The Everlasting Sunday

by Robert Lukins

  ‘Oh, Radford.’

  She came in a deluge of relief and he accepted her in his arms as she fell, all sobbing and laughter. They sat with the chickens. She had been trying the door to Snuffy’s old room at the side of the house but had found it secure behind its padlock.

  ‘You must think I’m crazy for being here.’

  ‘The key,’ Radford said, standing. ‘Wait here.’

  The procedure took far too long and every ticking moment seemed to Radford a month. He was made to stop on three separate occasions to conduct three separate, unconvincing conversations – Lillian at her oven, the boy called Rabbit by the toilet, and Lewis, all lithe and unaware of the passing of time. Radford found a chain of likely-looking keys in Teddy’s office in the desk’s top drawer. His chest stung at the sight of the immaculately made bed with a stack of ironed clothes on its end. Lillian huffed as he escaped again out the kitchen door. He collected Victoria, discovered the right key for Snuffy’s place and rushed them inside. Silence fell over them and Victoria walked slowly about, running her finger over objects.

  ‘Do you think we can play a record?’ she asked. ‘If we keep it very low. Do you think?’

  Radford had not thought beyond the instant of escaping into the room. ‘I suppose, if it’s very quiet.’

  She exulted at this and sat herself on the mattress. ‘You choose.’

  ‘Victoria, do you really—’

  ‘Please, Radford. Choose.’

  This could not end well, he knew that, but he could also not deny the moment’s delight. He went to the player and picked a restful-sounding record from the stack, one called Heavenly.

  ‘Oh, you know me!’ she exclaimed as it came on. ‘Snuffy would never play this. Radford, of all the ones.’

  She lay down and closed her eyes. He hovered in the centre of the room before going to build the fire. He took from the piles of paper and split wood and made a tent which took light with the first match.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.

  It was perhaps ten minutes before she woke and with unopened eyes asked, ‘Radford, do you mind if I sleep? You don’t mind?’

  ‘I’ll need to go,’ he said. ‘I’ll come out as soon as tea’s done. I’ll bring some food. You stay, stay.’

  The room grew sickly warm and Radford drew a chair into the centre. Victoria breathed as safely nested animals did and he turned the record when it needed turning. He left when he was convinced he had listened too long.

  It was sticky extracting himself after tea. Rich produced a deck of cards and was intent on getting through several rounds of Commerce, which first involved teaching the thing to Lewis and West. Radford claimed he had no money but West knew this as a lie and called him on it, so he went to his room for coins like the others. They played back by the fire and all the time Radford was worrying horribly over Victoria. The stovepipe might have blocked and she could have choked, dead under the covers. Or this could all have been some rotten business on her part and she was lying with slashed wrists and a note pinned to her front.

  Radford reasoned he must win enough hands to warrant excusing himself to protect his earnings. After thirty minutes of only occasional success he switched to a strategy of outright defeat but even this proved difficult thanks to West’s pedantry and Lewis’s poor memory. Between debate of the relative power of aces over court cards, how a tie in the point was split, and whether the table should be knocked on before or after a player became content with their hand, an hour was gone and Radford had failed to lose even half of his bankroll.

  At last Brass deemed it all too dreary and left for a kitchen snoop, which Radford insisted on joining. Brass gave only a grunt when Radford split from him. He had stashed a bowl of stew and two rolls in his room and he went upstairs for these, hiding them inside a folded coat and fleeing through the house’s front entrance. He kept to the east wall, crouching as he passed under window frames. He could hear the music from Snuffy’s room well before reaching it.

  ‘Victoria, damn it.’ He shut the door, put down his bundle and ran to the record player, shutting it off.

  ‘Hey there!’ Victoria sang indignantly. ‘No, no. I was dancing.’

  And she continued to, alone with her bottle of spirits, having undressed to her slip. The room was unbearably hot and he could see that the stove had been crammed to overflowing. Still-glowing pieces of logs had fallen out; the carpet had burnt, leaving a singed halo.

