The Amazing Mind of Alice Makin

by Shea, Alan

  He nods.

  I go in first: check that Bert isn’t home. Then I let us both into the front room. It’s damp and empty, as if no one has lived here for years. The room smells of old cooking. Plaster is peeling off the walls. I put on a light. It helps a bit. I open the cupboard. There’s some bread there, stale but not mouldy.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Here, pass me that jam, will you? Crust OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I like crusts. I s-said are you all right?’

  ‘I heard you.’

  I can feel him looking at me. I don’t look at him. Then he reaches out. Touches my hand.

  ‘It’ll be all right s-soon, Alice.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  I pass him the crust.

  Maybe I still need more time to get things right in my own head. I wonder if there’s enough time in the world to do that.

  The jam is sweet. You can taste the strawberries. Reggie looks funny with his lips red from the jam. He tosses a bit to Flash, who wolfs his down in no time and stands looking up for more.

  Reggie says, ‘If you want t-to talk to me about things . . . ?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The sun peeks out to see if anyone has noticed it’s been hiding. Should be ashamed of itself. We go out and just walk. Anywhere. Aimless. End up over near the bombed houses, where we had the bonfire. You can still see where it was. I kick fragments of charred wood like I expect to find something there. A bit of magic maybe.

  There was a storm last week. Most of the canvas that we used as a roof over the air-raid shelter was ripped off. What’s left flaps about like a bird trying to take off. The place feels sad. Most of the things we kept inside – the comics, a few games – are lying in damp piles.

  We look around for the canvas. Don’t find it. I check in my hiding place for the biscuit tin. It’s still there. I touch the lid for luck. Peer at the picture of the little girl. Wish I was with her in that field with the faded blue sky overhead. Wonder again what that is on the ground near her. I try to see what’s under the rust spots and cracked paint. I do that every time, as if one day it’ll suddenly be clear.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You keep s-staring at that tin.’

  ‘Yeah. Fine. Just wondering.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I put it back. Pick up bits and pieces of our things – I don’t know why – like I’m trying to put something back together again that won’t go.

  Reggie takes out his knife, picks up a piece of wood and starts to cut slivers from it. The wood shavings make patterns on the ground. Curls of white wood against the black earth, like writing. He cuts down hard. Pulls the knife through the wood, slicing it in two. Then he picks up the large piece and begins to sharpen it to a point. He uses the wood like a dart, throwing it into the ground.

  Flash thinks it’s a game, seizes his opportunity, grabs it and runs off, shaking it like a rat.

  Then, for some reason, I make up my mind. ‘Reggie?’

  I hear in my voice that I’m going to tell him. He looks up.

  ‘Something happened the other night. It might have just been a nightmare but . . .’

  I tell him about the snake-belt, but even as I’m doing it things get mixed up in my head. I was asleep. I woke up. I know Bert hit me: I had the marks to prove it, but what about the other stuff?

  Did I really make him see what I was seeing, or was it just my imagination working overtime? Maybe I only dreamed that part. Veronica told me once that when you’re sleeping you sometimes make things happen in your dreams that you wished had happened in real life.

  Reggie doesn’t say anything for a while. We just walk.

  ‘I know you’re confused about things, Alice, b-but it’s like I told you. You’re f-finding out about yourself now. Soon you’ll know. Until then we have to stick together. That way we’ll be stronger.’

  ‘But what do I have to do?’

  ‘B-believe in yourself. Believe that you can do anything.’ He pauses. ‘What about your stepdad? What did he say about what happened?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s hardly home now but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I get the feeling that he’s always around.’

  ‘What d’you m-mean?’

  ‘Can’t explain, just like wherever I am he’s there too, watching me. Like he knows . . .’

  ‘Knows what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Blimey, I’m beginning to sound as barmy as you do.’

  We walk and walk. Don’t say much. Wrapped up in our thoughts. Together. On our own. By the time we get back the sun’s starting to slide down a dusty-red sky. We cross the bomb site, walk along Sidney Street towards Watney Street.

