The Forgotten Son

by Andy Frankham-Allen

  Eileen turned her back on the window and resumed pouring out the hot water from the kettle, a small cloth covering the handle so she didn’t burn herself. Mary idly wondered when Eileen was going to start using an electric kettle, instead of risking burns over the hot stove. They weren’t that cheap, but they were surely quicker than fussing with matches and gas. Mary smiled at herself; how easily her mind distracted itself from the worry she felt about her eldest boy. It was always the same – when worried it always found smalls things to focus on. Her way of coping, she supposed.

  It was their weekly bridge game, but this week the game was being held at the Phillips’, since Harold was at The Rose & Crown with Jonathan after a little row with his wife. Eileen didn’t look like she was in dispute with her husband, but then she never did. She didn’t even explain what the row was about, simply told Mary and Maureen to bring the kids over and they’d play bridge at her’s. But Mary could guess: once again Eileen had expressed an interest in returning to work, not that she had lasted very long in it before she and Harold had married and the marriage bar had come into effect. For her own part Mary had no problem with the marriage bar – after all, to her mind, if a woman chose to marry and have children then she had to accept the consequences. And that meant no joining the work force. Raising children and running a house was a full-time job in itself, who had time for another? Women earned so little working anyway. Now if it had been charity work, like she did now and then with the Salvation Army, then that was a whole different thing. Of course, Eileen would never agree. Which is why she’d not told Mary or Maureen the subject of the row – they’d only try and talk her around again. Things may have changed a lot for women during the previous twenty years, and Mary was happy to take advantage of most of those changes, but the freedom to work was not one of them.

  ‘What isn’t normal?’ Maureen asked, joining them in the kitchen, having popped upstairs to check on the girls. As well as the four boys in the back garden, between Eileen and Maureen there were another two children. How anyone could consider working when she had three children to raise really was quite beyond Mary.

  ‘James,’ she said, taking the offered cup. ‘It’s been weeks now.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with an imaginary friend,’ Maureen said, taking her own cup and walking back into the living room where their game was waiting. Usually Bridget joined them to make up the two pairs, but today she wasn’t feeling very well, and so the women had to make do with an uneven game. Naturally Maureen became the solo player, as she always considered herself best. As such she resumed her seat in the armchair while Eileen and Mary sat side by side on the sofa.

  ‘Didn’t you have an imaginary friend?’ Eileen asked.

  ‘I think so, but times were different twenty years ago. Besides, he’s a boy, and he has plenty of friends. Why would he need an imaginary one?’

  ‘Perhaps he’s feeling isolated at school?’

  Maureen nodded her agreement as she struck a match and lit her cigarette. Ever the modern woman! ‘Eileen could be right, Mary dear. All these years James and Raymond have been together in Juniors, and now they’re not. I could have a word with the headmaster? Maybe he’ll let James join Henry and Raymond’s class?’

  Mary didn’t think it was that simple. ‘He’s twelve in a few months, it’s too old for imaginary friends, and besides it’s not just that.’

  ‘Then what is it?’ Eileen asked, wafting Maureen’s smoke away. At this Maureen smiled and offered the cigarette.

  ‘You really ought to try it, my dear. It’s quite relaxing. It’s not just for men, you know.’

  Eileen lifted an eyebrow at this, knowing full well that Maureen was baiting her to talk about the row. Instead she simply looked back at Mary.

  ‘I don’t know what it is,’ Mary said, lowering her head at this. ‘There’s a look in his eyes… Oh, I know it’s silly, but sometimes when he looks at me, it’s like a stranger is watching me.’

  Eileen patted Mary’s knee. ‘It is silly, you’re right. He’s just going through a phase. It’s what boys do – and I doubt they ever grow out of it. Look at Harold. He’s constantly going through phases.’

  Maureen laughed. ‘Oh, darling, do tell us more. Just what has Harry done this time?’

  Eileen relented and told them, but Mary was no longer listening. Her mind was still on her son. Was Eileen right? Was it simply a phase? James was growing up, and boys changed as much as girls through puberty. Some earlier than others. She wanted to believe it was that simple, but deep down she just knew there was something more going on.

  Christmas was over and soon it was time for school again. Usually that was cause for celebration, as the boys compared notes on what presents they had received and traded their least favourites with each other. It was all part of the fun of returning to school and boasting to their classmates about how they all got exactly what they wanted. This year, though, it was different. And, as with the last few months, it was all because of James.

  He could hardly blame James for being in a different class, but Henry was happy to fault him for putting a downer on the traditional present exchange among the Cadets. Raymond thought Henry was being unfair. He hadn’t half got bossy since the happening in Draynes Wood in September, happily appointing himself as leader of the gang, something which would never have happened had James been his old self.

  The gang was gathered in the disused barn at Puckator Farm, which they had claimed as their own a couple of years before. But the usual excitement was missing; this year there was a dark atmosphere lingering around them. They all knew why, but no one was saying anything, although several glances were made towards the entrance of the barn and the field beyond, where they all knew James was standing, looking out as if he was seeing something that nobody else could.

  At least, Raymond considered, James had stopped talking to himself.

