Glasshopper

by Isabel Ashdown

  Aunt Rachel looks at me over her cupped mouth and nods. Mum turns and runs to the house and everyone stands and watches her go.

  After an awkward silence, Dad says, “She’s not herself, Rachel. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll make sure everything’s alright.”

  Aunt Rachel kisses me and Andy on the forehead, and gets into the driver’s seat. She fastens her seatbelt, and looks up at Dad through the open window. “I think we need to talk, Bill. We need to sort this thing out.”

  Dad nods, not smiling, and the blue Volvo rocks along the dusty grass, and disappears into the cool, dark trees.

  Something shifts in our little corner of France. The heat presses down like a wet blanket, and the drill of the cicadas buzzes inside my ears. Around the back of the barn, I spot Mum, sitting on a rock, staring out across the valley. Her skinny brown legs hang over the edge, and she looks like a little girl from this distance. I stay in the shadows and lean against the cool stone wall. Andy is hunched on his heels a little way from Mum, scratching at the dusty grass with a little stick. Every now and then he looks over at her, pausing as if he’s trying to work out what to say. Then he goes back to his scratching, flicking up little puffs of dust as the hole grows bigger. He’s guarding her.

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask him, casting shade over his hole.

  He shrugs, and carries on digging without looking up.

  I nudge him with my foot. “I said, where’s Dad?”

  Andy looks up at me now. “Fuck off, Jake,” he says. “I wish you’d never been born.” His eyes are hard. There’s a buzzard overhead, and its shadow distracts me briefly.

  I push him over sideways, and stand over him. “Cockroach,” I whisper, turning to walk away.

  Mum looks up, and silently slides off her rock. She passes us without a word or a look and goes through the back door into the house. Out of the corner of my eye I see a dot moving in one of the fields across the valley. Dad. He’s left us to it. Mum reappears, now wearing her bikini, sunhat and glasses, and dragging a deckchair behind her. She sets it up beside her rock, then goes back inside the house. She comes back out carrying a bottle of wine and a large glass. The bottle’s more than half full. Just before she settles in her chair, she turns and rests her eyes on me. It’s not an angry look, or a sad look. It’s a puzzled expression, like when you’re trying to make out something tiny in the distance. She sits, pours a glass of wine, and stays there with her back to us, gazing out over the valley. Dad has now disappeared from view, leaving nothing but a heat haze in his place.

  “Careful you don’t burn, Mum,” I call over to her.

  But she doesn’t answer or move. Over the back of the deckchair, all that I can see of her is her hand, dangling over the armrest, limply cradling the full glass of red wine. It disappears for a few seconds, before returning to position. I wonder how long she’ll be gone for this time.

  When Dad gets back, we lay a picnic out on a rug beside Mum.

  “We’ll have to get to the market in the next couple of days.” Dad’s talking all jolly, pretending everything’s normal. He looks up to see if Mum is listening. “Well, it’s Sunday today, so we’ll have to make do for now,” he adds, breaking up a dried up old baguette. “Don’t know what it is with this French bread, but it goes stale before you’ve had a chance to eat it.”

  He puts a few bits of bread and cheese on a plate for Mum, but when he offers it to her she waves it away, and drains the last of the wine into her glass.

  “Go and get that other bottle, will you?” she mutters to no one in particular. It’s the first thing she’s said since Aunt Rachel left.

  Andy meets my eyes, then looks down quickly. He unpeels a cheese triangle and squishes it on to a piece of bread with his thumb. “La vache qui rit,” he whispers.

  I flop down on my side and watch the lézards verts dart up and down the wall of the barn. One. Two. Three. The first one disappears inside a hole so tiny that I didn’t even know it was there. I can hear a grasshopper somewhere nearby. I know it’s a grasshopper because its chirp is different to the cicadas’. I wish I could see a cicada; they’re like these secret insects that make this enormous noise, but never let you see them. They sound more like birds. The sun is beating down on the side of my face, and I can feel my nose beginning to sweat. I close my eyes and smell the dry grass and earth.

  “Jake, sit up and eat your food,” says Dad, nudging me with his sandal.