  The market’s still open. Stall lights beginning to glimmer on. The stallholders are busy, selling fruit and vegetables. Oranges tumble on a spiky green cloth doing its best to look like grass. Apples and pears are piled high into polished pyramids; I’d love to take the bottom one away and watch all the others fall, but I don’t. There are some clothes stalls too. Heaps of clothes piled high. Women toss them about, looking for bargains that aren’t there.

  We wander in and out of the darkness, sometimes stopping under the bright bare bulbs of the stalls, sometimes standing in the shadows just watching people. Reggie stops to talk to a man on a stall who’s bent down to stroke Flash. The light shines off the man’s bald head. He straightens. Tells Reggie he used to have a dog just like Flash once. Best friend he ever had. He polishes an apple on the leather apron he’s wearing and gives it to Reggie. Sees me and gives him another. I’m still hungry and bite into mine. Juice spurts out, sharp and delicious. Hurts my teeth. Flash is nosing among the last piles of rubbish, crawling underneath stalls and getting in everybody’s way. Reggie puts the piece of string back around his neck and we walk on.

  We’re on the edge of the market now. We cross Commercial Road and go into Sidney Street, Flash pulling at his lead trying to chase shadows. I look over my shoulder. Get a feeling that someone is watching us. I shiver. There’s no one there. Just the dark.

  ‘There’s something else I want to tell you.’ It comes out before I can stop it. I don’t really mean to tell him, but I suppose it’s been building up in me. The words Mum spoke in the hospital growing, getting bigger and bigger in my head.

  ‘I went to see my mum in hospital last week. She told me something.’ I stop. I can’t say it at first. To say it makes it real. Then I force the words out. Traitor words. ‘She told me . . .’ I take a breath. ‘I’m adopted. I’m not her real child.’

  There. Not so difficult after all. The words sound so simple I can’t believe I’ve just told him something so important to me. That’s the thing with words. They’re there day after day. Doing what they’re told. Obeying instructions. Open your mouth and out they come. Soldiers of information. Never a second thought. Never question an order. Then one day it’s your feelings they have to explain. Describe what can’t be described. Down goes a soldier. Shot through the heart.

  I look at Reggie. He stares straight ahead; looks really sad. Takes off his glasses. Quickly wipes them on his sleeve. I carefully take out the photograph.

  ‘She gave me this. Well, she gave it to Mrs Gilbey to give to me. It’s a photograph. It’s me as a baby. It’s got torn. See? I’m being held by a man and there’s someone else, looks like he’s got his arm around her. Trouble is, that’s the missing bit.’

  I’m not looking at Reggie’s face but I can feel him change. Hear it in his voice.

  ‘Here, let me see.’

  He holds out his hand. I was right. There’s a look in his eyes. He takes the photograph. He stares at it for ages. I get the feeling he wants to say something, but he looks as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. He turns it over. Then back. Peers at it again.

  ‘Reggie? You all right?’

  There’s a long pause. I wonder if he’s ever going to say anything. Then he d
oes.

  ‘This is it, Alice, part of the p-puzzle. Part of the story. It’s all s-starting to make sense at l-last. There’s s-something I can show you now.’

  ‘Well, go on then, if you’ve got something that’s going to make any sense of all this you’d better show me.’

  ‘I can’t, not yet. I just need to be sure. To check something.’

  ‘Here we go again.’

  ‘No, I p-promise as soon as I’m sure I’ll show you. Can I k-keep this for a while?’

  ‘Suppose so. Keep it safe though. It’s the only photo I’ve got of me as a little kid.’

  He smiles. ‘I’ll guard it with my life then.’

  We reach the corner where Sidney Street turns left into Hawkins Street. Muffled light seeps from curtained windows. Street lights struggle, glimmer yellow. One lamppost wears a bicycle-tyre necklace. Ropes dangle from another one where kids have been playing swings.

  Norman’s dad is putting a nosebag on Daisy. She’s usually kept in the yard where he works. He only leaves her outside his house when he wants to get an early start. She chomps hungrily. Shuffles her feet. The metal on her hooves rings out like bells.

  We’re partly walking and thinking and partly walking and talking. ‘Did your mum know anything else? I mean, how you got to the children’s home, or anything about your real parents?’

