Glasshopper

by Isabel Ashdown

  “That’s better,” she says, staring at the ceiling with her arms crossed over her chest.

  “But they can still drop down on you, from up there,” I say, pointing to a big black spider hidden behind one of the beams.

  “Ahhhh!” she shrieks again, and we lie there swinging and laughing, as Aunt Rachel hides her face behind her hands. “Some country girl I turned out to be,” she says.

  “I won’t let it get you,” I say, grinning at the spider, giving the wall a little push to make the hammock swing more.

  “I know you wouldn’t, Jake,” she says, in a serious tone. “You’re one of the good ones.”

  “Your hair’s nearly as long as George’s now,” says Mum, standing behind me and gathering it into a small bunch at the back.

  “Get off!” I moan at her, shrugging my bare shoulders to shake her off. My hair is released and flops back around my ears.

  George sits next to me at the table, and Aunt Rachel tells everyone else to come and sit down for the meal she’s been making.

  “Don’t you boys want a shirt or something?”

  “Nah,” we say at the same time.

  “You two look like you’re straight out of Lord of the Flies,” she says. “Gone feral.”

  Rachel plonks a couple of bottles of wine on the table, along with a big bowl of salad, a couple of French sticks, and a casserole dish of boeuf bourguignon. We all serve ourselves as Rachel pours the wine.

  Dad’s been down at the standpipe for a wash, and he’s the last to sit down at the table, opposite me and George. He reaches for his wine, brings it to his lips, then looks up at us over the top of his glass. He pauses. His eyes look directly at George, then at me, then back to George. He puts his glass back on the table. Then looks at us again.

  “There you go, Bill. Help yourself to the casserole,” says Aunt Rachel, pushing the pot towards him.

  He looks up at her, and nods. Rachel frowns, as if she’s puzzled. Dad’s face looks quite pale against the brown of his arms. He looks back at me, then at George again.

  “You alright, Dad?” I ask.

  He helps himself to the casserole and passes it along to Mum. “I’m fine, son.”

  “Maybe the heat got to him too,” suggests Andy.

  “Maybe it did,” says Dad, and everyone laughs.

  Supper goes on for ages, and everyone talks and laughs throughout. Dad’s really enjoying himself and Mum and Rachel seem a bit tipsy as they go on to the second bottle of wine.

  “Salut!” says Dad, raising his glass again.

  “Bottoms up!” say Mum and Rachel together. We all cheer.

  For pudding, Aunt Rachel has bought a tarte au citron from the pâtisserie in the nearest town. She gets out a pudding wine to go with it, and me and George are allowed a bit. It’s disgusting, but I drink it anyway.

  “You always did know how to do everything just right, Rachel,” says Mum. Her words are slurring.

  Dad turns his face to the tabletop. Aunt Rachel gives a small smile, like a polite one that she doesn’t really mean.

  “D’you remember? Mother always used to get you to make the dessert for Sunday lunches? You were always so good at that sort of thing. A much better wife than me!” She splutters the last few words, like it’s the funniest thing ever.

  “I’m not sure about that, Mary,” says Rachel, “I’m not sure Robert would say I was the best wife in the world, if he were here. Actually, sometimes I was a rubbish wife.” Dad’s eyes flicker up at Aunt Rachel, then back to the table.

  “Well. You’re still better than me. Anyway.” Mum stands from the bench, steadying herself as she swings her legs out from under the table. “I need a wee. Oh God! Can I pee in the bushes, Rach? I can’t bear to use that portaloo thing at night time. It stinks!”

  “Go on,” says Aunt Rachel, “go round the side of the house.”

  Mum goes out through the back door, and I can see she’s trying to walk steadily and upright. Andy and Katy take their cards into the bedroom, along with one of the gas lamps. They’ve played Pairs over and over again since we arrived, because Andy’s determined not to lose out to Katy. She keeps winning, so he has to keep playing.

  “More wine?” Dad asks Aunt Rachel, emptying the rest of the bottle into her glass.

  Aunt Rachel rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands. When she looks up at Dad, it’s like a warning.

