To the Volcano

by Elleke Boehmer

  See, an association for every single thing you have here, Susan and David chorus, pointing at furniture they have known since they were children as if they were discovering it for the first time. The bookcase with its bubbly glass that your parents bought to mark their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. The yellowed Penguin books on the shelves, each one signed and dated for the first time you read it, see Grandma, remember Grandma, dated again for when you used it for teaching, how clever. The Turkish pouffe splitting at the seams that Dad, John, bought in a second-hand shop and, stiffly alongside, like at home, the chunky Nineties television he also bought that she refuses to have replaced. Though her beloved piano that stood beside it in her old house, her home, is somehow, mysteriously, no longer there.

  Susan took the piano for herself, leaving a post-it on the lid for the removers, Susan.

  Grandma, I told you this before, she says, watching her mother frowning at the space beside the television.

  To her brother she said at the time, If I take the piano, you take the bookcase.

  But the post-it saying David must have fallen off, for here the thing stands, as a ledge for her meals.

  See, Grandma, what a lovely meal, Susan says each time she comes in, lifting the stainless-steel cover and sniffing.

  The grandmother turns away to the window.

  I am half sick of shadows, she means to tell Susan, but says instead, no lunch for me today. I’ll have a biscuit later when Johnny comes. For now, I’m happy looking out.

  It’s too much for her, Susan, says David, Having a young child around all afternoon. You’ve built a whole routine around it and it’s too stressful for her. What if?—you know. You can’t expect the carers—

  Tell me what choice I have? says Susan. On Tuesdays I work late. It’s not like I have a wife at home like you, to be there for the kids.

  Look, Grandma, look, here’s another one, Johnny now says, sitting cross-legged on the footstool. Did you see how I made it?

  Her eyes are stuck on the window, the thin new birch in the garden, the hedge beyond.

  Look, Grandma, Johnny says again.

  He pours her a glass of water from the jug on the table. The sound of the pouring brings her back.

  Yes, she nods. Yes. Why don’t you show me?

  She looks down at his quick, folding hands.

  See how you need sharp edges, Grandma, any old paper, but sharp edges, to make the pointy shape you want.

  Any old paper, she says.

  Yes. Any old paper, and you fold it in half first. You can use the floor as your folding surface, see, even your lap. You line up the edges and fold the paper, then fold down the corners, to make the nose. You can use your nail to make a sharp fold, a really sharp point.

  A really sharp point, she says.

  Yes, really sharp. Two folds first, for the nose. Then you fold again to the centre, and then fold it in half, see, and then turn down the outer edges. Look how I slope the angle to make the wings, and now here’s the arrow shape of the plane. See.

  He holds it up.

  And you need to throw it at once to test it, he adds. You need to throw it straight away.

  But he doesn’t yet throw the paper plane.

  Such a thing, Johnny, she says, smiling. Such magic. To make such a thing, from this, this piece of flatness.

  Yes, paper, a paper plane, the boy smiles back, and aims his plane.

  The plane flies in a graceful arc across the room, strikes a chair, and nosedives to the floor. The boy darts to get it. The woman’s eyes shift back to the window.

  The boy straightens the bent tip, then throws the plane back to where he was sitting. His grandmother starts as it passes but keeps her eyes on the tree, the hedge. He pinches the plane’s nose again, then hands it up to her.

  A paper plane, she says, and lays the plane lightly in her lap, beside the snowy pile of three or four other planes. Then she takes the plane at the bottom of the pile and adds it to the flourishing hydrangea of white planes on the table beside her, spreading over her pill dispenser, box of tissues, glasses, up against the framed photograph of two children, a boy and a girl, David and Susan.

  She pats the latest plane in her lap, as if to still its wings. Her veined hand flattens its folds just slightly.

  So, says the boy, watching her hand. That was a good plane.

  So, she stares ahead, then jolts a little, reminds herself of something. Yes, it was a good plane.

  I’ll make you another plane, Grandma, shall I? You liked that one, didn’t you?

  Another plane, yes, she says. How lovely. I’d like another plane.