  The three of us sit cross-legged on the blanket, finishing off the last of the bread and cheese in silence.

  “What’ve we got tonight?” asks Andy, unfolding his legs in front of him.

  “There’s a couple of tins of cassoulet on the shelf, and we’ve got some spuds. That should do us.”

  “What’s cassoulet?” me and Andy ask at the same time, and he breaks into a smile even though he’s meant to be mad at me.

  “Beans and sausages. But with a posh French name.”

  “I said, can you get me that other bottle, Bill?” Mum says coldly, wiggling her empty glass over the armrest. She’s just an arm and a hand with a voice.

  “There is no other bottle,” Dad replies.

  “Yes there is,” she snaps back, “there’s another red on the side. Oh, for God’s sake, I’ll get it myself.” She lunges out of the deckchair, making it rock on its wooden legs. She steadies herself, and shuffles towards the back door in her flipflops. I’d never noticed how bony her knees were before now. Her bikini bottoms sag around her bum.

  “We drank it last night, Mary,” Dad calls after her. “You just finished the last bottle!”

  We hear her banging about in the kitchen, moving jars and pans out of the way. Andy fiddles with a loose piece of blanket, pulling it until it unravels. Dad’s rubbing his eyebrows with both hands, blowing air through his lips. Mum appears in the doorway, leaning on the frame, with a mean face.

  “Well, thanks for leaving me a little drop, or else I’d have had nothing at all, would I? The amount you and my sister must have put away last night. I suppose you sat up after I’d gone to bed, chatting and putting the world to rights? I’ll bet you had no end to talk about. After all these years.”

  Dad just stares at her.

  “Well?” she screams, and she hurls the empty glass across the grass, where it bounces without breaking.

  “Mary, there’s nothing to say,” Dad says, calmly clearing the plates from the ground. “When you went to bed, so did we. We all went off at the same time, but I guess you don’t remember much about it after your second bottle of red.” He leans his weight on to one leg, and looks at her kindly. “I don’t know why you’re getting yourself so worked up.”

  “Bastard,” she whispers through gritted teeth, and she takes herself inside again.

  The next thing we hear is the slam of the car door, and we’re all up and running to the front of the house where Mum’s at the steering wheel, still in her bikini, starting the engine.

  “What’re you doing, for Christ’s sake, Mary?” Dad leans in through the window and grabs the keys. “You’re not even dressed!”

  “We need food!” she screams at him, jumping out of the car to wrestle the keys back. Her hat falls to the ground and rolls away like a Frisbee. As she thrashes about, I think she looks like a little wild animal.

  “Take a walk, boys,” Dad says.

  I frown at him.

  “Jakey, just take a walk. I need to sort this out.”

  “You bastard! You bastard!” Mum shrieks, slapping at his hands and chest.

  Dad holds her away with one hand, flinching out of her reach.

  I nod at Andy and we head off along the track into the woods. When I look over my shoulder, Mum seems to be calming down and she’s flopped on the grass, pulling a sulky face. The darkness of the woods is cool, with the occasional flash of warmth as the sun breaks through a crack in the canopy. Andy carries a long stick, which he swishes across the path in a sweeping motion, to scare off snakes. He’s terrified of being bitt
en by a viper. The only sounds in the woods are from the birds high above us. They fly from tree to tree, keeping pace with us, and it’s almost as if they’re following us, spying down from their treetop look-outs. We don’t talk until we come out at the other side into the heavy sunlight.

  “Why does she do it?” Andy asks, kicking at the high grass.

  “I dunno, mate,” I answer. “She just does. It’s what she does.”

  “But none of my friends have got mums like that.” His face is hurt, tired.

  “I know, mate,” I say, and I pat him on the back. “Let’s just forget about it. Dad’ll calm her down. She’s just pissed.”

  We carry on through the overgrown field, until we come out at the winding road. We decide to follow the road down, the way we’d driven in on the first day, with the steep drop just beyond the thin grass verge. There’s a squashed snake in the middle of the road, flat and grey, and huge, and Andy starts poking it with his stick, trying to unpeel it from the grit. I tell him to leave it alone, in case a car comes along and squashes him. He sniffs and leaps back on to the grassy verge. There are berries growing on bushes along the roadside, and we can’t decide whether they’re for eating or not.