  “The last time we saw you was way back, before Jake was born,” Dad says. “How did it get to be so long?”

  Rachel starts to clear the table. “It wasn’t through choice, Bill,” she says, her voice controlled and clipped.

  Dad starts fiddling with the candle wax that’s dripped on to the table.

  Aunt Rachel picks up her wine glass, one hand on her hip, and something in her eyes is really mad. I’ve never seen it before and it reminds me of Mum. “Boys – go and check on Mary. It’s pitch black out there – she might stumble if she’s not careful. Here – take the lantern.”

  We leave them in the light of the fire, and walk round to the side of the house where Mum’s meant to be. Even before we get there, I know she’ll be gone.

  “Where could she go from here?” I ask George, feeling impatient.

  George leads the way, holding the lantern in front of us. “She hasn’t got a torch or anything, so she won’t have gone far.”

  We track round the whole building, but there’s no sign of her.

  “Try the portaloo,” I suggest. “She might have changed her mind, and gone there instead of the bushes.”

  We knock on the wooden door of the toilet shed, but she’s not there. My forehead is getting cold and sweaty again, like it did when I passed out earlier. I start to run about, calling her name into the darkness. George catches me by the sleeve and tells me to slow down.

  “She can’t have gone far, mate. She’s fine.” He puts his hand on my shoulder.

  I nod. “Yeah, you’re right, George. Thanks, mate.” I’m glad of the darkness, to hide my panicked eyes.

  We carry on round the house, and into the main barn, where George holds the lamp above his head, throwing light up into the beams. The barn is huge, so high and wide. I feel tiny under the lamplight.

  “Jakey!” we hear Mum whisper from above. All I can see are the rafters and ladders around the old barn. “Jakey! There’s an owl – a barn owl,” she gasps.

  George walks to the centre of the barn, the lamp still held high, and in a wide, clean swoop, the owl glides across the barn, casting its enormous shadow over the beams in the ceiling. I spot Mum. Up in the rafters, at the top of a long, thin ladder, she perches, with her knees pulled up to her chin. Her face is lit up like a child’s at Christmas.

  “Jakey! Did you see it? Did you see it!”

  George turns to me, looking terrified. “Shit. Get your dad, mate. She could kill herself up there. That wood’s rotten all the way through. Get him now!”

  I run back to the house, stumbling in the darkness, and grazing my knee on a rock as I fall. As I pass the window, I see Dad and Rachel, now both standing up in front of the fireplace. Rachel has her arms folded across her chest and Dad has his hands on his hips. Across the garden I can hear Andy and Katy, now outside, pointing out the stars and talking. At the back door, I pause.

  “You’ve just got to look at them, Rachel!” says Dad. He’s angry. “They’re practically identical!”

  “Well, you’re wrong, Bill. You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “Why else would you have stayed away from Mary for all these years?” He’s nearly shouting now. “Maybe she knows. Maybe that’s what’s got into her?”

  “Mary doesn’t know!” Aunt Rachel cries, her voice cracking now. “She can’t know!”

  “What?” I yell, as I stand in the doorway. “Mary doesn’t know what?” My heart’s thumping again, and I know Mum’s up on that rotten ladder, but I know that’s not as important as this thing.

  Dad and Rachel stop and stare at me. They look as if they’ve see
n a ghost. I know they’re not going to tell me. Just like everything else.

  I hate them both right now. I flop down on the edge of the fireplace, exhausted, and I tell them. “Mum’s stuck up a ladder in the barn. George says the wood’s rotten. She could fall and die.” It doesn’t even sound like my voice.

  They both rush out of the door and I’m left alone in the firelight. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a little mouse run in through the open door and straight up the table leg on to the top. It grabs a little hunk of bread that’s crumbled on to the table, and runs back out again. When it’s gone, I wonder if I dreamt it.

