by Rebecca Shaw
He’d loved playing with the bumper cars, it took him right back to going to the fair with his father and sharing a bumper car with him. The thick oily smell, the excitement, the roughness of it all really appealed, even when he was as young as four. He’d dreamed of being the man who swung from car to car when they were going round, unravelling the cars locked together, setting them free again. What more could he ask of life but travelling from town to town setting up the stand, unstacking the cars from the huge transporters, bringing them to life again, and giving children like him all the pleasure in the world. The bumper cars had been the only ride he wanted to go on. Playing with that toy today had brought back all the thrill of the fair, brought back something of the boy he used to be.
Then he remembered the annual bonfire fair would be coming to Moor Top Fields the next week. He’d forgotten all about it. He hadn’t had a reason to go for years. Myra hated the noise and the crowds, and going by himself would have made him look ridiculous, but this year he had a cast iron reason for going. He and the boys could go on the real bumper cars. Oliver would be old enough to drive one himself and he and Piers could share. He almost jumped out of bed to tell the two of them about the fair. But of course they’d be fast asleep. Tomorrow would have to do.
Graham was on the verge of falling asleep when he was disturbed by a tap on his door. ‘Myra?’
‘No. It’s me, Uncle Graham. I can’t sleep.’ Framed in the doorway was Oliver, looking lost and forlorn.
‘Come in, Oliver, sit on the bed. What’s up?’
‘Thinking about Dad.’
‘Exactly what about him?’
‘I don’t know. Just thinking about him. I miss him you know. I try not to, but I do.’
‘Of course you’ll miss him. You’re bound to. I’m no substitute for him, I’d be the first to admit that, all I can do is try to help you through it.’
‘I know. And I’d rather be here than Delphine’s.’
Oliver was silent after that so Graham filled the silence by asking, ‘Do you think some hot chocolate might be a good idea?’
‘Yes, please. Piers won’t want any, he’s fast asleep. Nothing ever stops him from sleeping not even the night Dad died.’
‘Put your slippers on, the kitchen is cold this time of night.’
They sat together at the kitchen table, each with their hands wrapped round their mugs of hot chocolate. Thinking. Right out of the blue Oliver asked, ‘Myra doesn’t want us does she?’
‘Myra finds it very difficult to share things.’
‘Not even her bed.’
Unable to touch on such a delicate subject with anyone at all, least of all a boy of twelve, Graham closed the subject off immediately. ‘Well, that’s a matter for me and her. I meant she can’t share her emotions easily. I do believe she’s on the verge of coming round to you two boys though. We’ve never had children you see so . . .’
‘Why?’
His frankness wrongfooted Graham briefly, but he decided honesty was the best policy. ‘Well, we wanted them – very badly. We even had two – almost – but each time they didn’t make it . . . and it broke Myra’s heart . . . and mine.’
Oliver sighed. ‘That’s why she’s always sad then.’
‘It’s kind of closed her away from people. It will take a while for her to come round to the two of you, but there’s one thing for certain, this is your home now and this is where you are staying.’ He almost added, ‘Whether Myra stays here or she doesn’t.’ but bit back the words and said instead, ‘I’ve got lots of plans for us all and bit by bit, it will work out. Have patience.’ Graham smiled his forced lopsided smile that so amused Oliver, but tonight he recognised it was a genuine smile even if it was a bit stiff.
‘You’re very perceptive, Oliver, you’ll turn into a lovely grown-up. And if you get the right moment, tell Piers what I said about you both being here forever. I know he’s worried about getting sent somewhere else and he’ll believe you more than me or Myra.’
The two of them sat in companiable silence sipping their drinks for a few minutes.
‘Bed now, Oliver.’
‘How old are you, Uncle Graham?’
‘Forty-three.’
Oliver’s face registered complete amazement. ‘So you’re not an old man then! You seem like one. Sorry, that was rude.’
