The Realities of Aldous U

by Michael Lawrence

  SORRY ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED. IF YOU WOULD CARE TO TRY AGAIN, COME THURSDAY, 3PM. YOU’LL FIND ANOTHER POUCH AT THE WILLOW. DON’T LOSE THIS ONE. AND FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY DON’T BE EARLY!!!

  IN HASTE, AU

  Thursday. Today. The paper was slightly damp. Obviously it had been there all night, if not longer. She returned the note to the envelope, folded it into her back pocket, and went to the willow in the north garden. She found no pouch in the ivy around the trunk, or anywhere else. She imagined that he planned to slip into the garden and put one there as close to the designated time as possible so she wouldn’t be tempted to defy his instruction about timing a second time.

  She went back to the house. It was going to be a long day.

  31: 47

  Alaric awoke convinced, where yesterday he’d been merely concerned, that his reality would end very soon. In the bleary drift to full wakefulness his first thoughts were for himself, but then less selfish considerations crept in, such as, if this reality was about to end, shouldn’t he warn people? – which brought a whole raft of quandaries and contradictions. Would warning them do them any favors? It wasn’t as if he could save them, after all. He had that gray pouch, though. Maybe he could use it to get Dad and Kate out. But there was a downside to that too. If there was a Withern Rise in the reality the pouch took them to, and an Ivan and Kate in residence – or an Alex who hadn’t died – they would hardly be welcomed with open arms. They might be taken for con-artists, or lunatics. They’d be homeless. They wouldn’t have bank accounts, social security numbers, tax codes, all the rest of it. They wouldn’t officially exist. How would they even get by there?

  Of course, he could still go. He would adjust somehow. But he could hardly come back and check that everything really had ended, could he? Well, he could try, but what might he find? Total blackness, an airless vacuum, instant death? No, if he had to go alone, he couldn’t return. Ever.

  Ah, but what if he didn’t leave and this reality didn’t end, and everything just carried on the way it was? He wasn’t a great student, he had few ambitions, no bright-eyed career goals to work toward. He was nothing here. Felt like nothing most of the time. There was always this unsettling buzz in the back of his mind that seemed to be saying, ‘What are you going to do with your life?’ This brought guilt. What could he do? He wasn’t like his mother. She’d been so inventive, so innovative, resourceful, so keen to bring things to the world that could not have been made by anyone else. If he’d only inherited a fraction of her ingenuity, creativity, zest. As things stood, all he would be able to add to the world – and even this wasn’t a foregone conclusion – would be a child or two, but he felt distaste for the part he would have to play in such an enterprise. Of late he’d even become uncomfortable with his friends’ graphic sex talk. It didn’t used to bother him – he used to participate, enjoy it – but these days when he joined in, it was an act. What was wrong with him? Just a phase, or what? What if he didn’t grow out of it? Who was to say this wasn’t the real him? If that was it, what kind of life was he going to have? A life of pretence; making out he was something he wasn’t, that he –

  He swore, stuffed his head under the pillow, tried to go back to sleep.

  32: 39

  After such an early start, and with so many hours to squander till mid-afternoon, Naia’s morning crawled. She passed a portion of it within the lee of the hawthorn hedge, in a faded deckchair whose old wooden frame creaked and wobbled at the slightest movement, from where she hoped to catch Aldous U sneaking to the willow with the pouch he intended to leave for her. The wait gave her time to speculate about his place on an alternative family tree. Exploring several scenarios that might have added another Aldous to the Underwood line, she was drawn to one in particular.

