When she finally sees Mother appear by the gate her throat begins to hurt. It feels as if something is stuck inside and she tries to swallow, but it doesn’t help. She really needs to pee. She presses her thighs together to try to hold it back. She has to stay here, has to keep watching. Her mother looks strange from up here. She can see the top of her head but she can’t see her face. She knows it is her mother, of course. But it doesn’t feel right. Something is terribly wrong. It’s not like other visits. This time is different. And she has to stand here and watch, though she doesn’t want to.
She knows that Mother is smiling as she closes the gate behind her, even if she can’t see her face. But the smile is all over Mother, in the way she moves. The new red dress. The matching red shoes. Inside the gate she sets her small brown suitcase down on the grass, and as she stands she gathers her blonde hair with one hand and lifts her face towards the sun. Now she can see the smile. Mother closes her eyes to the sun and she smiles and smiles. The wind catches the wide skirt of her dress and it balloons around her. She doesn’t think Mother can see her, and she doesn’t wave. She keeps her fingers clasped around the edge of the windowsill and her forehead touches the glass. Mother picks up the suitcase, and she keeps smiling as she begins to walk up the gravel path, balancing precariously in her high-heeled shoes. She looks light and beautiful and she swings her white handbag back and forth.
The little girl watches, still. The fly has stopped moving too. It lies on its back with its legs in the air. She can hear the gravel crunch as Mother carries on up the path towards the porch.
Suddenly she feels like crying. She slides down onto the floor and skids on the shiny floorboards as she runs across the landing. She can’t hold back any longer and she can feel pee trickling down the insides of her thighs. She can’t hold back the tears either. She hurries downstairs as quickly as she can, holding on to the handrail. Runs across the downstairs hallway and into the kitchen as if her life depended on it. Grandfather sits at the table with the paper spread in front of him. Without taking his eyes off the page he stretches out one arm and whisks her up onto his lap as she comes running. Grandfather doesn’t seem to care that her panties are wet, so she doesn’t either. She buries her nose in the shirt that smells of Grandfather. He strokes her arm with his rough palm. He must know too, but he says nothing. It is as if they are both pretending they can’t hear the light steps outside, first on the gravel, then up the wooden steps, across the porch. Over the threshold and through the open door. Grandfather’s eyes stay on the paper and he keeps stroking her arm. Even when she can smell Mother’s perfume she continues to keep her eyes closed and her face buried in the folds of Grandfather’s shirt. She doesn’t want to see the smile. She doesn’t want to see the new dress.
She can hear her mother pull out a chair and she can hear the skirt rustle as she sits down.
And as Mother speaks, Grandfather’s grip around her waist tightens, as does hers around his neck. They are holding on to each other like two drowning people.
‘I’ve come to collect Marianne,’ her mother says.
7.
I stood up, brushed the sand off my trousers and carried on along the beach. The slight overcast that had hidden the sun all day had finally dissolved, and the sunset painted the remaining thin clouds a greyish purple now. I knew that the images I captured would be pale copies of the real moments, but I took a few more shots. I continued further than I had intended and I turned the camera to the sea again and again. There was nothing to see except the rolling waves.
The lens swept over the empty surface of the sea, and suddenly it caught a small speck on the undulating water behind the surf. I don’t know what made me notice the tiny object, but I started running before I was consciously aware of its significance. I dropped the camera and tore off my jacket as I rushed towards the edge of the water. It seemed to take an eternity before I reached water deep enough to begin to swim. I dived under the surf and finally emerged in deeper water. My eyes frantically scanned the surface. I was already very cold, and not just because of the chill of the water. My whole body felt frozen from the inside. Only when I finally spotted him could I breathe again. He wasn’t far from me now and as I took the last few strokes and my hand finally touched his hair I could not help myself from screaming. I kept shouting his name, but I could hardly hear myself over the thunder of the waves that kept breaking just beyond us. We rose and fell, carried by the enormous energy below. I held him against my chest and he seemed weightless as I started backstroking towards the beach. He made no move, didn’t resist but lay limp against my body. I knew it meant he was unconscious.
When my feet touched ground again, I stood and lifted him in my arms and waded through the water. When I reached dry sand I ran. I put him down and started working. His lips were cold and he lay still with his arms outstretched as they had fallen, but I could feel his heartbeat under my hands. I put my lips against his and continued to fill his lungs with my breath, until finally his chest contracted in a spasm and he drew a first rasping breath and coughed. I turned him on his side and watched as seawater poured from his mouth. I waited till it subsided, then turned him onto his back again and kneeled waiting for a moment, my hands resting on his chest. His eyes remained closed. When his breathing was even I wrapped him in my jacket, slung my camera over my shoulder, lifted him up and hurried back to my house.
I could hear myself weep and moan as I went.
Inside, I put him down on the sofa in the living room. He looked so small, much younger now with his eyes closed and his body limp, than in his normal active state. I hesitated a moment before I began to remove his wet clothes. From the early stages of our relationship I had instinctively realised he didn’t like to be touched. Only a few times – when I had had to treat his hair for lice, or dress a cut – had I ever been allowed to touch him, and I had been very careful to make him understand that I respected his need for distance. He shied away from even the most casual touch.
