Moon Pie

by Simon Mason

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Come on then.’

  They got up together and went upstairs, and Martha ran the bath while Tug sat on the toilet singing ‘The Bear Went Over the Mountain’ to himself.

  ‘Marcus is strange, isn’t he?’ he said, and yawned.

  After Tug’s bath, Dad still wasn’t back. Martha opened a can of beans and they had baked beans on toast together at the kitchen table. Then they played games, and finally they watched television. Night fell and it got dark. They put the lights on and drew the curtains, and Martha locked the back door.

  ‘Why’s Dad late, Martha?’ Tug asked.

  ‘I don’t know. The surprise must take a long time to get ready.’

  In the end she put Tug to bed herself. She read The Very Hungry Caterpillar with him, and tucked him in and put the nightlight on, and went along the landing to her own room.

  For a while she stood at the window, peering out and listening. It was odd without Dad in the house. He left a silence in it. The silence was thin and fragile, like a silence about to be broken, and Martha listened to it, holding her breath and waiting for a noise, like the sound of Dad coming back. But there was no noise.

  I’m eleven, she thought. I shouldn’t be frightened of the silence, or the dark. I have to keep my head, and not be silly.

  Settling herself on the carpet in a corner of her room, she read Little Women, which was one of the books she had borrowed from the library, occasionally lifting her head to listen out for Dad. Eventually she grew sleepy, and got into bed and lay there with her eyes closed. But the silence kept her awake. In the end she got up again and stood at the window in her dressing gown, looking at the moon.

  Like a white pebble, she thought. Like a bit of bone. She wished she could make it look more interesting, but she tried, and she couldn’t.

  Her bedside clock with the luminous face said 10.05 p.m., and she wondered where Dad was, and what he was doing. Several times recently he had come home late. One evening she had asked him where he had been, but he hadn’t answered. He made a joke, as he often did when she asked him a question, and looked the other way and was silent.

  Dad was like the moon. Hard to think about.

  Suddenly the thought came to her that he might have been in the garden all this time, or in the shed at the bottom of the garden where he sometimes liked to potter, and although it was a silly idea she thought she should go and see.

  The stairwell was dark, and the light wasn’t working. At the top she hesitated, peering down, pointing her small nose all the way to the bottom. She couldn’t see anything. Taking a deep breath, she tiptoed quietly down, listening out for anything that sounded like Dad, and at the bottom of the stairs she was startled by the telephone suddenly ringing, very loudly, down the hallway. She pulled herself off the wall, and ran towards it. That must be him now, she thought, and without knowing why she felt afraid of what he was going to say to her.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello? Who’s that? Is it you, Martha?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Grandma, Martha. What are you doing up so late? You sound as if you’ve been running. Are you watching a film?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing. I was … I was just sitting here thinking.’

  After she said this, Grandma was silent for a moment.

  ‘May I talk to your father?’

  Martha said, ‘He’s not here.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘Do you have a babysitter with you, Martha?’

  ‘No.’

  Grandma made a noise, and Martha said quickly, ‘He’ll be back any minute. He’s just popped out. To see a friend down the road.’

  This time she heard muffled noises, as if Grandma was holding her hand over the phone and talking to someone else.

  ‘Will you ask him to telephone me as soon as possible?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell him it’s important. I’m anxious that he doesn’t forget lunch next Sunday.’

  ‘All right.’

  When she put down the phone the house was quiet again, and she could almost hear her heart beating high up in her chest. Grandma was scary in a well-spoken sort of way, and Martha didn’t like talking to her on the phone. Tug didn’t like talking to her at all, and sometimes hid when she came round. She lived with Grandpa in a big house quite near.

  But the phone call had broken the spell of the empty house. On her way to bed, Martha checked on Tug again, and found him in a purring heap under his duvet, flushed and damp-haired and deeply asleep. Then she went to bed herself, and to her surprise fell asleep almost straight away.

  6

  She woke in the dark with a gulp, and Dad said, ‘Surprise!’

