Beyond the Stars

by Sarah Webb

  “Let her go, or you shoot? That’s the long and short of it, I suppose?”

  I nodded. No more speaking unless necessary. I’d have to work on my giving orders voice if the chance arose.

  The guard nodded at my pistol. “The thing about guns is that if you’re not used to them …”

  I did not need to speak to deal with this. I cocked the revolver, sighted along the barrel and flicked off the safety with my thumb.

  The post office’s customers screamed in unison, a choir of terror, and I could feel them getting ready to charge the door. They would trample me, someone could get hurt.

  “Nobody move a muscle,” said the guard and I had to admit to myself at least that his voice of authority was a lot better than mine.

  “Now, son,” he said to me. “Put down the gun. You’re nabbed. It’s for the best.”

  My mother craned her face round. “Don’t listen to him, Charley. This is not the right time. Dublin, that’s where they will catch us. Or even London.”

  The guard whistled and I knew what he meant.

  Dublin?

  London?

  Mother was planning for us to go down in a hail of gunfire.

  “Mammy, this can’t go on for ever.”

  My mother’s eyes were bright. “Of course it can. Of course. They will remember us for ever. Mother and son, it’s never been done before.”

  I realised then that my mother as I knew her, the one who hid me behind her skirts, the one who taught me the names of flowers, was gone. She was lost to me.

  Somehow the guard knew what to say.

  “There’s no happy ending here, son, just the best of a bad lot.”

  He was right. I was never going to shoot anyone.

  “Don’t listen to him,” my mother screeched. I had never heard her screech before. “Not here. There isn’t a single camera.”

  The guard’s face was grim. “I have a lovely camera down in the station.”

  This quip almost changed my mind and my hands stiffened with resolve.

  “That’s enough chitchat, Charles!” called Mother. “Shoot him. Just in the leg. We need to get on the road before this building is surrounded. Don’t you see that?”

  “You are nothing but a lookout,” said the guard, holding my eye. “A minor waiting in the car like his mammy told him. I guarantee you will not be prosecuted and your mother hasn’t hurt anyone yet. But if you shoot me, or anyone, in any part of the body, then you both go to prison for a long time. As it is, you’ll be fostered for a while and could be reunited with your mother in a couple of years.”

  “Really?” This sounded optimistic.

  “Maybe five,” admitted the guard.

  The entire post office held its breath. What would the lookout boy do?

  I think Mother had enough sense left to know she was losing me.

  “Shoot me then, Charley. I don’t mind. Then another family could look after you. If you shoot me, it’s even better than the police doing it. I’ll be international news.”

  This movie was over. They should never have started rolling without a happy ending.

  I put the gun down on the counter-top and a building sighed with relief.

  “No, Charles,” my mother screeched again. “No. There is nothing glamorous about this. Nothing.”

  She was right. Her make-up was ruined, the light was terrible and Mammy’s shapely legs were masked by the guard.

  He picked up the gun without releasing my mother.

  “Walk ahead of me,” he said not unkindly. “Up to the station.”

  I was numb, apart from my heart, which felt as though it was connected to an air pump. My mother had set her face to heroic disappointment, which was one of her favourites and I knew she would not even acknowledge me for at least a few days.

  The guard ushered us both out the door and something in my expression must have reminded him of the tragic story of his own family that I was to find out about much later.

  “Don’t worry, boy. There’s surely some fool who will take you in. No workhouse for you, my word on it.”

  His promise didn’t mean much then but it would come to be a turning point in my life.

  A customer patted the guard’s shoulder as we passed.

  “Good job, Dick. You handled that like a pro.”

  “I am a pro,” said Dick the guard with one of his cow-scaring looks, and the door opened before us, admitting a cold gust of winter’s breath.

  Marita Conlon-McKenna is one of Ireland’s best-loved authors. Her award-winning novels for children include Under the Hawthorn Tree, which has been translated into over a dozen languages, and The Blue Horse, both number one bestsellers. Under the Hawthorne Tree was also televised for Irish, British and American audiences. Marita lives in Dublin.