  That one was quite a long plane, the boy says, so it had a straight path, but with a sharp curve at the end. I’ll make a shorter plane now. Like the one before. Remember, it had a rounder path?

  His grandmother closes her mouth tightly, gives a tiny shake of her head.

  The boy tears another piece of paper from his foolscap pad. This time he sits on the floor. He folds the paper in half, lining up the corners, then folds the corners to the centre, and then over again.

  This is how I make it, with wider wings, says the boy, looking up, his hands folding blind.

  Yes, I see, says the grandmother. So clever. As clever as those pilots. You know, overhead. Sending those unsinkable things.

  You mean a bomber plane, Grandma, but it’s not a bomber plane. It’s a small plane, not even a jet.

  A beautiful plane, I can see, son. A plane to fly across the world in, far over the sea.

  You and me, grandma, see, flying together around the world.

  He holds up the fresh plane, swoops it in front of her.

  I see, my treasure, you and me. Flying around the world.

  Flying, Grandma, like this, across the desert, big and hot, sand dunes below, not a cloud in the sky.

  Like this, she says, taking the plane from his hand. She holds it up high, then puts it in her lap. The long plane she adds to the top of the pile. Then she takes the plane at the bottom of the pile and places it on top of the flourishing heap on the table.

  Not that way, Grandma. The boy gently picks up the plane and lands it properly, skimming it down on to the table beside the glass.

  So, she says. There. She folds her hands loosely over the steeple of paper planes in her lap. Where are we now?

  We’re far away, Grandma, really far, across the desert. So why don’t I make you another plane, a plane for coming back in, a plane to catch me up with, a fast one? In case I shoot off and you want to catch me and get a ride back.

  You always shoot off, says the woman. I will need another plane, a fast plane. Do you have enough, you know, what you need, the pieces, to make a fast plane?

  I’ve got plenty, Grandma, this whole notepad, he says, his head bent, his hands pressing and folding.

  He hands up the new plane and she takes it. She again holds it airborne, then places it on top of the one he gave her before, neatly, the folds slotting together. She places the other planes in her lap on top of the heap on the table but the two interlocked planes stay in her lap.

  Her smile breaks suddenly into a chuckle. Her shoulders shake.

  Look, she says, lightly patting the two planes. I’ve caught you! I’ve got you!

  Then we try Concorde this time, the boy says, knelt over a fresh sheet of paper. But we fly together. If we still had Concorde we could travel together all over the world. We could go so fast that no one could catch us.

  This time he tries three first folds instead of two. He gives the plane a curved nose by moulding the front fold between his fingernails. But Concorde is a difficult plane to get right. He crunches up the piece of paper, starts on a new one.

  She places the two interlocked planes in her lap on top of the planes on the table. The pile on the table is now taller than her glass of water.

  Concorde! the boy suddenly cries, holding a new plane aloft, darting it towards his grandmother.

  She watches closely, then suddenly, as the plan
e whizzes past, plucks the under-carriage from his hand.

  Here we come, sun, she says, and swoops the plane past him.

  He blinks, swings with its motion, and grabs it back.

  Sun, here we come, he cries.

  She takes one of the planes off the pile on the table, the long plane, and flies it past Concorde.

  Oh, here we come back, she cries even louder.

  There is a knock. A carer in a chic grey uniform looks in.

  Johnny, the carer says, your mother was stuck in traffic. She just phoned. She’ll pick you up at the front if you go now, at the entrance. Time to say goodbye.

  I’ll come again soon, Grandma, Johnny kisses his grandma’s cheek.

  Come again soon, says the old woman. Tomorrow.

  Then she grips his arm. But write your name first, she whispers earnestly in his ear. Write your name on the plane. On Concorde. So that I never lose you.

  The carer has a pen in her pocket. The boy looks at it, the grandmother puts out her hand for it.

  Write your name, Johnny, his grandmother says. And then mine beside it.

  You write, Grandma. There, on that plane. You write our names. You write so nicely.

