by K. C. Finn
“Your hair needs cutting,” she said softly. It wasn’t a criticism. It wasn’t an order. I didn’t really know what it was; I had never heard her use that tone of voice before.
Bickerstaff sighed and settled into the chair opposite her. That blonde strand in his face had returned and he pushed it back again slowly. “No time to do it. I’ve started volunteering at the rationing office,” he explained, “But I wish I hadn’t now, it’s too much bloody work.”
“Bloody,” Ness said again around her lolly.
“Stop it!” Blod slapped her hand gently, but then she started to laugh.
The little glimpse of warmth in Bickerstaff’s chest spread all over his face. “Do you need anything else for her?” he asked Blod.
Her lovely face stiffened again at that. “I don’t need anything from you,” she said proudly.
And suddenly the doctor’s warmth was gone; it drained off like his very life was leaving his body. He was cold again with an empty chest. Bickerstaff rose so sharply that my head went fuzzy. He brushed himself off and cleared his throat which Blod seemed to take as her cue to leave too. She pushed Ness off her lap briskly.
“Go on, go and find Kit,” Blod said, giving her a push.
Bickerstaff was looking at her again, his eyes wide with anticipation. Blod was about to speak, but I knew now that the office’s door was opening and Ness would be headed straight for me. I wanted so desperately to hear what Blod was about to say, but as her lips parted I felt an icy shiver hit my spine and I was instantly another ten feet away outside in the waiting room. Ness was already ambling towards me with what was left of her yellow lolly to show me.
I watched her coming closer with her huge blue eyes, looking for the first time at their oval shape. Blod’s were more like almonds, just like her mother’s, and Clive’s eyes were narrow and brown. The only other person I had ever seen with eyes like Ness’s was Steven Bickerstaff. Blod emerged from the doctor’s office a moment later with a face like fury, and Bickerstaff followed her out to see if his next patient had arrived. I took one last look at him before Blod grabbed my chair angrily and turned me around. I was right. He had Ness’s eyes. Or more accurately, she had his.
***
It was an awful thing to have suspicions running around in my mind. I had half a story, an inkling of what might be going on, but no-one to talk it out with who could confirm or deny what I was thinking. No-one here, at least.
When the time came that I was left alone in the sitting room to practice my new physical task I checked my watch, delighted to find it was about the same time Henri had said he would be free. Learning to stand up could wait, my burning questions about Bickerstaff and Ness couldn’t. I calmed myself enough to perform the usual movements, searching hard for Henri in the blank, black space between my closed eyes.
Aha!
“Hello Kit,” Henri said in what he thought was a casual tone.
Hi Henri.
He was trying to hide the fact that I had startled him again, but of course he didn’t know that I could feel what he felt as well as use his eyes. His heart was humming with nerves for a few moments as he set down the suit he was working on.
“So, what’s new in England?” he asked in his lovely rich voice.
I’m actually in Wales, I corrected, We used to live in London, so we were moved away from danger.
“We?” he pressed, “Are you with your family?”
With my brother, I answered, And with a new family who are looking after us.
“I see,” Henri answered. I felt him rubbing his chin, there was a sound like scraping sandpaper and I wondered with a smile if he had stubble. “I am looked after too,” he continued, “Mr Hoffman lets me live here on the top floor.”
Don’t you have family nearby? I asked.
I felt his chest deflate. “No,” he said simply, “My parents died some time ago.”
I’m so sorry.
“Don’t be, it’s all right.” But it wasn’t all right. I knew he was lying by the heavy weight on his heart and the flush I felt creeping into his cheek. “My mother was born in England, you know,” he said as if he was still happy with the conversation topic.
Is that why your English is so good? I asked, trying to shift the subject.
“I suppose so,” he said in a brighter tone, “but I have my English teacher too.”
Bavistock, was it? Henri nodded. I remembered the mention of him in front of the German officer. What will happen to him?
Henri’s sadness grew again. “I don’t know,” he replied, “I’ve hardly been out of the shop since the Nazis arrived. Oslo is not a safe place now.”
Let’s not think about it, I suggested, How about you help me with something instead?
“Oh?” Henri said. I felt one strong eyebrow going up on his face. “What could I possibly help you with?”
I told him everything I had heard in Bickerstaff’s head, but then realised that I had to go back and fill in some things about Blod and Mam and our situation. I left out the part about how sad the doctor always felt so that Henri wouldn’t know I could sense emotions and I also managed to steer away from any mention of why I myself was acquainted with the good doctor. Whatever mental image Henri had of me, I was pretty certain it wouldn’t involve a wheelchair and jellyfish knees and night splints, so I wanted to let him have his own idea. It was surely be better than the truth.
“How old is this doctor?” Henri asked when I had finished my tale.
Late twenties, I think.
“But the little girl’s mother, this Mam, she is much older than that, isn’t she?”