  ‘Dance with me,’ she said and reached out. ‘Please.’

  ‘You’ve nearly set the place alight.’

  ‘Don’t be cross.’

  He attempted to read her but could see nothing behind the gloss of drunkenness. Her skin was wet and the sweat dripped from her nose and fingers as she began to slowly spin.

  ‘I was a ballerina,’ she said, rising to the toes of her bare feet. ‘Did I say? When I was young.’

  ‘There’s food here when you’re hungry.’

  He pointed to his coat and after a time, realising that her attention was beyond him, moved to the mattress and sat against the wall. She rushed over and handed him the bottle.

  ‘Here, take this. It’s making me sick.’

  This couldn’t last, any of it. They would be found out; it was only a question of when and whether it would be the fault of the smoke or noise or Radford’s absence. He took a drink and was pleased by his tolerance for its bite. He crept to the record player and started its music again, quieter, then returned to the mattress. The brickwork was hot against his shoulders.

  ‘Why have you come?’ he asked.

  She became still, her eyes full with intent. ‘I wasn’t sure, but it’s obvious. So obvious. We must run away together. Oh please!’

  ‘Victoria—’

  ‘You never did that when you were young? It will be just the same, but we won’t head back when we reach the end of the street. Let’s pack a case and go to the city. We’re the same. We will figure it all out – we’ll be such friends, I’ll find work, we’ll get a flat. You know we’re the same. Please, Radford, answer without thinking. Will you come?’

  Words came naturally despite the question’s surprise. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘That’s right, I won’t.’

  Victoria took in two deep breaths, exhaling each through firmed lips. To Radford, the idea hid no obvious fault, yet he was denying it. To go with her would be all life’s adventures in one. But he would not. His feet were rooted to the floor because to go with her would be leaving home. The idea was a new and fearful one and he felt such pride in its discovery. There was the unbearable thought of Teddy returning to find him gone. There was friendship. There was West.

  She eased and began to pivot at her hips. ‘For the best. I’d only tire of you.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  Their eye-lines locked and the present corrected itself peacefully into the past.

  ‘I’ve remembered something. Are you watching?’ she said. ‘Fouetté.’

  Rising again she began to turn. With each revolution she would whip her working leg out and then tuck it behind the knee of the other. The music beat out of time, failing to match her. Victoria fought her forgetful body, winning, keeping straight like a pin with her chin raised and disciplined. Her smile grew.

  ‘Come eat,’ he said.

  She planted her feet, swung her arm down, bowing to Radford’s applause, and came crookedly over to sit. She fell hard against his hip and looked unwell. She slapped away the whisky in his hand.

  ‘Yuck, that’s made me sick.’

  ‘Here.’

  She ate like the meal was her first or last, using a bread roll as cutlery and leaving smears of gravy across her face. When she was finished she cleaned her face with a corner of the bedsheet and sighed with contentment, then went quiet. Radford let her lie against his arm thoug
h it brought pins and needles. The fire was calming but with Victoria on him the heat was too great and sweat ran across his brow and stung his eyes.

  ‘Don’t know why,’ she said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Why I’ve come. Don’t know why.’

  He wished he could offer her comfort, to give her any of what he had found.

  She brought two fingers to her temple. ‘It was great fun to dance again. Maybe that’s why. I’d forgotten all about it, that I was a ballerina. I was, you know, I’m not making it up.’

  ‘I saw.’

  ‘When I was a little thing I danced all over the place. Then I gave up. Got bored with it, I suppose. That’s silly, isn’t it? Something you do when you’re a little one – get bored with things.’

  They sat for a long time in their congested peace. They both dipped into half-sleep, both took whisky.

  ‘Radford, how did you end up being sent here?’

  He straightened his hair and sipped again from the drink. ‘We don’t tell,’ he said. ‘We don’t tell that, unless we want to.’

