by Rebecca Shaw
Piers joined them in the hall ready for off and unwittingly Viv demonstrated how to be a mum without even trying. ‘Now, Piers, have you cleaned your teeth? Good. Got your homework? Yes? It’s football day your Uncle Graham said, where’s your bag? I knew there’d be something. Go get it. Handkerchief? Yes. Let’s be off then.’
The sharp air caught the wound on Myra’s forehead, making it hurt badly. The cold seemed to worm its way right inside the cut and into her brain, but she wouldn’t give in and turn back. They saw Piers in, and headed back swiftly, harried by the cold.
‘Thanks for looking after everyone while I’ve been in hospital, Viv.’
‘Not at all, it’s been a pleasure. Anytime, they’re thoroughly decent boys, Myra, you’re very lucky.’
Myra was glad to get back home, but not fancying being on her own right now she invited Viv in for coffee on the pretence of her perhaps liking to see Oliver’s picture and Piers’ card. The most ridiculous, most unaccustomed, feeling of pride came over her when Viv showed her delight at Oliver’s collage, but all she said was, ‘It is good isn’t it? The art teacher wants it back for Parents’ Evening so she can hang it in the school art exhibition.’
‘Not one of my children were good at art. Absolutely hopeless they were. The best was Sally in pottery. I’ve got some clumsy bowls and vases in a cupboard somewhere, and that was the nearest any of them got. Here, sit down. I’ll put the kettle on, you look tired.’
So they sat in the kitchen enjoying their coffee until Viv said, ‘Oh God! I’d forgotten I’ve got the the dentist. I should have left already. Blast. Never mind though, he always runs late. Must go. Remember, I’ll collect Piers this afternoon, I’ll be leaving at three. Come with me if you feel up to it.’
Myra slept for most of the morning and woke feeling better able to cope with life. She inspected the cut and decided it was looking a little better than when she’d got up that morning. She put on her coat and went outside to see Little Pete. The sun was out so the cold didn’t strike her so badly as it had earlier.
Pete was hunched up in a corner of his run looking, she thought, rather glum. She hitched her scarf round her throat and bent down to poke a finger through the mesh and touch poor Pete. It must be rather lonely for him on his own, and she wondered about having two rabbits. She didn’t want an army of them though, and surely two buck rabbits would fight. Or maybe they could have separate hutches. One could be Oliver’s and the other could be Piers’.
Her knees ached bent down all the time, but as she straightened up she decided she quite liked the idea of company so pushing aside her revulsion at touching another being she reached in and picked up Pete. Anxious not to drop him, she rushed inside with him. He was such a dear little thing, rather like a Siamese cat in his colouring, sort of coffee and cream. She took a fresh piece of lettuce from the fridge and gave it to him. Was lettuce, cold, straight out of the fridge good for a young rabbit, maybe there were rules about it? She’d ring Graham, he might know. She never rang him at the office, but just this once she would. Pete was eating it with relish, should she take it from him? She hadn’t the heart to. Myra dialled Graham’s office number and asked to speak to him.
‘Graham! It’s me––’
‘Myra! Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, I’m ringing about Pete, the rabbit. You kept a rabbit when you were a boy didn’t you? Is it all right to give him lettuce straight out of the fridge?’
‘Won’t do him any harm.’
‘Good. He’s in the kitchen eating away.’
‘How on earth did he get in there?’
‘I carried him in.’
‘Oh! Right. I see. He’ll be fine, Myra don’t worry about him. Anything else?’
‘No. See you tonight.’
Graham put down the receiver and sat staring into space. She obviously wasn’t right, had he better go home? He’d loads of work on hand and couldn’t really afford the time. But Myra carrying a rabbit into the house? She hated anyone touching her at the best of times, and she always said pets were riddled with germs. The rabbit in the kitchen? What was she thinking of? Then he began to laugh, a rip-roaring, powerful, joyous laugh. His PA came in with some figures he’d asked for and stood stock still, astonished. In the whole of the seven years that she’d worked for him she had never seen him laugh like this. Not once. Not even at the office Christmas Party. It was such abandoned laughter and he showed no sign of stopping. She quickly shut the door so no one else would hear.
