And the birds kept on singing

by Simon Bourke

  “That’s correct, Jonathan. And why did I say that?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Why did I say that, Jonathan?”

  “’Cos she’s too small.”

  “Well done. One last question, what were you doing out in the back garden just now?”

  “Planning an assault.” He was on the verge of tears now.

  “But what was the name of the game you were playing?”

  “War,” he whispered, ashen-faced and full of remorse.

  “That’s right. You were playing a game I told you not to play.”

  “I’m sorry, Mum. I really am.”

  “It’s not good enough, Jonathan; you can’t do things like this. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  Jonathan’s eyes widened. “Are you okay now, Mum?”

  He didn’t want her to have a heart attack. His Granddad Grimes had had a heart attack and died shortly after.

  “Yes, I’m fine, Jonathan,” she replied wearily. It was always difficult to stay angry at him, which made his aberrations all the more infuriating. But she had to make him understand.

  “Now, as punishment for being so naughty, you’re not allowed to have any chocolate for the next two days.”

  His bottom lip began to quiver as he remembered that there was a second plate of Rocky Road in the fridge.

  “But, Mum …” he began.

  “But nothing, Jonathan. Mummy is very cross. I’m only doing this so you’ll learn.”

  “Okay, Mum,” he said and got up from his seat.

  Margaret hadn’t decided whether she was finished with him or not, but as she watched him amble up the stairs she thought it best to let him be. He wouldn’t forget this in a hurry. There would certainly be no more games of War for the foreseeable future.

  She hated falling out with him, though, hated it. Life would be so much easier if he could just do what he wanted all the time. If she never had to tell him off and he was always happy. She’d feed him Coco Pops for his dinner, congratulate him when he told the neighbours to fuck off and increase his pocket money when he misbehaved in school. He’d be so happy, the happiest child alive, but completely without morals; a feckless, horrible brat with an enormous sense of entitlement. He’d reach eighteen morbidly obese, with no friends and little formal education and head out into the real world, only to scurry home days later asking her to bake him a cake. No, this short-term pain would lead to long-term gain. Every little upset would help to mould him into a fully-functioning, responsible adult. It had better.

  But knowing that didn’t make it any easier. As soon as she’d told him off she yearned for the moment when all would be well again, when his time in the doghouse would be at an end and things could return to normal. Bizarrely, this only happened once she’d apologised to him. Even though he’d misbehaved, she’d feel so bad about telling him off that she’d come begging for forgiveness a few hours later. All that effort scolding him and setting him straight, undone by an apology born out of guilt. She couldn’t help it, though; she never wanted to see him sad and certainly never wanted to be the cause of his sadness, but she had another one to worry about now and life could no longer revolve around Jonathan Philliskirk and his flights of fancy. His apology would have to wait; at least until after lunch.

  When lunchtime came she went to the kitchen to see what she might make for him. It’d have to be something nice, one of his favourites: a peace offering. His favourites changed so often though, ‘the best thing in the world, ever’ could become ‘horrible, I’m never eating that again’ in a matter of days, so she decided to wait until he came downstairs and then ask him what he’d like. Strangely, though, he hadn’t yet emerged from his room. She’d never known him to miss a meal; you could usually set your clock by his stomach. She waited until a quarter past and then went upstairs to see what was wrong. Sophie was asleep in her cot, worn out from her morning adventure, and the door to Jonathan’s room was firmly shut; he was really taking this one to heart, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It killed her to think of him in there all sad and contrite, though, his poor little belly rumbling.

  “Jonathan?” she said, gently tapping on his bedroom door. “Can I come in?”

  “Yes,” a voice replied from inside the room.

  He lay flat on the bed on his stomach, reading a comic.

  “You haven’t come down for your lunch,” she said, sitting on the end of the bed.

  “No,” he said, not taking his eyes from his Beano.

  “Weren’t you hungry?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and sighed.

  Here came the apology. She couldn’t help it.

  “I’m sorry, Jonathan for being cross at you.”

  “It’s okay, Mum. I deserve it.”

  This was new; usually her apology was met with a loving embrace and the ending of hostilities.

  “You weren’t really to know, Jonathan.”

  Now she was really back-tracking. At this rate she’d be joining them for war, football and who knew what else.

  “No, Mum, you were right,” Jonathan said, turning to face her. “But don’t send me back. I’ll be good from now on, I promise.”

  She looked at him, puzzled. “Send you back where, Jonathan?”

  “To the hospital.”

  “Why would we send you back to the hospital?”

  “Because I’m bad.”

  “Jonathan,” she said, moving up beside him, “you’re our son!”

  She took him in her arms and plonked him on her lap. Of late he’d begun complaining when she’d tried to sit him on her lap, but he came willingly now.

  “But you might be able to get a better one in the hospital,” he said, casting his eyes downward. “One that doesn’t play War.”

  Her thoughts immediately turned to Paul: what had that little brat told her son?

  “Jonathan,” she said, tilting his head so that he was forced to look at her. “You’re our son, our only son, and no matter what happens or what you do you’ll always be our son. We’re not taking you back to the hospital or sending you anywhere. Okay?”

