What Milo Saw

by Virginia MacGregor

  ‘Milo? Is that you?’

  Mum was home. Milo prepared himself for a lecture.

  She came out of the kitchen, kissed his forehead and didn’t say anything about Milo being out when he shouldn’t have been.

  ‘Sorry, Sandy – we went for a quick tour of Slipton to see if we could find Hamlet,’ said Clouds.

  ‘Thanks, Al,’ said Sandy.

  As Clouds made his way back up to his room, Milo saw Petros sitting at the kitchen counter drinking tea out of Milo’s favourite mug, the one with the flying pigs that went with the side plate.

  Petros held the mug out to Milo like he was saying cheers.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ asked Milo.

  Mum gave Milo a don’t-be-rude glare. ‘Petros is staying with us for a while.’

  ‘Where’s Tripi?’

  ‘Tripi?’

  ‘I left a message on your phone.’

  ‘Oh. I’m afraid I haven’t had time —’

  Milo put down his bag. He picked up Mum’s phone, jabbed in the code for the message service, waited for the electronic voice to stop speaking and held out the receiver. His recorded voice rang out into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get the message, Milo.’

  Milo looked at the raw patch on Mum’s neck; drops of blood sat on her pink skin.

  ‘Darling, we don’t have room for Tripi, not with Petros staying.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Petros’s room at Forget Me Not?’

  From what Milo had seen, Petros’s room was bigger and nicer than any of the old ladies’ rooms.

  ‘It’s complicated, Milo. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go now.’

  Tripi didn’t have anywhere to go. And Tripi was a friend. And Tripi hadn’t tried to steal Gran away.

  ‘You have a very nice room, Milo,’ said Petros. He placed his wrinkly lips over one of the flying pigs on the rim of Milo’s mug and slurped his tea. Gran hated bad table manners.

  ‘You’ve put him in my room?’

  Mum chewed the nail on her little finger and didn’t answer.

  Milo stormed upstairs and flung open his bedroom door.

  He shifted his head around his room and noticed something lying on his bed: that stupid painting from Forget Me Not with the small sailing boat lost in those big waves.

  Clouds hadn’t yet made it all the way up to his room, so he came back down the stairs and stood at Milo’s door.

  ‘Come on, Milo, don’t worry about all this stuff. Let’s start work on that film.’

  Milo shook his head. He took the painting off his bed and stared at the little boat, then he put the painting under one arm, grabbed his duvet and his pillow, pushed past Clouds, stomped down the stairs, walked through the kitchen, dumped the painting at Petros’s feet and went out through the back door into the garden.

  As long as Petros was in Milo’s home, Milo would stay in the shed. It wasn’t like it was being used for anything else.

  55

  MILO

  Whenever Milo came in here, it was so quiet that it felt like someone was pushing cotton wool into his ears. Dad had insulated the shed to block out the engine noises from the planes. We can’t have your mum’s clients getting disturbed, he’d said, taking Mum by the waist and giving her a kiss. Milo used to turn away when Mum and Dad did that yucky lovey stuff, but now he missed it.

  Milo dumped his duvet and his pillow on the floor and switched on the desk lamp. He grabbed his duvet and his pillow and curled up by the door.

  He let his mind scan through the last twelve months. He couldn’t think of a single good thing that had happened since last Christmas. Except getting Hamlet, and even he was missing now.

  Milo screwed shut his eyes. He played Great-Gramps’s bagpipe song in his head until he fell asleep.

  As Milo sunk deeper into sleep, his mind wandered into dreams. He was still dreaming at midnight, when he got up off the floor and opened the door to the shed. He stretched and yawned and then tilted his head to the dark sky: only a tiny chunk to go before a full moon.

  The house stood dark and quiet.

  Milo floated out of his body, walked across the wet grass and out through the side gate onto Crescent Way.

  As he stood in the middle of the empty street he noticed that Mr Overend hadn’t moved from his window: he stood there in his PJs whistling like when Milo had come home.

  When he spotted Milo standing under the street lamp, he stopped whistling and disappeared from the window. The next moment he was standing at his front door with wellies and a coat over his PJs.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ said Mr Overend. ‘Are you ready?’

  Milo was surprised that he could talk. Apart from the whistling, he’d thought Mr Overend was mute, like Gran. Or like Gran before she decided to get her voice back and announce she was getting married.

  ‘Ready to go?’ Mr Overend asked.

  Milo nodded.

  Together, they walked down Crescent Way and through Slipton’s windy streets to the canal. When they reached the line of houseboats, Mr Overend pointed to the bench. A dark bundle lay wrapped in a sleeping bag.

  ‘Go closer,’ said Mr Overend.

  Milo went and stood above the bundle and looked down at Tripi’s face. His dark hair fell over his eyes and his lips curled up at the sides. His head rested on Ayishah’s red bag. How had he got his things back?

  ‘You see?’ said Mr Overend.

