by Galaxy Craze
“This isn’t working.” Eden threw a piece of the model airplane against the floor. “The glue bottle’s dried closed and all the paints have dried too.”
“You don’t have to have a tantrum.”
He crossed his arms, staring at the wall.
Outside the day was darkening. The windows dropped pale squares of light around us.
“What do you think Dad’s doing today?” Eden asked, looking up at me from where he sat on the floor.
“Oh, he’s probably having a great time, lying on the sofa with his feet up, drinking a beer, smoking a joint, watching a Manchester game on the telly with no one at home to nag him.”
I turned the pages of the book. I could feel Eden watching me and pretended to concentrate. A single fly buzzed in the room. He swatted at it, trying to distract himself from the thought of our father, happy without us.
“What are you reading about?” he said, looking over my shoulder.
“Oh, Eden. Can’t I have one moment of peace?”
“I was just asking.” Eden walked away from me, to the bookshelves. He touched the spines of the books. He went to the window, looking outside at the tree branches that touched the glass, where Red squirrels and birds would perch and peek inside, before flying away.
I used to believe that this was the tower where Robert the Bruce hid before the battle of Bannockburn. I pictured him lying on the floor in this room, staring up at the narrow windows. In this room, he would watch the small spider try to spin her web in a rounded corner. But the web wouldn’t catch. She tried again and again until at last she succeeded and her web caught. That spider would inspire him to rise up for Scotland and fight the battle of Bannockburn.
I had told Eden this was the tower but never told him I was wrong. The tower Robert the Bruce hid in was miles from here.
Eden walked restlessly to a wooden door, shaped like an arch so it disappeared in the rounded walls. He turned the handle, but the door would not open. His face reddened as he pulled. “Why is this door locked?” He knelt down, peering through the keyhole. “All my games are in there.”
I got up to have a look, but all I could see was the shape of the keyhole in a dark room. I remembered, then, that there was something inside I wanted too: a box of costume jewelry, which had belonged to my grandmother Anne. This year, at school, poppet beads had become fashionable again. Samantha Fenton wore them and Sheba Marks, whose mother was the fashion editor at Harpers & Queen. They sat in class at their desks, clicking and unclicking them from around their necks and wrists. I wanted to make that sound too.
Mrs. Stirling sat in a faded armchair reading a paperback in her lilac slippers with small purple bows. When she saw us, she covered the book with a tea towel, hiding the blond gladiator on the cover.
“Mrs. Stirling,” Eden said, “the closet upstairs is locked and I can’t open the door.”
“Oh, you poor wee fellow,” Mrs. Stirling said. “Why would it be locked? I’m not even sure if there’s a key for it. It’s probably just stuck.”
“No,” Eden said. “I can see that it’s locked.”
Mrs. Stirling groaned as she pushed herself up from her chair. She put her hand on the low of her back, as though these movements pained her. We followed her into the mudroom, where she pulled a footstool from beneath the coats.
“Och,” she said. “Look up there, you’ll see the key ring.”
I stepped on the stool, holding the hat rack for balance.
All the keys were kept on one ring: the garden shed, the side door, the grandfather clock—keys that had lost their locks years ago but were never thrown away.
Eden carried the ring of keys upstairs. He tried them all, big and small, but none turned the lock. I was sitting in the armchair again, thinking about the string of poppets while I studied the pictures of sweets and puddings in a cookery book, when a thought occurred to me.
“Eden,” I said. “You know, there’s a window inside the cupboard.”
“A small window,” he said.
“Yeah, but you could fit through it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, if you climb out onto the ledge and walk just a few feet to the window, all you have to do is open it and climb inside.”
“Oh.”
Eden looked out at the stone ledge, covered with damp leaves and bird droppings.
“I’ll tie a rope around your waist. Let’s go have a look in the toolshed.”
In the damp toolshed, we found only rope so thick we could hardly bend it or string so thin it would only be good for tying to the end of a kite. Eden looked at the rusty tools, the bicycle with the missing wheel.
As we walked by the linen cupboard in the hall, Eden had an idea. “We could tie sheets together to make ropes,” he said. It was a shame, I thought, as I took two clean white sheets from the shelves. They were crisp from the line.
We carried them up the stairs and tied them together.
Eden stood by the window as I tightened one end of the sheets around his waist and tied the other end to the water pole.
Eden stood on the radiator and pushed open the window. The damp air came in, like a breath.
“You have to walk with your back to the wall, Eden.”
We had seen all the Pink Panther films.
He climbed out the window and onto the ledge, his hands still wrapped around the windowpane.
“May, Eden!” our mother called to us as she walked up the stairs. “Mrs. Stirling said you borrowed her keys, and she wants them back before she leaves today—”
She stopped in the doorway. She looked at the sheets tied to the water pole, stretching like a streamer across the room.
“Where’s Eden?”
Then she saw him standing outside on the ledge, and ran to the window.
“Eden? What are you … ?” Her voice trailed behind her as she ran to the window. “Just stay still. Give me your hand.”
She stood on her tiptoes, reaching up to him. Her hands clasped around his wrist and she pulled him in. Not gently, furiously. He fell forward into her arms, his knees hit the radiator below.
