Drift Stumble Fall

by M. Jonathan Lee

  monday 17th

  CHAPTER_TWENTY-FIVE

  A lie-in is hardly going to save the world now, is it?

  I am awoken by the sound of laughter coming from outside. I roll over in bed and realise that Lisa’s side has the coldness of being vacant for some time. I flop back over to the warmth of my side and pull the covers around me. The room has a crisp, icy feeling about it. The dark-grey walls are transformed, the colour diluted, by the reflection of the snow outside. I feel that this is how life would be inside an igloo. I don’t even need to leave the bed to know that it is still snowing outside.

  I reach my arm out from under the covers to collect my phone from the bedside table. I can’t immediately feel its shape, and I sigh as I roll over to locate it. Unfortunately, it isn’t where I left it when I went to sleep. I suspect that Lisa has taken it downstairs with her. This is one of her regular tricks on the extremely rare occasions I have a lie-in. The reason she gives for removing the phone is that she wouldn’t want anyone to call or message and wake me. The real reason, I suspect, is that she uses it as bait to get me downstairs. She knows that the first thing I do once I wake is check my phone. She also knows that if it isn’t there, I’ll need it pretty quickly. This forces me to get up, half-dressed; and as soon as the children spot me, my day has begun.

  I grab for my watch instead and check the time. It’s just before twelve. I’m three hours late for work. This is highly unusual for me, as I haven’t missed a day through illness or other absence for nearly seven years. In fact, in the last two years, I’ve given up some of my holiday days to go into work. Or escape home. Hmm, it’s the first time I’ve considered that.

  I’d like to say that I feel refreshed and ready to face the day, but I don’t. Instead, I feel drained. I remember being awake for long periods of the early-morning hours, trying to calm the excited feeling in my chest. At times there was a feeling of desperation, when all I wanted was to close my eyes and for my brain to stop whirring. At these times, Lisa’s gentle snoring alongside me seemed to take on the volume of a pneumatic drill, each breath punching an ever-widening hole in my ear.

  I think it was about four thirty when I finally fell asleep properly. In the end, I had to imagine that the top of my head was melting like a candle and becoming as one with the pillow. Eventually, as my forehead disappeared into the grey cotton, my eyes closed and I was asleep.

  I ball my hands into fists and stretch out my arms in front of me, Superman-style. Then I move them out wide to each side, like a peacock opening its tail feathers. When I can stretch no more, I let them flop onto the duvet.

  I suppose I’d better get up.

  I lie and think about this last thought enough times for it to become a reality, and then I throw off the duvet, exposing my half-naked body to the inside of the igloo. I reach down to the floor and pull on the moss-coloured t-shirt that matches the green tartan pyjama bottoms I am wearing. They seem appropriate, the type of look I am going for in my faraway cabin, and I make a mental note to pack these.

  I stand and shuffle slowly across the room, devoid of energy. I go over to the window to see where the sound of laughter is coming from. I am careful to only pull the curtain across slightly so I am not spotted. I know that if one of the children, Hannah especially, sees me then I will be required outside in the snow within minutes. Whilst she is happy playing outside, I am unlikely to enter her thoughts.

  I recognise the sound of joy to be coming from my children but I can’t actually see them. The gap between the curtains is no more than an arrow slit and the angles are not wide enough to bring the children into view. I am surprised at the level of snow that continues to fall. The flakes are large and wide but fall gracefully in the windless air. I can also hear the sound of Kenneth’s deep baritone chuckles punctuating a continual squeak from Hector. It reminds me of a mouse telling a moose a joke.

  Suddenly, Kenneth comes into view, carrying a red plastic sledge that he must have found in the shed at the bottom of the garden. He carries the sledge past the cars on the drive and onto the pavement outside. It is clear that no cars have driven up or down our street today. It is also no longer possible to make out the colours of any of the vehicles. Each looks like it has been dipped in flakes of coconut and placed back on the street. I estimate that at least three feet of snow has fallen in the last few days. I pull open the curtain a little further.