  P. J. Lynch has been working as an illustrator for over twenty-five years and has won many awards in that time, including the Mother Goose Award and the prestigious Kate Greenaway Medal on two occasions. P. J. lives in Dublin with his wife and their three children.

  I hate the new house.

  I hate the way it looks, I hate the way it smells and most of all I hate that it is miles and miles away from where I used to live and all my friends.

  “It’s a nice city, Cass. You’ll get used to it and the new school is only a few minutes away from our house. Honestly, you’ll like it.”

  Honestly I won’t, because I never wanted to move and leave Rosemount Park, the place where we used to live! But Dad’s plant in Kildare closed down and he was one of the lucky ones that got transferred to the company’s new plant in Galway.

  “Why couldn’t Dad just go and come back home to us at the weekends?”

  “Because we are a family and families stick together,” Mum said crossly.

  So now we are living in Galway in an old house that is practically falling down. The windows rattle and my bedroom is up on the third floor. From it I can see the street and part of the river. Our garden is long and narrow and overgrown.

  “Next summer we’ll tackle it,” Dad promises.

  The house is full of paint tins and ladders and boxes and Mum says we have to put in a new kitchen as the old one has woodworm.

  It’s only a few days to Christmas and I wish I was back with Sophie and Alanna, hanging out on our estate and seeing all my friends instead of being stuck here being dragged round the garden centre with Mum and Dad trying to get a Christmas tree. The ceiling in our living room is really high so we buy a tree that is much taller than usual and we can hardly fit it in our car. It makes the house smell of fresh pine.

  Dad and Robbie search all the boxes, wondering where the movers have put our Christmas decorations. They find one box with some lights and our stockings and a few baubles but the rest have gone missing. We hang what we have on the tree and Ted puts the angel on top but it looks bare … like the house.

  “We’ll buy some more,” says Mum as we switch on the lights. “Doesn’t it look wonderful? It’s as if these old bay windows were meant for Christmas trees.”

  I say nothing.

  “Cass, don’t you think it’s so exciting having a first Christmas in our new house?”

  “I’d much prefer Christmas in our old house with our friends and the neighbours,” I say.

  Mum looks upset.

  “Cass, that’s quite enough!” Dad warns. “Listen, why don’t you and Robbie walk over to the square? There’s a big open-air Christmas market there. Buy a few presents, and for heaven’s sake try to get in the Christmas spirit?” He passes us each some money.

  “Thanks, Dad.” My older brother grins, putting the cash in his pocket.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  On the way to the square we pass gangs of shoppers carrying bags and two groups of carol singers. The streets are busy and it is really cold … so cold it might even snow.

  Eyre Square is all lit up and it really is Christmassy with wooden stalls and even a big log cabin. There is a café with red-and-white tablecloths an
d lots of chairs and some braziers burning. We buy long German hot dogs and have them with mustard and cabbage and they taste so good. One stall is selling giant pretzels and another has yummy hot doughnuts.

  “We’ll get one later,” Robbie promises as we walk on. “I want to get Dad a present.”

  He stops at a stall that has a collection of knitted hats and scarves. Rob pulls on a camouflage army one, and I try a cute pink stripy one. We wonder if Dad would like the dark green one. He could wear it when he goes to matches – Dad’s mad on football and rugby.

  We decide it’d be perfect, so Robbie pays for it and then goes off in search of more presents.

  “We should split up,” he says, and I guess that he wants to find something for me.

  I head off in another direction. It has begun to snow lightly, the flakes floating in the air like feathers and tumbling gently to the ground before melting.

  There are stalls full of toys and games and people selling jams and sauces and home-made cakes and biscuits. I walk towards the back. One lady is selling printed scarves. They look pretty … I wonder if Mum would like one.

