The Realities of Aldous U

by Michael Lawrence

  ‘Morning, Aldous,’ said a voice.

  Aldous turned. ‘Hullo, Mr. Knight.’

  These two had first met in March, a couple of weeks after Aldous’s return. Dedicated walkers even in these conditions, they had often bumped into one another since then and continued on together, though only Mr. Knight was suitably attired. When introducing themselves at their second meeting, Aldous had provided his full name, which for some reason seemed to surprise Mr. Knight, who’d merely said ‘Knight’ when proffering his hand. This was fine with Aldous. To him, if to no one else, Mr. Knight was very much his senior; as such, it wouldn’t have felt right calling him by his first name. During one of their early conversations Mr. Knight had mentioned that back in the Thirties and Forties his father was gardener at Withern Rise, information which had jogged Aldous’s memory in a small but quite valuable way. He and the present Mr. Knight talked of many things during their walks, but it was Aldous who offered the most about himself. He held very little back, saw no reason to, and it was good to tell someone about his life. This morning, however, he wasn’t in much of a talking mood, though he couldn’t have said why. Mr. Knight was his usual self – friendly but not verbose – and to fill a gap as they stood barely passing the time of day in the flooded market square, Aldous indicated the sign that had released the latest memory.

  ‘I used to know a Hobb,’ he said.

  ‘That’s Johnny Hobb,’ Mr. Knight told him. ‘Eric’s son.’

  ‘Eric? My Hobb was an Eric. But he died. As a lad. Bike accident.’

  ‘Well this Eric’s still about – and still riding a bike in his late seventies. Fit as a fiddle and quite a character.’

  Aldous glanced about him. A lighting fixtures showroom occupied the premises next to Woolworth’s. Yesterday, when he’d looked in the window, it was a greetings card shop. He’d done it again. Crossed over without noticing. Eric Hobb was still alive here. An old man. Here, he hadn’t paused on the bridge when he was fifteen.

  Monday: 15

  Evening. Naia sat in her room, pampered cat in lap, thinking about the third reality. Withern looked rather nice there, she thought. Bit old-fashioned, but cozy. She’d noticed a small corrugated iron hut standing in the water near the kitchen, roof covered in turf. What could that be? A playhouse for young kids? And the boy in the tree. He was so obviously an Underwood, but she didn’t know him. Unable to fit the boy into the family line as she knew it, she turned her mind to Alaric’s presence. She imagined that he had touched the tree in his present reality while she was reaching for the cat in the same tree in this, and that their unplanned synchronicity had been sufficient to bring them together for the first time in months – in a reality to which neither of them belonged. This suggested that the tree itself was responsible for their reunion. But how could a tree orchestrate such a thing? Hard enough to imagine a hand-carved ornament flipping them between realities, but a tree?

  What mattered more than the cause of their mutual crossover, however, was: could it be made to happen again? And, to be transported to the third reality, did she and Alaric have to make simultaneous contact with the tree? She would like to go back, find out about the boy and his family, but she wasn’t sure that she wanted Alaric there. In the four months since their last meeting she’d somehow managed to forget that he wasn’t the most desirable company in the world. Any world.

  Monday: 16

  Alaric lay in bed, staring at the slow bright shadows on the ceiling, thinking over what had happened. About meeting Naia again, and the reality with more trees and higher water levels, the young boy. The boy. Could he really have been an Underwood? But no other family members lived anywhere near Eynesford and Stone, so...

  He sighed. What did it matter? There was probably no way to find out who the kid was. It wasn’t as if you could pop in and out of realities just because you felt like it. But then, about to close his eyes, he thought:

  ‘Or can you?’

  The first time he found himself in another reality after touching the tree it had looked and felt identical to the one he was born into. That visit had shaken him quite a bit, and he’d avoided the tree ever since as a result. But knowing there was a reality besides that one, shouldn’t he...

  No. Stop. Be content.

  He turned over. Covered his head with a pillow.

  TUESDAY

  Tuesday: 1

  Aldous had asked his mother if he could go a little further today, but she remained adamant. After completing two circuits of the garden he began to grow bored and, again finding himself near the tree, he was reminded of yesterday’s visitors. Pulling closer, he called out softly – ‘Hullo? You there?’ – and was not surprised when no one answered. He docked the boat against the trunk and sat there, looking about him. The branches being so low over the water, and so leaf-laden, he could not see the upper half of the house, but much of the garden’s extent could be viewed from there. Gazing around at all this, he felt quiet proprietorial. Born at Withern Rise, like his father, like Ursula and Ray but not Mimi, his first sights and senses of the world had been within its boundary walls – an enclosure which suited him very well. For half his life the world outside had been an arena of conflict which had intruded hardly at all here. He could barely remember a time when the wireless was not ritually tuned in for the seven o’clock news, when silence was expected as the newsreader with the superior voice reported the latest casualties, triumphs, patriotic declarations. He’d never paid much attention to the news. Nor had Mimi and Ray. Only Ursula had listened, latterly at least. From the age of eight she had taken to standing close to Father when the news was on, leaning forward with him to catch every nuance of the sonorous tones issuing from the speaker. When the main bulletin was over she would give a small nod, as if to say that she understood all that she’d heard, and return to the equally absorbing business of childhood.