  He was standing at the edge of the bed, shining a torch on himself and laughing, and she sat up with a cry. In the torchlight he didn’t look like Dad at all, his face was criss-crossed with white stripes and black shadow, like warpaint.

  ‘Dad?’ she cried again.

  Dad just laughed. ‘And his torch,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s dark, of course. Can’t see when it’s dark. Everyone knows that.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ she asked.

  ‘Up you get,’ he said. ‘Quickly.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Out. Into the night. Into the beautiful summer night.’

  Before she had time to think, she was getting dressed in the dark while Dad fetched Tug. Then they went downstairs together, Dad carrying Tug – still sleeping, wrapped in a blanket – and out of the house.

  The street was bathed in faint orange light from the street lamps, and the sky above was pale dark, and everything was quiet. It was still warm, and the soft air smelled of singed dust. As they went down the street, Dad and Martha whispered to each other.

  ‘What time is it, Dad?’

  ‘Half past two.’

  ‘Where did you go for so long?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘Where are we going now?’

  ‘You’ll find out. Did you miss me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I missed you too. Isn’t it a beautiful night? Shall we dance?’

  He began to waltz down the street with Tug in his arms.

  Martha remembered the phone call earlier, and called after him, ‘You have to phone Grandma.’

  He ignored her. ‘Just wait till you see what I’ve got to show you.’ His eyes were bright, and he sounded excited. He smiled to himself a lot. Once or twice he stumbled. ‘Tug’s got heavy,’ he said apologetically.

  They went quietly to the end of the street, and across the main road, and along the cycle track until they came to the park, an area of darkness beyond the street lamps.

  ‘What are we doing here, Dad? It’s all locked up.’

  ‘I know a way in,’ he said, and they went round the fence until they came to a kissing gate, where there was a gap in the railings.

  ‘Kiss me,’ he said, laughing.

  Inside the park it was darker, and Martha hesitated. Sudden splashings from the lake echoed in the empty quietness.

  Dad switched on his torch. ‘This way. Follow me. Careful now. Watch out for an ambush.’ He laughed.

  Martha stayed where she was. Her heart was beating fast. ‘Dad?’

  He swung round and his torch made loops of light. All round them were things invisible in the darkness, and things moving invisibly.

  ‘Come on, Martha!’

  ‘What are we doing here? It’s the middle of the night.’

  He just laughed again. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘I don’t like the dark,’ she whispered.

  But he moved away, and she had to run to catch him up.

  Holding on to the back of his shirt, she followed him along the path in darkness behind the beam of torchlight, from the path to the rough ground, and across the rough ground to the trees at the edge of th
e lake, and through the trees until they came to a grassy space, and stopped.

  Dad shone his torch down, and she saw things laid out in Tupperware boxes on a blue-and-white rug. Dad grinned.

  ‘What’s this?’ Martha said.

  ‘It’s a picnic.’

  ‘Whose picnic?’

  ‘Ours, of course.’

  She was astonished. ‘When did you do it?’

  ‘Earlier.’

  ‘But, Dad. It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘It’s a midnight picnic.’

  Dad settled Tug on a big cushion, still wrapped in his blanket, and began to open the boxes.

  ‘Sausage rolls,’ he said. ‘Ham sandwiches. Crisps. Cheese straws. Scotch eggs. Little tomatoes. More crisps. What’s this? Salad, very important. French bread. There’s butter too, somewhere. Damn, I forgot a knife. Doughnuts. Cherries. Orange squash. And apple juice. There. Have I missed anything?’

  ‘What’s in the tin foil?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  Dad unwrapped the foil, and leaned over Tug and shook him gently until he woke. ‘Look what we’ve got, Tug.’

  Tug opened his eyes and stared all round in astonishment at the trees and sky, and at last looked at what Dad was holding. ‘Whose pie is it?’ he whispered.

  ‘Your pie. Steak and kidney.’

