‘There’s no one here,’ Dad called. ‘You can come down.’
Lewis hurtled down the stairs.
Dad had turned up the lights and the first thing Lewis saw on entering the sitting room was the remains of Santa’s meal.
‘He’s been, he’s been,’ he shrieked joyously, and then dived under the glistening tree, growing out of a heap of brightly coloured parcels.
Lewis got books from his aunts and uncles. He got books and boxes of toy soldiers from Mum and Dad. As well as that Mum had knitted him some mittens and a scarf and a woolly hat for the cold weather. But the most wonderful present of all was a brand new wooden fort that his grandfather had made. The fort stood on a raised wooden base. There were towers at the four corners, two tall ones at the back and two shorter ones at the front. Low walls ran around three sides while at the back, a higher battlement with rooms built into it, served as accommodation for the troops. There was a gate tower with a portcullis and a separate piece consisting of a ramp which rose to the same level as the wooden base. A drawbridge connected the ramp to the main castle and could be raised and lowered. Lewis began to deploy his soldiers onto the towers and battlements. This small force would defend the castle against the hordes of his existing armies.
Looking up he saw Dad standing amongst the opened wrappings, scattered like large, colourful autumn leaves. He handed Mum a long thin box.
When she opened it, she said, ‘It’s beautiful, Nick. But you really shouldn’t have. It’s too much. We can’t afford it.’
Lewis thought her voice sounded quiet in an odd way. She wasn’t really excited like he was. Maybe Christmas was different for adults.
‘I’ve had a good year,’ Dad said. ‘And anyway, you deserve it love – for having to put up with me.’
Later they went to church. Lewis was reluctant to leave his soldiers and the service seemed interminable. When they returned, the smell of roasting meat filled the hall as they came in the door. For dinner they had goose with sage and onion stuffing, apple sauce, roast potatoes, brussels sprouts with pudding and mince pies for dessert. Lewis ate so much he thought he was going to be sick. Dad settled into his armchair by the blazing fire and, after a couple of glasses of brandy, dozed off.
Later the three of them went for a walk in the short chill afternoon. The weather was raw and dry with a grey sky. An occasional bird flapped in the bare trees, and the houses with their smoky chimneys had a whitish look about them as though seen through muslin. They were glad to return to the warmth of the banked up fire. For the rest of the day Lewis played with his fort and the battle around it was still raging when Mum kissed him off to bed at ten o’clock.
18
Towards the end of the summer, Mum has to go into hospital.
‘It’s only for a few days, she says, as she kisses Lewis and goes down the steps to the waiting cab. One of Lewis’ aunties – Dad’s youngest sister, Edna – comes to stay with them and mind Lewis and cook their meals.
‘It’s only while Mum is in hospital,’ Dad says.
Then one school day, when he gets up Lewis is told that he won’t have to go to school that day. It is a horrible day anyway, cold and raining, so Lewis is happy to stay in front of the fire with his fort and soldiers. Some time later that morning, Dad comes in and scoops him up and sits him on his knee.
‘You know how Mum is so beautiful,’ he says.
Lewis nods hurriedly. He wants to go back to the game.
‘Well God decided that Mum was so wonderful he’d like to keep her with him.’
Now the game is forgotten and Lewis is puzzled. He can smell Dad’s cigarette smell.
‘When is she coming back?’ he asks.
It seems the best and quickest way to get an answer.
‘That’s what I mean, Lewis – she’s not coming back. She’s gone to stay with God.’
Lewis starts to cry.
‘She’s got to come back,’ he says through tears.
And that is when Dad holds him so tight that it hurts and maybe Dad is crying too.
Lewis stops crying after a while. He is still on Dad’s lap.
‘I’m going to go back to my game now,’ he says.
