Ghost Moon

by Ron Butlin

  At every push Tom shook his rattle like a champion. The pavement was deserted. She pushed and pushed . . .

  ‘When we – whee! – go round the next corner, we’ll really start to soar – whee! – soar up into the sky. whee!’ The Tractor was picking up speed now. ‘Nearly there, Tom. Ready? Hold on tight . . . Here we go . . . !’

  Turning into the next street, she could see the moon directly ahead of them, set high above the roof of a large townhouse. Against the clear-cut outline of bricks and chimneys it looked like an unfinished sketch, a hastily drawn scribble of light that might dissolve at any moment. Faster and faster towards it they went, her feet no longer touching the pavement.

  ‘We’re rising up now, Tom. Feel it?’ Treading air now, she rose higher and higher. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got good hold of you and won’t let you go – ever.’ The Tractor swayed from side to side like a ship riding high on invisible waves. The higher they went, the louder and clearer sounded his rattle. Maggie pointed over to Craiglockart Hill.

  ‘Look down there, do you see the tiny trees, the dolls’ houses, the Matchbox cars and trams?’

  Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle.

  ‘Up here it’s just you and me, Tom. No one to bother us, no one to tell us what we can and can’t do. No one.’

  The city was spread out below – a ruler-straight neatness of streets, avenues and crescents with dotted lines for houses, shops and shaded green for trees and parks. The moving dots were traffic. Down there were Mrs Saunders and old Woodbine, each puffing out little clouds of smoke at their tiny toy desks in their tiny toy offices and, a few inches over, just next to the splash of blue sea, was her parents’ house . . . The Forth Road Bridge was a cat’s cradle of red spanning a streak of silver paint spilled in the cold winter sun, and the Pentland Hills had been polished to a smoothness of moss-green.

  ‘There’ll be no Boss Beryl, Tom. No Mrs Saunders. No Old Woodbine. No lawyer gibberish, no rubbled houses. No bombed Leith, no Coventry, no London.

  ‘The world’s a ball that’s got burst, Tom. We don’t have to play with it any more. The ghost moon’s so full of light it’s almost see-through. Michael’s waiting for us there – he’s the man in the ghost moon. He’s putting the kettle on for us, getting out ghost moon cakes and — ’

  ‘Maggie!’

  Within a split-second they’d tumbled back to Earth.

  A woman was calling to her from across the street. Coming over to greet her. ‘Maggie, I thought it was you!’

  Her mother’s neighbour.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mrs Melville.’

  ‘What a surprise! Where’ve you been keeping yourself? I heard you’d gone away for good. London, was it? This you back up for a wee visit?’

  Mrs Melville. Iron-grey hair brushed to a hard shell, face powder cracking around her mouth, her lipstick framing the unspoken accusation: Your mother never said anything.

  She looked down at the pram. ‘What a lovely wee . . . boy, is he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She leaned closer. ‘What’s your name, wee man?’

  ‘He’s called Tom.’

  ‘A lovely name. Hello, Tom!’ She bent further down till she was almost under the pram hood. ‘Come up to Scotland, have you? To see Granny Muriel and your grandpa?’ She patted the top of his head. ‘And how old are you, my wee lad?’

  ‘He’s just a few months.’

  ‘Really?’ Another pat. ‘And is your daddy up visiting, too?’

  ‘Just me and Tom.’

  ‘That’s nice. A bit of time on your own.’ She gave Tom a final wave and straightened up again. ‘I’ll meet your daddy another time. Oh, you’re such a bonny wee boy!’ She turned to face Maggie. Her lipsticked concern: ‘Everything all right, is it?’

  Suddenly Maggie could bear no more.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Melville, but I’ve really got to go. I’m visiting a friend in the next street. I’m late already. Goodbye.’ She took a step forward, pushing the Tractor. Then at once began setting a smart pace.