Exactly, I answered, and that’s why I don’t think she’s Ness’s real mother. I’ve heard of it before when my mum used to chat with the gossip on our street, some young girl having a baby with no husband and then the mother pretends it’s hers instead.
“It’s a big suspicion,” Henri mused, rubbing his stubbly chin again, “But you might be right. How can you find out for sure?”
Well, I can hardly ask them, can I? I responded. Good morning Doctor, I say is this your illegitimate daughter? Hi Blod, had any secret pregnancies lately?
Henri burst into laughter at that, wiping at his eyes. “You’re very funny Kit,” he sighed, “I suppose you’ll have to keep your eyes open for more evidence.”
I sighed too, though I didn’t know if he could hear me.
Look, I think I’ll have to go, I must have been here ages telling you all this.
Henri checked his watch, a lovely brass coloured dial that looked very old and expensive.
“Thirty minutes!” he exclaimed, “I’m supposed to have this suit finished by now.”
Oops, I said. He laughed again. Sorry to bore you with all this, by the way.
“It’s not boring,” he protested immediately, “Your voice is wonderful.”
I was once again grateful that the hundreds of miles between us meant he couldn’t see me blush.
I think next time, you can do the talking, I suggested.
“I promise I will,” he replied.
Clive, Thomas and Ieuan arrived on the back of a lorry during breakfast on Blodwyn’s 21st birthday, which sent the young goddess into a flurry of delight. The RAF Flight Sergeant swelled with pride as he hugged his daughter before Mam attacked him with an embrace that covered his uniform in flour and bacon grease. The boys managed to avoid the same scenario by quickly sitting down with the rest of us at the breakfast table. Thomas slipped a brown paper packet out of his top pocket and handed it to Blod, who ripped it open and screamed the place down in delight.
“Chocolate!” she cried like a child. “Oh I haven’t had chocolate in forever! Thanks Tom!”
“We brought some for everyone,” Ieuan whispered to me with a glimmer in his eye, “But don’t tell her yet or she’ll sulk.”
I just nodded and mouthed a quiet ‘thank you’. Mam set about making a whole new round of breakfast out of the meagre rations we had left to support her boy
s. As Blod went off into excited chatter with Thomas about all her plans for her birthday weekend, Clive sat himself down between Leighton and I at the opposite end of the table. He ruffled Leigh’s hair with a big, warm smile.
“And how are you, young man?” he asked in a deep voice.
“The school here’s not as boring as the one in London,” Leighton explained with a grin.
“Is that so?” Clive asked.
My brother nodded, shuffling right to the edge of his seat to be close to Clive. I realised with a pang that perhaps he was missing Dad, but then we’d both been missing Dad since before the war had even begun. Clive clapped a warm arm around Leigh as he turned to me.
“And you Kit? Mam says that doctor’s doing wonders for you, isn’t he?”
“Well,” I began uncertainly, “He’s trying to get me to walk, actually.”
“Isn’t that wonderful?” Clive said to Leighton, who nodded happily under his arm. The warm Welshman creased his dark eyes with the width of his smile. “I bet you’ll be off like a shot by the time I see you next!”
“Do you know when it’ll be?” Leighton asked.
Clive shook his head. “No, we’re all being sent down London way from next week, training for some big manoeuver.” He tapped his free palm on the knee of his navy uniform excitedly. “Us Welsh might finally get to go head on with Jerry at last!”
“Here’s hoping,” Ieuan added as he began the familiar process of shovelling a truckload of food into his mouth.
***
Blod’s actual birthday was the Friday, so after breakfast Leighton had been carted off to school with a miserable sulk on his face and Blod was released from her chores to go out and about with her father and brothers. There was to be a much bigger celebration for her on the Saturday afternoon when Bampi Idrys would also be able to come, which meant I had to pick up as much of Blod’s slack as I could to help Mam get ready for it. Which meant no time alone, no Oslo and no Henri. I went to bed that night doubly miserable, not just because I had spent the day peeling vegetables and mixing batter until my arms burned for the sake of the most ungrateful young woman on the planet, but also because I was worried that Henri might think I wasn’t coming back.
I woke unusually early on Saturday morning and lay looking at the ceiling, waiting for either Mam or Leighton to help me up as usual. A glance at the clock told me they were nearly half an hour away from either of them expecting me to wake. For a brief moment I smiled as I considered finding Henri, but it wasn’t our arrangement for me to catch him in his pyjamas, however much I’d have liked to know whether Norwegian boys wore striped shirts to bed or not. Instead I raised one arm stiffly to try and wipe my eyes, only to realise I had to combat the wooden splint forcing my elbow straight.