  The children force their way through the untouched snow to where Kenneth is standing, smiling. I notice his cheeks and nose are as bright as the sledge. He holds the sledge up in the air and the three children spring around him, unsuccessfully trying to grab it from his hands; falling over in the snow, screaming with joy. Then Kenneth holds up his hand as a sign for them to stop. He looks like a preacher. They all stand still and he mouths something to them. A moment later Hannah has rearranged them in size order, so she stands nearest to Kenneth, followed by Hector, then Oscar. They look like Russian dolls.

  Only when they are in place does Kenneth lower the sledge. Oscar yelps with delight and claps his hands together. Kenneth places the sledge on the ground near where Hannah is standing. The road is not too steep, and three properties sit directly at the bottom of the road, staring up the hill. I fast-forward through the possibilities and conclude that at the very worst Hannah will land in one of the front gardens of the houses or, more likely, her ride will be ended by a wall of conifers. I suspect she’ll be alright. Kenneth seems to know what he is doing.

  He pushes the sledge forward a few feet so it is now out of my line of vision. His arm enters my view and Hannah takes his hand. Then she too is gone. I crane my neck around the curtain and I can just see him helping her toward the sledge. Then I can see no more. Oscar and Hector are now jumping up and down excitedly, whooping and waving their hands in the air.

  And then, they stop.

  Beneath his blue hat, I can just see Hector’s smile turn to a frown. His mittens turn downwards and he sticks his thumbs down. I’m not sure that Oscar understands what is happening, but he has also stopped jumping. I can’t see what has happened and I pull back the curtain. I’m worried that Hannah is now stuck under a car or hurtling toward a tree or some other imminent danger.

  And then I see her.

  Sitting exactly where she started, just a few feet lower. She is sitting in a sledge-shaped hole, submerged like the Titanic herself. I can just see the top of her shoulders and her head. She doesn’t look impressed.

  At that moment, the little plastic bracket that is holding up the curtain I am gripping decides it’s had enough. The plastic fractures and the rail (the one that should have been fixed months ago) takes a leap from the wall. And then, one by one, the brackets around the bay window follow suit.

  Pop-pop-pop.

  The curtain slides off the rail, each little white plastic hook snaps and detaches. I dodge from side to side and then – ping- ping-ping.

  It’s like machine-gun fire.

  In less than five seconds, I am standing at the window with the curtain draped over my arm. I resemble a seventeenth- century Italian fabric merchant. The minor commotion is enough for the children to notice me at the window. Hannah cheers and waves her cream glove to me. Oscar turns and waves, whilst Hector seems more interested in trying to get on the stone wall at the end of the drive.

  Kenneth looks up and smiles. Then Hannah signals with her glove for me to come outside. I nod and hold up both my outstretched hands.

  I immediately know that I will be outside in the cold in the next ten minutes. If I’m not, at least two children (and perhaps an old man) will be in the porch calling my name until I concede defeat.

  CHAPTER_TWENTY-SIX

  “What the hell is he doing now?” Bill said, resting his arm on the back of the armchair by the window.

  “Who?” said Rosie. She didn’t like the tone of his voice.

  “That bloody Richard.”

  Rosie got up from her chair and shuffled along the carpet toward the window. It
was a well-trodden path and the pattern on the carpet was disappearing, the tan hessian backing just beginning to show through in small patches.

  “Look,” said Bill.

  Rosie looked out through the window and across the road.

  She didn’t comment.

  “He looks like a bloody runner bean,” said Bill. “And what is he holding?”

  Rosie wasn’t sure why Bill was suddenly angry. It was lovely to see the young children outside, playing in the snow. Their bright faces shining in the winter sun. They seemed to be having a wonderful time. She watched the man outside with them and wondered whether Bill’s sudden mood had been caused by the man’s participation. In the early years, Bill had been very intolerant of any children, but more recently he had mellowed. In fact, it was only a month ago that he’d offered the little ones across the road some mints from the tin in his car. They had both been very polite, especially the older girl. Yes, on that day Bill had been smiling when he came into the house and he had talked about them both again over dinner. Fortunately, he hadn’t seen them both spit out the mints as he made his way up the drive. They were those extra-strong ones, after all.