He slides off Dad’s knee, goes back to his soldiers and plays away for the rest of the day. Some of the shortbread cakes that he likes appear and he is allowed to have as many as he wants. He has three before deciding he has had enough. He is told he won’t have to go to school for the rest of the week. Since it is Wednesday that means three days off including today. He isn’t too upset now. He has decided how he can see Mum again.
Nobody pushes him to go to bed that night, and when he volunteers to go right on his bedtime, if anyone is surprised they don’t say anything. ‘A good night’s sleep will do you the world of good,’ somebody says as he does the rounds of his grandparents and the handful of other aunts and uncles that have materialised during the day. He dutifully kisses them all, smelling the mothballs from the women’s coats. Then he is upstairs, teeth brushed, pyjamas on and into his room. Dad comes and tucks him in and asks him if he is alright. Lewis says that he is. Dad kisses him goodnight, closes the door and Lewis hears his feet receding on the stairs.
Lewis’ bed lies along the wall. Opposite his bed is a wardrobe and on the inside of the wardrobe door is a full length mirror. Now he opens the wardrobe door and positions it ajar so that he can see the mirror from where he lies in bed. It takes several adjustments to get it right. He moves the door and mirror a fraction then goes and lies on the bed. He jumps up and adjusts it again. Finally he is happy, hops into bed and waits.
She will come and visit him through the mirror. That will be her gateway from wherever she is now, to him. Whether it will be her ghost or her, he doesn’t really know. But if it is a ghost he isn’t afraid. After all, it’s Mum. She won’t harm him. The light from the street shines through the curtains and make the mirror silvery and shimmery. He waits and waits. Once or twice he sees the pattern of light on the mirror shift and he thinks that she is about to come, but it’s only a trick of the light.
The wallpaper on his wall is light blue with white stars on it. One time he tried to count all the stars but he had to give up. He lies and tries not to think of heaven and space and infinity but they tease at the edge of his thoughts. The world seems so vast.
He only wants to say goodbye to her. Just for a few minutes. There are some questions he wants to ask. Where is she? What is it like? Are there other people there that she knows? Is she happy? What happened to her? Why did she die? And he hopes that she will give him some advice for the future. What should he do now? He hopes that she will have some wisdom for him – she knows so many things. More than anything else he just wants to say a proper goodbye to her. He wants to hold her and hug her and remember her fragrance. He doesn’t know if you can hug a ghost but he supposes that God can make all things possible.
He is falling asleep now and fighting to stay awake. It is like Christmas Eve. Eventually he does sleep and when he wakes the next morning the birds are singing and the early morning sounds of the milkman are coming from the street and the wardrobe door is still open.
He’s not at all disappointed nor does he give up hope. He reasons that she is just settling in to wherever she is. There must be lots to do and new things to learn. He isn’t quite sure when she went there but if it was only yesterday then she mightn’t have been able to get away. Maybe it’s a complicated business coming back to Earth to see people. Maybe she has to get permission. And maybe she only discovered last night that he was waiting for her and about the wardrobe and the mirror and how that would work. He will look again tonight. Now that she knows – and she must know by now – that he is waiting for her, she will surely come.
But she doesn’t – on that second night.
He is not downhearted. In fact, if anything he is probably most confident the third night. He knows the saying, ‘Third time lucky’. So he sleeps late the morning after the second night so that he
will be wide awake and able to stay awake tonight. He has done the most planning and the most preparation for this third night. Surely this will be the one.
That night, he remembers hearing the church bell chiming midnight. She has still not come. Some time after that he falls asleep. When he wakes the next morning the room is cold with the usual ice on the inside of the window panes. He knows then with a certainty he has never known before in his life that she will not be coming. She has left him. Deserted him. Abandoned him.
He is desolate. He lies in the bed stunned, empty, disbelieving. He was sure that she could see him wherever she was, that she could read his thoughts and that she would come to him. Now, he knows he will never see her again – never hear her voice, see her face, smell her. He will never get to speak with her again, to hear her laugh. The woman who looked so defenceless that day in the changing room has turned out to be exactly that. She has been seized, taken away and is not coming back. And she has left him – just suddenly, out of the blue, just like that.
