Jack and the Wardrobe

by Nicola Jemphrey

  “That’s great, thanks,” I said, still cradling the laundry basket under my right arm.

  “I’ll bring it into the kitchen for you. You’ve got your hands full there. And what’s happened to your head? You haven’t been fighting, have you?”

  “No, I just bumped into something.” I stood back and let Mrs King pass into the hall. At the door of the kitchen she stopped dead. There wasn’t a single empty space to set the casserole dish on.

  “Right,” she said after a moment, putting it down on a chair she pulled out from the table, “you put the wash on and I’ll get stuck into the dishes.”

  She rolled up her sleeves and I knew I couldn’t stop her even if I wanted to. It took over an hour, but by the time we were finished, all the dishes were neatly stacked in a cupboard, and the floor and work surfaces were gleaming.

  “Thanks, Mary Poppins,” I whispered.

  “What was that?” Mrs King asked, filling up the kettle.

  “Nothing, just thanks very much,” I mumbled.

  “No problem. I’m often at a loose end since Harry died and I miss your mum coming in for a chat. Is there any news of her?”

  I shook my head.

  “Poor lad,” she clucked. “You know, when she took that job at the start of the summer I thought it would be the making of her. I was always telling her she needed to get out and meet more people.”

  “I think it just showed her what she’d missed out on,” I said, swallowing hard. “It doesn’t say a lot for me and Dad, does it?”

  “Now don’t you talk like that!” she said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “She was always talking of how much she loved you and how proud she was of you. And she’ll be in touch when the time is right, I’m sure of it. Now let’s have a cup of tea. Have you had lunch yet?”

  When I said I hadn’t, she made me sit down at the table while she put together some sandwiches. By the time I’d finished them and drunk a mug of hot strong tea, I felt a lot better.

  “You make sure you look after yourself,” Mrs King warned, rinsing the cups and plates and getting ready to leave. “I don’t want your dad to think I’m interfering, but I’ll try to look in on you every once in a while.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “for everything.”

  After she left, I pulled the washing out of the machine and hung it over the radiators. The whole house soon reeked of lavender, but at least it was a fresh, clean smell. As I’d nothing much else to do, I spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on homework. When I’d finished, I went back into the kitchen to put Mrs King’s casserole in the oven. If Dad came in late, he could always heat up his plateful in the microwave. I didn’t see why I should have to wait until he took it into his head to show up. I was just setting the oven to the right temperature when I heard a bang at the back door.

  “Jack, son,” Dad’s voice called, “come and see what I’ve got here!”

  I switched on the outside light and opened the door. Dad was balancing himself on a bike his legs were much too long for.

  “It nearly killed me riding this up from Brian Campbell’s,” he grinned, getting off and stretching his lanky body. “His son’s grown out of it and he was asking if any of us wanted it. I got it for a good price. Get on and see how it feels. I know your old one’s too small.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice as I took the bike from him. The saddle would need to be lowered but apart from that it was fine. I’d needed a new bike for ages and would’ve asked for one for Christmas, only everyone else was getting mobiles. I hoped he had got it for a good price. He couldn’t have been making much money recently. People kept phoning up and having a go because he hadn’t turned up to do work for them.

  “That’s all right, son. Sorry for shouting at you earlier. I know this whole thing’s hard on you, too. We’ll maybe go for that drive next weekend. And, look, I picked up a Chinese for our tea.”

  I left my new bike propped against the back wall and rushed back into the kitchen. While Dad was unloading containers of fried rice, sauce, and cans of lager and Coke from his rucksack, I slipped Mrs King’s casserole into the freezer and switched off the oven. Dad had tried hard to show he was sorry and I didn’t want him to know we didn’t need the Chinese. Amazingly, he didn’t seem to notice the change in the kitchen, but he did help wash up the dirty plates before settling in the living room for an evening in front of the TV.