  The nearest Withern Rise had come to being touched by the conflict was the German Heinkel that came down in the Coneygeare in the spring of 1941. Engine failure, Father said. A bunch of lads had been first on the scene. There was a rumor that the pilot was still alive then, just about, and that Jed Cronyn had punched him in the mouth and pulled one of his teeth as a souvenir. The only thing anyone knew for certain was that the pilot was dead by the time the police arrived. The broken body was taken away and kids and adults from all about converged on what was left of the strange foreign aircraft, pinching anything that was loose or could be easily removed: trophies to be gazed upon years afterwards with the pride of warriors who had risked all.

  ________________

  The morning had brought a change of heart, as mornings often do, though he was all set to regret it before Naia looked round the tree.

  ‘Great minds, eh?’ she said brightly.

  He stepped back, beyond her reach. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

  ‘Where did you two come from?’ said Aldous from his boat ten feet away.

  ‘Space,’ said Alaric.

  The lad turned the boat and rowed back.

  ‘You weren’t here a minute ago.’

  ‘Neither were you.’

  ‘I was. I called. Why do you keep coming here? It’s not your garden.’

  ‘Can you prove it’s yours?’

  ‘I don’t have to. That’s my house over there.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘It is!’ Aldous said, emphatically.

  ‘Stop picking on him,’ Naia said to Alaric.

  ‘I’m not picking on him, I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘Well you’re not doing a great job.’ She turned to Aldous. ‘Would you tell us your name?’

  He frowned. ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Just curious.’

  ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’

  ‘It’ll certainly do for mine if he doesn’t watch out. Please?’

  ‘Aldous,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My name. Aldous. Aldous Underwood.’

  W
hatever she’d expected, it wasn’t this. She peered at him, trying to understand, and noticed for the first time his palest of blue eyes. She was about to question him further when a voice rang out from the house.

  ‘Aldous! Where are you? I cannot see you!’

  ‘I’m over here! By my tree!’

  ‘I told you I must see you at all times! Come away at once!’

  ‘In a minute.’

  ‘No, not in a minute! Now!’

  He sighed. ‘Yes, Maman.’

  ‘Maman?’ Naia said. ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s French? You’re half French?’

  He shrugged. It wasn’t something he thought about.

  ‘Do you speak the lingo?’ Alaric asked.

  ‘Je parle autant que j’ai besoin autour ici.’

  ‘Is that a yes or a no?’

  ‘Are there any more of you?’ Naia asked as Aldous took up his oars.

  ‘More of me?’

  ‘Brothers or sisters.’

  ‘You’re still being curious,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’

  ‘I’ve got two sisters and a little brother.’

  Naia glanced at Alaric. ‘Six of them,’ she said.

  ‘Seven,’ said Aldous. ‘My aunt’s staying with us.’

  With which he rowed away.

  ‘Different Underwoods,’ said Alaric, watching him go. ‘Very different.’

  ‘Yes,’ Naia said thoughtfully. Then: ‘Uh-oh.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The tree.’

  It was quivering, very slightly.

  ‘You don’t think...?’ Alaric said.

  ‘Could be. Just in case, let’s make a time to do it again.’

  ‘Do what again?’

  ‘Whatever we did to get here just now.’

  ‘All I did was touch the tree.’

  ‘There you go then. Let’s say tomorrow morning. Ten a.m.’

  ‘Why would I want to come here a third time?’ he said.

  ‘If you don’t, don’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t really care, to be honest, but – ’

  She didn’t finish. The tree had altered, the water level had dropped, and they were alone – and instantly drained of all strength. It took everything they had to wade to their houses.

  Tuesday: 2

  This was the morning Mr. Knight brought Aldous the thigh waders. They were much like his own, but new. ‘Hope they fit,’ he said, ‘because they were the last ones in the shop. There’s been quite a run on them.’

  ‘They’re for me?’ Aldous said, holding up the one-piece leggings.

  ‘Yes. Try them.’

  It would have been an odd vignette to the casual observer. A man in his early sixties, standing deep in water, offering a pair of rubber waders to an old vagrant sitting in a hammock slung between two trees. Mr. Knight held the hammock while Aldous pulled the first leg on.

  ‘Stiff,’ he said tugging the covering as far as it would go.

  ‘You’ll need to break them in. Wiggle your toes.’

  Aldous wiggled his toes. ‘Plenty of room.’

  ‘Not too much?’

  ‘Just enough.’

  ‘Try the other one.’

  Aldous pulled the second wader on. Both his legs stuck out stiffly before him. ‘You sure they’ll bend?’