  Milo nodded.

  ‘Come on, we don’t have long.’

  Milo followed Mr Overend down the high street until they reached Forget Me Not. Mr Overend pointed up to Gran’s window. The curtains were open and the light from the moon lit up Gran’s figure as she sat in her armchair. Her face looked peaceful.

  Next to her, in a little vase, stood a yellow rose. Petros must have taken Milo’s advice. Its golden petals leant into the dark night like a shooting star.

  ‘You see?’ said Mr Overend.

  Milo nodded slowly, though this time he didn’t really want to see.

  ‘Nearly time to go home.’ Mr Overend took Milo’s hand and guided him past the high street to the park. As they stood peering through the gates, Milo heard a rustling in the long grass by the lake.

  ‘Look,’ said Mr Overend.

  Milo shifted his head. And then he saw Hamlet, bigger than he remembered, snuffling at the earth.

  His black ear and his white ear stood stiff and tall, his small black eyes shone, reflecting the nearly-full moon and, for a second, Milo was sure Hamlet was looking right at him.

  Milo turned to Mr Overend to say thank you, but Mr Overend had vanished and when he looked back through the park gates, Hamlet had disappeared too.

  Milo woke with a start, shivering. Through the pinhole, he looked up at the window to the shed: the glass was webbed with ice.

  A gentle crunch on the grass outside. And then a bang at the base of the chipboard door followed by a yelp and a stupid, stupid door. And then someone walking away.

  He stood up and opened the door just a crack. Cold air swept in. The smell of wet grass, the night sharp with frost. The moon shone like a big white coin, nearly full now. Clouds’s light was on in the attic and blue flashes flickered through the lounge window. And then Milo saw something move across the lawn: Mum, hopping away towards the back door.

  Milo’s gaze flicked down to the patch of frozen grass in front of the shed where he spotted a plate heaped with buttery toast, white Fluff smeared thickly, right to the edges.

  He felt a flutter in his chest, just by his heart, and then Gran’s voice:

  Give her a chance, Milo. Just a little chance.

  ‘Mum!’ he called out, his voice small in the night.

  She stopped hopping towards the house, stood still and then turned round.

  For a moment they looked at each other across the garden, neither of them knowing what to say.

  Milo picked up the plate and held it up. ‘Do you want some?’ he called out to her.
r />   Mum nodded and walked slowly back towards the shed.

  When she got close, he noticed a pearl of blood sitting on her little toe.

  ‘You stubbed it again,’ Milo said.

  Mum nodded.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  Mum’s eyes welled up and she bit her lip. ‘A little.’

  When the beauty business was running properly, she’d stub her toe on the shed door all the time. She wore open-toed mules to show off the nail-varnish she sold to her customers: a new colour every week. Sometimes, she’d let Milo paint it on for her. But the bottom of the shed door hung forward further than you thought it did when you looked at it face on, and there was a gap where it was meant to join the frame. So when she went to put the key in the padlock, she’d forget and her little toe would get caught. Dad had promised to fix it, but that was before The Tart came along.

  Just because she’d brought him Fluff on toast and just because she’d stubbed her toe, didn’t mean that Milo was going to forgive Mum. But she looked cold and her eyes were sad and there was more toast than he could manage on his own, so he opened the door a little wider and let her in.

  They sat on the floor, their backs against the shed wall, and for a few minutes the only sound was them munching toast.

  ‘Couldn’t you sleep?’ Milo asked, thinking of the blue flashes in the lounge.

  Mum shook her head. She pressed down on her little toe to stem the blood. ‘I think there’s a splinter in there, that’s why it won’t stop bleeding.’

  Milo stood up, went over to Mum’s eyebrow kit and took out the tweezers, the ones with the little battery-operated light attached so you could catch the tiniest of tiny hairs. Then he sat down beside her and took her little toe in his hands. He focused his eyes, switched on the tweezers and bent over. There, nestled just under the nail, was a small brown splinter.

  ‘It’s going to hurt a bit, Mum,’ Milo said.

  Mum laughed as though Milo had said something funny.

  He poised the tweezers over her skin and then pinched at the tiny brown thread.

  Mum let out a small gasp.

  ‘Got it!’ Milo said, holding up the tweezers and the splinter to show her.

  ‘I think you should take over the salon,’ Mum said, looking around the shed. ‘You’d make a great eyebrow plucker.’ She sighed. ‘In fact, I think you’d do a better job of running this whole damned business than I ever did.’

  ‘I want to be an undercover reporter, Mum, like Clouds.’

  ‘You do?’

  Milo nodded. It was the first time he’d said it out loud, like it was a real plan, beyond helping the old people in the nursing home, like it was something he wanted to do for the rest of his life. For a second, he panicked and wished he hadn’t. He knew what Mum was thinking – that it wasn’t a proper job, that it was too dangerous, that it got you in trouble with the police, that it didn’t make enough money and that he’d struggle with his eyes.

