Grave Misgivings

by Caroline Wood

  Every stitch made the dog come to life, right off the embroidery cloth. It was like the animal was being born bit by bit. The eye was just an oval of yellow and black threads. Until the last stitch. As the fingers pulled the final thread through, the eye blinked, moved about really quickly as if it was looking for something. Then the same with the tongue – one last pink stitch and it rolled out of the partly embroidered mouth, panting and flopping everywhere. The paw was already poised in the picture, and when I pushed the needle through, with Hamey’s fingers, I could almost feel it start to tremble, as it got ready to move. Tried to shake my hand, it did, clumsily slapping the warm pads and blunt claws in my palm. The tail wagged like crazy, nearly revolving, which got the unfinished bits all tangled up. And there I was, the dream me thinking this was lovely and getting excited as the one-eyed, one-legged dog squirmed about in my lap, while the real, asleep me was horrified by the whole thing. I was desperately trying to wake myself up or at least get back to my own dream and carry on with the cushion cover.

  It seemed like a never-ending dream, one of those when you know you’re asleep and can’t bring yourself out of it. I remember there was even a doggy smell. Not nasty but definitely dog. It was a lively thing too, as more of it came to life – playful and good-natured. It wanted to lick my hands all the time. Then everything stopped. No dog, no embroidery.

  It was just the grubby little fingers and the leather thing again. Only this time, the fingers weren’t sewing but sort of stroking. Checking the seams, or admiring the work – that’s what it looked like anyway. I tried to get a better look this time. The dream me knew what the thing was, but the real me was obviously not going to be let in on this. That was when I woke up. It was like the film had stopped. Hamey’s hands finished their stroking and just stayed in the same position, cupped over the leather thing so I couldn’t see it at all. I half expected to get THE END plastered across my dream but I just woke up as if nothing had happened. Of course, that’s going back a bit now, but I remember some dreams as if they were only last night. Especially the shaggy dog ones.

  It was about the time of the embroidery dream that Hames had one of his funny spells. He wasn’t ill exactly, but I was worried about him. He went so quiet. He was never one for talking much anyway, but this was different. I suppose I got used to it over the years but that time sticks in my mind. I could hardly get a word out of him, although he didn’t seem upset or sulky over anything in particular. I tried to chat with him about his picture – both bits; the sewing and the embroidered dog – but he would only shrug and mutter about not remembering it very well. That in itself was peculiar because Hamey has got the sort of memory that can take you back to the past in minute detail and wonder how you could have forgotten the things he’s stored up without even trying. Not this time though. He had a big silent cloud around him. It filled the room when he came out of his cupboard, and stayed, hanging in the kitchen when he’d gone back. He shut himself away more often; sometimes he’d even take his food back in with him. Later, the plate, only half empty, would be on the table. He would wait until I was out of the way before bringing it out. I used to sit and worry, or give myself lectures about him being all right, that he was just a bit sensitive, or going through one of the stages of growing up.

  While Hames shut himself away; I was on my own as well. Now and then it would get me down and I’d think back to the days when I used to go out or meet up with friends. And Brady of course. I had many daydreams in my cupboard about him and our secret years together. But more often than not, I’d enjoy my cosy evenings in my own little space. We used to call them cupboards when Hamey was small. It just stuck. And his really had been a cupboard once, but it was a waste to use such a big area to store all sorts of junk. So we painted it white, put a carpet down, had some lights fitted – it hasn’t got windows – and Hamey took over. I suppose it would have been the scullery or larder once upon a time; it leads down to the cellar. It’s handy to have the space down there for keeping bits and pieces out of the way. Modern houses don’t have nearly enough room. I don’t know where we’d put all our old stuff – it would probably end up in the dump. But it’s nice to hang on to a few old memories, even though I don’t go down there for years at a time. The old tin bath, the mangle, that big wooden chest my granny used to keep blankets in, always smelled of mothballs – I just don’t like to part with them. Some houses in the street still have that room as a coal store. I sometimes see the deliveryman humping big black sacks to the backdoors of the older neighbours. It makes me glad we went over to gas. There’s even a radiator in the cupboards. Mine gets lovely and warm. Hames doesn’t feel the cold so he doesn’t always have his on, but I remind him when the weather gets really cold and he gives me one of those yes Mum nods.

  My cupboard – well it’s not a cupboard really – is all done out in nice peach and creamy colours. It used to be where we had the washing machine, the spinner and our big old chest freezer. The futility room, Hamey called it. When we had a bit of an update to the kitchen, that room didn’t get used any more. First of all I was going to have it as my workroom. I pictured myself making curtains with an electric sewing machine, mending Hamey’s clothes, and doing all sorts of handicrafts, but I’m just not the sort. What I’ve got instead is a nice little radio, a television and my tape player for when I fancy a bit of music. I do the occasional crossword, then I mark down the programmes I want to watch for the evening and get all settled in with tea and biscuits in the breaks. Hames hasn’t got a television in his cupboard but there’s the big one in the main room if he wants to see anything. He likes the odd documentary now and then, otherwise he seems content to while away the hours in his own way. I used to take him tea or milk and biscuits when he was younger, but he’s never been very interested. It’s a long time since I’ve been in his cupboard.