‘Mr Butler?’
He paused briefly said, ‘In the kitchen of all places . . .’ and laughed even louder.
‘Are you well? Mr Butler. I said, are you all right?’
Graham tried to quell the laughter that kept spilling out. He knew what his PA would be thinking – had he finally tipped over the edge, this hard-working man of few words, devoted to the business of waste as he was? He’d better get himself under control before someone thought to ring Myra. Not that anyone at work knew her – she’d never shown her face at the office, never came to any events as his plus-one, the excuse being she didn’t ‘do’ parties.
‘I’m fine, thank you, never been better. Got those figures? The meeting’s in fifteen minutes and I need to make myself au fait with them before I go in.’
It was all right then, he was back in his usual mode, though he did wonder if she heard him burst into laughter again just as she closed his door.
The rabbit incident was the last thing on his mind by the time he was driving home. The meeting hadn’t gone well despite the encouraging figures, there’d been another minor breakdown of the new equipment, and a promising chap coming for interview tomorrow had rung to say his wife had gone into premature labour and he couldn’t possibly come for a few days.
But the nearer he got to home the more his boys filled his mind. Had they had a good day at school? He’d been enormously impressed by the collage Oliver had done, and by the thoughtfulness of Piers’ get-well card. They truly were decent young boys and well worth getting to know. Thoughts about the challenging day he’d just survived fell away the closer he got to the house and it occurred to him that it was a long time since he’d so looked forward to getting home.
He thought of Myra, too. She’d frightened him to death with the way she looked after her fall. They might not be close like they’d been in the first five years of their marriage but his passionate love for her had never entirely faded away. Put on the shelf perhaps, neglected probably, allowed to wither definitely, but not entirely gone. That was how he felt, but how did she feel about love? It seemed on the surface that for her, all of it had gone. Disappeared in the dreadful double blow of losing their prospective children. Six months after their second loss he’d timidly brought up the subject of adoption but Myra wouldn’t even discuss it. She had withdrawn so thoroughly from life. It was as if taking a chance or hoping that something else might work out for them wasn’t possible any more.
His own profound grief had for a while masked the fact that she appeared to want nothing more to do with him. It was already too late by the time he’d realised that was exactly what had happened. He’d assured himself at the start that the separate bedrooms was a temporary state of affairs. After all, it had taken them a while to try again after the miscarriage, so the mourning after their stillborn son felt completely understandable, but the days turned into weeks and the months into years. Perhaps he should have done something, pushed for more – but instead he’d retreated into the state of limbo they existed in, afraid that rocking the boat would wreck the fragile shell of the relationship that remained.
As he switched off the engine he heard shouting coming from the house. It was Myra and Oliver. Both of them, by the sound of it, were past caring what they said. Graham leapt out of the car and shot into the house to find the two of them screaming at each other, saying unforgiveable things and Piers hiding behind the sofa begging them to stop.
‘Say you’re sorry, Oliver. Say you’re sorr
y.’
Graham shouted above the din, ‘That will do! Oliver be silent as of this minute! Do as I say!’ It had no effect, so he took hold of Oliver’s arm and clapped his hand over his mouth. ‘I mean it!’
Oliver wriggled free just long enough for him to say, ‘I’ll never apologise, it wasn’t my fault, I didn’t do it.’
Myra burst out with her complaint. ‘He’s come home from school wrong side out and there’s no reasoning with him. I sent him to tidy their bedroom and he refuses to do it. He’s just not grateful, and he should be, he should be grateful to you and to me for taking him in.’
Graham winced at her use of words. ‘But what is it he is saying he didn’t do?’
Myra drew in a great breath. ‘He smashed a vase just to annoy me, because he didn’t want to do as I said.’
‘I didn’t do it. Honest, I didn’t break it. I’ve not even been in the sitting room since I came home.’