‘Is that what I seem? Old?’
‘Er . . . yes. Sorry. I’d better be off.’ He scuttled off upstairs before anything further might be said about his rudeness.
It was three o’clock before Graham went to bed, mainly because he was in a state of shock. It took an intelligent perceptive boy of twelve to come out with the truth then. Maybe it was his work that had aged him he thought: as the youngest head of the county waste department there’d ever been, Graham hadn’t wanted anyone to think he was too junior for the top spot. But who was he kidding – it wasn’t just his job that made him act this way, look this way. He went to the mirror Myra had for checking she looked presentable before she answered the door to the few callers who actually came to the house. Granted it was the middle of the night but even he had to admit he looked . . . well, yes . . . old. His haircut needed to be sharper, his eyebrows could do with taming, his skin was weary, he needed a new razor that was obvious. Even his pyjamas were old fashioned. His dad must have worn ones identical to these.
Tomorrow he’d do something about his appearance. Definitely.
But fate had other ideas, it seemed. Not long after Graham had finally gone to bed, full of ideas for reinventing himself, his work phone rang. No call at that time of the day could be good news, and true enough, a harrassed voice at the end of the line told him there had been a massive shutdown of the emulsifiers at the waste treatment plant. He knew even before he put the phone down that it would mean working around the clock to get the plant back up and running. There would be precious little time for seeing the boys or spending time with Myra until the crisis was solved – and certainly no spare time for worrying about what he looked like.
It took nearly a week of feverish endeavour on his part to put right. He left home at the crack of dawn, arrived back long after the boys were in bed. Finally he got the necessary new parts from the manufacturers in Germany fitted and life returned to normal, by which time he was so tired he didn’t care about looking older than his years because he knew without looking in a mirror again that he definitely did.
On Thursday night when there was just him and Myra still up, drinking their tea and eating their biscuits before going to bed he asked her, weary though he was, how she’d managed this week with his long absences.
Unfortunately she had dropped a piece of biscuit in her tea at the exact moment that he’d spoken so he had to wait until the fussing was done with. ‘Oliver has moved his homework desk and his computer into the small bedroom. I said yes when he asked me, he says Piers talks all the time he’s working and it was driving him mad.’
‘And you said it was OK?’
Myra nodded.
‘But that’s your textile . . .’
‘Not any more. I can make the sewing machine do whatever I like, I know that, but I’ve no bright ideas. No inspiration, you know. Nothing new to say.’
Graham was surprised by this remark – it was so un-Myra-like. She’d clung to her ‘textile design business’ for years and here she was discarding it, apparently without any regret.
‘I’m sorry about that. Very sorry.’
Myra looked at him, more directly than she’d done in years, saying as she did so, ‘Time I realised my limitations, Graham.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Don’t say anything then.’
‘But it’s like I said last week. Maybe this is the clean slate you needed. You’ve been so set on making those blasted tea cosies for years. Now you’re rid of them you can start again – do something new. Have you something else in mind? ’
‘Not especially.’ Myra’s tone made it clear the topic was cl
osed.
‘How about the boys, then, how are they doing, I’ve barely seen them all week.’
‘You haven’t, but they’ve managed. They’ve played that infernal dodgem game every spare minute. Oh, and Oliver showed me some of his art work the other night. He has talent.’
‘He has?’
‘Says he has a picture in an exhibition at school on Parents’ Night.’
‘When’s that?’
‘Two weeks’ time. He brought an invite home tonight.’
Silence fell while they both contemplated the implications. There would be so many moments like this ahead for the boys – little occasions like a parents’ evening, or big landmarks like graduations or weddings – where it was just assumed you had parents to attend, to listen, to watch you, congratulate you.
Myra broke the silence. ‘I shan’t go.’
‘We’ll have to go.’
‘You can, but I’m not.’
‘Myra, we must.’
‘Graham! I’m not.’