  I watched a couple of comedy shows with him, and when he dozed off, I carefully removed the can from his hand and went out to the garage. After fiddling around with a few different spanners, I managed to adjust the saddle on the bike. It was already fitted with lights so I rode it up and down the street a few times, glad to clear my mind in the fresh air. Dad hadn’t stopped drinking, but at least he was home tonight and we weren’t still fighting.

  And it did feel good to have wheels again!

  Chapter 4

  I’d left Dad snoring on the living room sofa, but sometime during the night he must have dragged himself upstairs to bed.

  “Wake up!” I said next day, tugging off his duvet. “It’s nearly a quarter past twelve and Eileen’s asked us round for lunch, remember?”

  He groaned and half-opened his eyes. “Not so loud, son. I’ve got the mother of all headaches. You go on without me. I don’t think I could stick an afternoon of Grant and Julie.”

  “Well if you don’t come, they’ll be jumping all over me,” I pointed out. “Couldn’t we just go for lunch and say we have to leave early?”

  Dad hauled himself upright. “Look, Jack, if I go round there, Mum will expect me to sit and talk to Dad, and to be honest, I haven’t the heart for it right now. The way Dad is now, reminds me too much of how your mum used to be.”

  I could see what he meant. I didn’t want him to feel any worse and start drinking even more.

  “All right, I’ll go by myself,” I said. “I’ll bring you back some dinner.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll sort myself out with something,” Dad said, heading for the shower. “Thanks for understanding. I’ll see you later.”

  There wasn’t much point in me not understanding. Any time I didn’t, we just ended up shouting at each other.

  Kate was very impressed with my new wheels.

  “Wow, and it isn’t even your birthday or anything,” she said, as I chained it to the railings outside the front of her house.

  “You can have my old one,” I told her. “It’s still in pretty good nick.”

  “It’d be far too big for me, silly!” she laughed.

  She was right. I was quite tall for my age and she was the smallest in her class. She took after Billy, her dad, who was short and stocky. My dad must have got his height from Eileen, who was a few inches taller than her husband and used to moan that she could never wear high heels. My mum was tall too, so I suppose it would’ve been surprising if I’d turned out titchy.

  “OK, I’ll keep it for you until you grow up,” I promised Kate. “If you ever do.”

  “Ha, ha,” she said, leading me into the hall. “I’m not the one who goes walking into statues. Hey, Mum, Jack’s here. Mike’s not coming.”

  Eileen had managed to persuade Billy to join us at the kitchen table. He hadn’t done that for ages and during lunch you could tell the others weren’t used to having him there. Even Grant and Julie sat quietly and hardly said a word. Eileen asked me about school but Billy couldn’t seem to bring himself to join in the chat. He was totally different from the grandpa who’d taken me round the shipyard when I was younger, showing me where he worked and talking proudly about all the great ships that had been built there:

  “See that monster of a slipway down below us, Jack? It had to be specially built for the launch of the Titanic.”

  It had always seemed strange to me that people in Belfast were so proud of a ship that was famous for sinking, but of course, I never said this to Billy.

  “It’s been good to see you, Jack,” he now said slowl
y, pushing back his chair and passing the plateful of food he’d hardly touched to Eileen. “I’m glad your head’s feeling better. I’m sorry but I have to go now. There’s a programme I want to watch at two o’clock.”

  “I’ll bring you in some apple tart and cream,” Eileen called, as he made his way back to the front room.

  “No thanks, I don’t really feel like it. I’ll maybe take a wee cup of tea when you’re ready.”

  As soon as he’d closed the door behind him, Dean, Grant and Julie became their usual lively selves, fighting over who’d got the biggest portion of apple tart and trying to be the one to tell me the corniest joke. Only Eileen was quieter than usual. For the first time, I noticed lines tightening her forehead and that she’d a lot more white hairs than fair ones. She looked, not old exactly, but a bit more granny-like than ever before.

  “Mum’s cracking up about Dad,” Kate told me later. Some friends from across the street had called for the younger kids and we were up in the room she shared with Julie. “At the start, just after he’d lost his job, she kept thinking he’d just snap out of it one day. But it’s gone on for ages now and he won’t see a doctor, like Mum says he should.”