  Henry was showing the gang his new Daisy BB rifle, which had been bought for him by an uncle who had visited America. Henry was not interested in guns, and wanted to trade it for something a bit more useful for school boasting purposes. He was a bit of a class swot, and he needed something that fitted in with that image. Raymond wished he brought with him that rubbish chess set his grandad had bought him – that was much more Henry’s thing, and Raymond could have traded the BB gun with James. Not that James was participating, of course.

  Raymond looked away from the group again. He really missed his best friend. So much that he had allowed Alistair to join them for the annual present exchange, although not before making sure Alistair promised to keep it a secret from his parents. Parents were not allowed to know – as far as they were concerned presents were simply loaned out or lost. Alistair had left the group already, to join his brother outside.

  Not really feeling the festive spirit, Raymond too removed himself from the group, and stepped out into the surprisingly mild air. The cows were out in the field, used to the lower temperatures as they were, and James and Alistair stood with their arms resting on the fence, looking out at them. Raymond couldn’t see what was so interesting – cows were hardly an unusual sight in Puckator Farm – but then he noticed what had drawn his friends’ attention.

  The cows were walking around the field in circles, four of five in a row, weaving in and out of each other like carriages on some strange train journey.

  As he neared them, he heard Alistair and James talking.

  ‘What’s sign language?’ Alistair was asking.

  ‘It’s like when people who can’t talk speak to each other using their hands. Like when we wave goodbye to people.’

  Raymond smiled. That sounded like the old James, the chatty one who was always sharing information with his little brother.

  ‘But the cows aren’t waving.’

  ‘No, but the way they’re walking is like writing symbols in the air. Like letters… They’re just symbols, same with other languages.’

  ‘But who are they talking to?’

  ‘No o
ne. I think they’re just confused, listening to the wrong voice and trying to translate it.’

  ‘What voice? I can’t hear anybody.’

  ‘Is your new friend talking to them?’ Raymond asked, joining them. He rested his own arms on the fence and watched the cows intersect and separate.

  James looked at him and blinked slowly. ‘My new friend?’

  ‘Yeah, that invisible one you keep talking to.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I’m not stupid,’ Raymond snapped, feeling angry quite suddenly. ‘We’ve all seen you talking to someone, ever since that man touched you in the woods.’

  For a moment James didn’t respond, he just looked at Raymond in a way that made Raymond shiver. James shook his head. ‘You won’t understand. No one will. No one can.’

  ‘We can if you explain it,’ Alistair said. ‘Like you did about sign language.’

  ‘No. I can’t explain it. Not to you, Al, not to you, Ray… I’m sorry, but I can’t.’

  Raymond watched as James walked off, once again leaving him behind with Alistair. The younger boy looked up at Raymond. ‘Why can’t he?’

  Raymond wished he had an answer. James never kept things from him, not ever. With a sigh he looked down to Alistair. ‘Guess I’ll just take you home then,’ he said, feeling more disheartened than ever he had before.

  A much older Ray would one day look back and see the feeling for what it really was – betrayal, rejection, a feeling of being cut off from his best friend. Jealousy almost.

  Mary stood by the kitchen door and watched her husband silently. He had been very quiet the last few days; shortly before he had returned home he had been promoted to wing commander, and as his Christmas leave neared its end, and the thought of returning to take on his new duties loomed, his jovial mode had diminished with increasing speed. She knew he loved his job; indeed he saw his career in the Royal Air Force as much more than a job, considering it his personal mission to protect not only his country but his children’s future. For that she loved him dearly. But he had warned her that things were turning grim out there. Soon, he predicted, Britain would be pulled into a war it couldn’t really afford. It had barely recovered from the last one, and despite the best intentions of the Peace Pledge Union, he knew it was only a matter of time before the British government committed itself to defending those countries threatened by Germany.

  As much as all this troubled her – not that Mary had much of a head for politics – her first concern was her children, in particular James. It had been a good Christmas, full of the usual joy and fun, all the local families joining forces to make it one for the kids to remember. Nativities at the community centre, the kids helping out the older people of the village… Families visiting each other, sharing what they had. Things may be better now than they had been in ten years, but the people of Bledoe remembered when times had been hard, when the community had been tested, and the spirit of support that had been born of those times remained. Mary doubted it would ever really go, especially if Gordon’s fear about war was proven true. But in all that Christmas joy, one thing continued to bring Mary down, and that was James and his imaginary friend, who James had, in the last week, taken to calling Maha.

  What kind of name is that? Mary thought, feeling even more uneasy than ever. It was alien, foreign… She just couldn’t understand it.

  She supposed it was a good thing that James was finally talking about Maha, that the invisible person had been given a name with which he – it, she reminded herself – could be referred to, but for her it didn’t make things any easier. She had already been called to the school on more than one occasion by concerned teachers. James had never really been a boy with a fanciful imagination, so his insistence that Maha was real was proving to be a bone of contention – not to mention a source of derision from some of the other children.

  She had tried to talk to Gordon about it, but her husband didn’t want to be burdened with such concerns. His time home was limited and he had bigger things to concern himself with than the increased imagination of their eldest child.