‘Very well then, one of us has to go and it’ll have to be me, then.’
‘He gets As, you know,’ said Myra.
‘What for?’
‘Nearly everything. If not As he gets B+. He’s terribly bright. John would have been pleased.’
‘Well, now we must be pleased for him instead. Show him how we appreciate his efforts.’
‘I don’t approve of making children believe they’re better than others.’
‘But you’ve just said . . . ’
‘I know I have, but that’s between you and me.’
‘I’d like to see this picture, though.’
‘Well, you will when you go to Parents’ Night. I shan’t because I’m not going. And don’t try to persuade me.’
‘I really wish you would, couldn’t you make an exception?’
The whole prospect of attending Oliver’s school and being in loco parentis in public was more than Myra could possibly contemplate. She began to shake inside and the more she thought about it the more she shook. It was bad enough having to take Piers backwards and forwards to school without a new tribe of parents and teachers judging and gosssiping. No. Absolutely not.
Myra got up feeling harrassed in the extreme, collected the tea cups, caught her toe on the curved leg of the coffee table and tripped full length. As she fell, she caught her forehead on the corner of the table and blood spattered as she made contact. Myra and the tea cups lay splayed across the carpet.
Graham leapt up too late to help her as she was standing upright again in a trice.
‘The mess!’ Myra muttered weakly.
‘Sit down, you might be dizzy. Your head, here, I’ll catch the blood.’
With Graham’s pristine handkerchief pressed to her head, Myra sat down again, clutching her head. ‘Graham, the carpet! Clean it up.’
‘Never mind the carpet, it’s you I’m thinking about. Have you a headache?’
‘Of course I have.’
‘I’ll get you a drink of water, it’ll help.’
Briefly Myra felt quite faint and it silenced her. The drink of water helped, but the blood did keep coming.
‘Let me look!’
‘No! You know what you’re like about seeing blood, Graham.’
‘I insist.’
‘No!’
Graham finally snapped. ‘For God’s sake I want to look.’
He tenderly lifted the handkerchief away from her forehead and saw a clean but deep cut still bleeding profusely. He gently replaced the handkerchief while he thought what to do. She hated hospitals after . . . well, anyway, she never set foot in one unless it was completely unavoidable. But she was even whiter than normal and he feared she would lose consciousness.
‘It needs stitching, Myra, believe me.’
‘It’s half past ten, we can’t leave the boys, what if something happened and we weren’t here?’
Graham knew she was right. But she had to have medical attention. The handkerchief was soaking with her blood, and she looked paler than ever.
They needed help and for the first time since they moved in Graham decided to call a neighbour for help, something Myra had always refused to do no matter the circumstances.
Viv! Of course. Myra had gone very quiet so Graham crept into the hall, searched the phone book for Viv’s number and rang her. He filled her in quickly.
‘You want me to come across to look after the boys, Graham, is that it?’
‘Yes, that’s it. Please, if you can.’
‘Of course I will. I’ll get my coat. Won’t be a tick.’
True to her word, Viv was knocking almost before he’d had time to open the front door for her.
When Viv saw the blood and the colour of Myra’s skin she said, ‘Off you go. I know you won’t want to, Myra, but you absolutely must. Just go. Don’t worry about how long it takes, I’ll have a nod on the sofa while I wait. The boys will be OK with me. No ifs and no buts, Graham’s right. You must.’
Myra felt so ill she meekly allowed Graham to put her coat on for her and let Viv pin a scarf around her head to hold another of Graham’s handkechiefs in place. She even let the two of them to help her into the car.
It was after four in the morning before Viv heard the car in the drive. She shook herself awake, and went to the door to open it up for them, but there was only Graham there.
‘They’re keeping her in for observation because she’s been sick, and they’re worried about concussion. They’ve X-rayed and she hasn’t fractured her skull, it’s severe bruising and a flesh wound. That’s been stitched now so she didn’t want to stay in, but they insisted.’