  ‘And you don’t want to? God, Snuffy would never stop with the stories of all the things he did to end up here. And what he did to keep being sent back.’

  Radford laughed and settled, feeling for her weight against him.

  ‘Will you show me again?’ he asked. ‘Your ballet.’

  ‘Only if you dance with me.’

  He thought of what that would be like. He imagined their touching then was interrupted by the memory of West and Foster and their cruelty beneath the trees. He thought of the other times, in his old home, before coming to the new. Victoria’s hand was still outstretched in invitation.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just you.’

  ‘Okay.’ She put her hands again to her temples. ‘Did you know this was a wig?’ As she shoved her fingers under her hairline they disappeared beyond the nails. ‘I thought Snuffy might have told you.’

  In the room’s middle she began to circle around, pointing her toes and bringing up her chest. In a motion as serene she went on pushing her fingers under her hair and ran them back and around, until all of the wig came away and she dropped it to the ground, a dull hat. She closed her eyes, showing relief, and let the pads of her fingers run across her bald scalp. The crest of her head reflected the vaporous orange of the single hanging bulb, and she danced.

  The movements were as before but now she radiated in the way that bonfires burnt. Yellow smoke could well have poured from her hands as she spun and spun, putting to hell all the refuse and wasted things that the season had accumulated. Radford recalled being drawn to bonfires when he was young and of dogs being frightened away. He saw only the fire’s ecstatic power, that it bowed to no authority, while the animals perhaps knew that the demon could steal a whole body without being seen, only to be noticed in the morning as the ashes were raked. Victoria danced and Radford thought it all the more perfect for knowing that like the fire it could not go on forever. It was a fleeting, almighty thing and he would not disturb it as it charged on and on through its supplies. She was a ballerina and he was her audience; he applauded and she accepted.

  Eventually Victoria grew tired and they sat together.

  ‘I’ll just stay a night,’ she said. ‘I’ll steal away in the morning. Don’t want to cause trouble.’

  ‘No, stay, as long as you need. I’ll talk to Lillian. When the time comes Manny and I will drive you to the city. Stay.’

  She agreed and slept, but in the morning when he came to the room before breakfast he found the mattress empty and made. She had gone, leaving no note or clue. The fire was out and the player’s needle travelled within the record’s run-out groove, exploring endlessly.

  *

  They waited on Teddy’s return. It had been a week and Radford and West said nothing on the matter. Silence here, Radford concluded, was the truest act of loyalty.

  The others, though, had begun to question his absence. It was during such an afternoon conference by the fire that Radford sought to put a short in the subject. All the close crew were there. Brass yawned. Lewis proposed some theory. Rich was in a generous mood and was attacking all with wads of chewed-up newspaper.

  ‘Who’s for the graveyard?’ Radford asked when it seemed that Lewis would never tire and Rich would find no end to ammunition.

  ‘Surely not again?’ Lewis said. ‘Too far. Too cold.’

  ‘I’ve grog,’ Radford said.

  While finding his coat Radford worried that Victoria would not have left enough to legitimise the excursion but when he led the troupe outside and ducked to Snuffy’s room he found a third of the whisky remained. He returned to the tree shadows and they celebrated.

  The same words, all the same, over and over – yet in the tedium there was now solace.

  They marched out of the grounds with no concern of being seen. Lillian would object but not to any real degree and Manny would raise no complaint. So they passed between the ruins of the end wall and into the unprotected world, and as they went all except West fell into customary pairings and battles. He stayed a stride’s length behind Radford, who twice tried to slow. At each attempt the line of West’s shoulders would remain that steady yard in the past.

  The cemetery gave itself away only by the very tips of a short dozen headstones and the two taller monuments now reduced to waist height. The perimeter railing was beneath pale ground though it was found by the underside of Lewis’s foot. He claimed one of its barbs had pierced his boot and Rich’s pretended sympathy came on strong, ending with them rolling about until Lewis struck his head against one of the ancient slabs.