  “I didn’t think he’d even come in for lunch,” I said.

  “Well, we’d told him about your accident and we knew he was worried about you, just like he was when Caroline first went away. Only he can’t seem to think of other people for too long before he starts feeling sorry for himself again.”

  “I know,” I said. “Mum was like that sometimes. It makes you feel kind of helpless because you can’t do anything about it.”

  “Well I pray about my dad,” Kate said. “That’s something I can do, as well as doing my best to cheer him up.”

  I stared at her. “What are you on about? Praying isn’t doing anything. You’ve been praying for my family ever since Mum went away and nothing’s happened apart from Dad’s drinking getting worse and worse!”

  Kate was quiet for so long I thought I’d hurt her feelings.

  “I’m sorry. . .” I began, but she stopped me.

  “I know it seems weird to you, but the reason I pray has something to do with the statue you bumped into on Friday – the poached egg man. I only remembered it was him when I got home.”

  “What poached egg man?” All this praying must have made Kate go soft in the head.

  “CS Lewis. There was a talk about him in Heartbeat last year and it stuck with me, maybe because the bit about the poached egg made us all laugh. He used to say Jesus could only be one of three things: a raving loony like someone who says he’s a poached egg, an out and out liar, or who he said he was – the Son of God. From what we read about him in the Bible, there’s no way he could be either of the first two things, so he must be the Son of God. And if you believe that, then you have to believe God is real and can answer your prayers. I know I’m not clever like you, Jack, but it just makes sense to me.”

  What Kate said was just like in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Peter and Susan go to the Professor and ask why Lucy keeps insisting there’s a world on the other side of the wardrobe. He tells them there are three possibilities: either she’s mad, she’s telling lies or what she says is the truth. And of course, it turns out Lucy has been telling the truth. But that was only a story.

  Kate was still talking. “There’s a verse in the Bible that says, ‘Ask and you will receive, seek and you will find, knock and the door will be opened to you.’ I know God wants me to go on praying for you all and for my dad, even though nothing seems to be happening yet.”

  What if Kate was right and there really was a God who could answer prayers? For the first time I thought I should maybe try praying myself. It couldn’t do any harm. But better not to say anything to Kate in case it didn’t work and I ended up looking stupid.

  “Oh well, I’d better go home and see what Dad’s up to,” I said, pushing myself out of Kate’s beanbag.

  “But aren’t you going to stay for tea?” she asked. “Angela and the kids are coming, and Debbie and Niall.” Angela and Debbie are Kate’s older sisters.

  “Not today, thanks. I saw them all at Christmas. I’ll just go and say cheerio to your mum. See you next weekend. Want to go to the pictures or something on Saturday afternoon?”

  “Yeah, OK,” Kate replied, following me downstairs. “Mum’s working Sunday so I’ll be free all day Saturday.”

  When I got home, there was no sign of Dad, so I shoved the container of food Eileen had sent him into the fridge and went upstairs to my room. I knelt down by the side of my bed and then got up again, feeling really stupid. I was starting to go off the whole idea. What was it Kate had said: “Ask and you will receive?” It all seemed far too easy, as if you just said what you wanted and hey presto! God gave it to you! But Kate hadn’t had a magical answer to her prayers, though she’d been asking for ages, so what was the point in me even trying? Then again, there was nothing else I could do to bring Mum back, so why not give it a go?

  I knelt down again, closed my eyes and realised I didn’t know what to say. So I just started: “Please God, if you’re there, make Mum get in touch soon and help Dad stop drinking and make Mum come home so we can be a happy family. . .” I was about to add “again”, but then I remembered we’d never really been a happy family, so I ended with “Amen.” I got off my knees and decided to say this prayer every night and morning. Anything was worth a try.

  For most of the next week I held out on going to the library.

  “What are you up to these days after school?” Rick asked on Friday morning. “Strong Arm’s been asking for you. Says she’s got some books and stuff for your project. You haven’t started already, have you? Sure we’ve got weeks to do it. I always do mine the night before.”

