by Davina Bell
Nobody laughed, because when Teddy surfaced, an awful sound rang out across the water – a sound that was so familiar to Alice by now. It was the hoarse, gasping moan of Teddy’s gas cough.
And then there was just the silence of him sinking, down, down, down.
t was James who pulled Teddy out of the river. He would have won the Swim-Through if he hadn’t stopped to wrench Teddy, limp and grey, from the water, and dragged his body through the shallows. It didn’t take long before Teddy spluttered and opened his eyes, but those awful seconds would be with Alice forever, she was sure.
She thought about them the next afternoon as she lay on her bed, listening to the excited chatter of everyone leaving for the peacetime concert without her.
James had knocked on her door earlier, but she hadn’t answered, and now she regretted it. Yesterday had been such a blur that she hadn’t even really thanked him properly.
As the grandfather clock boomed, Alice felt sick and hollow. I can’t stand to go and watch Jilly, but I can’t stand to be by myself either, she thought crossly. I’m horrible.
When the last chime had died away, she went in search of Teddy. Eventually she found him in the greenhouse, wrapped up in a blanket.
He turned as she let herself in, and looked at her in surprise. ‘Why aren’t you at the concert?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t it Jilly’s big day?’
She sighed. ‘I didn’t go. I couldn’t watch because it used to be me.’ Alice walked over to the clotheshorse that was once her ballet barre and rested her hands on it, looking out at the Sunday sailboats on the river below. ‘Do you think I’m disgusting?’ she asked Teddy.
Teddy went to answer, but he broke out in his hacking, raspy cough, which bounced off the glass walls and made Alice’s ears ring painfully.
‘You’re not disgusting,’ Teddy said when he had recovered. ‘But it’s just not like you.’
‘I don’t feel like me,’ she said. ‘Everything feels wrong.’
‘What would make it right?’ asked Teddy.
I can stand at the back, Alice thought as she ran through the quiet, green streets of Peppermint Grove, and hopefully no one will notice me, and I’ll still be able to congratulate Jilly afterwards. But as she got closer to St Columba’s, the church hall was ringing not with music but with loud chatting. She slipped in the back door to find that the dancing hadn’t started yet. People were fidgeting and some were getting up – it looked as though they were leaving.
‘Alice! I was about to run home to get you,’ said Mabel urgently, appearing by her side. ‘Jilly needs you! This second.’
She yanked Alice out the door and round the back of the hall, where the little church kitchen had been turned into a dressing room. Jilly was sitting with her ankle propped up on a bucket and a bandage round it, her cheeks wet, her nose dripping, and the Fairy Snow Queen’s silk dress on her lap.
Alice gasped. ‘Jilly – your big part! Oh no! I’m so sorry. What are you going to . . .’ She trailed off as Jilly held out the beautiful costume to her. Suddenly she realised what her best friend was asking her to do.
‘I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,’ Alice said shaking her head frantically. ‘I haven’t danced in months – I wouldn’t be any good.’
‘You’re the only one who knows the part. Please – if you don’t do it, the show can’t happen, and we’ve been practising so hard.’
Alice walked around and around in tight circles, her mind a storm of panic. She looked over at poor Jilly, whose eyes were so full of tears that Alice had to turn away to stop herself from crying, too. Jilly just wanted to be the star – just once, thought Alice. I shouldn’t have minded that it wasn’t me. And I shouldn’t mind that I haven’t practised – I’ll remember the steps when I hear the music.
But Alice knew that dancing wasn’t as simple as that for her. I won’t be as good – I won’t be able to jump as high or stretch as far, and my point won’t be sharp, and my dancing won’t be beautiful, she thought wildly. I’ll get puffed. I might trip. And people will say that I’m not good enough to be a real dancer.
‘But I don’t even want to be a dancer anymore,’ she cried, not realising she was speaking aloud.
‘Is that so?’ said a familiar voice.
‘James,’ said Alice, spinning around, her eyes prickling. ‘I’m supposed to – they want me – Jilly –’
James held up his hand. ‘I’ve heard, Alice. Come, now, and take a walk with me. Jilly, you won’t mind, will you? We’ll be back in a few minutes.’
‘The audience will have left by then,’ said Mabel. ‘A few people already have.’