  They milled around making space in front of stones so that they could sit. The drink went around and each took modest sips. When it came to Radford the whisky aroused a vision of Victoria, and that in turn made him stare upwards into the afternoon to give an excuse to his watering eyes. He brought the neck to his lips a second time and made all the motions that were customary but stopped the flow of booze with his tongue. West showed no such modesty and the bottle gave up its contents in a messy, blubbing show; it was only the shouting of the others that brought it to a stop.

  ‘Jesus, go easy,’ Brass demanded.

  West dropped the bottle at his feet, burying it in the ground. ‘Jesus, yes. You’ve uncovered my secret, I’m the Son of God!’ West said, going wild. ‘After all this time.’ He cast himself backwards and hard against a low stone cross.

  ‘Oh look,’ Brass said. ‘He’s gone all theatre.’

  ‘No, quite the opposite. I’ve gone truthful at last. I’m dead, don’t you see?’

  Nobody answered but Radford walked towards him, putting a hand out. Brass turned away and finished the last of the drink. The others looked to Radford as if he might know what part of this was the joke.

  ‘The wake,’ West began. ‘It must begin. Ahem. West – he was a decent boy.’

  Brass continued what was to be a slow walk, hands in pockets, to the far side of the cemetery.

  ‘Decent, yes,’ West continued. ‘Though not without fault. Ask the mother – though the mother of mankind’s saviour is going to end up let down, isn’t she?’

  Radford asked him to stop.

  ‘And the father? Well, he kept his customary distance. Very hands-off, isn’t he? For the planter of the holy seed. But no, I’ve trailed off the point,’ West went on. ‘How did West die? Let’s say it was in the usual way. The usual, inevitable way.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Radford said, this time finding force and taking West’s hand rather than waiting for it.

  They all remained silent for some time, West alone smiling. The drink was gone and the break in weather seemed without purpose. All flames had been snubbed, all close to being lost.

  ‘Have you seen the starlings?’ Radford asked abruptly.

  Out they came a
gain to Winter, muddying its carpet. All they seemed to want was to tease with their actions. If only they were to declare themselves, to show their colours. So little was wanted from them, just a handshake, some understanding.

  Winter would send all its weary messengers. Every last animal would soon have to decide – it could not go on in this way.

  The boys stood in wonder, for above them the sky was breaking apart. It seemed to Radford exactly how a mirage might present itself. The starlings had lifted from their roost and swarmed into a molten object which oscillated above the horizon, making impossible shapes. They were a snake, a heart, a firework. The flock breathed with a lone purpose and it was this unity that struck him. That all these beaks and breakable wings could come so close to disaster yet make a song so sweet. It made its way into his pulse, rising and falling as the colony moved closer or away.

  ‘Seen this before?’ he said as the formation turned into a long arrowhead and aimed itself at the setting sun.

  There were a few shaking heads.

  ‘Mad.’ Rich looked to Lewis.

  ‘Mad.’

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ West said. His voice had softened. ‘Years ago with my parents in Devon. My father used to take us with his caravan to Slapton Ley and we’d go for these awful walks.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s called a murmuration.’ West ran his hands through his hair. ‘A man at the park told us. I haven’t thought of that word since I was eight. I made him spell it out – how on earth has that stayed in my head?’

  They stood as silhouettes in the silver distance and the birds continued unaware. Radford knew it was no scheduled performance, just a happening of instinct. He put his arm over West’s shoulder and it was not shrugged away. The birds did not collide, nor were they led hopeless into the ground, yet their flight took place as if under a leader’s direction. They were just getting by and that was some good spell.

  They stayed until the light failed. The flock separated in a sudden gesture and they were once again mere birds in trees. As the boys made their way back Rich was the first to notice blood. Starling bodies lay across the snow as Radford had seen with Teddy but now others had come to some sicker end: their bodies had been maimed and the dark blood beneath formed uneven streaks. The cold hadn’t done this.