  “Are you sure, Mum?”

  “I’m sure. I promise.”

  “But how do you know?”

  “Because we love you with all our heart and we couldn’t imagine life without you.”

  “But my other mother gave me away. Maybe you will too.”

  She pulled him to her chest and held him tight. He seemed so matter-of-fact about it all, as if he’d given it serious thought and accepted his fate.

  “I promise you, Jonathan. I promise, promise, promise we will never give you away, ever.”

  “Okay, Mum,” he mumbled through a face full of cardigan and blouse. She eased her grip, realising she was in danger of smothering him.

  “Do you know how much we love you, Jonathan?”

  “Lots?” he asked uncertainly.

  “Yes, lots.”

  “How much, Mum?”

  She spread her arms as wide as they could go. “This much.”

  “That’s a lot,” he said, pleased.

  “Even more than that,” she said, standing up. “From here,” she said, pointing to the wall behind Jonathan’s bed, “to here,” pointing to his door.

  “Really?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “That’s loads, Mum.”

  “I know, Jonathan. My arms aren’t long enough to show you much we love you.”

  He liked that. “I love you from here to here as well, Mum,” he said, pointing from the wall to the door. “But if my arms could spread from here to Nana Grimes’ house, I’d love you that much.”

  She took him by the hand and gave him one last tight squeeze.

  “Do you want some Rocky Road, my love?” she asked.

  5

  His mother’s words had
reassured him, but Jonathan decided to be on his best behaviour for a while, just in case. She’d said her arms weren’t long enough to show much she loved him, but all that could change if he didn’t start being a good boy. So that meant no more War with his little sister. From now on he would only play the games his parents had approved. This was very boring, though. He quickly learned that nine-month-old babies were limited in the games they could play. Sophie had been a brilliant soldier because all it had involved was crawling through the grass and staying low; unfortunately, she had little else in her skill-set. He brought down all his Star Wars figures and his Millennium Falcon and lined them up in his playroom – it was their playroom now, but he still referred to it as his. Then, thrusting a few Stormtroopers into her hands, he told her that she was the dark side and her job was to stop the rebel invasion. This didn’t go well. No sooner had he turned his back to jettison his troops when she was off crawling down the hallway, Stormtroopers still in her hands, enemy base vacated and vulnerable to attack.

  “Sophie! Come back!” he yelled, the carefully-constructed game crumbling before his eyes.

  But it was no use; she just wasn’t interested. Maybe if he let her be the rebels it’d be different, but there were no guarantees. In one last desperate attempt to involve her in his greatest passion, he took out his beloved light-sabre from its case. He never let anyone use his lightsabre, and only used it himself when he was feeling particularly strong in The Force. But she was his sister, so if she broke it his mum would have to buy him a new one. They sat in the playroom, cross-legged, facing one another.

  “Here, Soph,” he said, handing her the plastic weapon. “You hold it like this.”

  He grabbed the handle and swung the Jedi sword gently through the air.

  “Now you try,” he instructed, forcing it into her hands.

  She gamely held on, and for one magical moment it looked like she was going to cut a swathe through Vader himself, downing the terrible Sith Lord in one foul swoop; then the lightsabre dropped limply from her grasp, flopping down in front of her where she gazed at it accusingly.

  “Ah, Sophie, you’re useless! Do you know that? Useless!”

  He picked up the device and put it back in his toy box. That was it; no more Star Wars. No more wars of any kind.

  However, over time he accepted her limitations, loved her for them even. He no longer cared that she couldn’t play Star Wars with him. They made up their own games, silly little things only they understood, or, in truth, only Jonathan understood. The majority of these games just involved throwing things at one another and rolling around on the floor, but every now and again they got creative. They built forts and spent hours in there giggling and laughing. They sang songs; Jonathan making up the words, Sophie humming and shouting along. They had crawling races, the route never predetermined, but usually taking in three or four rooms and a lap of the garden.

  When she began to learn to walk, it extended their fun. They played hide-and-seek around the house, and sometimes Margaret and Malcolm joined in. Sophie was a terrible hider, though. Her sole trick was to shuffle off to the kitchen and sit beneath the table, chuckling at her own cunning as she concealed herself behind the legs of the chairs. The rest of them dragged the game out for as long as they could, with the usual cries of “Where’s Sophie? I can’t imagine where she could be.” Until finally, when it looked as if she might explode, they checked under the table, exclaiming in surprise: “I’ve found her!” And it never lost its appeal. Even after the hundredth time.

  When the weather improved they took their games outside. Malcolm had constructed a swing set and a seesaw, and, under the watchful eye of their mother, they put the new apparatus through its paces.

  “Careful, Jonathan,” Margaret warned as Jonathan arched his back for more purchase.

  He was already swinging dangerously high, so high that the nuts and bolts, fastidiously tightened by his father, were creaking in protest.

  “I want to see if I can go all the way around, Mum!”

  “You are not going all the way around, Jonathan.”