‘Sing for them, Ducks. Distract them. Get George up there if you have to,’ said James, putting his arm around Alice’s shoulder and leading her out the side of the hall and over to the bench by the wishing well.
‘James, please don’t make me,’ said Alice desperately as they sat down. ‘I won’t be any good. I’ll be sick all over the stage.’ Her fingers were twisted so tightly together that her knuckles bulged like white marbles.
James reached into his satchel and pulled out an oblong parcel, wrapped in brown paper, and handed it to Alice. ‘Then you’ll be wanting this. I brought it to give to you after the performance – if you came, which I suspected you would. Open it, Alice.’
Alice tore the paper to reveal a book, pale green with a twirling black-and-white pattern pressed into its cover.
She opened it, and she felt a beautiful warmth unfurl in her chest. ‘Hope and the Wide, Bright Sky by Babington Wilder: First Edition,’ Alice read from the title page. And there was a message, written in the most elegant handwriting. ‘With hope and love to the reader of this book, from your friend and companion, Babington Wilder.’
Alice looked at James in wonder. ‘For me?’
James smiled. ‘For you, Bird. To keep for always. I underlined a passage – where the corner of the page is turned over. I hope you don’t mind, but I read it and thought of you.’ He stood up and kissed the top of her head. ‘Whatever you decide, I’ll be waiting,’ he said, and walked back inside.
Leafing through the book to the page with the turned-down corner, Alice flipped past sentences she had read over and over – that she’d had read to her by Teddy before she was old enough to know them for herself. So when she got to the underlined words, it was Teddy’s voice that she heard, clear and calm and steady. It was the voice he’d had before the war, before he was cold and gruff.
Said Hope to the Boy on the edge of the sill, ‘How lucky you are to be able to fly.’
Said the Boy with a frown, ‘I’d cut off my wings if I could, but they’d only grow back.’
‘Don’t you like to fly?’ asked Hope in surprise. ‘Doesn’t it make you feel free?’
‘It frightens me,’ scowled the Boy. ‘How do I know that my wings will support me?’
Hope laughed prettily. ‘But that’s what they’re for, Boy.’
Said the Boy, ‘Do not laugh. How would you like to feel you’re a coward? Always to tremble and never be brave?’
‘Why, if that’s the case, you’re brave every day,’ Hope said, and tossed her golden hair. ‘To be all that you are in spite of your fear, why, that’s bravery. And to use what you have even when you might fail, now that’s courage. Does that cheer you, Boy?’
The Boy held out his feather to her, and she took it and put it behind her ear. He tiptoed to the edge of the ledge, and Reader, he paused – and he flew.
Alice closed the book and stood up. She walked slowly back to the hall, and there was Mama standing outside the doorway, bending over and fanning herself.
‘Mama,’ Alice said. ‘I’m going to dance. I’m going to be the Fairy Snow Queen.’
‘What are they laughing at?’ Alice asked Mabel as she tied on Jilly’s ballet shoes, which were luckily only the tiniest bit too big.
‘It’s George, reading his opus. You won’t believe it, but he’s bringing the house down.’
Alice couldn’t beli
eve it, but as she twisted up her hair and topped it with the glittering tiara, the hall rocked with stamping feet, and the air rung with whistles. Oh George, she thought. They love you! I’m so sorry I called you a bore.
When he came off the stage, Alice was waiting in the wings to grab him and plant a big kiss on his face.
He frowned and wiped it away. ‘Urgh, what was that for?’
‘I didn’t take your opus very seriously, and I should have,’ said Alice. ‘I’m so sorry. You must be a wonderful writer. People would have left if it wasn’t for your opus.’
‘That’s all right, Alice. Genius is rarely understood.’
‘You’re a dark horse, writing something funny. I thought you were working on a tragedy.’
George looked down and shook his head. ‘It was,’ he said. ‘But people couldn’t stop laughing. I admit that I’m rather perplexed by the whole affair.’
‘I wouldn’t worry,’ said Alice seriously, though she badly wanted to smile. ‘As you say, genius is rarely understood.’
Then someone put on the gramophone and a light shone down the middle of the stage, and Alice ran to it. She pointed her foot behind her and brought her arms to third position, soft and supple and strong. The curtains opened, the music swelled, the audience applauded.