But here I was gently pulling off his T-shirt and exposing his skinny chest. I could count the ribs. I pulled the shirt over his head and gently laid his head to rest on the cushion, then I stopped abruptly and my hands fell into my lap.
I looked down on the small child.
And I began to cry again. Unable to stop myself, I kept whispering under my breath, ‘No, oh no.’ I squeezed the balled-up T-shirt in my hands.
There were dark bruises underneath his arms, as if someone had lifted him violently. Around his neck, as if someone had tried to strangle him. I bent forwards and gently turned him onto one side. There was a large dark bruise on the torso, over the kidney. And there were faint older bruises beside the fresh ones.
I had seen such bruises before, and I knew these had not happened in the sea. Nor were they a result of my resuscitation efforts. No, these were the marks of adult hands, an adult foot. Intentional abuse of the small body.
I stood up and went to fetch the camera. Turned on the floor-lamp by the sofa. My hands shook as I took off the lens cap. But as I lifted the camera a strange calmness filled me, and I carefully took all the pictures I knew I had to take. I had turned on the date feature, ensuring that all the pictures would be dated.
As soon as I finished and turned off the light I began to cry again. By now it was almost dark. I pulled the blanket up over him and watched his face. He looked peaceful and his breathing was calm. I was overcome by a strong impulse to put my lips against his forehead and whisper that all would be fine. That I would make it so. But all I did was run my finger slowly along the arm that rested on the blanket. His skin was dry and cool and crusted with salt. A shudder rocked my body and I realised I was very cold myself. I needed to change too, but I didn’t want to leave him. I stood and lifted him in my arms, carried him into my bedroom and tucked him in. I watched him for a moment. He lay still, eyes closed. His hair had dried in spikes that stuck out from his head. Somehow the sight made me upset again. It was as if this added further to the loo
k of utter vulnerability. I left the door open when I went out to put the kettle on and change into dry clothes.
Later I sat at the kitchen table with a mug of tea trying to sort my tumultuous thoughts. I had never enquired about his family, other than to ensure that they knew where he was when he was at my house. He had never volunteered any information, just nodded or shaken his head in response to my questions. I realised now that I knew nothing about his life.
There must be someone I should ring. Someone who would be worried. Someone who must have missed him by now. It was late and darkness was falling rapidly.
The professional part of me must have known what to do, but there was a primitive part that refused to listen. A part of me that instinctively just wanted to protect him. Make sure he was safe. And never let him out of my sight again.
Yet I knew that I could not just keep him without letting the family know. It was just not possible.
I didn’t even know his surname, and I only had a vague idea where he lived.
I returned to the living room and dropped down on the sofa, wrapping a blanket around me. As if he sensed that I was cold, Kasper jumped up and lay down beside me.
I had no idea what to do.
Finally I picked up the phone and rang George. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I was hoping to achieve, but I rang him. He took a while to answer and when he did he sounded hesitant, as if the sound of the phone had surprised him. Over the years I had rung him a dozen times at the most. And never in the evening. Almost all our previous communications had been face to face. So this felt distinctly awkward to begin with. But George listened and asked no questions. I volunteered only the bare facts. That I had found Ika in the sea. That he was asleep and would be better off staying with me overnight. And that I didn’t know whom to contact.
George knew who Ika was. I got the impression he knew about us, about our Thursday meals together, though he didn’t say so. Perhaps it was common knowledge. What did I know? Again, I had that sense of being slightly handicapped, an outsider who hadn’t quite grasped this community’s unwritten rules of conduct. Others knew all about me, while I knew virtually nothing about them.
George also knew where Ika lived, knew of the family. Not that it was much of a family. Ika lived with his grandmother, apparently. George promised to drive over and talk to her, and then ring me back. I told him Ika was fine, and that I was happy to keep him overnight.
I went to the kitchen and made another cup of tea, turned on some music at low volume and returned to the sofa. I must have dozed off because I felt disoriented for a moment before I realised the phone was ringing.
George had talked to the grandmother. He cleared his throat and seemed to hesitate for a moment before he continued.
‘She is not concerned. Happy for him to stay with you till tomorrow …’ I felt that there was more he wanted to say, but he left the line silent.
‘Should I call her, do you think?’ I asked.
Again that awkward silence.
‘No …’ Pause. ‘No, she doesn’t expect you to.’ Another pause. ‘No need to ring.’ Silence. ‘I’ll come over in the morning. I can take the boy home then, if you like.’
Somehow I got the feeling he didn’t want me to meet the grandmother. There were things I wanted to talk to her about, questions I wanted to ask. But I decided to leave it till the following day.
So, I just thanked him and hung up.
I tiptoed into the bedroom and checked on Ika. I stood at the foot of the bed and watched his face. He was lying on his back and his face was calm, his breath hardly audible. Now I thought he looked ancient. Like a person at the end of his life. Wise, as if he were above or beyond this world. I bent down and put my cheek on the blanket over his chest, let it brush against his cheek. It was dry and warm against mine.
I went back to the sofa, wrapped myself in the blanket again and fell into a deep sleep.