  “I think they’re sloes,” I say, picking one and inspecting it. “But I wouldn’t risk it. We’ll check with Dad when we get back.”

  Andy picks a berry, balances it on the palm of his hand, then flicks it over the edge of the roadside. He kneels on the dry verge, carefully craning his neck forward to see down below.

  “Oh my God, Jake. Have you seen how far down it goes?” He pushes a little rock off the edge. “I can’t believe we drove up here before. I’d have pooed my pants if I’d realised how dangerous it was.”

  I lean over to look, and step back quickly as my stomach lurches. “Come on. Let’s carry on a bit.” I hold out my hand to help Andy up. He gives me a nervous frown, as if he expects me to push him over. “Don’t be an idiot,” I say.

  The heat is intense, and I wish for the cool cover of the woods again. My T-shirt sticks to my back, and I feel the bridge of my nose burning. It’s about one-ish, I guess. The worst time to be out in the open sun, Aunt Rachel told me yesterday. Andy starts moaning because the back of his neck is getting sore. We take off our shirts and wrap them round our necks like scarves.

  “Alright, we’ll head back,” I say. “We’ve probably been gone an hour anyway. They should’ve sorted it out by now.

  Andy runs a bit further down the road to look at the bunches of flowers left on the roadside. “Did people die here?” he asks, looking horrified.

  I nod, making an up and over motion with my hand, whistling a sound effect. I’m standing a little way from Andy now, and I spot a large bird floating on the horizon behind him. It’s amazing, and I point at it to show him, but Andy raises his arm too, and points beyond me, his face suddenly pale. As I turn and look up the road, back the way we came, the world tips again. I feel it; like the axis has slipped. At first, everything is blurry, but I’m not surprised when it appears. Our old Austin comes into view, with Mum at the wheel, hurtling towards us down the dusty grey road. Time seems to slow, as I see her eyes staring blankly through the windscreen at some unseen distraction in the distance, and I think she’ll drive straight into us, and that will be that. But she doesn’t; in the time it would take for me to blink, she turns her head, just slightly, and I look into her eyes and I see her, completely clear and awake and knowing, and even though her face isn’t smiling, her eyes are. I take a step to one side, and the car screeches briefly and sails off and over the cliff edge between us like a great metal bird. Whoosh. One minute she’s there, the next, she’s gone. We stand motionless, Andy and me, staring at the empty space where the car had just been. Dropping to our bellies, we lean our faces over the edge of the burnt grass precipice to view the wreckage below. Way, way down, a tiny fire burns brightly amongst the craggy rocks and dried up streams.

  Mary, August 1985

  As the horizon rears up before me, shimmering and bright, I feel her beside me.

  “Are you OK?” she asks, touching my wrist lightly.

  I nod, with my eyes on the road ahead. “Do you see it? The bird?” I ask.

  A bird of prey hovers in the distance, and seems to pull the sluggish car forward, drawn along by invisible force. A line between me and it. Umbilical. The bird bobs in the heat stream, like a totem. I’m so tired, I could sleep now, and let the bird do all the work.

  “What kind is it?” the little girl asks.

  “It looks like a kestrel to me. I don’t know.” The road descends steeply, and the speed picks up. This old banger’s never gone so fast. If Billy could see me! He’d die! I laugh aloud, and the little girl laughs with me.

  “Eeeeek! You’re like Stirling Moss!” she giggles, clapping her hands. “Look at Jake and Andy.”

  There, framed against the steep backdrop of rock and sky, I see them, my two boys, bare-chested and brown as berries. The kestrel hovers between them, a wing tip on either shoulder. My foot is pressed hard against the floor of the car, and the speed is exhilarating. I forge towards them, a great pike, coursing through this ocean of blue sky. Jake sees me, cocking his head to one side, trying to work it out with his strange eyes.

  “Does he see you too?” I ask the girl, turning to look into her deep face. “Does he see you?”

  She shrugs, unconcerned, and as I tumble towards them, spitting grit and dust off the narrow mountain path, I smile at Jake, sending my heart out to him, longing for him to understand. The kestrel drops from view and the two boys part, making way for me to pass. Jake nods, a slight tip of his head, and when the car tyres leave the road, I’m really flying.