  “Well, at least he’s gone now,” said Bill, nodding toward the bedroom window across the road.

  Rosie rested her hand on his. It was cold, and she rubbed the back of his hand with hers. His skin was coarse. Probably the weather.

  “I don’t like it when you swear, dear.”

  Bill turned to her. “I know.” His tone was soft. “I’m sorry.”

  Rosie smiled. “Is it Lisa’s father?” “Who?”

  “Lisa’s father, out there with the children?”

  There was a silence. It gave Rosie her answer. They had spoken about this on too many occasions for her to remember. It did seem unfair that they had been robbed of the opportunity to be grandparents. Rosie knew that she would have enjoyed it. Bringing up children is difficult, and she had always viewed grandchildren as the reward for getting through the parenting stage. Of course, God’s plan for her and Bill was different. There had been many times, especially after Samantha died, that they had questioned their faith. They had spent many evenings considering why they had been dealt such a difficult hand. Half a lifetime spent standing at the same window every day, watching, waiting, hoping that Victoria may come around the corner at the top of the road and through the gate to the house.

  Without even having to discuss it, they had agreed upon shift work at the lounge window. Rosie wasn’t even sure whether Bill was aware of her sentry patrol during the daytime when he used to be at work. Bill would come home and take over the evening shift. Watching. Hoping to see the silhouette of his daughter. After he retired, they continued, with each covering for the other when they left the bungalow. Of course, they could never go out together, so Rosie took responsibility for the shopping. Essentials: food and clothing. Bill, on the other hand, would leave the house to deal with banking and anything electrical or mechanical they may need. A new car, oven, hoover, kettle. It was a pattern they had slipped into, and for the past thirty years it seemed to have worked.

  Just then the telephone rang. Rosie patted the back of Bill’s hand and shuffled her way across to the handset on the little table in the corner.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Hello, there,” said a friendly voice, “Mrs Marsden?”

  “Yes?” said Rosie. She recognised the voice but she wasn’t sure from where.

  “Mrs Marsden, it’s Chief Inspector Paul Durham.”

  Rosie instantly remembered, even though it had been a few years since she had last heard his voice. “Oh, yes. Hello, Chief Inspector.”

  She said the last two words loudly, in an attempt to attract Bill’s attention, but he was preoccupied with whatever was going outside. They exchanged pleasantries until the time came for the line to be silent. The awkward silence.

  The chief inspector cleared his throat. Then he asked if Rosie had seen the news yet today. She confirmed that neither she nor Bill had turned on the television or the radio. The paperboy hadn’t arrived due to the snow. The chief inspector told her that he was ringing to prepare her and her husband ‘for what they may see’.

  Rosie felt sick. Her hands began to shake. She swallowed, trying to compose herself, but her mouth was too dry. Now she couldn’t even speak. She wanted to thank the chief inspector for his kindness, but no words would come out. In the end, she just pressed the button on the phone to end the call and turned on the television.

  She flicked through until she found the news channel. The sudden noise of the television alerted Bill, who turned around and faced the screen.

  The picture in front of them was obviously taken from a helicopter. Across the bottom of the screen, next to the Sky News logo, were the words: SULLY, near Cardiff. The sky was a beautiful, clear bright blue, the visibility perfect.

  Bill looked at his wife and frowned. Rosie stood blankly, her mouth slightly open. She wanted to tell Bill why, all of a sudden, they were watching the television. The words wouldn’t come out.

  The helicopter circled around a patchwork quilt of back gardens and yards. The images were shaky, but it was possible to make out the fences and walls stitched between each garden. Of course, almost everything was white with snow, aside from dark rectangles of cleared drives which peppered the landscape.