  ‘Well, I’ll have to train someone else to wax Mrs Hairy, then,’ she said and they both laughed and the air between them felt lighter.

  ‘Do you miss Dad?’ Milo asked.

  Mum went to get a wad of cotton wool from a glass jar on the shelf and wrapped it around her little toe. Without turning round she said:

  ‘Every day.’

  ‘I miss him too.’

  ‘I know, Milo.’ Her voice wavered. ‘I know.’

  ‘Are you angry with him? About Angela and that he left?’

  Mum turned round and came back to sit beside Milo.

  ‘For a while, I was angry. But now I suppose I’m just sad.’

  ‘Because you wish he’d come back?’

  Mum shook her head. ‘No. I know that won’t happen – he’s got a new life and a new baby – and he’s happy, Milo. Happier than he ever was. The reason I’m sad is because I wish I’d handled things differently. Mainly for you.’

  Milo didn’t think Mum had ever considered his feelings in any of this. It was all about her and Dad and how she somehow didn’t know how to operate without him around. It was as if when he left he’d taken some of the screws that held her together and now all she could do was walk around all wonky and falling apart.

  Mum paused for a moment and then she wrapped one of her big, pudgy arms around him and pulled him into her chest. Milo felt the softness of Mum’s skin and the warmth of Mum’s body pressing into his and for once he didn’t mind the sticky perfume that clung to her nightie – he liked it even, because it smelt like something he knew. He couldn’t remember the last time that Mum had given him a hug.

  Milo suddenly felt tired, more tired than he’d felt in weeks and weeks. His body softened against Mum’s.

  ‘Why did you make Gran go away?’

  He felt Mum take in a sharp breath and then she held it for a second, as though she was scared to let it go.

  ‘She needed proper care, Milo, more than either of us could give her. It wasn’t fair, she was becoming too much of a burden on you.’

  A lump rose in Milo’s throat. ‘But she wasn’t a burden. I loved having Gran here, I loved looking after her.’ His voice swelled and grew thick. ‘Everything was better when she was here.’

  Mum stroked the back of Milo’s head. ‘I know, darling. I know.’

  Milo pulled away from Mum and looked her in the eye. ‘And it didn’t work, did it? We went and stuck her in that horrible, horrible place where she didn’t get proper care after all. She would have been better off at home.’

  Mum’s tired eyes filled up and the tip of her nose went pink. She closed her eyelids and two fat tears plopped down onto her cheeks. She sniffed.

  ‘I got so much wrong, Milo. But we’re going to make it okay, I promise.’ She swept her index finger under each set of eyelashes to get rid of the tears. ‘And because of you, we’re going to improve the lives of more than just Gran – we’re going to make it better for all those old people at Forget Me Not.’

  ‘You think it’s going to work?’

  Mum smiled. ‘Of course it’s going to work.’

  Milo waited a beat and then he asked:

  ‘And you’ll help me find Hamlet? We’ll put out adverts and everything?’

  She laughed lightly and kissed his head. ‘Yes, we’ll find Hamlet. From now on, everything’s going to be okay, I promise.’

  56

  LOU

  Milo’s face when he heard her voice. He saw her love for Petros as a betrayal of the grandfather he’d never met. Another betrayal, like that of his father when he took his love away from Sandy.

  Lou shook her head. Milo was right. A sentimental old fool, that’s what she was; falling in love again at ninety-two, clutching at her last chance of a wedding she’d been waiting for her whole life.

  Most nights Lou slept in her bra and pants and tights. Without Milo’s help there was too much elastic, too many fiddly hooks to cope with on her own. She walked to the wardrobe, dragging her left leg behind her. The leg had joined the protest of her left arm and the left side of her face.

  She picked out the dress she’d kept for special occasions. Red poppies on white cotton, the dress Milo made her wear on her birthday. Strange how, as you got older, your clothes seemed to grow until they swam around you, their vast folds of fabric swallowing you up.

  Lou wanted to make an effort for Milo – Tripi had told her about the awards ceremony and how much it meant to Milo. She had to be well for that.

  With one hand she eased the dress over her head, and then it got stuck. She pushed harder, the collar ripped, her right arm gave way.

  Milo, I need your help, she whispered.

  He’d always known when she needed him, would come tearing up the stairs to her small room under the roof to help her out of bed, to fill up her glass of water, to tie up her hair.

  Milo…

  ‘Need a hand?’ Mrs Moseley stood at the door, propped up on her cane. Her dress was clean today, no stains.

  ‘No, no, no.’ Nurse Thornhi
ll swept past Mrs Moseley and strode into the room. ‘It’s too cold for that.’ She whipped off Lou’s dress and shoved it back into the wardrobe. ‘Like a child.’ She shook her head. ‘Haven’t you looked out of the window? There’s ice on the pavements.’ Nurse Thornhill pulled a jumper and a woollen skirt out of the wardrobe.