And Alice knew with everything in her that this was what she wanted to do for the rest of her life.
When the Fairy Snow Queen curtseyed for the final time, a tiny girl brought out a bouquet of white roses for Alice. Then the audience were on their feet shouting ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ and Alice had to wipe her eyes.
She glanced down and saw dear, poor Jilly crying, and Mama and Little, too. Mabel was standing on her chair, one hand on James’s shoulder. And at the back of the hall she thought she might have seen Teddy, but perhaps it was only wishing. She ran off the stage and on again, but the clapping wouldn’t stop; it just thundered around her like rain on the roof. As she looked out at the crowd, for the first time in such a long time the world felt light and free.
She didn’t see the moment when Mama fell to the ground. She only realised it had happened when people started to crowd around in a tight little huddle that Alice had to burst through once she’d leapt from the stage to another wave of applause.
‘What’s wrong?’ she cried. ‘Mama?’
‘She’s burning up – she’s got a fever,’ said George, putting his hand to Mama’s smooth forehead. ‘I’m sure of it. And look – she’s got a rash on her neck. Mama?’ he said loudly.
But Mama didn’t respond.
‘I’m calling for the doctor,’ said James.
‘Take Pudding and Little away, will you, James?’ George asked as he tried to shake Mama a little more roughly.
Alice knelt down beside her and brushed her cheek against Mama’s lips, not caring that the Fairy Snow Queen’s tiara clattered to the ground. ‘She’s breathing – though why’s it so rattly? Mama, can you hear me?’ she asked desperately, and stroked Mama’s beautiful hair. She felt something wet, and pulled her hand away. ‘What’s this sticky stuff around her ears, George?’
They looked down at Alice’s hand, which was covered in something dark and streaky, and then back up at each other.
It was blood.
ama,’ whispered Alice as she held her mother’s cool, dry hand and stroked her elegant fingers. ‘I’ll never forget you. Not ever.’
But Mama didn’t answer. She lay on her bed, still and pale, as though she’d been chipped from marble and polished. Her breath rasped and creaked as it struggled out of her throat.
While Alice sat by the bedside, she looked out the window at the curls of moonlight dancing on the river and tried to remember the last thing she’d said to Mama before she’d been taken ill at the peacetime concert, back in the autumn. Was it something kind? Had Alice said that she loved her? She had tried so hard to remember, but she couldn’t be sure.
This was the third time Alice had said goodbye since Mama had caught the Spanish flu. Twice before, her mother had lived through long, scary nights where foamy blood had poured from her nose and her ears, and her breath had rattled like a door in a storm. Instead of getting easier, each time it got harder to kiss her goodbye. Alice wasn’t sure if she could do it again – if she could bear to hear Little ask once more if it hurt to die.
Dr Peters said it was remarkable that she had survived this long – that many people died within a week and some within a day. But Mama had hung on. ‘She must have a lot to fight for,’ he’d said kindly. ‘And you must have kept everyone nice and healthy here, Alice, because it’s a miracle none of the rest of you have gone down.’
Oh Mama, please don’t leave me, Alice thought desperately. I’m frightened of being an orphan. And Pudding’s too young to be without you.
But she tried to keep her face calm and her voice steady. ‘Mabel,’ she said to her sister, who was nestled into the crook of Mama’s knees, ‘could you fetch some more aspirin? And get Little to make some warm milk and cinnamon?’
Mabel uncurled and stretched and went trotting off downstairs. Then George knocked lightly on the door and came in to take Mama’s pulse. Through the haze of her panic Alice thought for the hundredth time how brave her brothers and sisters were, and how strong.
‘It’s time to call Dr Peters,’ said George gravely, after a little while. ‘I’m sorry, Alice.’
Alice nodded and swallowed hard. ‘Can you bring Pudding in on your way back?’
And then it was just Alice and Mama and the moonlight, and the sound of the wind through the peppermint trees, and the thrumming of Alice’s heartbeat in her ears. ‘I’ll talk to you all the time when you’re in heaven,’ Alice said shakily. ‘I’ll tell you how everyone’s going.’ But did Mama believe in heaven? Alice had never asked. There would be so many things that she wouldn’t be able to find out from Mama now, and the thought of all those questions with no answers made a tear slip down Alice’s cheek. The wind picked up and whistled a little, and she started to shiver. It was almost winter now.