During the night I had the dream again.
It had been so long I thought it had finally left me.
It was the same, and yet it didn’t feel the same at all. As always it was just the two of us, my brother and me. And once more I was surprised to see how young we were. At the time I might have thought that I was a big girl and fully aware of my responsibilities. But I was only about eight years old. My brother was so very little and he looked so sombre, too. There we were, alone, hand in hand, headed for the inescapable abyss.
She walks through the strip of forest down towards the water, her little brother by her side. The light is strange, as if a bright lamp were illuminating everything from above. Underneath the branches of the pines it is dark, but she is aware of the cold shadowless light beyond.
She is holding his hand. He is so small he has to reach up and his head is only just level with her waist. She has to walk very slowly to accommodate him, but she doesn’t mind at all. If she could, she would stop altogether. As they get closer to the water she can smell it. It stinks of raw sewage. It is not summer, but not winter either. It is as no particular season, or a constant non-specific season that will never change. There are no other people around, just the two of them. They walk in silence, but it is a comfortable silence. There is love in it. But there is also a looming premonition of disaster. Her heart begins to pound. They reach the grey rocks that slope steeply down to the dark water. There is no wind at all. All is absolutely still. She is not looking up to the left but she knows it is there, the railway bridge arching high in the air.
For a brief moment, they balance on the edge of the rock, his small body touching her leg. The grey surface of the still sea looms far below, and despite the distance she can feel how cold it is. Colder than the air.
Suddenly he takes a step forwards, and even before it happens she knows that she will lose her grip on his hand. The little fingers slip from hers and he falls down the steep rock face and out of sight. It is eerily quiet. She can’t hear a sound; the silence thunders in her ear.
Now everything slows down. She is paralysed and unable to make even the slightest move. Her eyes are fixed on the spot where she has seen him disappear. She can’t hear him, but her whole body aches with every bump, every scratch the little body suffers on its ride down to the water. She is locked here, petrified and filled with an acute awareness that there is nothing she can do. In her head she goes through the awful sequence over and over, frozen and immobile. She is as scared as he must be. She hurts as he must. She is struggling to breathe. Nothing stirs.
Then, as if abruptly awakened from a trance, she turns and begins to run. Her steps feel heavy, and though her heart is racing her feet make painfully slow progress as she makes towards the bridge. It arches over her head, hopelessly out of reach. She finally stops at the foot of it and realises that there are no steps, nothing to hold on to. Just the smooth concrete foundation. It is impossible for her to climb. She looks up and realises that even if she could get up there, a jump down into the water would kill her.
At this instant she spots him in the water. And she is as cold as he must be. Shivering, she stares at his head, a dot on the still, leaden water.
And she knows it is too late.
She is so very cold, but she is no longer filled with the familiar paralysing dread. Instead, she is filled with the acute awareness that it is all over.
But this time the dream ends differently. It doesn’t stop here.
No, this time she stands on the cliff and she feels the pain dissolve. It falls from her shoulders like a discarded garment.
Because she realises that she can let herself fall down the cliff too. And slowly she begins to walk towards the edge.
8.
The rapid tapping of the feet of a possum across the metal roof woke me. It was still dark. There were no sounds from the bedroom. I lay still, thinking. I had hoped to wake with a clear idea of what to do. I needed to talk to the grandmother, but of course this was likely to complicate things. I didn’t know what to tell Ika, either. Nothing had cleared o
vernight.
I needn’t have worried. It didn’t really matter what decisions I made. What plans I might have. A chain of events had already been set in motion. And mostly the process was taking place inside me. Regardless of my conscious deliberations, my subconscious was already hard at work. It had its own strategy, as I would soon discover.
I must have been dozing again and I wasn’t sure what woke me up this time because his steps were soundless. It was the awareness of his presence rather than a sound. I opened my eyes and my gaze landed on the small shape by the window. He stood there with his back to me, a silhouette against the cold morning light outside. He looked like a little tent with the folds of the blanket falling from his shoulders to the floor. When he heard me stir he walked slowly across the room, the blanket dragging behind him. He sat down on the floor near the sofa but so far away that I could not reach him. I waited for him to speak. He didn’t.
‘I’m glad you are here,’ I said finally. Again, he said nothing.
‘Are you warm?’ He nodded. He had the blanket pulled tightly around his neck.
‘Hungry?’ He nodded.
So I got out of bed, pulled my woollen jersey over my nightgown and went to the kitchen.
‘Soup okay?’ I asked over my shoulder. I heard no response but then he appeared beside me at the bench, still holding on to the blanket with both hands. He remained there, silent, while I heated the soup and set the table.
We sat down. He struggled with the blanket while getting up onto the chair. It kept sliding down his shoulders. I made no attempt at helping, just tried to keep my eyes away from his neck. I served the soup and sliced bread. Poured a glass of milk. Holding on to the blanket with one hand, he began to eat. I watched as he finished the first bowl, and then served him a second.
When he had finally finished he leaned back on the chair, adjusting the blanket so that it reached his ears. It was as if he needed it as some kind of protection. Perhaps a shield against my probing eyes.
Memory of Love (9781101603024) Page 5