  Suppose her great-grandfather, AE Underwood, had been struck down by some fatal illness, or killed in an accident, in the mid or late nineteen-twenties. If he’d died around that time he wouldn’t have met and married Marie Montagnier, there would have been no Grandpa Rayner to father Ivan, and consequently no Naia or Alaric. Had AE dropped out of the picture that early, his sister, Larissa May, would have taken ownership of Withern Rise. According to her mother’s researches, in 1927 Larissa gave birth to a son, Edwin, who (as she’d had nothing more to do with his father from the point of conception) had been given the Underwood name. In both of Naia’s realities, Edwin had never lived at Withern, or, as far as she knew, anywhere much less than two hundred miles away. Her grandparents, in both realities, had lost contact with Edwin’s branch of the family, so she had no idea if he had fathered children of his own; but an Edwin who had grown up at Withern (in the new scenario) and inherited it from his mother upon her death would almost certainly have had a different partner to an Edwin who’d spent his life in Dorset. Different partner, different children – one of whom might have been called Aldous and think of Withern Rise as home. A pleasing dénouement, she thought, but not a likely one. If such an Aldous existed why wasn’t he still living there instead of in a sickly-looking forest in an outlandish hovel that he called Withern Rise?

  Growing chilly in the hedge’s lengthening shadow, she gave up her vigil at last and went out by the side gate. Still needing to kill time, she sauntered to town, loitered in a couple of shops, and, after a while, crossed the river to Withy Meadows, where she approached the little boating lake. Until a few weeks before there were boats and canoes on the lake, but the season was over and they’d been taken in. There were still a lot of ducks about – there were always ducks here – but also a number of geese and swans, strutting along the banks looking hungry. The geese ignored her, but one of the larger swans padded toward her, wings flaring. She backed away and found an alternative route, round the far side of the closed café.

  She started across the Meadows, sometimes on one of the winding paths, sometimes the grass, avoiding other strollers and keeping well away from the unruly scatters of kids unleashed on the world for half-term. Spotting a group of lads, fourteen- or fifteen-year-olds, swaggering in her general direction, she swerved away, not looking back in case they took the glance for an invitation. Only when she’d put what she hoped was a fair distance between herself and them did she turn to check on them. They were over at the boating lake, trying to outface the combative swans.

  Leaves were already deserting some prematurely autumnal trees, though many more were still green and full. Every now and then she found a drift of cranky old leaves to shuffle through. Reaching the river some way downstream from Withern Rise, near the long bridge, she wondered where else she might go to pass the time, and could think of nowhere. Beside the bridge lay a heap of bikes whose young owners were not in evidence until she was about to start up it, when they ran out from some mischief under it, yelling and laughing at whatever they’d done, disentangled their bikes, and shoved past her in their eagerness to get to the other side. Deflected, she changed her mind about crossing the bridge and wandered along the bank, flopping, with a bored sigh, on a flaking wooden bench. There, with nothing new to feed her imagination, she quickly ceased to notice the sounds of everyday: the whistles and cheeps of unseen birds, the splutter of a biplane in the crisp blue sky, the weary chug of a distant goods-train. The slightly sleazy smell of the water also receded, taking with it the tang of woodsmoke from the Coneygeare allotments. Only when a small boat slid from the trees that obscured the house from her bench did she stir. There were two men and a boy in the boat, fishing idly as it drifted. When one of the men hailed her, she returned the wave and, back in the here-and-now, headed homeward.

  33: 36

  There certainly didn’t seem to be a shortage of people interested in the house. The latest viewers were a building contractor and his wife, and their three teenage children. Why do they always come in families as if on an outing? Alex wondered, switching on her best ‘I’m so happy to conduct guided tours of my home for total strangers’ smile. But these, like the others, seemed pleasant enough. The man, smartly dressed and pe
rky, introduced himself as, ‘Feathering, call me Harry,’ and the children were bright and polite and the woman very complimentary about every room they were shown into. Alex was rather taken with them until she overheard Harry whispering to his wife while she herself lingered in the hall to give them some time to themselves. ‘Just the job, Jilly,’ he said. ‘We can hive off a third of the land on that side for four houses, six if we really pack ’em in, put up a wall between us and them, and still have more space than we need. If we lop all those trees along the drive we could really open the place out, and we could sink a pool where that crap veggie patch is, get ourselves a motor cruiser for the river, put up a summer house… Jesus, can’t you see it?’