‘Quite right too. I thought she looked awful. Look, have a cup of tea before you go to bed. Do you good. Put some sugar in for shock. In the morning I’ll come across and take Piers to school so you can go back to the hospital a.s.a.p. OK?’
‘Thank you, Viv. Thank you.’
‘No probs, only being neighbourly. See you about half past eight. ’Night now.’
Graham made a cup of tea and took it upstairs to drink in bed. After he got into his pyjamas he decided to check on Piers and Oliver. Helped by the landing light he saw Oliver was tucked up in a tight ball, with the duvet right up to his chin and no hands to be seen, while Piers had his arms flung wide and the duvet halfway down his chest. Graham felt his hands and decided they were cold, so he pulled his pyjama sleeves down to his wrists, tucked his arms under the duvet and pulled it up to his chin, and then impulsively kissed his forehead. A strangely alien sensation filled his heart and his mind and he realised he was overcome with a love that had welled up inside him completely unbidden.
In bed he picked up his cup and drank his tea slowly, thinking about that eruption of love when he looked at the boys, and how long it had been since he’d felt emotion like that. The ability to love perhaps hadn’t withered away completely in spite of Myra’s withdrawal from him and the rest of the human race then? It seemed not. He’d definitely done the right thing, taking the boys on, doing as John asked him, shouldering his responsibilities as a brother should. Winning Myra over would be a mountain to climb, but for her own sake, climb it she must. He thought about her in her lonely hospital bed and hoped she didn’t feel too frightened by her predicament.
These two boys could be the start of a whole new life for him and Myra, and as he slid down under his duvet he rejoiced at the prospect.
Chapter 7
At school the next day Piers found time to make a get-well card for Myra. He decorated it with sparkly stuff held on by glue from the craft box and wrote ‘Please get better soon, Piers’, after all, he thought, she belonged to Uncle Graham who was the nearest he could get to his dad, and . . . he didn’t love her, but you never know, he might in time if she just cheered up a little. He remembered he’d gone to tea with a boy from his old school one day and he’d really wished he belonged to that boy’s mum because she was so cheerful and jolly. He could feel the boy loved her and she loved him and
he longed that day for a mother who could be like that. For every day his dad had been enough but just sometimes . . . a mum would have been nice. So underneath he wrote ‘with love’ and drew a scroll around it to make it important.
Oliver had art that day too and he was finishing a collage made with quilted fabric. He’d made a sailing ship on a beautiful blue sea and he’d crafted the sails so they looked as though the wind was making them billow out by padding them slightly and covering them with pristine white fabric, and for a moment you would swear the ship was sailing along, it was so realistic. In the marine blue of the sea he had placed a small pinky octopus he’d made with minute shiny glass beads for eyes and a mermaid with shining pearl sequins to represent fish scales on her body.
His teacher had given him an option. ‘Do you want to take that home, Oliver, or shall I keep it for the exhibition?’
Oliver thought about this and about Myra in hospital and he said, ‘Could I take it home for my Auntie Myra, and bring it back to hang for the exhibition? She’s in hospital you see.’
‘Of course you can. She’ll love it.’
Oliver’s teacher was right, she did love it, but Myra froze, completely unable to express any emotion about it, and therefore giving the impression to Oliver that she’d rather not have been given it. It had taken Graham some effort to persuade the boys to come with him to evening visiting hours, and now they were all here it felt awkward. He’d realised on the way over that the last time they’d been to a hospital would have been to visit their father. But mercifully, Oliver had seemed distracted by looking forward to seeing what Myra would make of his collage.
‘Don’t you like it?’ he asked. ‘I’ve to take it back to school to hang in the Parent’s Evening Art Exhibition and then I can bring it home again.’ He waited for Myra to give her opinion, then as she could muster nothing more than a strained smile, he quietly put it back in the carrier bag he’d brought it in and leant it against the bed leg.