  While Jonathan attempted to defy gravity, kill himself or both, Sophie was content to be gently pushed back and forth by her mother. This was nice. Her stomach did a little turn every time she swept forward, and for a second or two it got really scary. But then she returned to where she’d started and it was all okay again.

  “Whee,” Margaret sang as Sophie soared all of two feet into the air.

  Her cries spurred Sophie on; she began bucking backwards and forwards like her brother. She wanted to go higher, as high as the sky.

  “Higher, Soph?”

  “Eee,” she replied assertively.

  Margaret did as instructed, pushing her daughter with slightly more force, propelling her a little bit further into the stratosphere.

  She was really moving now; at this rate she’d catch her brother up in no time. She could feel the wind against her face, soft and warm, refreshing. Her little strands of curly hair had been brushed into neat pigtails by her mother a few hours previously; now they flapped in the breeze, free and loose, like herself.

  “Eee,” she commanded, when Margaret took a momentary break.

  “EEE!”

  “Coming, coming,” Margaret replied, assuming her position at the rear of the smaller swing.

  Momentum restored, Sophie concentrated on her brother. He was going very high, but with a little hard work she could not only match his swing but surpass it. She bucked in her seat, her face set determinedly as she cast her gaze towards the skies. The sun burned brightly from above, causing her to squint as she propelled herself forward; then it disappeared and she was thrown into darkness. It was Jonathan: he was blocking it out. Her brother was so big and so strong, he could obscure the entire sun. Forward and back he went into the sky like a shadowy demon, eclipsing the light with each swing. Sophie kept watching, her face a picture of concern as she watched him climb higher and higher, relief washing over her each time he came hurtling back down to earth. He began to call out her name, the word starting way above and ending somewhere in the depths of the surrounding countryside.

  “SOOPPHHHHIEEEEEEEE … ”

  It was a mesmerising spectacle. She stopped thinking about her own progress and instead focused on Jonathan. This boy, her best friend, her big brother, could fly; he could touch the sky. She was seeing it with her own eyes. Then something inexplicable happened, so shocking she could barely comprehend it. He swung into the air once more, calling her name, obscuring the sun – but this time he didn’t come back. He simply vanished. She looked up, panicked. Jonathan was nowhere to be seen, and the sun had resumed its fiery place in the middle of the pale blue sky. Sophie’s lower lip trembled. Where had he got to? What had happened to her brother? She looked sideways, twisted around in her seat but saw nothing, only the smiling face of her mother as she continued to push her. “Whee.” Sophie didn’t want to whee any more, though. She wanted to know what had happened to her brother.

  Suddenly, as quickly as he’d disappeared, he returned. There he was, walking towards her as if nothing had happened; as if he hadn’t just vanished into the sky and worried her half to death.

  “Mum, mum, did you see me jump?”

  “I did, Jonathan.”

  “Was it good?”

  “Very impressive, love.”

  He got back on the swing beside her, idling half-heartedly. Sophie was swinging higher than he now. But she had grown tired of this game and tired of being deceived. She wrestled with the buckles around her waist, twisting impatiently, making it clear she wished to play something else. Her mother released her. “Seesaw?” she asked. Now Sophie was in another seat, one which moved up and down rather than backwards and forwards. This was fun, too. Jonathan sat on the other side and her mother helped her to go up and down, up and down. The best thing about this game was being able to se
e Jonathan all the time, right there directly across from her. When she went up he went down, and vice versa. She laughed incessantly as Jonathan went from being all the way down on the ground, to being way up high in the sky. She made sure to keep a close eye on him this time, lest he disappear once more; then without warning he hopped off his seat, bringing the game to a premature end.

  “Playin’ football,” he announced, running off to the garage.

  Sophie watched him go, sad that the game was over.

  She sat on the grass for a while, watching Jonathan kick the ball, until Margaret went to get some ice-pops from the freezer. All three of them sat slurping their lollies on the decking, Sophie insisting she hold her own despite dropping it on the ground every few seconds.

  “Mum, can I tell you something?” Jonathan asked presently.

  “Of course, Jonathan.”

  “It’s about Sophie.”

  “What about her?”

  “I think I love her now, Mum.”

  Margaret’s first instinct was to cry. His words jabbed at her heart like a pitchfork, prodding it until it almost bled.

  “Do you, pet?

  “Yes, Mum.”

  “Do you know how I know I love her?” he continued.

  “How?”

  “Cos when I think of her it makes me feel nice, the same way I feel when I think of you and Daddy.”

  That finished Margaret. She tried to hold back the tears, but it was no use.

  “What’s wrong, Mum? Don’t be sad!”

  She sniffed away her tears. “I’m not sad, Jon. Sometimes you cry when you’re happy, too.”

  “Is this one of those times?”

  “Yes, Jonathan. You’ve made me very happy. You’re a very good boy.”

  Jonathan was delighted with this. He liked it when he was a good boy; it usually meant sweets, and sometimes even a present.

  As they spoke Sophie watched, melting ice-pop in her hand. What were they saying? Why was her mum crying? Then they both smiled and she smiled too. She liked it when they smiled; it meant they were happy. And if they were happy, she was happy too.