The Finding

by Nina Bawden

  Today, as she settled herself in her chair, silk cushions around her, silk stool at her feet, she actually said the thing that he felt and that scared him. She said, “Oh, you lovely boy, I could eat you,” and as her hands gripped his arms, holding him with surprising strength as they drew him close to her, he felt his stomach turn over.

  But all she did was kiss him and squeeze him a little. She said, “Sit down, boy, here on the stool.”

  He sat where she told him, next to her little feet, feeling the warmth of her leg against him and looked at the brass clock on the mantelpiece above the gas fire. Ten minutes, Gran had said. Only about eight minutes left now. He sat stiffly, waiting for Mrs Angel to stroke his hair as she usually did; to let her do that, and to sit still, and be quiet while she talked to his grandmother was all she seemed to want from him. She rarely spoke to him directly after she’d kissed him, except once before he left when she said, “Thank you, dear boy, for coming to see me.” He thought, his eyes on the clock, on the brass pendulum swinging under the pretty, glass dome, Seven minutes now, that’s not long.

  He had almost forgotten that today was a special day. He listened to Mrs Angel and his grandmother talking, saying the same things that they always said, about Mrs Angel’s nephew and his wife, about what they had said last time they had come to see her, how he had been “sharp” and she had been “barely civil”.

  “Oh, it’s always the same when you’re old,” his grandmother said. “All they want is to stick you away in a home where you’ll be no more trouble. Out of the way where they can forget all about you.”

  That wasn’t fair, Alex thought. His grandmother shouldn’t talk like that, as if his mother and father had wanted to get rid of her when they’d done just the opposite; persuading her to move from her house in the country where she had been lonely after his grandfather died, and buy a house on the Fields where they could see her every day and look after her.

  Then his grandmother said, “I’ve been lucky, I’ve got a good daughter. Mind you, things aren’t perfect, but we won’t say too much about that, little pitchers have big ears, as we know.” And, suddenly, in a quite different voice, loud and clear as if she were making a public announcement, “It’s dear Alex’s birthday, that is, what we call his birthday, poor little fellow. I did tell you, Angel dear, didn’t I?”

  “Twice yesterday,” Mrs Angel said. “You told me twice yesterday and again this morning.” Her voice sounded irritated though a bit amused, too, the two sounds belonged together like notes in a tune. She touched Alex’s hair for the first time since he had sat down on the stool and said, “It’s in the drawer in that table beside you.”

  Alex’s grandmother opened the drawer. “Shall I show him?” she said, smiling at Mrs Angel—an odd, private smile as if whatever there was in the drawer was an interesting secret—and passed a flat, oblong parcel to Alex. It was wrapped in brown paper and fastened with ribbon. A book, he thought, as he tugged at the bow. But it wasn’t a book. It was a photograph in a silver frame, of a girl in a nurse’s uniform; an unsmiling face above a white collar and dark, unsmiling eyes looking straight at the camera. Looking at Alex.

  “Do you like it?” Mrs Angel asked. “If you like it, boy, you can keep it.”

  Alex didn’t know how to answer. He disliked being called “boy”. He didn’t want a photograph of a strange girl as a present.

  His grandmother was watching him. She was sitting with her knees apart and her hands on her knees, leaning forward. She was looking excited. A bit like Laura, he thought, when she was about to do something naughty. Though that was silly. His grandmother was too old to be naughty.

  She said—burst out with it, as if it were something she couldn’t hold in any longer—“It’s like him, isn’t it, Angel? The mouth, and the eyes. So big and dark, you could drown in them!”

  Mrs Angel took hold of Alex’s chin and turned him to face her. She smiled and said, “If you say so, dear.” And to Alex’s surprise she winked at him. At least, he thought she did; it might have been her eye twitching.

  His grandmother said, a bit huffily, “Well, I think it’s quite remarkable. Say thank you, Alex dear, for the picture.”

  “I don’t know…” he began and then saw her frowning and jerking her head at him, trying to tell him that whatever he felt he must do as she said. He said, politely, “Thank you Mrs Angel. It’s very kind of you.”

