by Graeme Hall
They were walking in the woods near the holiday cottage that they had rented for the week. It was April in Cornwall, the Easter holidays, spring had come and bluebells transformed dark shaded groves into imperial splendour. His parents were somewhere behind him, lost in serious adult conversation that he either didn’t understand or found incredibly boring. Instead of staying with them he’d taken a turning off the main path to explore a fallen tree that was softened with fungi, moss and lichen. In the tradition of small boys down the ages, he pulled at a broken branch that came away in his hands, disturbing a cityscape of beetles. He watched the insects as they tried to come to terms with the uprooting of their world.
He knew at once that the scream had come from his younger sister. More than once he had been the reason for her tears, but pulling her hair or dropping a worm down the back of her dress had never brought forth a sound with the intensity he’d just heard. Worse still, worse than the scream itself, was the ominous silence that followed. No crying, no tears, no sobbing. He knew that something was wrong. He dropped the branch and ran in the direction he thought the sound had come from, oblivious to the undergrowth that was in the way, the thorns that cut his arms and the nettles that stung. He tripped and fell more than once, but simply picked himself up and continued. He knew only that Emma needed him and nothing else mattered.
The undergrowth gave way to a clearing and he finally stopped running, gathering his breath not knowing what to do now or where to go. He heard his parents calling out to both their children. ‘I’m here,’ he shouted back, not knowing where here actually was. He called after Emma: ‘Sis! Where are you, sis?’ There was no reply. Only the sound of his parents continuing to call out her name, the clamour of his heart beating and the blood rushing in his ears. But as he looked around he realised that there was another sound: that of running water, a beck cascading over rocks. He started towards the water and soon he saw the stream, and by the water’s edge, on a bank, he saw his sister’s rucksack – red, decorated with smiling ponies, princesses and flowers. He’d often laughed at the bag and hidden it from her. It was an exotic orchid out of place in this ancient English wood.
Then he saw her in the water, one arm twisted unnaturally, her head resting on a rock as if she was sleeping. He could see that she had lost one of her shoes. He shouted to his parents: ‘She’s here, by the stream! Quick!’ He climbed down into the water. The stones were slippery and the water was flowing faster than he expected. He almost fell, but steadied himself by holding on to an overhanging branch and worked his way to where she was lying. Her head was only just out of the water so he lifted it clear and was shocked to find blood on his hands.
***
They sat waiting for news in the hospital. Peter had washed his hands when they’d arrived, but there was still some of his sister’s blood beneath his fingernails. Everybody had praised him: his parents, the ambulance men, the kind young nurse who brought him a Fanta. But he could only think that he might have done more. Could he have got there faster? How long had it been before he spotted her in the river? More to the point, why did he let her go off on her own in the first place when they did everything together? Why did he have to go look at that fallen tree? If he hadn’t, it might never have happened. He was certain that it was his fault no matter what people said. He promised to anyone who would listen that he would always look after her if only she would be okay.
His mother had no more tears left to give. His father was trying to get an answer from any passing nurse or doctor. Peter tried to distract himself with the comings and goings of the hospital: emergencies being brought in from ambulances, doctors consulting charts on clipboards, telephones ringing, a man helping his wife walk on crutches. A mother comforting a child.
Later, at home, with her arm in plaster and a bandage around her head, Emma was a precious object to be handled with care. She got to stay in bed and didn’t have to go to school for two weeks. Her favourite food was brought to her and she was always allowed seconds. Even of jelly and ice cream. He might have been jealous but he wasn’t. Out of his own pocket money, and with a little help from his mother, he bought a new rucksack to replace the one that had been left in the woods in the panic. In time her bandage was removed, and his mother held her hand while the stitches were taken out. The nurse said that she would have a scar but that it would fade. Peter was impressed that she didn’t cry at all.
Back at school she was the centre of attention. It wasn’t until several weeks later that her teacher started to notice problems. Sometimes, the teacher said, she seemed to mishear things. Sometimes she wouldn’t hear her teacher at all. Sometimes she would complain about the strange noises in her head. The doctors said it was probably the accident, but that there wasn’t anything they could do about it. It might get better in time, or if it got worse then perhaps a hearing aid might help, but otherwise it was just something that she would have to live with.
Once more, he was impressed that she didn’t cry.
About the Author
In 2014 Graeme Hall abandoned the world of intellectual property law to become a novelist and short story writer. He has won the short story competitions of the Macau Literary Festival and the Ilkley Literature Festival. His first short story collection The Goddess of Macau was published in 2020 by Fly on the Wall Press, and his writing has been published in anthologies by Black Pear Press and the Macau Literary Festivalas well as online.
Graeme lived in Hong Kong from1993 to 2010 and still keeps a close connection to the city, and most of his writing comes from his love of that part of the world.He is an active member of the Leeds Writers Circle whose members have been a constant source of advice, support and encouragement.
Graeme lives in Calderdale, West Yorkshire with his wife and a wooden dog.
Twitter: @hongkonggraeme
www.graemehall.net