  Then I see it. There is an old woman with a stall full of bric-a-brac. Old Dinky cars still in their boxes, stiff porcelain dolls with white painted faces. They look kind of scary but a lady picks up one and pays for it. I watch as the old woman wraps it in tissue carefully.

  “Her name is Violet,” she says. “And she is a very special doll … remember that.”

  The old woman has white hair scrunched up with a silver comb and eyes so dark they are like two black beetles. I look at the brooches and bracelets, and an old snakes-and-ladders game, and then I see it, right at the back of the stall … a snow globe. I pick it up. It is heavier than I expected. The glass is thick and the dark wood base is patterned with silver holly leaves and berries.

  Inside the glass orb there is a girl with dark hair and a red dress and beside her a tree and a deer. I shake the globe and like magic the snow appears and the tree sparkles and the girl’s dress seems to glow and the deer is covered with falling snowflakes. It’s beautiful.

  I shake it again. As the snow falls I notice a small rabbit peeping out from behind the tree and a robin in its branches. It’s so pretty. I look at the price … Far too much.

  “It’s Victorian,” the old woman says, standing in front of me. “Antique.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  A man pushes in beside me. He wants to buy the red velvet box with four dice in it.

  “These dice will bring you luck!” says the old woman as he passes her the money.

  I shake the snow globe again. It’s so unusual, special. I watch as the snow slowly begins to fall again, sprinkling the girl’s long dark hair and red dress and covering the branches of the pine tree, a snowflake landing on the rabbit’s nose … I really, really want it …

  “How much money do you have?” the woman asks, standing so close to me that I can smell her old-fashioned lavender-scented perfume.

  Before I know it I have agreed to buy the precious snow globe and given her all my money and she is wrapping it up in lots of paper and passing me a plastic bag.

  “It’s really old,” she warns me, “so you must take very good care of it. It’s full of wishing and memories.”

  I walk off happy …

  “Where have you been?” demands Robbie when I find him. “I was searching everywhere for you.”

  “Sorry, but I was at that old antique stall at the back.”

  “Did you get all your presents?” he asks as we queue to get doughnuts.

  I’ve already got Robbie a game for his PlayStation. They were on special offer in Argos last week. And I’ve got Dad a tie covered in balls – footballs, golf balls, rugby balls – that I saw in the sports store, but I’ve got nothing for Mum or our little brother Ted.

  “I forgot,” I admit to Robbie.

  “Well come on and we’ll get something now.”

  “I can’t,” I confess. “I’ve spent all my money.”

  I show him the snow globe.

  “Is it for Mum?”

  “No, Mum wouldn’t like it! It’s for me – I just had to have it!”

  “Cass, are you crazy? How could you spend all your money on that?”

  I suddenly realise how stupid I’ve been. Money is tight with the move and the new house, so this year there is a family budget on presents and I’ve blown all my money on one thing.

  “Maybe you can take it back – get your money back.”

  Robbie and I return to the edge of the square, looking for the old woman and her stall. We pass the people selling jam and big iced gingerbread houses, but I can’t seem to find the place where I got the snow globe. I walk up and down, looking for the old-fashioned wooden stall with its fairy lights and mysterious owner.

  “Where is it?” asks Robbie.

  “It was here, I’m sure it was here …”

  But there is no sign of it – just a stand with a man selling burgers and drinks.

  “It was here, I’m sure,” I say.

  “What are you going to do?” he asks, sighing.

  I don’t know what to do. I can’t ask Dad for more money, not at the moment.

  “I’ve some money left – I can lend it to you,” Robbie offers. “But you’ll have to give it back to me. Promise?”

  I promise.

  The square is getting darker as we walk back to the stand with the patterned scarves, and Robbie helps me pick out one for Mum. I also get her a silver ball for the tree with ‘Best mum’ written on it.

  Then we see a man and a woman selling hand and string puppets and I’ve just enough money left to buy an amazing dragon one for Ted. He loves dragons and always wants me to make up stories about them.