  In the morning, I’m the first up. As I emerge from our tent, I find everything covered in a thick layer of dew, and a heavy mist hangs over the valley. I stick my head into Mum and Dad’s tent and see she’s still lying on her side, in the same position they put her in after they’d got her down from the barn. Dad’s snoring, facing the opposite way. I roam around the buildings, looking for signs of life, but it’s as if the whole of the world is asleep, except me. It’s too early for the lizards, too late for the barn owl. Even the cicadas have fallen silent. As I jump down the rocky ledge and sprint across the field below, I could be going at a hundred miles an hour. My hair is streaming behind me and I feel the damp mist clinging to my skin, soaking through my white T-shirt. Further into the valley I run, leaping over streams, and dashing past brambles that tug at my clothes. But I keep going, enjoying the cool air of the morning and the feeling that the world is mine. On the far side of the valley, I see the sun breaking through the mist. I settle on a dusty mound with my back against an old olive tree. I can see La Font de Paul perfectly from here: the old barn that faces me, hiding the converted house at the back; the two tents – one large and one small; the little white Austin and the big dusty Volvo. Over the back of La Font, I can just about make out a handful of cows, milling about on the land above. They’re so slow though, I can’t be sure if they’re really moving at all. I sit and sit and sit. I know that the rising heat will force the others out eventually, as the slow sunshine turns the tents into saunas. A large yellow butterfly drifts past me and across the fields. There’s not a breeze in the air, and I see the steam coming off my damp T-shirt as the heat of the day takes hold. Sure enough, George appears from the small tent. He stretches and stands for a moment looking in my direction, before taking a leak next to a nearby tree. He wanders off, towards the house. Food. It’s the first thing he thinks of when he wakes up. Soon after, Andy and Katy come out from the house, probably woken by George’s clattering about. They pick up the tennis rackets and take them down to the dry field in front of the barn. I can see them batting the yellow tennis ball back and forth between them, but they never keep it in the air for more than a few hits, because Andy keeps whacking it so hard. Katy’s doing all the work, running to fetch the ball all the time, and Andy looks like his body’s saying, oh come on, Katy, try a bit harder. George runs down into the field, and they all stop and talk, before he leaves them and heads off towards the woods at the side of the house. I guess he’s looking for me. Aunt Rachel is up now, and she’s got her hands in the tin bath that balances on the large rocks at the entrance to the barn, scrubbing at the clothes she left soaking last night. One by one, she lifts each piece from the tub, dunks it into another bucket of water then squeezes it, flicks it out and takes it over to the washing line that runs the length of the garden. They’ll be dry by lunchtime. I watch her doing this for ages, trying to work out what each piece of washing is. I wonder if Mum will do ours later. I’m starting to run out of underpants and socks already. Dad appears from his tent. Like George, he stretches and stands for a moment looking this way. Rachel stops hanging out the washing and they exchange a few words before Dad goes into the house. He comes out a moment later with a bottle of water, then rolls back the door of his tent and stoops to go back inside. I squint to see if I can get a view of what’s going on inside the tent, but it’s impossible. I just sit and wait, drawing pictures in the dust with a stick. When Mum and Dad finally come out, I can see from here that Mum’s not good. She’s up, but she’s all curled in and her head hangs forward, like it does when she’s in a rough patch. She stands outside her tent, with her arms wrapped around herself, as if she’s cold. Like an old woman. Rachel and Dad go off to the house, and come back with a folding table and chairs. “Katy!” Rachel shouts and Katy and Andy drop their rackets and run back towards the house. They start laying out food and drinks on the table, and it looks like they’re going to have breakfast in the sunshine. Dad settles Mum on to one of the folding chairs and fetches her a blanket from the tent. She doesn’t look at him. George appears again, running across the grass, and he stops at the table to talk to them all. He turns towards the valley and moves his arms in a wide sweep, pointing to the woods, then towards the back garden. In the dusty earth, I’ve drawn a Gorgon, with wild snake hair and menacing eyes. I run the palm of my hand over it to make it disappear. There one minute, gone the next. George sits down on the picnic blanket to eat his breakfast. They’re all there now. Mum, Dad, Andy, Aunt Rachel, George and Katy. Everyone’s eating except Mum. The others are all eating and talking, as if she’s not there.