  Tug smiled and closed his eyes again. ‘You came,’ he whispered. ‘You came with pie.’ And he went straight back to sleep with his fingers resting on the warm pastry.

  Dad had also brought some candles, and now he lit them and put them in the grass, and then Martha and Dad settled down on either side of Tug and began to eat.

  ‘Have you ever had a midnight picnic before, Martha?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Listen. How peaceful it is. So quiet.’

  Tug woke up again with a grunt, and said, ‘Where are we?’ in a very surprised voice, as if he hadn’t woken up before.

  ‘In the land of pies,’ Dad said. ‘Which is in the park, near the lake. We’re having a midnight picnic.’

  ‘Where are the gooses?’

  ‘Sleeping. If you listen, you’ll probably hear one snore in a minute.’

  Almost straight away there was a sudden splash from the other side of the lake, and a distant goose made a noise. It wasn’t a scream. It was a friendly honk.

  Tug began to eat. ‘This is steak and kidney pie,’ he said after a moment. ‘And I was dreaming about steak and kidney pie. So Marcus was right.’

  ‘Marcus?’ Dad said. ‘Marcus is a very strange boy.’

  For a while they were all quiet, eating peacefully. Dad had calmed down. Martha was no longer scared. Her eyes were used to the darkness, and she saw that the night was made up of many different shades and shadows. They hung in the trees and stretched along the ground. The trees were flat and still, but the water of the lake streamed white-and-black with moonlight, and the air around her was soft and peppery and warm.

  She looked across at Dad eating a sausage roll. Although he was behaving strangely, he was still Dad.

  ‘Why are we having this picnic?’

  ‘I thought you’d like it.’

  ‘But why a midnight picnic?’

  He thought about that for a while.

  ‘Because you’ve never had one before. Which makes it special. And I thought you’d like to look at the stars, which is hard to do in the middle of the day. Look how many there are.’ He looked up, sighing. ‘I love coming here at night. Before you were born I used to come here a lot. It’s a very special spot. Look, Tug. All the stars.’

  ‘Why?’ Tug said sleepily.

  ‘Just because.’

  ‘Just because why?’

  ‘Just because I love you.’

  Tug thought about that, while Dad laughed to himself.

  ‘How much do you love me?’ Tug said at last. It was a game they used to play.

  ‘I love you more than … ham loves sandwiches.’

  Tug said rapidly, ‘I love you more than gooses love honks.’

  Dad turned to Martha. ‘And you, whatsyername, I love you more than butter loves bread.’

  ‘And I love you more than fishes love water.’

  ‘But I love you more than Tugs love pies.’

  ‘That’s a lot,’ Martha said. ‘I can’t beat that.’

  Finally she relaxed, and lay back on the grass and looked up at the night sky, and smiled to herself. When I’m older, she thought, I’ll remember this midnight picnic as a good thing. I’ll forget that I was scared of the dark, and that Dad was strange. I’ll remember the candles in the grass, like flowers made out of flame, and Tug dreaming of pie, and Dad telling me he loves me.

  She was glad to have sorted this out. She liked sorting things out in her mind.

  She rolled onto her side and looked at Dad.

  He’s not all bad, she thought. Perhaps I shouldn’t tell him off so much.

  ‘There are lots of stories about the stars,’ Dad said. ‘But I don’t know any.’

  ‘Is there a story about the moon?’ she asked thoughtfully.

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘It looks like pie,’ Tug said suddenly. ‘Doesn’t it, Martha?’

  And when they had finished laughing they found that Tug had gone to sleep again.

  Dad put his jacket round Martha, and they snuggled together.

  ‘How mad am I?’ he said. ‘On a scale of one to ten?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘A hundred and eleven,’ he said. He sighed, and smiled. ‘But I only do it because I love you.’ He put his arm round her. ‘I love you more than … I love you more than dads usually love Marthas.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I love you too.’

  They sat together under his jacket. Ten minutes passed in silence, and Dad began to fidget.