  Mrs Melville had to hurry to remain at her side. ‘Here’s a thought. Are you free tomorrow afternoon, Maggie? . . . You and your mother’d be welcome to . . . to drop round for a cup of tea.’ The older woman was soon gasping for breath, trying to keep up. ‘Nice Dundee cake . . . I’ve been saving . . . A chance . . . a chance to hear all . . . your news and . . . if you’ve a photo of your — ’

  Maggie was now a good dozen yards ahead. She called back: ‘Goodbye, Mrs Melville. I really need to keep going.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, Maggie. I’ll say to Muriel . . .’ Maggie didn’t catch the rest.

  ‘Vroom-vroom!’ she twists the pram handle as if she’s on a motorcycle – a sudden burst of acceleration sends her roaring full-throttle forward. ‘Vroom-vroom-vroom!’ Tom’s rattle urging her faster and faster. Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle . . .

  He’s gurgling and laughing fit to burst, his arms and his rattle going like windmills.

  Into third gear, into top.

  Into overdrive.

  Curve in the street coming up . . .

  Leaning over to take the corner on two wheels, the houses on either side blurring past . . .

  Leaving Mrs Melville far, far behind.

  Accelerating out into the straight.

  Full-tilt round another corner, the two of them hurtling along faster and faster, rising again into the air, soaring weightlessly up and up into the afternoon sunlight . . .

  Maggie raises her head to shout out loud: ‘Ghost moon here we come!’

  SUNDAY

  ROSEHAVEN AGAIN. THE yellow cross, the bell. CCTV, the security grille.

  Buzzed in.

  Someone’s singing to herself. That folksong about going to Skye. Bonnie Prince Charlie, wasn’t it? Posh English words for something so Scottish. Elderly cracked-sounding voice, pleasant enough, but hardly X Factor.

  Managing a good half-dozen steps down the corridor until . . .

  Rushing into the toilet before you throw up. Hanging over the basin, dry-heaving, your forehead in a cold sweat, your hands trembling. Retching, and retching.

  Like sea-sickness, but you’re not sick. You never are. Hang in there.

  Hang in there.

  It’ll pass. Like it always does. It will. Steady?

  Steady. Better now?

  Rinse out your mouth and you’ll be fine. No matter how rough you’re feeling, the adrenaline of performance gets you through every time. Three cheers for Doctor Showbiz!

  A last wipe-down with the paper towel. Deep breath. Reality check in the mirror – colour flooding back into the cheeks, a cheerful smile, bright eyes. You want her to see a loving son, someone eager to visit and spend the afternoon with her. Someone who cares.

  There’s a genuine Mr Magic spring in your step as you stride along the corridor.

  But your mother’s not in the dayroom, not in her bedroom either. You find Kylie sorting out pills in the kitchen, planting them like seeds into their miniature plastic tubs.

  ‘Can ye not hear her? Entertaining us all through lunch, she wis. Widnae go back efter, so we just let her be. She’s fine, though. Gang through and see for yersel.’

  The dining room’s at the rear of the care home – easy-wash flooring, plastic chairs, formica tables, white Venetian blinds, pale green walls, the day’s menu and fire regulations pinned to a green felt noticeboard. There are half-a-dozen yellow-topped tables, each with a posy of artificial flowers in a small vase. Your mother’s table stands in the middle of the room like a desert island adrift on a sea of blue linoleum.

  ‘Speed bonny boat like a bird on the wing . . .’

  ‘Mum? Are you all right?’

  ‘Carry the lad who’s born to be king . . .’

  She’s far, far away in an elsewhere place that has no borders except for the table e
dge she’s gripping as fiercely as if her life depended on it.

  ‘Mum?’

  Her knuckles have gone white. Under her blouse, her collar bone feels brittle-thin, mere skeleton.

  ‘Over the sea to Skye.’

  ‘I’ll sit with you if you like.’

  You take the seat directly opposite hers. There’s no sign she’s noticed you’ve sat down, no sign she’s noticed that anyone’s sat down.

  ‘What are you doing here, Mum? Lunch is over, the others have all gone back to the dayroom.’

  ‘Speed bonnie boat . . .’

  Has she been crying? If so, they were tears that have left no trace. But there’s broken skin, a gouge mark as if she’d run her fingernails down her cheeks.

  ‘Mum, it’s me. Tom. I’ve come to see you.’

  ‘Over the sea to Skye.’