  By the time she finishes writing, a spider script only Johnny could read, he is gone.

  A second carer comes in, busies herself with the pill dispenser, the jug of water, the untouched plate of lunch.

  The old woman places the long plane back on top of her unfurling pile of planes. Some planes, including Concorde, spill on to the floor.

  Nurse, she says. She places her hand over the pile, but without pressing down on it. See this book, here, she says, this precious book that my small son made. Would you take it and put it there in the glass bookcase, with the other books?

  You mean Johnny, your grandson, Mrs Dent. You mean these paper planes here?

  I mean my son Johnny, yes. Who made this—this book. Please put the book side-by-side with the others on that shelf. This book is all about planes, you see, planes and going round the world. I’d like to read it again one day.

  The carer separates out the planes, folds each one sharply down its central fold, so that the nose shape is partly lost, though not entirely, then squeezes the folded spindles of paper together.

  See, Mrs Dent, all done for you, all neatly stacked away.

  I will read it all again one day, the old woman assures her.

  She leans across for her water glass. Her hand hovers searchingly over the empty space on the table.

  In no time, she adds. Catch him up and bring him back.

  In the bookcase the paper planes make a white sheaf that sticks out from her yellowed Penguins. The carer pushes the planes deeper in, to neaten the line, yet still they stand out, a fan of white feathers, a row of aeroplane tails queued up and waiting at an airport, ready to fly.

  The grandmother bends and picks up the planes that fell down earlier. She places them on the table in the place where the heap of planes had been. Then she bends down again and picks up the crumpled paper Johnny left behind, his first attempt at a Concorde.

  In her lap she smooths out the paper and folds it into thirds, following the first creases that Johnny made. She sits looking at the paper a moment. Then she folds down the edges to make the wings, pinches the front between her finger and thumb, gives the plane a bent nose.

  Like Concorde, she says, and holds the plane aloft. Arriving like Concorde in no time at all.

  She takes aim at the thin new tree beyond the window, its leaves stirring like feathers in the evening air. She looks around to check that she’s alone. Yes, the carer has gone. The door is closed. A fresh meal is waiting under its stainless-steel cover. Its meaty smell wrinkles her nose.

  She throws the plane at the window. Sun! she cries. Sun, here we come! The plane hits the glass and falls. She bends down, picks up the plane, straightens it out, throws it again. She throws the other planes still lying on the table. She throws the planes one by one at the glass till the light is gone. Then she stacks them together on the table, sits back and looks out. She can no longer see the tree. In the black glass someone is sitting, an old woman. She looks familiar and so does the glass-fronted bookcase at her back but it is hard to think quite who it is. The woman in the glass looks back. She herself doesn’t seem to know.

  The Park-Gate Notice

  THE CONCRETE BENCH is on Lila’s running route through the park. Beyond the brick gateway the route takes her along the eucalyptus-lined avenue past the grassy area where, after sun-up, a group of Indigenous people sometimes sit in a circle, through the thickets of azalea bushes along the left-hand border, and around to the dry shrubbery on the opposite side, then through the rose garden and finally over the gully. The gully is usually a dry stream bed, except for now, in the late summer, when sludgy black water clings to the reed bed. Here she takes the wooden bridge, her feet ringing on the slats, and leaves by the back brick gateway. The thrumming of her feet on the slats comes up through her legs and arms. She is aware of her bun bouncing on the top of her head, with all her fine hair pushed into it, and then of her cheeks, also slightly bouncing. She tries to hold her cheeks still when she runs by pulling her mouth tight but today she is making an effort to run relaxed, to let her hands go floppy, feel her neck move to the pounding of her feet.

  The concrete bench lies in an inset within the azalea bushes and bears a small brass plaque in memory of someone. If ever she thinks about her running route during the day, busy at the hotel reception desk, she can’t recall the name on the plaque, though she sees it every time. But today there’s a woman sitting on the bench, her shoulder half obscuring the plaque yet drawing attention to it, an older woman in heavy make-up, smartly dressed in pale purple.