“Oh, God!” she yelled, when he was inside, as though relieved of a great weight.
“You hurt me,” Eden said, rubbing his knees.
“What were you doing? Why were you on the window ledge?”
I sighed, rolling my eyes. “Because the cupboard door is stuck and he wanted to find his old toys. Jesus, Mum, calm down to a panic.”
This enraged her more, and she turned to Eden. “You could have fallen! What if you fell? You’d be dead or in the hospital with broken bones, or worse things could have—”
“It’s perfectly safe; the sheet is tied to the pipe.”
She came toward me in a fury. Once, in the Fulham pool, when Eden didn’t emerge quickly enough from his dive off the high board, she jumped in after him in all her clothes, shoes and winter coat, her handbag still in her hand flying up in the air.
“Untie that right now,” she was saying to me. Before I could begin she was untying it herself, yanking at the knots. “Whose idea was this, May? You could have gotten him killed.”
“It’s only three flights up.”
She stood flustered in the room, her hands out in the air. “Don’t either of you have one drop of sense? Eden, the next time May wants you to do something stupid, tell me first. All right, darling?”
“He wanted his games,” I said.
She took the key ring and told us to put the sheets back. “Supper’s nearly ready,” she said, as she left the room. We listened to her footsteps on the stairs, the jangle of keys in her hands.
The sheets lay on the floor, white and twisted, like a strangled ghost. A bird landed on the window ledge and then flew away. How would we get inside the cupboard now? I thought of the string of poppets, sitting in a wooden chest in the dark.
The sheets weren’t folded as before; the crease of the new fold didn’t match with the old. I put them back in the linen c
loset at the bottom of the pile, where Mrs. Stirling wouldn’t see them until we were gone.
THREE
In the morning Mum, Eden, and I went for a walk across the moors. Eden swung his arms at his sides like a soldier. We walked into a soft breeze that blew our hair back. The dogs ran ahead and up the hill where the sheep grazed. Eden held a handful of grass out to the sheep, but they backed away.
“They don’t like you,” I said, as I marched past him up to the top of the hill.
From the hilltop we could see the countryside below: the fields and the farms and the houses in between. It was springtime, and all around the flowers were in bloom. The dogs rolled on their backs, kicking their legs in the air. “Look,” Eden said, pointing to them. “They’re only as tall as the dandelions.”
Eden blew a dandelion into the wind. Our mother stood with her hands in her coat pockets, looking out at the different shades of green fields below.
“Mum?” Eden said.
“Yes, darling?”
“Are we going back to London soon?”
She turned, looking at him. “We’re having a nice walk in the country, aren’t we?”
Eden looked away; a sudden flush of shame. “I was just wondering.”
Below, the dark and pale green fields, the train and the track, the church and the steeple, looked simple. Cars moved slowly along the roads, safe as toys. The pale blue sky and the clouds, so certain above us; it seemed that nothing so small as a lost earring or the wrong question asked would cause any harm.
On our way back to Grandfather’s, we stopped at the dairy for a pail of milk. Margaret, the farmer’s wife, stood outside the barn. She wore a striped knit sweater, jeans, and green Wellingtons that came to her knees. Her wavy red hair was tied in a bun at the base of her neck. She rested one arm on the stone wall, standing at a slant, like a man.
“Did you hear about Kirsty O’Conner?” Margaret was saying to Mum. “She lives in Paris now, left her husband.”
“Did she?”
“She met this man, you see….”
Eden hit the wall with a stick he’d found on the ground. I sat on the wall while Margaret and Mum gossiped about their old schoolmates. The dogs lay in a shallow puddle to cool their bellies.
“What about Ian Brodie?” I heard my mother ask. She had dated him in school but complained that he had never tried to even kiss her.
Their voices were a seesaw.
“He turned the family butcher into a fruit and flower shop. His father must be turning, but everyone knew he was a queer one from the start….”
Outside the barn, I saw a boy standing by the gate. He looked about my age, fourteen or fifteen. He had dark brown hair and skin the same cream color as his sweater. He held on to the railing as he stared out at the field.
“Nicholas!” Margaret called, and the boy turned, startled by the sound of her voice. “Fetch a pale of milk for the visitors. And mind it doesn’t spill over the sides this time.”
Margaret turned to my mother. In a whisper she said, “Now I’m stuck looking after the boy too. He’s Donald’s nephew, you see, and he came to live with us after his mother died.”
After his mother died, she said, like a passing car.
“Why did she die?” Mum asked.
“Cancer.”
“Where’s his father?”
“Still in the pub, I suppose.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It is,” Margaret said, pushing up her sweater sleeves. “He’s from the city. We hope we can make him useful around here.”
This is the wind and this is the rocks. Margaret takes the calves from their mothers. It’s business. A cow, a boy, a father in the pub. Whoever you are in the world, pain is pain.
Nicholas returned from the barn, carrying a pail of milk. “Is the milk still warm?” Margaret asked him.