Myra stamped her foot. ‘You must have. Who else could have done it? It certainly wasn’t me.’
The three of them stood looking at one another and finally their eyes rested on Piers. If it was possible, he appeared to have shrunk, and his bright red guilty face told the whole story.
Graham took charge of the situation. ‘Piers, you and I will stay in here while Myra and Oliver go in the kitchen. We need to talk. Before you go, Oliver, can you bring a dustpan and brush in here, your brother will need to use it.’
Piers, on the point of collapse with the fear that anyone could see welling up inside him, came out from behind the sofa now Myra had left the room. He sat scrunched up on the sofa. Graham could tell he was waiting for his wrath to descend on him. He imagined all the thoughts that would be running through the child’s head – he’d probably already imagined he’d be sent packing for this.
‘Now Piers, what’s this all about?’ He said this in the gentlest voice he could muster. ‘Tell me what happened, there’s a good boy.’
‘I thought she’d get that stick out.’
‘What stick? Myra hasn’t got a stick.’
‘I mean Delphine’s stick.’
‘I should have told you. We broke it in pieces the first night you and your brother were here. As soon as Oliver showed it us, we made sure it could never be used to hurt anyone again. We don’t use sticks on anyone in this house. Believe me.’
Piers looked relieved. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘I was looking out of the window for Oliver coming home, I just wanted him to be here, I couldn’t wait, I felt so lonely and he was late and I knocked the vase with my elbow by mistake. It fell onto the carpet and hardly made any noise, so I knew she wouldn’t have heard it breaking, and I . . . I . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I thought she’d send me away.’
‘She won’t.’
‘She will.’ He stamped his foot.
‘I’m telling you she won’t. You belong here, this is your house, your home and you won’t be sent away. Now, why did you let Oliver get the blame? That wasn’t fair was it? He’s your brother and brothers look after each other.’
Piers flung hmself down on the sofa face first. ‘I don’t know. I was scared.’
‘So first you apologise to Myra properly, and then, really meaning it, you apologise to Oliver. I prize honesty above everything, Piers, and I want you to grow up honest just like your dad would want you to do . . . if he were here. You understand. If you’re in trouble then you have to face it and be upfront with the truth. People prefer that to great big fibs.’
‘I’ll do it. She doesn’t like me anyway, does Myra. You do, but she doesn’t. She’ll convince you to send me away. I want to stay here, and not go back to Delphine’s or a home.’
Oliver came in with the dustpan.
‘I’m sorry, Oliver, Uncle Graham says he won’t send me away. I shouldn’t have told fibs.’
Oliver gave him a smile and a thumbs-up.
For the first time since the whole horrible incident had started Piers face lit up with a smile.
Oliver said, ‘Go apologise to Myra then, she’s waiting.’
Piers looked across at his uncle wondering if he might just get away with not having to confront her, but he saw from the look on his face that he would have to, so he took a deep breath and marched in to the kitchen, determined to speak up.
Myra was turning down the gas under a pan and didn’t even look up at him, that in a way made it easier to apologise.
‘I’m sorry, Myra, I told a fib and I shouldn’t have. Sorry about the vase, I didn’t do it on purpose.’
Myra stared him straight in the eye and was about to be cruel and then into her mind came the with love on his get well card and the scroll drawn round it and she reminded herself he was the only person who’d said that to her in years.
‘Thank you. No more fibs, Piers? I don’t like fibs.’
‘No more fibs. And I’ll clear it all up.’
‘Thank you.’
Later, they sat down to supper, the flowers from the broken vase now on the kitchen window sill in a pale mauve vase the same colour as the flowers, their bedroom tidied and the water and shards of glass cleaned up in the sitting room, and the two boys reconciled.
Oliver laid his knife and fork together and said, ‘Uncle Graham . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve got maths to do tonight and I’m not sure about it, could you look at it with me?’
‘Of course. If I can remember my maths that is. Straight after we’ve eaten. What about you, Piers?’