  An offer – the full asking price – came in via the estate agent’s an hour after the Featherings’ departure. Alex texted Ivan, who phoned a few minutes later.

  ‘That’s great, Lex. Call the agent and accept, will you?’

  ‘I don’t want to accept,’ she said.

  ‘Eh? You think they’ll go higher?’

  ‘I don’t care how high they go, they’re not having Withern.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They want to partition the garden, build houses, put in a swimming pool, all sorts of things.’

  ‘Do what they like once they own it,’ he reminded her.

  ‘They’re not going to own it.’

  ‘Alex. Come on. We can’t turn offers like this down just because we don’t like what the buyers want to do with the place.’

  ‘I can.’

  Pause. Then: ‘It is in my name, you know.’

  She hung up.

  She was sitting on one of the pews in the back porch when Mr. Knight found her.

  ‘’Lo, Alex. Glad I bumped into you, I wanted to ask about… Alex?’

  The eyes that turned to him were flooded.

  ‘I’m not good company today, John.’

  He leant into the porch. ‘What happened to your hand?’

  There was blood on her knuckles. ‘I’ve been abusing the wood.’ She slapped the seat with her open palm. ‘Nearest I could get to a punchbag.’

  He entered the porch. Sat down opposite her. ‘I’m intrigued.’

  She told him about the Featherings, their plans for the property, Ivan’s comment before she disconnected.

  ‘I’ve never hung up on him before, but I’m so mad that he said that.’

  ‘Or mad that it’s true?’ Mr. Knight said gently.

  ‘What are you,’ she said, ‘my therapist all of a sudden?’

  But it was said lightly. There was something about this man that calmed her. Warmed her. She knew what it was. He liked her. Simple as that. He liked her. No ulterior motive. She wasn’t sure how rare that was, but it touched her.

  ‘Do you think I should just do as I’m told and accept their offer and be done with the place?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m the one to advise you on this,’ he said.

  ‘But you have an opinion. I know you have an opinion.’

  ‘Well, if it were me…’

  ‘Yes? If it were you?’

  ‘I might hang on a bit. These are early days and already you’re getting top offers. The right purchaser could well turn up before long.’

  ‘That’s what I think. But Ivan might have phoned the agent to accept that rotten offer. If he has, I’ll never forgive him.’

  ‘You’ll forgive him, Alex.’

  ‘I don’t want just anyone living here,’ she said hotly. ‘This is where my son spent his entire life. I have photos of him here from when he was a day old. We recorded his every year, in all seasons, while he grew, changed, developed. I sat at his bedside, reading to him at night, holding his hand when he was unwell. I walked him to school through many icy winters, attended so many Parents’ Evenings, helped him with his homework, encouraged him in anything he wanted to try. I watched telly with him, cooked for him, shouted at him sometimes. I hit him once, you know.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Slapped his face for some smart-aleck remark. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes. Disappointment. I never did anything like that again, though I’m sure he deserved it often enough. He wasn’t always easy to live with. Moody as hell the last couple of years. We lost the closeness we had when he was younger. But I tried to give him space. Isn’t that what mothers are supposed to do for their growing boys? Gave him too much space in the end.’

  Mr. Knight reached out. ‘You didn’t know it was going to happen. No one could have.’

  She gripped his hand in both of hers. ‘If I’d made more effort he might not have wanted to be alone so much. I might have been with him that day and he’d still be here, and we wouldn’t be selling, and I wouldn’t be hating Ivan.’

  ‘You don’t hate Ivan.’

  ‘Right now I do. “It is in my name, you know.” How could he say that to me? How could he say that?’

  The tears burst from her, and Mr. Knight put her head on his shoulder while she sobbed her misery away.