  Then, the camera zoomed in on one specific property, and it was only then that Rosie noticed that it wasn’t snow in the back garden of this particular house. It wasn’t white enough to be snow; it was cream – the roof of a tent that filled the garden. The camera then moved to street level, and Rosie could see activity down the side of the property. There were people, some in luminous-yellow jackets, others barely visible, dressed all in white. Rosie didn’t need the banner that scrolled across the bottom of the screen to tell her what was happening. She knew that police forensic teams were inside the tent, meticulously digging the hard, frozen soil.

  Rosie looked at Bill. She wasn’t sure he understood exactly what he was seeing. She took a step closer to him and took his hand.

  “Come on, let’s sit down,” she said.

  CHAPTER_TWENTY-SEVEN

  Oh, you’re still here?

  I use the telephone next to the bed to call work and report that I won’t be there today due to the weather. The receptionist tells me that she is the only one who has made it into the office. I’m sure that not for the first time today she’s cursing living a stone’s throw from work.

  As I reach the bottom of the stairs I hear the front door click, and a moment later Kenneth and the children burst into the hall, followed by a blast of cold air. I shiver and tuck my pyjama top in. The children’s faces are red from the cold, and they pull off their hats and gloves and drop them on the floor. They sit on the bottom step and hold their legs up as snow and ice drop onto the carpet. I pull off their wellies, and they toss their coats to the floor and run into the lounge.

  “Morning,” says Kenneth, smiling. “Hello,” I say.

  “It’s a cold one,” he says. “It looks it,” I say. “Tea?”

  He nods and slips off his hat and jacket and hangs them on the post at the bottom of the stairs. “We’ve been sledging,” he says.

  “Oh.”

  “Bloody good fun,” he says and removes his boots. He follows the children into the lounge.

  I spend the next few minutes collecting snow from the hall carpet. The snow has been compacted into complex polygons from the soles of the wellies. I get an immediate urge to take photographs of the shapes and tap my pyjama pocket to locate my phone, but then remember it’s not there. I pull open the door that leads into the porch. It is freezing, and I can’t avoid the shallow puddles of water on the tiles beneath my feet. I open the front door and throw the melting shapes into the snow, where they instantly disappear. I smile. I like that.

  My fur-lined moccasins seem to have avoided any water so I pull them on and close the front door. I walk into the lounge and stand
by the door.

  “Morning, all,” I say, trying to be cheerful.

  Kenneth nods again. The kids are sitting cross-legged directly facing the blue-tinged flames that glow above the fake charcoal. They blow into their hands and then show their palms to the fire. They remind me of hobos around an oil drum under some US freeway or underpass. All they need is a pair of fingerless gloves each.

  They don’t turn when I speak, so I say, “Morning, kids. How are you?”

  Hannah turns and smiles. Oscar doesn’t even turn around. It isn’t what I expected this morning at all. Usually, whenever I so much as move they are both all over me, fighting for attention, clinging on to some part of my body like monkeys glued to a tree. I decide that I like the children more when they are partially frozen.

  Lisa and Dina are sitting on the sofa. Lisa is still in her pyjamas. It’s clear from the colour of their skin that neither have been anywhere near the cold this morning.

  “Nice look,” says Lisa, nodding toward me. I look down. I had forgotten my pyjamas were tucked in. I can see the outline of one of my testicles pushing against the checked fabric. Embarrassed, I untuck my t-shirt.

  “Cuppa?” I say.

  “Ooh, that would be lovely,” says Dina. She seems to have missed the ‘ball incident’.

  “Tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Lisa?” She nods. “Tea?”

  She nods again.

  “Kenneth?”

  “Ooh, a tea would be great, son,” he says. “Kids?”

  There is no answer. I am just about to repeat myself when I have second thoughts, and make my way out of the room. I walk into the kitchen and flick on the kettle.

  Moments later, I am standing in the dining room, staring through the front window while I wait for the kettle to boil. I’m sure that there is little chance that my new notebook will arrive today. I notice for the first time that somebody has cleared the drive of the bungalow across the road. It is the only place outside that is not covered in snow.