‘I haven’t got any homework tonight.’
‘In that case then you and I have something to discuss,’ Myra said.
Piers’ heart sank right the way down to his trainers. Wasn’t one apology enough? He’d better say it again or else you never knew what might happen. He glanced at his Uncle Graham and wondered if he really was able to say no to Myra, if he could change her mind about letting them stay. ‘I’m very sorry about the vase, Myra.’
‘I know you are. You’ve said it already and I’ve thanked you.’
‘Yes, but I thought . . .’
‘Wait and see.’
Piers saw a mysterious smile on her face and somehow the grilled tomatoes, which he didn’t normally like, tasted better than he’d expected.
With Uncle Graham and Oliver sitting hunched over books spread out over the kitchen table and the dishwasher pumping away, Myra gave him a brisk nod of her head in the direction of the sitting room, and Piers followed her.
‘It’s only three weeks to your birthday, so I wondered if you had any ideas about what you would like as a present.’
Piers was so stunned by her question not a single idea came into his head. It was unusual for him because in other years he had always thought a lot about his birthday and would in normal circumstances have had a long list of requests, from little often-craved treats to some totally, impossibly expensive wishes. But since his dad had died, it was as if time had stopped still. ‘I haven’t thought about it.’
‘You haven’t thought about it? Well, you’ll have to won’t you?’
‘Yes, I suppose I will.’
‘Now you and I have agreed to always tell the truth to each other, it can always be like that for the two of us can’t it? So when you come up with an idea, tell me straight away. I have a good idea, but we’ll wait until you come up with yours first.’
But Piers being Piers couldn’t wait to hear her idea. ‘What is your idea, Myra?’
‘Well, I was thinking this morning that Little Pete seems very lonely in that hutch all on his own night and day and I wondered if you’d like to have a rabbit as a friend for him. It would be yours absolutely, no one else’s. We’d have to make the run bigger but Uncle Graham could do that.’
‘Right.’ His birthday hadn’t seemed important, in fact he hadn’t known if anyone even knew it was coming up soon. Piers thought he hadn’t minded. But som
ething about Myra’s suggestion, and the fact that she’d been thinking about what he might like opened up something inside him. Before he knew it was going to happen, he was sobbing with grief: heartbreaking sobbing over which he had no control whatsoever. Between his gasping sobs he said repeatedly, ‘I want my dad.’
Myra felt a wave of tension and panic at this open weeping. Her head throbbed, there was that piercing pain back again in her brain and she realised she longed to sob herself but couldn’t. Instead, very tentatively, she patted his hand, then his shoulder, gave him a tissue and tried to console him with muttered words. Finally in desperation, she put her arm round his shoulders and he leaned against her and sobbed louder than ever. She couldn’t leave him alone while she went to get Graham, so she had to sit there in silence, hanging on to him with both arms now, hugging him because she didn’t know what else to do.
Had she but known, it was the best thing for Piers, he hadn’t had a woman hug him since he could remember. Neither of his grandmas had been the hugging kind and definitely not Delphine. For Piers, Myra’s hug spelt bliss. She was bony and all sharp angles and not very comfortable to lean against but she comforted him in the way he needed most right then. When the sobbing ran its course, he’d cheered up no end and feeling lighter than he’d done for a long time, he went to speak to Uncle Graham. He and Oliver had sorted out the maths.
‘Sorry again, Uncle Graham about telling fibs, I was so frightened I’d get sent away and I don’t want to be, I want to stay here.’
‘That’s right, Piers, you’ll stay here because this is your home now.’
‘You were right, Myra will take time to get used to us. But she doesn’t sound like she wants to send me away. She says she thinks I might like a rabbit for myself.’
Graham’s bushy eyebrows rose up his forehead in surprise. ‘Does she?’
Piers nodded. ‘Yes. I’m thinking about it. They’d need a bigger run though.’
‘Of course, well that’s easy. You have a good think then and let us know what you decide.’