  Jake, August 1985

  By the time we reach the old barn, we’re drenched in sweat. The air is thick with heat, and the dust from the wooded pathway clings to our bare legs. Nestling into the side of its valley, La Font feels more alone than it did before. It’s miles from anywhere, and apart from our cousins, we haven’t seen another soul in days.

  Inside the cool, dark kitchen Dad sits motionless, his hands resting on the table in front of him. When we stumble through the open doorway, breathless and wild, he turns to us with wet, brown eyes.

  “What is it?” he whispers, standing to face us.

  Andy and I look at each other, scrabbling for the right words.

  “It’s Mum,” I say, “the car – it just, it just—” “—wouldn’t stop,” finishes Andy. “It just wouldn’t stop, Dad. We saw it – it went over the edge. On the bend, Dad. The bend with all the flowers. She just went over…” His voice trails off into this pained whimper, as the shock of the moment washes over us all. I can still see Mum’s calm expression as she raced by, still hear the throbbing beat of blood rushing past my eardrums.

  Andy and I stand in the doorway, our shadows stretching deep into the kitchen as Dad blinks against the sunlight. He stares at the stone floor, one hand limp at his side, the other cradling the back of his head like he’s holding it all in.

  “Stay here,” he says, close to a whisper. I go to answer him, but he grips me by the shoulders and locks his eyes with mine. “Stay here and look after Andy,” he tells me, and he sprints across the sun-baked grass, in his denim shorts and sandals, and disappears into the woods.

  It’s more than an hour before Dad returns. He’s sweaty and covered in dust, and I guess he must have tried climbing down to the car. When Dad left, Andy sat down in the shade of the doorway, staring after him into the woods. He hasn’t moved since. Now, he gazes up at Dad, his face desperate with hope.

  “What’s happening, Dad?” I ask.

  His face looks grey against his dark brown chest, and he avoids my eyes.

  “Dad?”

  Dad shakes his head, his firm expression breaking loose, and then we know it’s all real. Andy starts to cry into his knees, in great juddering sobs. Dad gathers him up and rocks him gently against his body, and he looks so small. My little brother.
>
  My mind scrabbles about for something useful, something practical. “What should we do, Dad? Shouldn’t we tell someone?”

  Dad looks at me over Andy’s head, his face growing calm again. “It’s alright, Jakey. It’s all sorted. There’s nothing else we can do now.”

  The next morning, I wake to the sound of the cock crowing across the valley. Just like any old morning. I stare at the ceiling of the bedroom. Last night was my first night sleeping in the house, and I’m in the single bed next to Andy’s on the furthest side of the room. Dad slept alone in the double bed on the other side of the yellow curtain. The uneven walls seem to ripple in the morning sunlight that floods across the room through our open window. I pick up the extinguished nightlight from the bedside table as I swing my legs out of bed, feeling the cool stone floor beneath my feet. The shallow wax in the bottom of the metal case is full of perfectly preserved tiny moths. There are so many, layered one on top of the other, that it’s impossible to count them. They must have singed their wings in the flame. Andy’s still sleeping, his mouth open and his arm thrown back over his head. I pull the sheets down at the end of the bed, to cover up his toes. Dad’s face is buried in his pillow as I creep past carefully, so as not to wake him. I think he could do with a lie-in, what with yesterday.

  Outside, the mist is rising up from the valley. There’s dew twinkling across the dry grass, and thousands of fine cobwebs weave across the wide stretch of land at the front of the barn. I shudder as I almost step on a giant slug on my way to the stinking chemical loo. I’m more afraid of them than the snakes, if I’m honest. The day we got here, I saw Andy tread on one and its orange innards shot up the back of his leg, all the way up to his thigh. Andy screamed like a girl, and George and me laughed like mad, but it made my stomach churn. Why would God create such a useless, ugly creature? Not that there is a god. In the rising heat, I hold my breath against the stench of the toilet, and I get it over with as quick as I can. I don’t know why Aunt Rachel doesn’t just get a proper loo fitted somewhere.