Who Goes Home?

by Sylvia Waugh

  Rupert left the shop with not another word. He stood at the bus stop seething with irritation.

  If only his visit had been made a couple of days later, he might well have had other strangers in his sights. Poor Rupert, with all his earnestness and thoroughness, was destined never to be in the right place at the right time.

  CHAPTER 33

  * * *

  A Restless Night

  Jacob left his father sitting in the bar of the hotel, talking to another computer buff who had come all the way from Scotland for a conference, and would be at the show next day.

  ‘Synchronization’s the thing,’ the man was saying. Jacob hadn’t a clue what they were talking about and was glad to go to his own room to settle down for the night.

  He drew the curtains to shut out the dark. The room was rather bare, with walls painted an uncomfortable shade of yellow. It was at the back of the building. Outside there was a metal fire escape leading down to a dimly lit courtyard. Nothing to see, nothing to do. There was a TV set in the corner of the room opposite his bed, but Jacob chose not to watch it. Last night he had retired much later, after a nightcap in his father’s room and a long, if somewhat empty talk about the Gwynns. Steven was expert at evading unwelcome questions without even seeming to do so.

  Tonight Jacob’s one idea was to get straight to sleep, to make morning come more quickly. He skipped a shower, cleaned his teeth, got into his pyjamas, and said his prayers: ‘. . . as it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.’ The church at home might seem like a club to which he did not quite belong, but that special prayer could encompass everything, even Ormingat. So it seemed to Jacob.

  He lay on his side, curled up and ready for sleep. But sleep would not come. He had made every effort to relax. He had deliberately missed out on the shower in case it woke him up too much. He should have been tired. But sleep refused to come.

  The pillow was too hard.

  He thumped it and plumped it but to no avail.

  The room was too dark.

  He switched on the bedside lamp.

  Then the room was too light.

  So he turned on to his back, stretched out, put his hands behind his head and surrendered to the thoughts that came crowding in . . .

  For a year and a half, Javayl the outsider, child of the broken word, had himself belonged to a very exclusive club. There were just four members: Javayl, Sterekonda, the Brick and the Cube. Their clubhouse was a spaceship buried in a grave in Highgate Cemetery. It had been the most wonderful time of his life.

  For Jacob, losing the spaceship was not a matter of losing the choice of flying to a faraway planet. It was simply losing the spaceship, having his clubhouse pulled down about his ears. This was the dreadful thought that kept sleep at bay. If the Gwynns, by any chance, took their place in the spaceship, it would feel as if they had stolen it. The long-ago entwining had placed something in Jacob’s heart that would not go away. Everything else in his life went out of focus. His mother and sisters were blurred and distant. A deep yearning for a faraway place he had never seen, or could even envisage, overwhelmed him. I love Ormingat.

  It was after midnight when Steven retired to bed. His room was larger than Jacob’s and faced the street, three floors above the ground. From his window he could see a large, railed garden with ornamental trees, leafless for winter. A few cars were still going up and down the hill. But, on the whole, the world was quiet. Steven dosed the curtains and prepared for bed.

  Last night he had slept from sheer exhaustion. The interview with the Gwynns had taken its toll. The time he had spent parrying all those questions Jacob kept firing at him had demanded too much effort for the time of night. He had been glad to see his son go off to his own room and leave him in peace.

  Tonight was different.

  He could not sleep at all.

  ‘I always stay here when I’m in York,’ the man in the bar had said. ‘The beds are about as comfortable as you’ll find anywhere – even at home!’

  Tonight the bed in Steven’s room felt hard and unyielding. The pillow was too flat. The wool blanket itched through the sheet. Nothing felt right.

  At one o’clock he was still awake – awake and worrying.

  How was he going to approach Stella Dalrymple?

  How would he go about dealing with her?

  How would he even get to talk to her?

  He could just imagine himself and Jacob knocking at her door. She would open it just a little. What would she see? A man and a teenaged boy whom she had never met and knew nothing about. She would hardly be likely to invite them in. They could be anyone, thieves or murderers. She had closed the door on the reporter. She had said just two words and then closed the door.