  Mary entered the living room and sat on the armchair in the corner, looking at Gordon until he finally relented and put the newspaper onto the seat next to him.

  ‘Did you ever have an imaginary friend?’ she asked.

  Gordon sighed and reached out for his pipe. ‘I’m not sure. I suspect I did. But, you know, it was a very different time before the last war, children had a greater imagination back then because we had to. We didn’t have half of the things kids have today.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  Gordon thought about this. ‘Probably younger than James,’ he admitted, and for the first time Mary saw the concern on his handsome face. He may not have wanted to express it, but it was there. This, at least, gave Mary a sense of comfort, that she was not the only one bothered by James’ behaviour. ‘But boys always go through phases – I’m sure I was no different. One phase following another. Isn’t that simply part of growing up? Besides, children are much younger in themselves nowadays. They don’t need to grow up as quickly as we did.’

  Mary knew Gordon was speaking sense. As times changed, so did the development of children. But… It was no good, she had no choice. She steeled herself. ‘I think we should get some medical advice, contact a psychiatrist of some sort.’

  Gordon nearly spat out his pipe. ‘Good Lord, Mary, don’t you think you’re being a bit of an alarmist there? A psychiatrist? What an absurd idea!’

  ‘I don’t mean take him to see one, but we can surely talk to someone. We must know someone who has some connection to a psychiatrist? Get some kind of advice.’

  ‘But why? What has James done that is so strange?’

  ‘The other day I was talking to Eileen, and she told me about something Raymond had seen. Well, not seen so much as overheard.’

  Gordon replaced the pipe in his mouth and leaned forward. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Last week Raymond overheard James telling Alistair about sign language, because they saw the cows down at Puckator Farm acting all strange. It didn’t make much sense to Eileen, so she couldn’t explain exactly what Raymond had seen, but then a couple of days later Raymond found James down at their gang hut. He was talking to “Maha”. Raymond tried to explain to Eileen, but I think she must have got bored, as she couldn’t recall much of it to tell me. But it seemed to involve how Maha and James were never supposed to meet, that somehow James and Maha were like brothers… only much more.’

  Gordon chuckled at this. ‘I think we would know if we had another son.’

  Mary smiled, glad for the humour in his voice. ‘Apparently James and Maha argued about this for a while, with James telling Maha that he couldn’t leave now. That they had to be together always.’

  ‘Together?’ Gordon sat back and frowned. ‘What does that mean? No one stays together forever, except for a wife and husband. Even siblings drift apart over the years – like you and Isobel, me and Matthew.’ He shook his head. ‘Can’t say I much care for the idea that James thinks he should be together forever with another boy, even if it is an imaginary one.’

  ‘Maybe you need to talk to him before you leave?’

  ‘Yes, I think I should. He’s obviously becoming confused, and we can’t have a son of ours becoming confused about this kind of thing.’

  Mary felt settled by this. Perhaps they would not need to seek professional help after all. Gordon and James had always been close, and she felt sure James would listen to his dad. And then everything would return to normal.

  How wrong she was.

  That year the twenty-second of February fell on a Tuesday, but they couldn’t really have a party on a school night, and so it had been decided that the Sunday before would do. It didn’t seem to matter to Alistair, who decided he’d simply have to have twice as many presents. Mary didn’t have the heart to tell him that this was unlikely, but she did promise herself to bake him a second cake for Tuesday, so he
could at least make a wish on his birthday. She knew what the wish would be, too – for his father to arrive and wish him happy birthday, but Mary knew that wouldn’t be happening. There would be no sign of Gordon now until at least the end of March.

  Pastor Ronald Stone at the parish church had excused them from the evening service, so long as Alistair promised to help out next Sunday. It was an easy promise to make, since Mary knew Alistair was especially looking forward to this birthday; this, definitively, was to be his day and not James’. Mary was worried about the jealousy developing in Alistair towards his brother, but she knew she could not blame him. Things had not eased up since the New Year, and James’ issues with the ever-increasingly real Maha were taking up more and more of her attention. The last week alone Alistair had to be picked up from school by Eileen three times because Mary had been called in to talk to the headmaster about James’ behaviour.

  She was hoping for a day without incidents, but she knew it was to be a vain hope.

  The party was in full swing, presents given and received, dirty children now running around the garden, laughing and playing without a mind to the cold. Two of the adults stood either end of the garden, each holding an end of a large piece of rope, which was used for skipping. Almost all the children wanted to get involved – girls in their petticoats and carefully applied pony-tails, and the boys in their shorts and long socks. Some of the boys took a run into the skipping throng, trying to jump the rope without actually looking soft by skipping like the girls. Those not wanting to take part were sitting in a small group playing Film Stars, a simple enough game as Mary understood. Going through the alphabet, the children had to think of a film star, and the other children had to guess who, and when guessed right the next person went on to the next letter. Going to the picture house in Liskeard was not a regular thing for most of the children, and so they had never actually seen the ‘stars’ in action, but thanks to the tabs found in packs of sweet cigarettes they were at least familiar with the names.

  It felt like all of Bledoe was in her garden. She wondered what Pastor Stone would have thought had Alistair’s party emptied out the church entirely.