  ‘No, she thought they must have been killed in the bombing raid. Funny, it all feels so mad. One day I was Alice Makin, now I don’t know who I am. That’s pretty scary. Not to know who you are or where you come from.’

  ‘You do know who you are, Alice. You’re you. Nobody can ever take that away. It doesn’t m-matter who your mum and dad are, what m-matters is what you are . . . in your heart. You’re a special person.’

  Why did he have to go and say that?

  I stop. Get out my handkerchief.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Just got something in my eye.’

  ‘You know your m-mum loves you. That’s the important thing.’

  ‘Oh yeah? And what about my real mum?’

  ‘I’m sure she loves you as well, Alice.’

  Suddenly I’m crying. It’s not like me – usually I keep it all bottled up; Little Miss Tough Guy. That’s what you have to do around here to survive. Don’t let ’em see you care. Keep it all in. But I do care. That’s the point. Maybe that’s the problem.

  Reggie puts his arms around my shoulders. Drops Flash’s string. Even Flash seems to know something’s wrong: he licks my hand, then nudges me with his nose.

  I shiver. The air changes. It’s suddenly cold. I feel the darkness like I did that night in my bedroom. Like you could reach out and touch it. Thick. Heavy. In the wedge of shadow that angles out from the wall, something moves. I stop. Wipe my eyes.

  ‘You all r-right?’

  ‘Not sure. There’s something over there.’

  Flash growls. It moves from the shadows. A cat. Black, except for a white tip on its tail, flicking about in the darkness. It’s watching us. But it’s the eyes that make me catch my breath. Cold eyes that stare straight into mine. Like it’s looking inside me. Like it knows me, really knows me. Flash moves towards it. I bend down to try and grab the string – too late. The cat hisses. A spiteful, vicious hiss. Flash barks loudly, then flies off like an arrow from a bow. Reggie yells. The cat turns and waits for Flash, waits like it’s laying a trap. Then it runs.

  I don’t really see what happens next. It rushes across the road in a blur, heading for Mr Higginbottom’s milk cart. Flash follows. This is his territory and no strange cat is going to outsmart him!

  The cat dodges in and out of the shadows. Cloaks itself in the darkness. Weaves in and out of the night. Torments Flash.

  I hear Reggie’s voice call, ‘Flash, here boy. Come on, Flash!’

  Flash hesitates for a second: looks back at us, then at the cat. He barks once as if to let us know he won’t be long, unfinished business, then takes off, barking loudly at the shadows. The two of them are a rushing blur. Flash catches up with the cat just as it’s about to reach Daisy’s feet. At the last minute the cat turns and looks back at Flash, then it springs through the air towards Daisy, its claws unsheathed. It buries them in the horse’s back. Daisy snorts in pain. Stamps angrily. Tries to shake off what was on her back. But the cat has already gone. Vanished in the shadows. Melted into thin air.

  Flash arrives in a bundle of fur. Chasing nothing now. Sees Daisy. Tries to stop. He’s going too fast. He cannons into her legs. Daisy tosses her head violently. I stand there. It’s as if this moment is going to last for ever. Me and Reggie looking across the road at Flash. Fixed in time. Frozen here. Watching. Waiting. Flash is right under Daisy’s feet. Trying to get out. But he’s trapped there. She shakes herself, snorts furiously, then kicks out with her back legs. Reggie shouts, but it’s all like a bad dream now. I hear a terrible howl. A thud. Then silence.

  All I want in the whole world at that moment is for Flash to run back to us. I call out. Hold my breath. Will him to come back. Against the light of a distant window something catches my eye. Someone is standing there. A trail of cigarette smoke rises into the air. Sparks fly as the glowing end flicks through the air.

  20

  Flash

  I’m aware of a light going on in Mr Higginbottom’s window. Reggie runs past. Something takes over, making me move, but my body seems heavy. It takes me ages to get across the road. By the time I reach the shadows of the cart Norman’s dad is coming out of his front door, silhouetted against the light. He’s shouting something about how he’s going to ‘kill those bloody kids’. For a moment I can’t see Reggie and then I almost fall over him. A shaft of light picks him out. He’s kneeling, hunched in the darkness. His head bowed, holding a small bundle in his arms. A small bundle of black and white fur. I look up to see Mr Higginbottom.