He lies there and knows he has some decisions to make. If she isn’t going to come then a few things are clear. Life can change in an instant – he’d better get used to its unpredictability; he’d better be ready for it. And he knows that from now on he can’t rely on anyone else. He must take care of himself, just like a soldier, those soldiers that he plays with every day. He will become strong, so that – if necessary – he can take care of other people. Everything else can’t be trusted, but if he relies on himself, if he became strong and grown-up, then he will survive.
19
Lewis sped out to the cottage and Helen answered his knock almost immediately.
‘I’ve bought some food we can have for a picnic,’ she said. ‘It’s on the kitchen table. I just need to put it in my bag.’
On the table were mysterious packets, all wrapped in white or brown paper.
‘I can take them in my pack,’ volunteered Lewis. ‘It would be handier.’
‘As long as you don’t mind,’ she called as she ran up the stairs. ‘Shan’t be a moment.’
They went to Pridmouth, where they swam and basked in the sun and ate their picnic. They had books but neither of them read. The beach wasn’t very crowded. Lewis felt proud and confident being with her. He wondered whether the other people on the beach wondered about the relationship between them. Mother and son? The ambiguity of the situation pleased him.
When they were walking back she asked him if he would stay for tea again.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ Lewis asked. ‘Maybe you have other people you want to see or things you would like to do.’
‘There’s nothing I’d like to do more,’ she said.
They ate outside as they had the previous night. Then, when the sun had dropped below the horizon, and the light began to grow dusky, she said, ‘Come inside. There’s something you might like.’
They went into the living room part of the downstairs room. There were several rugs which softened the coldness of the flag stoned floor. Apart from the fireplace and the two armchairs there was a small sideboard.
‘I think it will be cosy in the winter,’ said Helen. ‘And there’s a big stock of firewood against that wall there,’ she said, indicating with a nod the wall which housed the fireplace.
‘Does it need chopping?’ asked Lewis. ‘I’ll be happy to do it.’
‘You’re sweet,’ she smiled. ‘We’re a long way from the winter yet, but yes, maybe some day, if you wouldn’t mind. Come on, sit down. This is what I wanted to show you.’
In the corner – he only noticed it now that she stood beside it – was a gramophone. It was tall, on four squat legs with two sets of doors on the front of it – two large ones at the bottom and two smaller ones above them. On top was a wooden lid that hinged upwards. She raised it now and a jointed steel arm locked, holding the lid in position.
‘I was so surprised that first evening I arrived here and found this. I thought it might just have been dumped here, that it was junk, but it actually works. And there are recordings.’
She opened the bottom two doors to reveal a cupboard. Inside was a collection of recordings in brown cardboard sleeves. She selected one from it and then opened the two other, smaller doors where the loudspeaker was. She took the recording from its sleeve and holding it carefully between the palms of her hands, she placed it on the turntable.
‘It’s already wound up,’ she explained and started the music. ‘Now, listen to this.’
He sat in one of the armchairs while she took the other one. Some notes on a violin began. They were sad and plaintive.
‘Do you know it?’ she asked, softly.
He shook his head.
‘It’s called The Lark Ascending by Ralph Vaughan Williams. It’s the sound of lying in a field in summer looking up at the sky.’
She closed her eyes, her blonde hair framing her face, her mouth in a faint smile. He watched her face and listened as the music unfolded. But then, afraid that she would open her eyes and catch him staring at her, or maybe he was just taken by the music anyway, he shut his own eyes. It was the music of Mole and Ratty and Badger. He could see them trotting along the River Bank with the glistening river in the foreground. It was his childhood and the life he had lost – those summer days that would never come again. It was being with Mum. It was the music of being in love. He imagined himself and Helen in a wheat field – in a small bath of trampled down wheat, lying on their backs. Their bodies would be hot from the sun. Lying in an X he would reach out and find her hand and their warm fingers would intertwine. He suddenly found there were tears in his eyes.