  Simon Irons, who loved this place, Lila now reads, but the woman’s lavender shoulder hides Simon Irons’ dates.

  Lila slows and then stops, too abruptly, feels the short step jolt her left hamstring. She’ll reap the effects later tonight. The woman looks up from the mouth of the white summer handbag in her lap, then clicks it closed, places it on the ground in front of her. Her red-lipstick smile makes sharp Cupid’s bow points. She shuffles further down the seat, making space for Lila.

  Lila shakes her head, smiling back, then stands and stretches a little, bending side to side.

  ‘Name’s Louise. Can I help you?’ the woman asks.

  ‘Sorry, no, but I was going to ask you the same question. I’m Lila.’ Lila holds out her hand. ‘Nichols, Lila Nichols,’ she adds, just as she does every day on reception. ‘Can I help you?’

  The woman’s hand clasp is hard and coldly metallic from the rings she wears on each one of her fingers. This Lila notices first, the number and coldness of her rings, and then she notices how thin the woman’s arm is, and how loose the skin. Her loose-skinned arm, too, is metalled, covered in bangles and at least two watches—old-fashioned ladies’ watches, thin, delicate. Her soft mottled skin hangs between the bangles like a sleeve.

  She feels the woman’s eyes on her face, sees the blue half-moons of her eyeshadow, the thick arcs of rouge on her cheekbones below the arches.

  ‘You’ve been running,’ the woman says, as if in answer to Lila’s question. ‘You’ve been running quite hard.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Lila, ‘I run every evening here, in this park. I love it, the space, at this time of evening…’

  She stops, not sure the woman is listening. Her wool twin-set is too warm for the weather, Lila thinks. Though, as she’s running, she’s not the best judge.

  Was running, she reminds herself, and shouldn’t stand and get cold. She stretches again, with more vigour.

  But then the woman, Louise, still seated, takes her hand back, pressing her rings into her fingers.

  For the first time Lila notices the large bunch of shop-bought flowers on the bench beside Louise, on the opposite side, the flowers nothing like the skinny roses in the rose garden but big, perfect cut roses, white, yellow, deep pink, scalloped
like cup-cakes but with the whites slightly browning, and other flowers, too, red gerbera daisies maybe—she doesn’t want to stare.

  ‘You often run?’ the woman, Louise, asks, ignoring her look.

  Lila nods, she’s already said so. She goes running every evening.

  ‘Running and running,’ Louise goes on. ‘Running and rushing. It makes us so tired, doesn’t it, this rushing and running, you hardly wonder—’

  ‘They say it helps to keep snakes at bay, the running,’ Lila says without thinking. She has never seen a snake in this park. ‘Snakes are shy. The pounding of human feet frightens them away.’

  Her hand is still clasped between Louise’s metalled fingers and their joined arms hang looped between them.

  ‘What would you say, my dear, my dear Lila, if I told you that I never come to the park these days, though I do know it, I know it well, and I do like it, but I never come. Just today I came.’

  ‘I’d say that you could be missing out on a lovely place to take an evening walk,’ Lila says neutrally, like talking to a guest at reception.

  Louise lets Lila’s hand fall.

  ‘But you will have your reasons not to come?’ Lila quickly adds.

  ‘Of course I have my reasons,’ Louise says, her voice lower than before. ‘We all have our reasons. You will have your reasons, for running and running, chasing and chasing, every day, around and around this park.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lila suddenly finds she’s laughing. ‘Every day running and running, racing around and around. Always the same path, at the same time.’

  There, she’s said it again.

  Louise pushes herself back on the bench, up against the concrete slats, and laughs with Lila.

  ‘Yes, yes, the same path, the same time,’ Louise laughs. ‘Warding off the poor snakes. And that means you shouldn’t dawdle too long now. You should be on your way.’

  Lila rises up obligingly on the balls of her feet.

  ‘I’d love to give you one of my flowers here,’ Louise adds. ‘As you’re very nice and very young, and it’s been lovely talking to you. But I think I won’t. I want to keep the bunch together, intact.’