  If we get in, we’re all right, Steven thought, over and over again, but we might not even get across the doorstep.

  At breakfast next morning, Jacob and his father were both very tired. They helped themselves to juice and cereal, and then sat at a table by the window.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep last night,’ said Jacob. ‘I kept worrying about the spaceship.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Steven, and quickly gestured to his son to be silent as the waiter approached with the coffee pot.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ he went on after the intruder had moved off to another table. ‘The spaceship will leave in the early hours of the first of March and we shall never see it again.’

  ‘That is what I am worried about,’ said Jacob. ‘I don’t want never to see it again. It’s our spaceship. Can we not just keep it and stop it from flying anywhere?’

  ‘You know we can’t,’ said Steven. ‘I’ve already explained that to you.’

  ‘You could make some sort of arrangement with the Cube,’ said Jacob. ‘I know the Brick can be a bit shirty, but the Cube sometimes seems quite friendly. It might understand.’

  Steven put down his spoon and drops of milk spurted on to the table. ‘Jacob Bradwell,’ he said quietly but with deep irritation, ‘how can you be so – so anthropomorphic? The Brick is a protection module. The cube is a communicator. They do not possess attitudes!’

  ‘Toast?’ said the waiter. ‘Brown or white?’

  ‘Anything,’ said Steven impatiently. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  The waiter placed a rack with two rounds of each in it on their table and quickly moved away.

  ‘I have my worries too,’ said Steven. ‘I don’t really know how we are going to deal with Mrs Dalrymple. So now you know.’

  Jacob shuddered at the thought of dealing with this woman. He did not know what his father meant. But for the moment he was too tired to ask. There would be time on the train going north.

  They helped themselves to cheese and meats and finished breakfast in silence. It was not an ominous silence. It was not even a thoughtful silence. It was, purely and simply, two men too tired to sing a tired song.

  ‘I think we’ll skip the computer show,’ said Steven, ‘and get an earlier train north. We both need a rest.’

  CHAPTER 34

  * * *

  Matthew Decides

  ‘Don’t even think about it!’

  The door had closed on the Bradwells. So far as the Gwynns knew, they were on their way back to wherever they came from. In the kitchen, the girls were still pursuing the elusive pig bags. Matthew and Alison were seated in the green armchairs, facing one another across the hearth.

  ‘I can see you are tempted,’ Alison went on, ‘but, please, for all our sakes, don’t give it another thought.’

  Matthew smiled at her weakly, self-deprecatingly. ‘The idea of actually boarding a ship and returning home has its attractions,’ he said, ‘but it goes no further than that. Apart from the fact that Nesta has made it quite clear that she won’t go, I don’t trust that fellow at all.’

  ‘I trust him,’ said Alison. ‘He is Ormingatrig and clearly no liar. He is, I believe, even well intentioned. That is what makes him dangerous.’

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p; ‘He’s a maverick,’ said Matthew with unusual vehemence. ‘He may be all you say he is, but he has no regard for the rules. If we took his place in his ship to journey home, we would be as bad as he is. I know he is likeable and friendly, but he has no proper respect for risk. I suppose that’s why he’s a facilitator and I am just a researcher.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He lives on a different level from us. He has spent years manipulating things – things and people. He could get himself out of situations that would leave us baffled.’

  Alison, not for the first time, saw wisdom in Matthew that she often failed to appreciate. She smiled at him affectionately. ‘I’ll go and make the tea,’ she said.

  Nesta and Amy hardly noticed when Alison came into the kitchen. They were deep in the pursuit of a particularly devious purple pig bag.

  ‘We’ll have tea in the front room,’ said Alison. ‘It’s cosier in there. Ready in ten minutes, if you can drag yourselves away from the machine!’

  Amy looked up guiltily. ‘Thank you, Mrs Gwynn. We’ll pack up now. We have been playing a long time.’