  There was a time when I thought the pictures had stopped. After Mohammed disappeared, that vivid shaggy dog dream, and Hames going all quiet, things went flat for a long time. It was strange at first, like when you keep waiting for something familiar to happen, can’t get on with things properly until the pattern has been played out – like when the postman doesn’t come – you’re half listening without even realising it. And there’s that feeling, almost buried, that something isn’t quite right, something is missing. I had that for ages when Hames stopped sending the pictures. He’d been doing it most of his life, after all. I knew it might stop one day but I still felt out of sorts with it gone – like my boy had shut me out. All part of growing up, I suppose. I even tried to encourage it to happen, and would concentrate hard on letting images come in and interrupt what I was doing. But nothing came. What with the pictures gone and Hamey all distant, I had to try and guess what he wanted for his meals and what he was up to. Once I tapped on his cupboard door to ask what he fancied to eat, and when there was no reply, I tried the handle. It was locked. That came as a bit of a jolt, and it upset me so much I sat in my own cupboard all that evening, in tears, and didn’t make anything to eat for either of us. Still, I got over it and talked myself round by remembering what a good boy Hamey had always been, how he had never got into any trouble or stayed out all night, or gone all rebellious, swearing, shouting, playing loud music or taking drugs. I had to count my blessings that I had such a well-behaved son. He might be unusual for staying at home and keeping himself to himself so much, but then we had never done things the way other people did. I pulled myself together and got used to the idea of no more pictures. At least the days of shaggy dog hints were over. It was a relief that we never actually got that dog. I put my foot down after Mohammed.

  It turned out that we weren’t the only ones who’d had problems with missing animals. It got bad enough a couple of times for the local newspaper to do a bit about the mystery of disappearing pets in the neighbourhood. People had gone to feed rabbits only to find an empty hutch, and several cats had gone off never to be seen again. There had even been a case where the big goldfish had b
een taken out of a garden pond. That was the one that got it all going I think. The others could be explained away somehow or other but fish don’t suddenly decide they are unhappy living in their pond, put their belongings in little suit-cases and take off in search of alternative accommodation. Of course, one person mentions it, bells ring with the next person and before you know it, there’s an epidemic of talk and rumour, getting exaggerated along the way. But this did turn out to have a lot of truth in it. But it all faded into the background when Robbie went missing.

  There was no gossip that time, just ashen faces and people standing on corners, shaking their heads and looking helpless. The whole place went silent, as if all the locals had locked themselves away like me and Hames. I imagined us all in little cupboards, worrying about Robbie and wondering if we would ever see his big cheerful face again; his enormous Wellington boots and his tatty old green anorak, with the stuffing poking out at the back like he had a permanent snowball stuck to him. It shocked the town, of course; something like that would shock any community. But because it was Robbie, everyone knew something bad had happened. We couldn’t hang onto hopes about him leaving home, going off to see the big wide world or living rough. Robbie was like those bloody goldfish. He just didn’t have it in him to take off and look after himself. We all looked after him, looked out for him, while we let him do things that meant he could believe he was looking after us. He was always there, outside the shop, a big overgrown lad, getting on for thirty. Or hanging about in the market square to help someone load up groceries or carry their bags home. He would post letters for old ladies, a big smile on his face as he waited for permission to let go of the envelope. Then he would clap his hands together with the simple joy of achievement.

  The police gradually stopped being so involved; they’d turned the whole place inside out and hadn’t come up with an answer. Very nice, some of them were, friendly and polite. We wanted to help, me and Hamey, but there wasn’t much to say. We didn’t really know Robbie – he’d just always been there. Eventually it all died down and things went on in the same way. Except it never really was the same. Nothing was mentioned any more, but something was missing, and we hadn’t been told how or why. That can eat away at you, drive you round and round in circles as you try to make sense of it. And never can.

  It was strange, after such a long time, but when the pictures came back, I wasn’t surprised. It was as if they hadn’t even stopped, and I just took it for granted again when I realised I was seeing things that weren’t my own thoughts. It might even have happened a few times without me noticing. I suppose Hames has always been one for surprises, right from the start. I should be used to that – expect the unexpected. There I’d been, worried all that time about him keeping himself shut away and hardly going out, then I got pictures showing he must have been going out after all.

  In the library, I was, just browsing along the shelves of local interest books. I don’t often take books home, but occasionally something catches my eye and I’ll borrow it for a couple of weeks to go into things a bit deeper – what places used to be like and who lived where, that sort of thing. It always fascinates me, the way things change, and the way some things stay more or less the same. And I like to wonder about the people in the old photographs – did they have any idea that the future would be the way it is? Or that they would end up in some library book when all they were doing was helping to get the harvest in or having a picnic on the beach with the family? Someone takes a photo and it gets put away in the attic for years and then later on, someone else finds it and thinks it will be a good idea to put it in a book. And the person in the picture never knows a thing about it. I like to imagine what they would think.