The door opened again and suddenly everyone was there: Teddy with a tumbler of whisky, Little with the milk, George with the bottle of aspirin, Mabel with something on a plate – in the dim light Alice couldn’t quite see what – and Pudding with a potato to slip under Mama’s pillow, which Mrs McNair had told them was the only cure for Spanish flu.
‘It’s killed more people around the world than the Great War now, this sickness,’ she’d told them. ‘Try putting salt up your mother’s nostrils tonight,’ she’d added solemnly, and frowned when Mabel had giggled.
But though people had new ideas every week, there didn’t seem to be a cure for Spanish flu, and it had swept around the world, as strong and unstoppable as the flames that hurled through the bush in the summer.
‘What’s that you’ve got, Mabel?’ Alice asked as Pudding slid the potato under the pillow and tucked herself in alongside Mama’s cheek.
Mabel climbed up on the other side of the bed, carefully balancing the plate so she wouldn’t spill what was on it. ‘It’s onions – raw ones. Come now, Mama,’ she said loudly. ‘Just chew this – just a little. I’ve heard it’s very good for you.’
Alice winced as Mabel forced her fingers into Mama’s mouth. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘She might –’
‘Ow!’ Mabel jerked back her hand and glared at Mama. ‘I’m only trying to help you,’ she said angrily.
Mama sucked in an extra loud breath, followed by a string of short, sharp ones.
‘There, there,’ said Pudding, patting Mama’s forehead with her plump fingers, just as Mama had done when Pudding got the chicken pox. Alice felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach by Tatty, their goat.
‘Shall I put you to bed?’ said Teddy to Mabel, taking the plate of onions.
His voice had none of the warmth and tenderness that it’d had before he’d gone to war, back when he’d called Alice ‘Tink’ and dashed about on his bicycle and spent every spare minute painting.
Remembering those times made Alice want to cry out for all that she’d lost. Since then, Papa Sir, their father, had died at sea, and the war had stolen the old Teddy and replaced him with someone who was prickly and sad. Even Mama’s illness hadn’t brought him back from the cold, lonely place where his mind seemed to be. And now they were losing Mama, too – stylish, clever, beautiful Mama.
‘It’s not fair,’ said Alice, mostly to herself.
‘Life’s not fair, I’m afraid,’ said George. ‘Yes, I’ve written many a poem about the world’s injustice. Would you like me to fetch –’
‘I want to stay,’ said Mabel, wriggling out of Teddy’s grasp. ‘Let’s not take it in turns tonight, and just be here together – can’t we, Alice? Let’s not any of us leave Mama, and then she might decide not to leave us.’
Alice wasn’t sure that sickness really worked like that, but it didn’t matter now. ‘Why not? At least until Dr Peters comes,’ she said.
‘Well, about that,’ said George. ‘Unfortunately, he’s not coming after all. Someone’s having a baby, and then there are three new flu victims for him to see afterwards. His wife says he’s awfully sorry, but that probably all we can do now is wait. We’re on our own.’
Perhaps Mama heard him then; perhaps she didn’t like the idea at all, or maybe it was just a coincidence. But when they all fell glumly silent, she groaned a little. And then, with no warning, she sat bolt upright, as if a catapult had thrown her forward. She gave a great cough, and a rivulet of blood dribbled out of her mouth, the deep red of raspberry jam.
Then something incredible happened. Mama opened her eyes and said, ‘Tiens!’
And she smiled.
lice was thinking about that astonishing night a few weeks later as she tiptoed down the hallway wrapped in Papa Sir’s soft dressing gown, her ballet shoes dangling around her neck. Carefully jumping over the floorboards that creaked, she slipped through the kitchen and out the side door. The sky looked just like the painted ceiling of a cathedral that Papa Sir had once described to them – as if the stars were crystal teardrops hanging from a big piece of navy velvet. It was what she imagined heaven might look like. Good grief, I still haven’t asked Mama if she believes in heaven, Alice thought, remembering. But perhaps now she wouldn’t need to.