  His grandmother said, “It’s a picture of Mrs Angel’s daughter, dear. One of her most precious possessions.”

  He wondered why she wanted to give it to him in that case. There were a lot of pretty things in the room; little china ornaments, a collection of ivory paper knives on a small table, and some beautiful paper weights. He would rather have had any one of these things than an old photograph. He looked at the clock. The ten minutes was over. In fact, almost fifteen minutes had passed. Dad would be home by now. Gran had promised him…

  Mrs Angel said, “That’s all right, Amy. Don’t keep on at the boy.”

  Her voice sounded odd. He looked, and saw that her small chin was trembling. His grandmother said, “Wait outside, Alex darling.”

  He got out of the room as fast as he could and closed the door after him. Through it he could hear Mrs Angel’s soft sobbing which rose every few seconds to a little hoot like an owl’s cry, and his grandmother’s voice murmuring kindly.

  He opened the front door and looked out. He could see the lit windows of his own house on the other side of the Fields; his mother in the living room, moving about, still putting things straight after the party. He saw Bob and Ellie, passing the landing window on their way up to bed, his father behind them. Dad paused at the window and peered out, face close to the glass. Looking for me, Alex thought, pleased. He stood on the step and waved, but too late. His father had turned away from the window.

  Someone had seen him, though. A man, standing under the trees opposite Mrs Angel’s house moved out of their shadow and crossed the road. He stood at the bottom of the steps and looked up at Alex. He was a tallish man wearing a brown cap and a raincoat. The light from a street lamp made his eyes look hollow and dark and blackened his mouth, but the raised scar that ran from his upper lips across his right cheek showed up, white and gleaming. He said, “What are you doing here, sonny?”

  “Waiting for my Gran.”

  “Funny place to wait for your Gran. Not her house, is it?”

  “She lives next door,” Alex said. “She’s just visiting.”

  He stood square in the doorway. Perhaps the man was a burglar. Burglars often lurked on the Fields at night, his grandmother said, watching the houses, waiting until they were empty. The man came closer and smiled and Alex could see that his upper lip was puckered up, almost split; a hare lip. Perhaps he’d been born like that. Unless he’d been in a knife fight.

  The man looked uglier when he smiled; the gap in his lip showing stubby, brown teeth. “I know your Gran, then. Who she is, anyway? What’s she up to now? Upsetting my Auntie, I’ll bet.”

  So this was the nephew who was “only after one thing”. Alex said, “My grandmother’s her friend. She doesn’t upset her.” He felt doubtful suddenly. Why had Mrs Angel been crying? He said, “Gran takes me to cheer her up sometimes. She wanted to see me today because it’s my birthday.”

  “Many Happy Returns,” the man said, sounding quite friendly. “Did she give you a present?”

  “Well, sort of…”

  “Care to show me?” The man came up the steps, hand outstretched. Alex unwrapped the parcel and showed him the picture. He felt shy and somehow ashamed, though he had done nothing wrong. He said, “I don’t know why Mrs Angel gave it me, really. I think it’s her daughter.”

  “That’s right,” the man said. “Poor old Auntie! Funny sort of birthday gift for you, isn’t it? Still, the frame’s worth a few bob.”

  The door of Mrs Angel’s room opened and Alex’s grandmother came out and closed it behind her. She said, “Oh!” on a quick, indrawn
breath, and then, “Mr Fowles, isn’t it? I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Amy Ross from next door.” She held out her hand but the man didn’t take it. She said, smiling tightly, “Your Aunt’s been expecting you. Several days since you’ve been to see her, I gather. I do what I can, pop in with the odd meal occasionally, but I’m an old woman…”

  “And a meddlesome one.” Mr Fowles spoke in a calm, even tone.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, if you don’t, I don’t know who does.”

  Alex’s grandmother looked at Mr Fowles levelly, though Alex thought her colour had risen. She took Alex’s hand and said, “Come on, darling, time you were going home.”