  ‘That’s a good song, Mum, I don’t remember you ever singing it when I was — ’

  ‘How the winds blow, how the storm roars . . .’

  ‘Hello, Mum. I’ve come to — ’

  ‘Hardly a chance even to see him, only a few seconds because they’re coming for him, because it’s all been arranged with Mrs Saunders. What else can I do?’

  ‘Don’t cry, Mum. Everything’s fine. I’m here to see you and — ’

  ‘What else can I do? The rain just came down and down at Silverknowes – I couldn’t stop it. You can’t stop the rain, can you?’

  ‘Everything’s fine now, Mum. Everything’s going to be all right, everything’s — ’

  ‘But I’ll go and see him as soon as I can . . . They don’t want me to, but — ’

  ‘Don’t cry, Mum, everything’s — ’

  ‘Mrs Saunders said he’ll be well looked after. So don’t worry.’ She smiles and lets go of the table. ‘I’ll be visiting as often as I can, I told her.’

  ‘No need.’ You make a joke of it. ‘Here’s me visiting you!’

  A joke? How many jokes could survive this room with its washed-out décor, its empty tables, Venetian blinds half-slatted to conceal the neighbouring brick wall?

  ‘Let’s go through to the dayroom, Mum, it’ll be brighter there. Or your own room if you’d rather.’ You get to your feet.

  ‘My room’s been cleared out. Nothing left.’

  ‘No, Mum, no. No one’s done anything, really it’s — ’

  ‘My whole life like it’s never been. How could they? My whole life, like I’d never been born.’

  ‘Mum, it’s all right. No one’s done anything to your room. I’ve just been there and it’s the same as always. Let’s go through and you can see for yourself. We’ll get you settled.’

  She’ll need your hand under her arm to help her stand up. There’s a puddle of spilt soup and flecks of scattered rice where she’s been sitting.

  Putting your arm round her and taking gentle hold of her elbow to give support, it feels like you’re cradling the fragility of a bird’s egg in your hand. One slow step at a time, you begin the laborious journey to the door, guiding her between the tables set with unattended cutlery, with flowers that never need watering. So near-weightless she seems, that you feel she might rise up into the air at her next step and float away out of reach . . .

  She stumbles into one of the plastic chairs –

  ‘Take your time, Mum. No rush.’

  ‘No need to squeeze the life out of me,’ she snaps. ‘I can manage quite well, thank you. I’m going home, amn’t I?’ She’s watching everything now, nervous and alert, treading with caution around another chair while clutching your arm.

  ‘We can stop whenever you want. There’s no rush, Mum. We’ve all afternoon.’

  ‘All afternoon? Have we?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll be with you for hours yet, all afternoon like I say. And we can make it longer if you want and . . .’

  Not too long, though. You’re seeing the lovely Mandy at Whigham’s for drinks, then off to that new Italian along Shandwick Place.

  She’s come to a halt in the doorway, hesitating, not wanting to leave the dining room.

  ‘That’s it, Mum. Just like you taught me – Look left, look right, then left again. We’ll get there.’

  Safely out into the hall. To your right’s the dayroom with the door standing wide open as usual and the TV unloading its noise over the elderly women propped up in their chairs, lining the walls. Not another afternoon in there. You couldn’t bear it. You steer her to the left in the direction of her room.

  ‘Someone’s expecting us?’

  ‘What’s that, Mum? Who’d be expecting us? We’ll be sitting together, just the two of us. I’ll make us some tea. I’ve brought biscuits, chocolate digestives.’ Keeping you both moving down the corridor.

  ‘Will they let us in?’

  ‘Who?’

  She’s stopped. Won’t move a step. ‘They know I’m coming. They’ve been told all about me. They’ll be waiting. Suppose they slam the door in my face again? Suppose they — ’

  ‘Your bedroom door? No one’ll do that, don’t worry. Anyway, I’m here and I’ll sort out anyone who tries to — ’

  ‘The handrail’s here for when it starts to get rough, which it can do sometimes. I’ll keep good hold, just in case.’