  34: 43

  The air stank, the forest stank, everything stank, and it was getting worse by the day. They moaned about it, cursed it, tried to focus on something else, but there was little else, so Scarry decided that they would go fishing, in the stinking river. The three lads grumbled quietly, but did not speak out. Gus did, though.

  ‘I’d rather go hunting.’

  ‘We haven’t done so well hunting lately,’ Scarry said.

  ‘Yeah, well maybe if we all went out together we’d catch more.’

  ‘Another time. Today we fish.’

  Gus’s head went back. He gazed vacantly at Scarry’s puggish face. Then that ludicrously wide smile of his crept slowly into place.

  ‘Sure, Cap. Worrever you say.’

  Scarry’s idea of fishing was standing in the shallows with cones formed from the tough lily-pads. When the fish swam into the cones they were whipped out of the water and tossed onto the bank to gasp and flap until the life left them. This was a method he himself had recently devised, and he was rather proud of it. The one time he tried it, a few days ago, he brought home a single fish, not a very large one, but he believed that if they applied themselves as a group they would be rewarded with a more substantial haul.

  It took some effort, but they managed to yank six lily-pads from their thick stalks. Shaping them, they spread out across the river. The brown water reached the youngsters’ waists and Scarry and Gus’s upper thighs and smelt even worse now they were in it, but they leant forward with anticipation – an anticipation that quickly faded when no fish could be persuaded into the cones. They remained in place for about thirty minutes before Gus lost patience and threw his cone away. ‘Stuff this for a caper,’ he snarled, and climbed out, pulled his boots on, and stomped into the forest. Meaningful looks were exchanged, but no words.

  In a while Gus happened upon two specimens of a species of rabbit that he’d seen once before but failed to catch: round-eared, orange-furred creatures with stunted forelegs and blunt claws. Presumably male and female, these two were in the process of mating, so engrossed – or poorly tuned to danger – that they were easy prey. He delivered such a blow to the topmost skull with a stout piece of wood that the creature underneath was also stunned. He snatched them up by their hind legs, the female’s still kicking feebly until he scattered her brains on a tree. He started back then, double prize in hand, mood much improved.

  At the river some minutes later, Scarry conceded defeat and gave the word to jack it in. He made for the bank, intending to throw his bulk onto it and sprawl in the grass for a bit before rising. It was a fateful case of unfortunate timing. Lurching rather than climbing out of the water, his shoulder struck Gus’s knee as he emerged from the trees. Gus’s leg gave way. His head jerked back and cracked against a trunk. His arms flew out and the pair of rabbits soared away, to drop far out into the river.

  It was a combination of things that did it for Gus; the triple shock of being unexpectedly barged into, bangin
g his head, and losing the haul he’d been about to show off. The last shred of the control he’d maintained with such difficulty since stepping into this miserable world evaporated in a heartbeat. He reached for the throat of the lumpen fool he’d been obliged to defer to all these weeks

  and leapt into the river with him, scattering Jonno and Hag before they could clamber out. He thrust Scarry’s head under, settled a boot-heel on his chest, and kept him there. The two boys spluttered to their feet, Jonno wailing with fear, while Hag made the mistake of tugging at Gus’s sleeve, hoping to persuade him to release the thrashing Scarry. Gus was not to be persuaded. He flattened Hag’s nose with his elbow. The boy sank into the water, which ferried him into the reeds, where he remained, face down. Jonno bleated in disbelief.

  ‘You!’ Gus shouted. ‘Shut it!’

  When Jonno didn’t shut it, Gus leapt at him, gathered a fistful of hair, and snapped his neck. He then picked the body up and threw it onto the bank.

  ‘Anything you wanna say?’ This to Badger, still in the water, a little downstream, backing away.

  ‘No. No. Nothing.’

  He scrambled for the side, but Gus’s passion was now so extreme that every movement aggravated him. He removed his foot from the motionless, staring Scarry and jumped up the bank.

  Badger was easy to catch. At least as easy as the copulating rabbits.

  35: 47/36