I came to live with you, I don’t remember what happened to my mother. You said she got sick, had a cold, right? And then she died? But it’s all so ambiguous, surely you know more.’

  Henry looked at me. His lips were pressed tightly together, and I worried that he would not prise them open to let any words out.

  ‘Uncle Henry,’ I said, scooching closer, keeping my voice low. ‘I would never judge you. I know you and Aunt Em wanted to protect me from the details of my mother’s death. You didn’t want me hurting, and you wanted me to forget, because I was a child, and nobody wants to see a child in pain. I understand. But now, as I get older, and my connections to the past are threatened’ – I grimaced in faint apology – ‘I need to know, Uncle Henry, otherwise I will wonder for the rest of my life. The hurt of losing her is compounded now by not knowing the truth.’

  I implored Henry with my eyes. ‘Losing her hurts anyway,’ I said, but I can’t do anything about that. The truth of why I lost her, the details, are something I need. It will help me. Please.’

  Henry nodded, and patted the top of my hand that was holding his, as if to stop me trying to persuade him. ‘Get me a glass of water, love,’ he said.

  He sipped and we both looked out of the window. From this angle I could see Esther hiding behind a tree with her hand over her mouth trying not to giggle and give herself away and Evie hiding in a bu
sh, clearly visible.

  ‘There are no details,’ Henry said, and I closed my eyes. He wasn’t going to tell me anything. ‘In fact, we told you more than we knew.’

  I turned to look at him, and he continued to gaze unblinking out of the window as he spoke. ‘I didn’t even know she had a cold, you told us that. You said your mother got colds and bad coughs, and that she had one at that time. But I don’t know how she died.’

  ‘Did you go to the funeral?’ I asked.

  ‘There was no funeral,’ he said, turning to look at me, and I thought I saw something in his face, I thought I saw an apology. A high-pitched scream made me jump and I looked out to see that Eddie had sneaked up on Esther from behind and grabbed her. They were both laughing now.

  ‘Why wasn’t there a funeral? What did they do with her body?’

  Henry sighed a long sigh, and I smelled mints on his breath. ‘There was no body,’ he said. ‘Nobody knows what happened to your mother, well nobody knows for sure. There was speculation, and we protected you from all that. But there was never a body. She was missing, presumed dead.’

  ‘Presumed?’ I said, and it was suddenly hard to breathe.

  ‘We think she committed suicide,’ Henry said, trying to move closer to me in his chair, but not actually moving at all.

  ‘No, she wouldn’t. Why?’ My voice was nothing but a husk. ‘Why would she kill herself? She was happy.’