  ‘Come on, Mum, we can’t just stop here in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘So cold here.’ She’s started shivering. ‘But at least I brought my coat and scarf. Why won’t the sun come out? What if they don’t let us in? We’re so far from Edinburgh and — ’

  ‘Listen, Mum. We’re going to your room, that’s all. No one else’ll be there. Be just the two of us, believe me.’

  ‘No one else? You mean there’ll be no one to let us in?’ Her lips begin to tremble.

  ‘There’ll be me, Mum. And you. We’ll sit together and talk like usual. We’ll have tea and chocolate digestives.’

  ‘But if no one’s there how’ll we get in?’

  ‘We’re there already. See, the door’s standing open for us. No problem.’ You manage to help her in.

  Still clutching your arm for support, she works her way round the furniture in her room, running her fingers across the top of the chest of drawers, opening and closing the wardrobe door, reaching up to straighten a picture, a seascape that’s mostly clouds, touching the playing cards on her tea-trolley. Finally she sits down in her chair. ‘This is my room, isn’t it! I’m so glad to be back here. Everything’s going to be all right now. I know it.’ The smile she gives you lights up her face.

  The photo album’s opened at that couple standing in front of their house. She couldn’t remember anything last time, but maybe you’ll have more luck today? They look friendly enough. Definitely not in the city, you point out. You slide it out of its plastic sleeve so she can have a closer look. The man and woman are both well into their fifties.

  ‘So, Mum. The mysterious Callanders – who are they? Really bleak-looking place, not a tree in sight, a bit like Orkney maybe or Lewis — ’

  ‘Shut up! Shut up! You go on and on and on about them. I’ve never met them, don’t want to meet them.’ She pauses. ‘I know what, let’s get rid of them once and for all . . .’ And before you can stop her, she’s grabbed the photo and ripped it in half. Then in half again. Her hands and arms shaking, her cheeks flushed red. ‘Burn them. Burn the pair of them, then maybe you’ll shut up about them.’

  Some of the pieces have fallen on her lap, others on the floor at her feet. You’re reaching down to gather them –

  ‘Leave them. They’re nothing, they never were,’ she hisses. ‘Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.’ She starts ripping them into even smaller pieces.

  ‘It’s all right, Mum. We can leave the photos.’ You take her hands in yours to steady them. ‘We can just sit and — ’

  She snatches her hand free. ‘Go on, make yourself usef
ul.’ Spittle flies from her mouth: ‘Get us some matches!’

  When you return a few minutes later with Kylie, you find your mother sitting straight up in her seat, a smile on her face.

  ‘Hello, Beryl.’

  There’s no sign of the torn up photograph, or the red album.

  ‘Whit’ve we been up tae, Maggie? Yer son said something aboot yer gettin upset an wantin matches? Ye ken we dinna allow — ’

  ‘Matches? I’m quite warm enough, thank you, Beryl. We’ve central heating here – don’t need fires. All that mess with soot and smoke and the grate needing cleaned out every morning.’ She looks at the two of you in turn. ‘I’m fine. Never felt better.’

  And it’s true. You can see that she looks utterly content. A moment later she’s taken your hands in hers and lifted them to her face. She draws them slowly across her eyelids, her cheeks, her lips . . .

  ‘It’s so very good to see you again, Michael.’

  Your father again. She keeps thinking that you –

  ‘Stay here with me, Michael. Please.’

  ‘Yes, I will.’ What else can you say?

  6

  MAGGIE TYPED AND filed her way through the next week. She visited Tom. She wrote Michael several letters, double-sided sheets crammed with all sorts of hopes and possibilities, with her love for him, her longing for the three of them to be a family. It would happen. Their longed-for life together lay only just beyond this one same day that kept repeating itself over and over – a day of working, shopping, visiting Woodstock House, cooking her evening meal on the twin-ring electric Belling, keeping her bedsit clean. Soon, soon.

  Spring was in the air and she walked to work enjoying the morning sunshine and freshness, and to save money. She’d do her best to start to paying Jean back and also try to put at least ten shillings into a Post Office account every week. Best of all, Tom’s six months at Woodstock House had another whole month to run – so she would be able to remove him in good time!

  She babysat Douglas on the Wednesday evening. It went well. Mrs McCann was pleased. ‘You must call me Sheila.’