That was the moment I decided to change my morning ritual for good. I clonked one splinted arm over my waist to reach the other, fumbling blindly until I could unfasten the fabric strap, then released my other arm from the same diabolical contraption. The splints fell with a dull thud to the carpeted floor of my makeshift bedroom. So far, so good, but the harder part was coming next. Digging the heels of my hands down under my back, I pushed with everything I had to sit up. I bit my lip with the strain of it. Bickerstaff was right, my arms weren’t strong enough. But the thought of him and his awful smug face spurred something new in me and I withstood the pressure a little longer, giving one final push.
I was up. I scrabbled to grab at my legs in order to stay sitting up, shuffling until I had a little balance. It was strange to be sitting up in bed alone, but I didn’t have time to dwell on such a tiny victory. Instead I went straight for the larger, heavier splints flattening my knees out, pulling off the straps that always left little red lines across my legs where they were tight against them. After several months of the hellish treatment my skin had become hardened against the pressure, so it only glowed pink for a short time now in the mornings, gone were the ugly purple bruises of the early days. With some agonising shuffles I got away from the splints and left them lying on the bed, swinging my legs around until they hung off the edge.
The bed was quite a low one and my toes grazed against the thin carpet of the converted sitting room. I pushed my feet out to trace a little line along a frayed part of the material with my toe, considering my next move. My wheelchair was parked below the window some three feet away with just clear space between me and it; there was nothing to take hold of or anything to help me get there, and I didn’t fancy crawling on my belly to perhaps only get halfway and be found flailing like a fish by Mam in twenty minutes’ time. I slumped, a little defeated, taking a sip of the water she always left at my bedside.
There was a dark, wooden wainscoting running the whole length of the room that came up to nearly the height of my chest and jutted out three or four inches like a little mantelpiece. On the far side of the room, above the fireplace, Mam had propped a few family photographs up on it which she always made Blod come and dust after chapel on Sundays, but on my side it was clear all the way to the wash basin in the corner. I put down my water and stretched to grip it, testing how good a purchase my fingers could get on it. It had a little lip that curled up at the end which seemed very steady to grip. I put both hands on it to test it a little more.
Bickerstaff had wanted me to find something to lean on to practise standing, had he not? I put my feet into the best position I could get and pulled hard on the wainscoting. For a moment I panicked in case it came away in my hand, but the old house was stronger than I was and it took my weight until I was up. I leaned hard on the wall, shuffling my feet like a penguin until they were straight enough to take more bulk. My knees quivered a bit, but they held. This was as far as I’d ever gotten without falling flat on my face and I was actually a bit sad that no-one was in here to see it. I stood there in my nightie leaning on the wall for a few more moments, pondering if the stiffness of my legs in the morning was actually helping me to stay on my feet. Whatever the contributing factor, I was grateful.
The next step was quite literally waiting to be taken. It wasn’t that far to the corner really, perhaps about three or four paces for a normal person, surely it wouldn’t be too much to bear if I leant on the wall as much as possible? I took a very deep breath and pushed one bare foot sideways a few inches on the thin carpet. I crossed one hand over the other, then brought the remaining hand and foot up to meet them. The ache was considerable, especially in my arms, but the fluttering elation that settled on my chest outweighed it plenty. I had moved on my own, if you didn’t count wall, which I wouldn’t of course.
I shuffled like a crab closer and closer to the basin, but it was such a slow pace that I began to feel really sorry for snails and tortoises and all the other disastrously slow things that I was currently on par with. By the time I made it to the basin and transferred to leaning on the stand, sweat beads clung to my head and my legs were shaking. I realised how long it must have taken me to get there when I heard the door opening behind me, followed by a sudden joyous whooping that could only mean it was Mam coming in.
“Kit! You’re walking love!”
She rushed over to me and put an arm under my torso to keep my back straight; it was only with her warm, solid frame next to me that I realised how much I was shuddering. I turned to her delighted face and let out a sighing smile.
“Well I was awake,” I mumbled, “So I thought I’d just sort of… have a go.”
She couldn’t have missed the quivering wreck I was from the effort, but Mam was wonderful at ignoring things like that. She gave me a little squeeze and then delicately put my chair behind me, settling me back into it with a smile.
“Well you sit yur a minute and I’ll fetch some water for you to wash,” she said, patting me on the shoulder, “I’ll have to watch out eh? You’ll be wandering all over the house in no time!”
I sat breathing heavily as she bustled away, my smile so wide it threatened to split my face in half forever.
***
The news of my independent perambulation spread fast through the contents of Ty Gwyn, which had the unfortunate side effect of totally overshadowing Blod’s second day of celebrations. Though Mam was still frantically preparing cake and afternoon snacks for her party, she kept stopping to question me about what we should report to Doctor Bickerstaff and would I need a walking stick and should we get me some new shoes if I was going to be using them properly at last. The mention of brand new shoes sent Blod over the edge; she stampeded upstairs and her radio could be heard blaring down and filling the hall with jangling notes for the duration of the morning.