  ‘I like midnight picnics,’ Martha said after a while. ‘But, Dad? Why did you bring us here? Why is this a special spot?’

  He didn’t answer at once. He fidgeted. ‘Well it’s good for stars,’ he said at last.

  His voice was raspy suddenly, and he took his arm away from her and shifted his position.

  ‘But why just here? You said you used to come here before we were born.’

  He made a joke, and she asked him again. He said nothing. And then he looked the other way.

  At that moment Martha guessed.

  ‘You used to come here with Mum, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘That’s why.’

  Dad didn’t say anything. He just kept looking the other way.

  7

  When Martha was little her mum was an actress. She acted on the stage and on television, and for several years played a small role in one of the famous TV soaps, which is where she met Dad, who was Director of Photography for the show.

  She was a pretty woman with red hair the same shade as Martha’s, and very pale skin; people used to recognize her in the street. It was exciting Mum being on television. Sometimes Martha went with Dad to the studios to watch them filming Mum’s show; and once Mum took her to an awards ceremony at the Dorchester Hotel, where she met lots of television people wearing extraordinary costumes who drank champagne all evening and told each other hilarious stories. Mum liked parties. She was always laughing.

  At home, however, she could be surprisingly strict, much stricter than Dad. She was the one who made the family rules, and organized everyone, and kept everything under control. Someone has to keep their head, she used to say. She taught Martha to keep her room tidy, and be polite and pleasant to others, and go to bed promptly at bedtime. Once a week Martha helped cook tea. After Tug was born, Mum taught Martha how to feed and wash him and even change him, so that before long she was used to taking care of him.

  But what Martha remembered best about Mum was her energy. Her liveliness. She had a way of walking, very purposeful, and a way of speaking, her words bright and clear, and a way of looking at people, frank and shiny-eyed. She always knew what to do, and what to say. She was a kind p
erson, with firm views and a sense of fun, who liked dancing and was never ill.

  Then, one day in late July two years ago, Mum drove down to Cornwall with Martha and Tug and Grandma for a week’s holiday by the sea. Dad had to stay behind, to work. It was a long journey, hot and uncomfortable, and before they reached Bristol, Mum complained of feeling dizzy and sick. At Exeter, Grandma took over the driving, and Mum lay back in the passenger seat, trembling and breathing very fast. At Plymouth, Grandma was so worried she drove straight to the hospital, where Mum was taken immediately into Intensive Care, and Martha sat with Tug and a nurse in a waiting room. Eventually she fell asleep, but woke again, straight away it seemed, to find Grandma weeping on the seat next to her.

  Tug was only three: he was more bewildered than upset. But Martha was nine, and she understood. She had a sudden dizzy feeling, like falling; as if she was falling down a hole, plummeting through darkness with nothing to hold on to and no air to breathe, falling and falling until she was so suffocated and squeezed that in the end she was sick on the floor. Afterwards, and even now, she got the dizzy feeling from time to time. It came on her unexpectedly, like a headache. Out of nowhere a thought of Mum would come into her head, and she would start to fall, and fall and fall, thinking of Mum until she was sick. When it happened, she told people she had a stomach bug. She didn’t want to tell them what it really was.

  Dad never talked about Mum. Straight after the funeral he cleared out her clothes and gave them away, and put all the photographs of her into the attic; he didn’t even keep a picture for his room. Whenever Martha started to talk about Mum, he always changed the subject. He said they needed to move on. He had all the love that Martha and Tug needed, he said. But Martha knew he couldn’t talk about Mum because he was so upset.

  For about a year their routines stayed the same. Dad took Martha to school and Tug to playgroup, and went off to work at the television studio in the mornings. In the afternoons Grandma and Grandpa picked them up from school and playgroup and took them home. When Dad came back from work they had tea together, and played and talked. On Wednesdays Martha went to Cookery Club and on Fridays to Costumes Club. Every Thursday Dad played five-aside football. And although it was not at all the same without Mum, at least they were still themselves.