  Suddenly, as if something terrible’s happened, Mum leaps from her seat, dropping the blanket at her feet. She grabs George’s hand and drags him to the stony ledge. She’s talking to him, and he’s shaking his head, shrugging.

  She lets go of his arm, and George turns in my direction. “Jake! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”

  He doesn’t know I’m here, hidden in the shade of this old tree. He’s just guessing, because Mum’s making him. I stay quiet.

  Mum turns back to Dad, who’s getting up slowly, brushing the crumbs from his lap. He walks over to her, puts his arm round her shoulder. She shakes it off, waving her arms wildly.

  “Jake!” shouts Dad across the valley, “Jake!”

  Soon they’re all at it. Jake! Jake! And the sound of my name is echoing and bouncing over fields and dried up steams. I can see them all running around the house, in and out of the barn, down into the field, up the path to the woods. Only Mum stays still, hunched in her folding chair with her head in her hands. I sit in my shady place, feeling the world tip slightly, as I imagine Miss Terry walking through the hazy valley, bringing me water. My heart slows, like it did yesterday, and I close my eyes where everything is dark and cool. The earth is moving, but I’m not sliding with it, I’m still planted to the dry earth under this gnarly old tree. When the valley falls silent again, I come out from the shade. I come out into the sunshine and slowly make my way back.

  “Cuckoo!” I call, to George.

  “Cuckoo!” he calls back.

  They all appear in a line along the rocky edge to the garden, shielding their eyes from the sun, scanning the land for me. George suddenly points and breaks into a run, followed by Andy and Katy. We meet at the electric fence.

  “Where were you, mate?” asks George, frowning. “Your mum was going mental. Proper mental.”

  “Man, you’re in trouble!” grins Andy, and Katy giggles.

  “No, you’re not,” says George. He holds his ear close to the wire, listening for the current to pass, then nods for me to hop over. “We were all just worried. In case you were lost or something. Come and get some breakfast, mate.”

  As planned, Aunt Rachel, George and Katy pack up to go home the next morning. Their car isn’t half as crammed as ours was, so before long, everything’s in its place and we’re all standing in the morning sunshine, preparing to say our goodbyes. Mum’s still quiet but she’s there with us, hugging Aunt Rachel and pulling her cardigan around herself. I’m so hot, I can’t believe she can wear a woolly in this heat. Andy and Katy are leaning on the bonnet of the car, playing rock-paper-scissors and slapping each other’s hands when they get it wrong. Katy’s giggling like mad, trying to pull her hand away in time.

  “I’ve left instructions on the table,” says Rachel, more to Dad than to Mum. “Directions
to Beauville – you’ll need to get some groceries I expect, and there’s a list of things you need to do before you lock up next week. Disconnect the gas canister, do the shutters – that sort of thing. Apart from that, it’s all yours!”

  I suddenly remember a book I’ve promised to lend to George and I run to grab my rucksack out of the tent.

  “Hold this,” I tell him, when I return to the group, and George holds on to the straps of my rucksack as I riffle through and pull out a bunch of books.

  As I balance one book on top of another, searching for the right one, my jotter falls open and the photo of Granddad flutters out and lands on the grass by Mum’s bare feet. I’d forgotten it was even in there; I only put it there to keep it flat. Mum stoops to pick it up.

  “What’s this?” she asks, frowning at the old black and white image.

  “It’s Granddad,” I reply, leaning in to point him out. “There. Dad’s dad. He looks exactly like me, doesn’t he?” I’m laughing, seeing again just how similar we are.

  Mum stares at the photo, then slowly lifts her eyes to look straight at George. George doesn’t notice, he’s too busy reading the back of the book I’ve just given him. Mum turns to face Dad, who stuffs his hands deep into his shorts pockets and rocks on his heels, avoiding her eyes.

  “Better get you on your way, then,” Dad says to Aunt Rachel, sounding jolly and slapping George on the back.

  Aunt Rachel doesn’t reply, but leans in and takes the photograph from Mum’s hands and looks at it hard. Her eyes scan the picture from one side to the other. She brings her hand to her mouth and shakes her head, just a little.

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” I say. I can see she can’t believe how like my granddad I really am.