  I was doing that, just imagining, when the library shelves turned into different shelves. I could still see the books, all stacked neatly, but at the same time, I could see other shelves with other things displayed on them. They looked like they were made of cardboard, but nice strong, thick cardboard. And they were in sections, like a big pigeonhole arrangement in an old fashioned office. I thought it looked like a museum, and smiled as I watched the rows of exhibits pass by. I thought it was lovely that Hames had made the effort to go there for a look round. I had never been myself. I kept smiling because it was just like the old Hamey – lots of things all jumbled up at once and coming at me in the same picture. His mind always did seem to work overtime. In with all the stuffed animals, there were sketches and photographs of long straight bones and ribcages and tiny, jointed bones like little fingers but with claws instead of nails. Then there was chicken wire, moulded into rounded shapes with fur draped over them – all different sizes and colours. The thing was, he’d got it all muddled up because some of the animals weren’t the type you’d find in a museum. They were ours, from years ago. The ones that went missing all displayed here with cats and birds and fish I didn’t recognise. There was even a little tortoise but it couldn’t have been Mohammed, it was too bulky – a funny looking creature, almost like it was too big for its shell, with leathery sausage-shaped legs sticking out all awkward. Whoever did that hadn’t been very good at their job, I thought, but then pushed it out of my mind. It made me shudder, the whole idea.

  He must have gone into another section then, although I could still see the boxed animals in the background. I must admit I was expecting a shaggy dog any minute, but Hames had grown out of that. This bit was to do with people. Perhaps the museum does exhibitions like the books I enjoy – with little rooms set up in corners, showing all the old fixtures and fittings so you could get a real idea of what it was like. And model people to show the clothes they wore back then. But judging by Hamey’s picture, they were still working on it. There was more of the chicken–wire, this time in the shape of a man. A big man he was, and I thought everyone was little in the old days. There were clothes as well, all neat and tidy in cardboard boxes – stuffing coming out of something on the top of one pile. Then his mind wandered again and I couldn’t make head or tail of his picture.

  There was an old tin bath just like ours, and Hames was bending over it, like if he was trying to catch something. Then off we go, just like the old shaggy dog days. Well, well, I thought – any second there’d be a dripping dog jumping over the side of that old bath, wagging its tail and shaking itself all over the place. But there was no shaggy dog. Just Hames, and a lot of struggling and splashing – water everywhere. And arms flailing about all over the place. Too many arms because the picture made it look like there were two people, not just one. I expect his mind was just racing, the way it does sometimes. Anyway it all calmed down and ended with a few bubbles coming up to the surface, then the water all still. There was a face. I only had a quick glimpse, but it didn’t look like Hamey’s reflection. It looked for all the world as if it was under the water.

  Anyway, all I wanted was to get back to my library books. I didn’t know Hames could still do his pictures, or if he really knew what he was sending me. I had got so used to them over the years that I didn’t look too carefully every time. That day in the library, I decided the time had come to give Hames more privacy. Turn a blind eye, you might say. And I suppose you’ll laugh at that, coming from a woman who didn’t even realise she was pregnant. Well, we’ve all got things we’d rather not know, haven’t we

  * Ducks *

  I sat next to her on the bus and felt her warm arm through the sleeve of my matted jumper. I’d always liked market day. The man with the pigs always used to give me a humbug and I'd see how long I could make it last. I’d keep taking it out of my mouth to see if the stripes had disappeared.

  All the people were happy, and not in a hurry like they were other times. They’d stop to talk to Mum, and ruffle my hair or pat me on the head. I’d hold onto the handle of Mum's wicker shopping basket, or link my fingers through the belt-loop on her coat. And then there was my favourite bit – looking at all the animals. I had to help Mum choose – ducks or hens, and sometimes a turkey. We bought eggs as well, and l
ovely cakes for when we got home.

  I sucked my shrinking humbug back into my mouth as I watched the fields rushing past the bus window. I always had the window seat, and would breathe huffs of mist on the glass, to draw pictures on. Then I’d huff on it again to make them come back. Like magic.

  The white ducks were in a loose sack between Mum's feet and mine. I thought they should have been able to look out of the window as well, but Mum didn't like them on her lap because they got too lively and used to peck my fingers. This time, they were the sleepy type of ducks, and settled on the bus floor.

  We had to get off soon. I knew when I saw Mr Jenkins’ green gate that our bus stop came next, and Mum would start to get the ducks and shopping bags ready. I squanched the last bit of my humbug – it was one of my rules to eat it before we got off the bus. I leaned harder on Mum's arm, waiting for her to stir. She was fast asleep though, and I laughed inside about what Dad would say if he could see her. But I wouldn't tell him. It would be our secret, just between Mum and me, and we'd joke about it when we had our cakes for tea.

  ‘Don't you go telling anyone about what happened on the bus ride, young man,' she'd say, and give me one of her special little winks. She did it with both eyes at once. She couldn't do it with just one – I was trying to teach her.