He reached for his handkerchief and opened his eyes. She had just opened hers. He saw the startled look on her face.
‘What’s wrong, Lewis? What’s wrong, my love?’
She came over and knelt beside his chair. The tears were pouring down his cheeks now and he was crying and he couldn’t stop. He felt her arms encircle him and she drew him to her. He continued to sob and sob, his chest heaving. He was unable to speak. She began to sooth him like a child and rock him very gently, all the while kneeling beside him. Once, twice, he tried to speak but after a word or two, the crying just took over and the words wouldn’t come out.
‘Shhh,’ she said softly. ‘There’s no need to say anything. Just let it all go. Let it all out.’
Lewis felt incredibly stupid. Eventually, the sobbing eased. Gently, he pulled away from her though he would have happily stayed in her warm, fragrant embrace forever. She released him but stayed kneeling, looking at him tenderly as he dabbed one eye and then the other with his handkerchief.
He smiled wearily.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She shook her head and touched his arm.
‘There’s nothing to be sorry about, you know. I’ve often cried to that music.’
‘It wasn’t the music,’ he snuffled. ‘Well, I suppose it was really. It just made me think of my childhood … and my mother —’
‘Do you miss her a lot?’ asked Helen.
‘No,’ he sniffed. ‘You don’t understand. I’m not … it’s not homesickness. My mum … my mum died when I was eight.’
Helen’s hands went up her mouth. He began to shake his head. ‘And I just found there … that music … it made me think of her. Made me realise how much I missed her and how much I’d lost.’
‘Oh Lewis, I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.’
He smiled and waved her away weakly,
‘I’m better now. Thank you. Sorry to have been so stupid. You must think me a terrible cry baby.’
She squeezed his arm.
‘I don’t think anything of the sort,’ she said. ‘I think it must have been a terrible thing to happen to you.’
‘Anyway,’ he said with what he hoped would be a final snuffle. ‘It’s lovely music.’
She stood up.
‘Shall I make you some tea?’
‘No, I’m fine,’ he said.
‘Honest.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘I think you need a bit of mothering.’
Then, as though alarmed by what she had said, she asked, ‘Do you mind me saying that, Lewis. Do you?’
‘No,’ he said with a grin. ‘I’d love to be mothered by you.’
‘Tea, it is, then,’ she said. ‘I’d offer you something stronger but I’m afraid I have nothing in the house.’
‘Tea will be fine,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
As she waited for the kettle to boil, he said, ‘Do you play music?’
‘I do actually,’ she said. ‘I play the piano. I used to be a music teacher before I got married. In some ways it’s the thing I miss most,’ she said, more to herself than to him.
‘My Mum used to play the piano.’
‘Did she indeed? And what sorts of things did she play?’
He could hardly remember now. In fact he realised he couldn’t picture her sitting at the piano or remember anything that she played.
‘She had the music for lots of classical pieces. And popular songs as well. She sometimes accompanied people when they sang – at parties or family gatherings.’
‘And she sang,’ added Lewis. ‘She had a lovely voice.’
‘She must have been very talented,’ said Helen.
Helen made the tea and poured it out. When they each had a cup, she said, ’Have you had enough music for tonight?’
‘No, I’d love to hear some more,’ he said, ‘and I promise not to cry this time.’
‘Well, you can cry if you want,’ she said. ‘And if you don’t, maybe I will.’
She changed the recordings.
‘This is a piece called Summer Night on the River by Delius.’
She didn’t say any more but just let the music play. She didn’t have to say anything. It was all there in the music. It was a summer night by the river. A couple of lovers walking hand in hand in the warm darkness. Fireflies. Trees drooping over the river bank and a grassy path for them to walk. Starlight overhead.
Starlight (The Four Lights Quartet Book 1) Page 10