  “That everything?” asks Robbie as we set off back home.

  The snow has eased up but my face and hands are still freezing.

  When we’re outside the house I can see the lights from our Christmas tree and the glow of coloured glass at the top of our front door.

  Back inside, I run upstairs to my room, hide my presents and go down to help.

  Mum is baking in the kitchen. She’s making mince pies and biscuits and Ted has an apron on and is all covered with flour.

  Soon there are trays of mince pies and star-shaped biscuits in the oven and the house is filled with their smell.

  “I hope they don’t burn,” worries Mum. “Old ovens can be temperamental. I can’t wait to get my new kitchen in a few months’ time.”

  We have lasagne and chips for dinner. Ted’s worried that Santa won’t know that he has moved house. We all promise him that will not happen.

  “Remember we sent him a letter?” says Mum as Ted gets dressed into his pyjamas.

  I phone Alanna. She and Sophie are going carol singing with a load of girls from my old class in the shopping centre to raise money for an orphanage in Africa.

  “You’ll make friends, Cass, honestly you will,” says Alanna, but I know I’ll never have friends like them again. I feel so lonely.

  I unwrap my snow globe and put it carefully on the dressing table. It is so beautiful and I give it a slow, gentle shake and watch the snow fall and tumble and swirl gently around inside. It’s like magic, with the girl and the snow and the deer and the rabbit … I love it.

  I watch TV for a while, then I go to bed. I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about our old house. We always had a big lit-up Santa in our front garden and on Christmas Eve went next door to Tommy and Linda’s. On Christmas Day all our relations would call and then come over for dinner, the kids at one table and the grown-ups at another … But this Christmas it’s going to be awful!

  My room is freezing cold. There is a draught from the window and I get up to make sure it is fully closed. It is, but the windows are so old and they rattle. Dad says we’ll have new ones when we can afford them. I pull on a fleece hoodie over my pyjamas. I shake my snow globe and as the snow begins to fall and fall I wish that this Christm
as could be like last year’s … The robin is there on the branch of the tree, the girl is holding her hands up to the snow.

  I fall asleep for a while and when I wake it’s very dark and the room even colder. I dare not breathe as I feel cold snowflakes swirl around my bed. The moonlight falls on the snow globe and I can see the girl with the long dark hair in her red dress catch the snowflakes. She looks at me. Her skin is white, as white as snow, and her eyes are dark as coal and it seems like my room is filled with snow.

  “Come,” she whispers.

  I walk downstairs and can see the living room is bright and the massive Christmas tree in the window is covered in baubles and lights. The fire is blazing and swags of holly and ivy hang from the mantelpiece where candles glow.

  I cannot believe it – the room looks so different. There are bright patterned cushions and a massive footstool and a big plush plum-coloured velvet couch where our old brown one usually goes.

  Then I see her, the girl with the long dark hair like my own, laughing and hanging some glass ornaments from the Christmas-tree branches. They seem to shine and catch the light. A star, a moon, a deer, a rabbit, a small glass robin, each tied with a piece of red ribbon. The door to the dining room is open and I can see the big table set with plates and cutlery and glasses. Two huge candelabras highlight the table filled with food and I watch as the girl runs in to sit down …

  Suddenly, the door closes and I’m back upstairs. The house is quiet except for Dad, who I can hear snoring, loudly and rhythmically, like he always does.

  “For heaven’s sake, get up, Cass!” orders Mum. “Granny and Granddad have just phoned to say that Sandra’s boys are sick with chickenpox, so I’ve invited them to come and stay with us for Christmas instead … They’ll be here tomorrow.”

  I can’t believe it, my wish is coming true! Granny and Granddad are coming here on Christmas Day and we’ll be together! I run downstairs and grab some juice and some toast and Mum gives us a list of things to do.

  “I want the house to look good,” Mum frowns, “and feel warm and cosy and welcoming.”

  That’s going to be hard, as the heating isn’t working properly and half our stuff is still in boxes.