  As they went down the steps, Mr Fowles shouted after them, “What are you up to, that’s what I’d like to know, you old cow,” and his voice wasn’t calm any longer; there was an edge to it that made Alex shiver.

  But his grandmother only laughed. When Mr Fowles had gone into the house, she said, “Dreadful man.”

  “He’s horrible. That was a horrible thing to say to you.”

  “Oh, my shoulders are broad,” his grandmother said. “Have to be, at my age, in my situation. Off you go, now. Got the picture safe, have you? Would you like me to look after it? In the circumstances, that might be better.”

  He shook his head. It had been given to him, after all, as a present. It seemed mean not to keep it.

  “Suit yourself. But I shouldn’t show it to your mother, if I were you. Tuck it under your jacket for now, then put it away in a drawer.”

  He wondered why she was being mysterious, but then he thought this was nothing new; she often made secrets between them as if she were another child, no older than he was. He was bored with this secret suddenly. He said, “Goodnight Gran,” and ran across the dark Fields, seeing his well lit home in front of him, the front door standing open, and his father there, looking out. He shouted, “Here I am, Dad,” and his father opened his arms for him to run into them, but at the last moment Alex remembered the photograph, the hard, oblong shape under his jacket. He said, “Sorry, Dad, in a hurry, got to go to the bathroom.”

  He went upstairs to his room, put the picture under his football things in his bottom drawer, went to the bathroom and flushed the cistern. On his way downstairs he paused for a minute as his Dad had done earlier, and looked across the Fields. He could see his grandmother in her house, in her sitting room, and Mrs Angel in hers. She was standing up, leaning on her walking frame. Then Mr Fowles, still wearing his raincoat, cut her off from his vision. He walked towards the window and drew the curtains across it.

  Chapter 2

  It was Laura who noticed that Mrs Angel’s curtains were still closed the next afternoon. Usually the old woman sat at her window during the day, and usually, as she passed her house on her way home from school, Laura waved to her. Laura had never been taken to see Mrs Angel; she thought that if she waved and smiled Mrs Angel might say to her grandmother, “Why do you never bring Alex’s sister to see me? She looks such a sweet, pretty child.”

  This particular day, Laura was slow going home, taking the long way, across the Lower Field where the fair people were churning up the grass with their trucks and caravans, setting up sideshows, roundabouts, Flying Chairs, Roller Coasters, for the Easter Fair. When Laura had been younger she had thought the fair people were very exciting. Most of them were gipsies who (so her grandmother had told her) sometimes stole pretty children, and although Laura knew she wasn’t as pretty as Alex, not “striking”, which was what people said, meaning that his very dark eyes and flossy, blond hair was an odd combination, she was pretty enough in an ordinary sort of way, blue-eyed, pink-cheeked and healthy. If the gipsies were to steal her, Laura had thought, her parents would be sorry they hadn’t loved her as much as they seemed to love Alex. Now she was older, she had decided that even if it might be a good idea to frighten her mother and father, it would probably not be much fun for her. The caravans looked cramped and uncomfortable, the dogs tethered beneath them, bone thin and snarling, and the children who played round the camp were often wailing and dirty. And a Fair was not like a Circus; running a coconut shy not as interesting as being a high wire artiste or a lion tamer.

  She saw that a big tent had been put up on the Upper Field. She wondered if there were going to be a Circus this Easter as well as a Fair, but when she went to inspect it she found that the tent was arranged like a church. There was a platform at one end, draped like an altar. The people inside, putting out rows of canvas chairs, were very respectable looking, the men in dark suits, the women in smart, brightly coloured dresses and hats. A tall, handsome black man smiled down at her. He said, “Good afternoon, Sister. Would you like to come to the Meeting this evening?”

  Laura smiled back at him shyly. He said, “All are welcome. I am sure that you love the Lord Jesus.”

  Laura wasn’t sure how to answer this. So she said, “How much does it cost?”

  “Entry is free,” the man said. “All the Lord wants is your love and your praise. There will be a collection for less fortunate brothers and sisters after the Meeting, but only those whose hearts have been moved will be asked to contribute. It is not money but souls we are seeking.”