  Nesta had control of the game at that point.

  ‘Leave it now, Nesta,’ said Amy. ‘We can save it and go back to it later.’

  ‘OK,’ said Nesta reluctantly. ‘I suppose so.’

  The food was set out on the low table in front of the settee. The two girls shared the settee and Alison and Matthew sat in the armchairs again.

  ‘What would you like to do tomorrow?’ said Alison gently. ‘I mean, you don’t want to spend your whole holiday slaving over a hot computer game!’

  ‘Well,’ said Matthew, joining in, ‘we could all go for a drive. I know the weather’s a bit iffy, but we could drive up to Scarborough. If the sea’s choppy, we can watch the waves. And I know a nice little café where we can have lunch.’

  Nesta gave a deep sigh. She felt embarrassed that Amy should see how utterly square her parents were. Recalling things like the karaoke box in the Browns’ garage, and thinking of the PlayStation game she was just itching to return to, it seemed to her that there was more than one sense in which her family were aliens. They were seriously out of date.

  ‘Can’t we do something more interesting?’ she said. ‘It’s not that I’m ungrateful, Dad. But you do come up with some tame ideas!’

  ‘All right,’ said Matthew a trifle impatiently. ‘It was only an offer. Where would you choose to go?’

  Nesta looked speculatively at Amy.

  Amy said nothing. She would have been very happy to go and watch the waves crashing against the cliffs.

  ‘We could go down to Sheffield,’ said Nesta.

  ‘Sheffield?’ said Matthew.

  ‘We could have a trip to Meadowhall. There are loads of shops there – and a bowling alley. Suzanne Pearson was there at Christmas and she said it was great. I might get some ideas for my birthday present.’

  Now seemed the right moment for Matthew to mention another plan that he had been thinking about. It would be better to discuss it in front of Amy so that she would know that, whatever was decided, Nesta was not going to be snatched away to some unwelcome place. Recent experience had taught him to be cautious.

  ‘Yes, honey,’ he said. ‘We are not likely to forget it’s your birthday in a couple of weeks’ time. Thirteen is quite a special age. I’d like us to do something special for the occasion.’

  ‘Not a party,’ said Nesta in mock horror. ‘Please not a party!’

  ‘A bit more special than that,’ said her father.

  Alison looked at him, mystified, wondering what he was going to say next.

  ‘What then?’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you know either, Mom?’ said Nesta, looking more interested.

  ‘I haven’t a clue!’

  ‘It seems to me,’ said Matthew, ‘that on your thirteenth birthday it would be nice for you to see the land of your ancestors. We’ll take a trip to America.’

  Amy gave her friend a worried look, remembering what had happened last time America was on the agenda.

  ‘Why would we want to go to America?’ said Nesta tersely.

  ‘To lay a few ghosts,’ said Matthew. ‘You need a past and a future. Look at Amy – she knows where she belongs. Her grandmother lives near Pickering, and she has cousins in Beverley. I can’t give you that, honey – much as I would like to. But I can let you see the Statue of Liberty. I can let you know where your family is from.’

  Amy’s family had been discussed when she first arrived, bringing with her not only the PlayStation game, but also an invitation for Nesta to spend a week with her at her grandmother’s farmhouse in the summer holidays. The cousins from Beverley were going to be there.

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Alison.

  Matthew looked at her wistfully. ‘I am completely sure,’ he said.

  Amy looked at Nesta hopefully. What Mr Gwynn said sounded so reasonable. There was no question of helping Nesta to hide out anywhere ever again.

  ‘I think I’d like that,’ said Nesta very deliberately. ‘Yes. I’m sure I would.’

  ‘Settled then,’ said Matthew. ‘I’ll make arrangements tomorrow.’

  ‘What about school?’ said Nesta. ‘We’ll be back at school by then.’

  ‘I’ll see Mrs Powell,’ said Matthew. ‘It will only be for one week. We won’t be staying away indefinitely.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ said Alison after tea was over and the girls had left the room.