  “Course I haven’t,” I said. “I’ve just had loads of other stuff on.”

  The truth was I was bored out of my skull. I hadn’t been going to the library because I sort of liked the idea of Mrs Armstrong wondering where I was. I’d hoped to go for a few bike rides after school, but the weather had been rubbish. I was also starting to miss the library computers. Our one at home had been broken for months and Dad had never got anyone to look at it, so I hadn’t been able to check my emails.

  By Friday, I was starting to see I was the one missing out, not Mrs Armstrong – she had plenty of other people to help. I wondered if she’d thought of ordering me any more Narnia books. I hadn’t liked the idea of the stories having another meaning but I still wanted to find out if Lucy and the others went back to Narnia and how they got there.

  So, on Saturday morning, with the sun shining for the first time in ages, I cycled down to the library and chained my bike to the bronze chair. CS Lewis, or Digory Kirke, or whoever he was, didn’t seem to mind – he was still staring into the wardrobe. Inside, I sat down at one of the computers and glanced around to see if I could spot Mrs Armstrong, trying to make it seem as if I wasn’t looking for anyone in particular.

  “Oh, Jack, are you looking for Mrs Armstrong?” Mr Bond, one of the other assistants asked from behind the desk. Before I could deny it, he went on, “She’s off today, but she’s left a pile of stuff for you on the shelf here.”

  “I’ll just check my emails first,” I said, not wanting to appear too keen.

  This took all of three minutes, and after I’d logged off the computer, I collected the pile Mrs Armstrong had left and took it over to a reading table. On top, there was a note:

  “Hello, Jack, I hope you’re feeling better. This is all the stuff I’ve been able to find so far to help you with your project. The two biographies were written for adults, but you might find some bits and pieces in them and there are some good photos. There’s also a pack about Lewis’s life, written for schoolchildren. I’ve requested all the other Narnia books for you, but the only one that’s come in so far is The Magician’s Nephew, which is really the first book in the series, although it was written after The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrob
e. If you need anything else, let me know. Mrs A.”

  As well as the things Mrs Armstrong had listed, there was a large booklet with a map and photos of the sights in the area to do with CS Lewis. Some of them were very close to the library. I checked out the books at the desk, put all the stuff in the backpack I’d brought and went outside to unlock my bike.

  The place where he was born seemed like a good place to start what the booklet called The CS Lewis Trail. I propped the booklet open against the handlebars and biked the short distance from the library to a small block of flats in Dundela Avenue. There was a blue plaque on the wall to say that CS Lewis had been born there in 1898 – not in the flats, but in a semi-detached house that used to stand on the site, which was one-half of Dundela Villas. The booklet showed a faded black and white picture of the two houses; there were a lot more trees around than there are now.

  Next I rode back towards Parkgate Avenue where Grandfather Lewis had lived. It was a long winding street and the booklet didn’t tell you exactly where the house was. I’d almost reached the end of the street and was giving up hope of ever finding it when I spotted the chimneys of a big house, set back from the road. Ty-Isa, the booklet said it was called, going on to explain that this was Welsh for “little house on its own”. CS Lewis’ grandfather had come across from Wales to Ireland and had ended up in Belfast. Well the house wasn’t on its own now – the row of terraced houses in front of it meant you could hardly see it. Maybe I’d have more luck with his other grandfather’s house. According to the booklet he was once the Rector of St Mark’s Church and the old rectory was still in the church grounds.

  I panted on up the hill and soon turned left onto Holywood Road. St Mark’s was just a bit further up on the other side. It was the church whose tower you could see from the far side of Belfast. The gate leading to the church grounds wasn’t locked, so I rode through it and came to a standstill at the old red brick house to the right of the church. From the desks and computers inside, it looked as if it was now used as offices or something. The booklet pointed out the brass knob on the front door, which would have been at young Jack Lewis’s eye level when he came to visit his grandparents. I bent down to look at it and saw it was a lion’s head. “Was this where Lewis had first got the idea for Aslan?” the writer of the booklet wondered.