  ‘What the hell . . . ?’ He stops, calls back into his house. ‘Ellen, fetch a blanket. Hurry up.’

  Reggie looks up at me. I can see his face clearly in the oblong of light coming from the open door. It has no expression. The sticking plaster has come off his glasses. From the pavement a small pool of blood drips slowly into the gutter. He says in a voice I can hardly hear, ‘Get Granddad, Alice. Get Granddad.’

  I feel nothing except my heart pounding as I run up the stairs and bang at the door. Somewhere a baby cries. A man shouts. The door opens, and a chink of light escapes on to the landing.

  ‘Granddad, quick. Come quick.’

  ‘What is it, lassie?’

  ‘You’ve got to hurry. Something’s . . . Flash . . . oh, please, come on.’ I hear words stumbling out of my mouth. Mixed up in the wrong order.

  Granddad hobbles down the creaking stairs after me. He seems slow. Old. The light on the stairs is out. I go down first and stay close to him, in case he falls. If he does I hope he falls on me, that I’m knocked unconscious. Then, when I wake up, this will all be over, like some nightmare that never happened.

  We go quickly into the chill of the night. Mr Higginbottom has brought a torch. Its weak yellow beam pokes its finger into the darkness. Reggie is sitting as I left him, cradling Flash. Someone has put a blanket around his shoulders.

  It seems to take Granddad a while to work out what’s happened. As if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Very gently he bends over Reggie. Carefully, as though he is touching something too delicate and valuable to be touched, he lays his hand on Flash. He says nothing for a while, then he puts his arm around Reggie’s shoulders.

  Mrs Higginbottom comes out of her house carrying a tray of hot tea. It steams in the darkness. Her husband lights her path like an usherette in the cinema. Norman follows her, in pyjamas and wellington boots with his rifle over his shoulder. He kneels down and puts his arm around Reggie. In the darkness the two figures merge into one. Almost as if Norman has turned into a blanket and has draped himself over Reggie.

  Mrs Higginbottom puts the tray down on the pavement. ‘Drink this, Reg.�
�

  I’ve never heard anyone call him Reg before. Reggie doesn’t move. Mr Higginbottom offers a cup to Granddad. He smiles his thanks, but shakes his head. I do the same.

  After a while Granddad eases his arm under Flash’s head. ‘I’ll take him for a minute.’

  Reggie looks up at him as if he doesn’t recognize him. His mouth opens. No words come out.

  Granddad says, ‘We need to get him home, son.’ Then adds, ‘Into the warm, eh? Let’s get the poor fellow into the warm.’

  Slowly, as if he can’t bear to release his grip, Reggie moves his arm, lets his dog go. Carefully Granddad cradles the dark shape. Stands up.

  Reggie says, ‘Wait.’

  He takes the blanket off his shoulders and wraps it round Flash. Then he gets up, turns and looks at me. ‘It’ll be all right, Alice. I p-promise.’

  And all I can think is that after all this he’s still thinking of me. Suddenly I don’t care about what’s happening to me. All I want is for Flash to be all right.

  ‘I won’t be a minute. I’ll nip home and leave a note. I’ll come up.’

  They don’t seem to hear me. They’re concentrating on the bundle. Moving slowly. Gently.

  In our front room, which is really the back room, I switch on the light. I find the box of matches in the drawer, strike one and light the greasy, dirty old gas cooker that stands in the corner. This, I know, will warm up the room quickly.

  I sit down at the table. The bread is still out, with the jam, where I left it. If only we could go back. If only. I push the loaf to one side and put my head on the table, realizing for the first time how tired I am. A single tear trickles down my cheek and into the corner of my mouth. It tastes salty.

  More tears follow. I try to think them away. Maybe we should get the roof on our camp fixed. Get some really strong canvas. My face is wet. Keep out the rain and the cold. Take a torch over there. Tears drip. I smear them away. Pretend I’m not crying. Think good thoughts. It’s my birthday soon. Maybe I can get a torch then, and some comics. Make it really snug. Yes, that will be good.