  ‘It is, if you like to think of it this way, a sort of experiment. We shall never return to Ormingat. We are here on this Earth for the rest of our lives. What I am suggesting is making our lives as real as possible. Virtual reality is not enough. We are supposed to be Americans, emigrants from Boston. But that’s not just a cover story any more. It’s as near as we can get to having roots here on Earth.’

  ‘It could go wrong,’ said Alison. ‘It could all break down.’

  ‘That’s where my faith is stronger than yours,’ said Matthew. ‘It could go wrong, but I am going to make sure that it won’t.’

  A momentary doubt crossed Alison’s mind. But she dismissed it as not just unworthy, but totally impossible.

  CHAPTER 35

  * * *

  Seeing Stella

  Steven sat on Councillor Philbin’s park bench on the Green in Belthorp. Diagonally across from him, on the other side of the square that included the Green and a broad, cobbled roadway, was the row of Merrivale cottages where Stella Dalrymple lived. It was just after two o’clock on a bright but chilly Thursday afternoon.

  Jacob was already on the Merrivale side of the Green, making his way towards Mrs Dalrymple’s house, rehearsing over and over again what he was meant to say.

  ‘Yes?’ said Stella when she opened the door to him. Before her was a boy of about thirteen or fourteen. He was not someone she had ever seen before. ‘What is it?’

  ‘We need to talk to you,’ said Jacob. ‘My father and I have things we need to tell you about.’

  Stella looked at him suspiciously. ‘Where is your father?’ she asked.

  Jacob pointed across the Green to the seat where Steven was sitting.

  ‘Why has he not come to the door with you, if he has something to say?’ said Stella, cautiously placing one foot behind the door. The boy did not look strong enough to force an entry, but one never knew.

  ‘He thinks you won’t talk to a man and a boy who just knock at your door without any introduction. We could be thieves or murderers.’

  ‘He’s probably right,’ said Stella with a smile. This must be the oddest conversation she had ever had on her doorstep. ‘Are you going to tell me what it is you’re after before I close the door and go back to my ironing?’

  ‘We know where Thomas and his father are,’ said Jacob.

  ‘In that case,’ said Stella very firmly, ‘you should tell the police.’

  ‘They wouldn’t believe us,’ said Jacob. ‘Besides, we just want you to kn
ow that they are safe. And Nesta’s safe too. We saw her with her family in York.’

  Stella’s hand dropped from the side of the door. ‘Nesta!’ she said in a voice little higher than a hoarse whisper. The Nesta connection was surely unknown to Rupert Shawcross or any of his people. This boy and his father, whoever they might be, were surely genuine – whatever genuine might mean in this ever more baffling context. She stood for some seconds and just stared at the boy.

  Then, being Stella, she could not stay fazed for long. She drew a deep breath, opened the door wider, and waved towards the man on the Green.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ she said to the boy. ‘Tell your father to come quickly. The fewer who see you, the better.’

  Stella did not immediately make her visitors welcome. They could not be kept standing outside – that was clear; but inside, she kept them in the little hall and asked very directly why they had come to see her.

  ‘I don’t know why I should be pestered in this way,’ she said. ‘I have not asked for your attention.’

  ‘I know,’ said Steven in a soft, charming voice, ‘and all I can do is apologize. Your mistake was in talking to that reporter, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stella with a sigh. ‘Such a clever thing to say – “Starlight, perhaps”. It rolled off my tongue before I had the chance to catch it. I knew as soon as I said it that it was the wrong thing to say. But I never, ever expected the consequences.’

  She looked from father to son and wondered what might come out of this visit. Neither of them appeared in any way threatening. Stella had a sense of the muddle they had all got themselves into.

  ‘You know everything, I assume,’ she continued. ‘Nesta was here, looking for help. She was so desperate not to be taken away from Earth. Before she came, and after, I had visits from an investigator hoping to find out whether my neighbours came from outer space. He missed you by just two days. Thank goodness he did! Where will it end?’