“Yes,” he said, glancing up at us. When I saw his eyes, it was like a surprise—a flash of a blue wing, a sparkling stone. I was thinking, as he walked closer: This boy, with the milk pail at his side—his mother just died.
FOUR
I made a bread pudding with stale raisin buns, while Mrs. Stirling told me the details of her youngest daughter Julie’s upcoming wedding day. There would be a three-tiered sponge cake with white and pink columns and her seven nieces for flower girls. And the dress! An exact replica of the one Princess Diana wore.
The rain fell against the windowpanes; in the distance, I thought I saw a woman standing alone in the field.
The woman was my mother. The rain fell harder.
“What are you looking at out there?” Mrs. Stirling asked.
I turned away from the window. “Where’s the cinnamon?”
“Who’s that standing out in the pouring rain? Is that Lucy?” Mrs. Stirling said, wiping the condensation from the window with a tea towel. Then she watched from the window, standing with her hands on her hips. “Good lord, whatever is she doing? I tell you, she’ll catch her death one of these days. You would never find me going for a walk without the proper clothes and let myself get caught in the pouring rain. But you see, I’m much more practical, and my Julie—she’s the most sensible of all.”
Mrs. Stirling: as practical as the pots and pans.
“It’s in your blood, on the women’s side. Your grandmother was the same: away with the pixies.”
I touched the ends of my plaits. My mother walked slowly through the field, looking down, as though she had lost something in the long grass.
“She’s only taking a walk and got caught in the rain.”
“What’s that?” Mrs. Stirling asked.
I shook my head.
“You’re an awful mumbler.”
“I said, she’s only taking a walk.”
Mrs. Stirling made a tut-tut sound with her mouth. “Temper, temper.”
As Mum neared the house, I saw that her hair was dark and wet from the rain and her sweater hung heavy, close to her body. Soon she would be at the front door. Soon she would be home, the damp wind rushing in behind her. She’d be cold, shivering, in her wet clothes. Her face flushed and awake, she’d put her cool hands on my cheeks and kiss me hello.
It rained the rest of the weekend. Our mother spent the days in front of the fire with a blanket on her lap, reading old copies of Country Life. Eden asked Grandfather to tell him stories of the war. Mostly, he wanted to know about airplanes, tanks, and guns. Mosquitoes and Spitfires. Grandfather described the fighter planes, but he never talked about himself or the people he knew who had died.
When the rain stopped, I brushed my hair in front of the mirror, made sure my face was clean, and put on shiny lip gloss. Eden and I were taking the dogs for a walk, past the dairy farm. We walked down the dirt road, and soon we could smell the cows. It was milking time; the farmer led them down the lane.
We walked past the farmer’s house. I leaned against the stone wall, pretending to tie my shoe. The windows of the house stared down like a guard dog. I looked into the field, but I did not see the boy.
* * *
Outside of Grandfather’s, Eden threw a tennis ball for the dogs. The sky was as white as the house. In the distance, we could hear the sound of a car coming up the drive.
A small red car appeared around the bend. It was our father’s car, a red Porsche meant to be driven fast, but he drove it slowly, for fear of scratching the bottom or splashing mud up the sides. He only drove the car for show. Every other week, he washed the car with a bucket of soapy water on the street.
The things he owned, he kept well. His father was a bookmaker: things came and went, were won and lost in bets: a grandfather clock, a gold watch….
The car pulled up to the house. He opened the car door and the dogs ran to him. They leapt and jumped, pawing his trousers with their claws.
“Shoo, shoo, you horrible creatures!” he said, stepping away from them. When he said the word horrible, it sounded like orrible.
Eden let the tennis ball fall from his hands.
He ran across the grass and over the gravel to him.
“Is that my favorite boy?” Dad said, holding his arms open wide. Eden ran to him, crashing against him like a wave. His face pressed against his father’s chest, he closed his eyes for a moment, as though he would sleep there.
I stood outside the doorway, watching them.
“Hello, sweetness, aren’t you going to say hello to your father?”
The wind felt cool through the knit in my cardigan. Mum came from the house. She stood in the doorway with her arms crossed in front of her and a sour look on her face. From the wind or him?
“Well, you’re a cheerful bunch,” he said. “Glad I came for a visit. At least there’s one good-natured person in the family.” He put his arm around Eden and Eden beamed. Another kiss, another squeeze, and he’d take off like a rocket ship.
Dad ran his fingers through his hair, glancing at his reflection in the window of the car. He was dressed in a fitted brown corduroy suit, with a scarf tied around his neck and handmade brown boots.
“I’ve come to apologize. Even though, quite frankly, darling, I have no fucking idea what I’m apologizing for.”
Mum looked away, as though studying the hinge on the door.
“Oh, come on, Lucy, don’t be stupid. I’ve driven all the way up from London. Had to leave Sebastian in charge of the shop, and you know I hate to do that. You could at least give me a kiss hello.”
Mum let her arms drop to her sides.
He walked toward her. “Let’s kiss and make up, what do you say, Lucy?”
Her eyes went low and soft when she looked at him, his lips close to hers. It seemed, in the moment before they kissed, that her lips turned from pink to red. They swelled, they puckered, they parted like flowers before his lips touched hers.