  His kindly eyes shone at her. Laura said, “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask my mother and father.”

  “Bring them with you,” the man said. “Bring your whole family.”

  “I could ask my grandmother,” Laura said. “She goes to church sometimes.”

  “May the Lord guide her,” the man said. He gave her a pamphlet from a pile on the table at the entrance to the tent.

  “Thank you very much,” Laura said. He was still beaming benevolently and his shining gaze made it hard to leave. She said, “I’ll show my Gran. I’m sure she’ll be interested,” and backed away slowly. He continued to watch her; when she turned her back she felt his eyes on her still. She had an uncomfortable feeling that if she didn’t do what she had said she would, and just went straight home, he would know she had lied and despise her.

  Her house was quite close; the front door was open and Bob and Ellie were in the little front garden, crouched down on the path, their eyes fixed on the ground. Racing snails was their favourite game at the moment. No sign of Alex, which was a pity because she could have shown him the pamphlet, but it was the day for his judo class. She turned back to the man and said, “My grandmother lives on the other side of the Fields, I’m going there now,” and set off at a run.

  Going up the steps to Gran’s house she saw that Mrs Angel’s curtains were drawn. She didn’t think much about it, just registered the fact as she rang the bell, and then forgot all about it because her grandmother opened the door in her dressing gown. Laura had never seen her other than properly and neady dressed, wearing a pretty frock, or a suit with a frilly blouse, and shoes with heels that were much too high (so Laura’s mother said) for an old woman. Even though the gown was a smart one, made of blue wool with a velvet collar and cuffs, it was still surprising. “Have you been having a bath?” Laura said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just wondered if you wanted to go to the Meeting.”

  Her grandmother took the pamphlet and peered at it, holding it dose and screwing her eyes up. “No good, I can’t read it without my glasses, come on in, Laura my chick. I don’t want to get chilled to make matters worse. Your mother will be angry enough as it is.”

  Following her indoors, Laura saw the sofa drawn close to the fire and a rug lying across it as if her grandmother had been taking a nap. She said, “Why should Mum be angry?”

  “She’s no right to be,” her grandmother said. “I can’t help it but she’ll think of a way to make it my fault. I took a bit of a tumble this morning. I was upstairs when the postman rang, and you know what they are, no one has any patience nowadays, and so I came running down and slipped on the bottom step.” She sat on the sofa and put her left foot on a cushion and stroked it. The ankle looked bruised and
puffy. Laura wondered if she had been wearing high heels when she fell and decided not to ask, though she knew it was the first question her mother would put when she told her.

  Gran said, “No need to tell your mother, mind. I’ll be right as a trivet tomorrow.”

  “Shall I make you a cup of tea?”

  “Bless you, chick. No, I’m not paralysed. But you could find my glasses—let me see, where did I put them?”

  “On the stool,” Laura said. “With the newspaper.”

  Her grandmother put her spectacles on and looked at the pamphlet. “Ha!” she said. “Holy Rollers.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Who are they, is what you mean. People who throw themselves about when the spirit of the Lord seizes them. Not to my taste, though I daresay it livens things up a bit. Go and take a look, why don’t you? A bit of religion won’t hurt you, any kind better than none. Though don’t tell your mother I said that.”

  Laura groaned. “Oh, Gran, you are silly. But I’ll have to tell her you’ve hurt yourself. She’ll be mad at me if I don’t.”

  Her grandmother looked sulky.

  Laura said, “I mean, she’ll want to know about shopping, things like that.”

  “Oh, pish and tush,” her grandmother said. “I’ve got food in the house and I can look after myself. The only thing I can’t do is get a shoe on, so I can’t look in on old Mrs Angel. Not that she’s helpless, either, but she gets a bit down in the mouth if I don’t go to see her. It’s not much of a life, stuck in that room. I think how I’d feel if that happened to me, so I try to be regular.”

  “Alex says she’s pretty boring,” Laura said, to pay her grandmother out for taking Alex, not her, on these visits.