  ‘They’ll soften with use. A few days’ wear should do it.’

  Aldous began the struggle down from the hammock. Mr. Knight gripped his arm. Then he was in the water, knee-deep, rigid in the new waders, at which they both gazed as if expecting them to dance.

  ‘Sure they’re not too tight?’ Mr. Knight said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No you’re not sure, or no they’re not too tight?’

  ‘They could be worse.’

  ‘Because I can’t take them back once you’ve walked about in them.’

  ‘No, they’ll do.’

  ‘Walk up and down.’

  Aldous walked stiffly up and down a few times, creating small waves. ‘Feel like a scarecrow,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,’ said Mr. Knight.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I thought we might pop down to the Sue Ryder shop.’

  ‘The charity shop?’

  ‘Charity’s when you get something for nothing. They sell things there. Such as clothing.’

  ‘I don’t need any clothing,’ Aldous said.

  ‘That coat’s seen better days.’

  ‘Yes, course it has. It was off a tramp.’

  ‘A tramp?’

  ‘He had two and I was cold, so he gave one to me.’

  ‘Decent of him.’

  ‘I didn’t ask for it.’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t.’

  ‘Not asking now either. This coat’ll do.’

  ‘Let’s talk about it over breakfast,’ Mr. Knight said.

  ‘What breakfast?’

  ‘I thought we might wade into town and have a little something at a caff to toast your dry legs.’

  ‘I like toast,’ Aldous said.

  ‘So do I, but we could have bacon, too. And eggs, sausages, tomatoes.’

  Aldous’s stomach gurgled. But he was suspicious. No one had ever bought him breakfast before. Not that he could remember.

  ‘What’s this all about? Boots, coats, breakfast. It’s not my birthday.’

  ‘When is your birthday?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘So let’s call it your birthday.’

  Aldous’s reserve crumbled. The word ‘birthday’ warmed him. He might not remember the date of his, but he remembered the last time it had been celebrated. It was his eleventh, and the first and last that Aunt Larissa had given him something. Larissa and birthdays; standing joke:

  ‘Nothing from Larissa.’

  ‘Wouldn’t feel right if there was.’

  It wasn’t just his birthday his aunt overlooked, it was everyone’s. She even forgot her brother’s. Forgot or ignored. But that year, no doubt because she was staying with them and had been frequently reminded, she had something for Aldous. ‘They’re not new,’ she said, handing him the small pair of brass binoculars, unwrapped. ‘Weren’t new when I bought them. But they’ve been with me for over twenty years. The things I’ve seen through them in my travels!’

  Larissa Underwood, geologist by profession, explorer by inclination, said that it was against her nature to be tied to one location, as she was at that time: confined to a country she affected to despise, and latterly to someone else’s house beside ‘a dull bit of river, in an extremely average village, in a flat and uninspiring county’.

  The birthday commemorated by his aunt had of course been held at Withern Rise. Larissa’s snooty friend Vita had been there too, with her long nose and her big hats and cigarettes. Vita was some sort of writer who, Larissa said with a flourish, owned a castle in Kent. Vita claimed to know about gardens, and was rather dismissive about the work that had been done at Withern Rise, to Maman’s extreme, if veiled, annoyance. But there’d been jelly and blancmange and butterfly cakes, which were much more interesting to Aldous and the other children than the unwelcome visitor. Ursula made a large gingerbread man with ‘Aldous’ on the chest, which made everyone laugh.

  ‘What’s so amusing?’ Mr. Knight asked him.

  ‘Just something I thought of.’

  They took the route through Eynesford rather than across the great lake of Withy Meadows. Aldous walked as though his legs were made of wood, but he appreciated their dryness. The engulfed village was silent and deserted as they waded along Main Street and over the former woodyard bridge, past the pub where Eric Hobb died, and the church, into Stone. Soon they were leaning through the waters of the market square and climbing the stairs to the room above the Baker’s Oven next to the Cross Keys. They ordered their two breakfasts, but within five minutes Aldous became agitated, half cowering, as if expecting the walls and ceiling to close in on him. He wolfed his
food and shot downstairs long before Mr. Knight was finished.

  Tuesday: 3

  Naia went into the Long Room for the photo album. She needed to take a look at the Underwood family tree inside the back cover. Although she’d taken out the last few pages of photographs after finding herself stuck here in February, she’d left the family tree. Her mother had put so much into researching and drawing it that she hadn’t had the heart to remove it. If Alaric’s mother had been working on a family tree at the same time as her mother, she hadn’t lived long enough to complete it and put it in the book that should be here instead of hers. The fact that there shouldn’t be a family tree in this reality’s album did not worry her. The only person who wouldn’t expect to see one there was Ivan, but she doubted that this Ivan would have paid any more attention to his wife’s progress with such a task than her father had. History was history as far as Ivan Underwoods were concerned, even though their business was antiques.