The Click of a Pebble

by Barbara Spencer

  ‘How sad. It’s all I ever dream about … changing. The day when it finally happens, I will sweep the heavens with my wings and ask Zeus if Willem is alright.’ His face glowed, lit from within, his shoulder-length hair flipping across his cheeks whenever he moved. Impatiently, he brushed it away. ‘Will you cut this for me, Madame?’ He grimaced, his mouth twisting ruefully, ‘I did try.’ He picked up a lock of his hair, its ends ragged where the fire had caught them. ‘However, as you can see my arms weren’t quite long enough to reach the back. Well, goodnight.’ He disappeared, shutting the staircase door behind him.

  M. Meijer listened intently, his ear cocked to the stairwell. Eventually, he sat back in his chair and sighed. ‘He’s a good lad.’

  ‘Did he go to school?’ Mme Meijer began tacking two pieces of fabric together, her needle flashing in and out.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I hope he did. His grandmother certainly believed in education. Sadly, since Robert decided to establish a permanent home on the island, I lost touch with many of the families, as you well know.’

  ‘What happened to the boy’s father; was he killed with the others?’

  ‘Yöst said he left soon after his mother died.’ ‘He left his son?’

  Her husband shifted uncomfortably at the stern tone. ‘Their lives are very different, Marie,’ he prevaricated.

  ‘And his mother?’

  ‘From what I remember, she was dark and full of life. Yöst takes after her in that regard except for his eyes. I’m so glad she was spared this.’ His mouth puckered dejectedly. ‘I still can’t believe what has happened. How could it? Neighbours, people we speak to daily.’

  ‘Shush, dear. No point getting upset.’ Mme Meijer reached over and patted his hand, her lingering fingers demonstrating her concern. ‘What is done is done. Did they marry?’ she said, her tone brisk again.

  ‘Possibly, although he already had a wife. The usual story; he wanted it all, yet was far too charming and far too handsome ever to be satisfied with one woman. No different from his brother, the Black, in that regard. Eventually, after a succession of women, she left him. By the time he met Maija, Yöst’s mother, it was already too late.’ He shrugged. ‘His chance was gone. What a waste.’ He thumped the arm of his chair.

  ‘Albert!’

  ‘It has to be stopped. Look at Yöst, desperate for his wings, and only a few days ago his entire community was wiped out. When they are offered the chance to become fully human, what do they do? Toss it away as if it was some worthless piece of rubbish. And Robert encourages them.’

  ‘Albert, be careful, the children might hear. Calm down and tell me more about his mother.’

  Still agitated, M. Meijer knocked his pipe against the metal fender, specks of ash falling into the grate like miniature shooting stars. ‘I never knew his first wife. She gave him a son and when she left him, he did go after her; I will give him that.’ He sighed, ‘So many temptations; so many beautiful women.’ Picking up on his wife’s disapproval at his choice of words, he hurried on. ‘No different from others before him, he shrugged away his future, took the boy and then took up with Maija. Yöst came along and just before the birth of their second child, they moved to the island.’ He paused, silently retracing the sequence of events. ‘If she had stayed put, she might well be alive now. She loved him, you see, and wanted to be with him.’ He stopped speaking, his attention on the staircase, automatically listening for a stray sound.

  ‘So many of their stories end badly; I thank God ours has had a happy ending.’ Mme Meijer's hands dropped into her lap, light from the small fire falling onto them. Strong hands that betrayed years of housework, her nails were short and soft, breaking at the corners, the skin no longer smooth and firm, instead dimpled and dry from constant immersion in water.

  Crossing the small room, her husband opened the door at the bottom of the stairwell. He listened a while before closing it again.

  ‘I was trying to work out how old he is. Around eleven, maybe twelve, he’s tall for his age.’ Restlessly, he wandered over to the window, plucking at the curtains to see out. ‘With luck, he’ll have a few more years in which to be a child. Who knows?’ The wind had shifted, stars peeking cautiously through a light canopy of cloud, a pale moon casting a circular patch of light as if some merchild in the sea was using a torch to read by. ‘What I said earlier about moving, I would prefer to remain here, at the very least until the Black returns. I’m concerned it might not be possible, especially if we are to keep Zande and Tatania with us as well. People are nosey. Our neighbours and acquaintances are aware we have neither children nor grandchildren, and will ask questions.’

  ‘Albert, do we have to? We’ve been here almost thirty years. I’m too old to start again.’

  ‘It will be thirty-two years next month, since we first met.’ Resuming his seat, her husband reached out, taking her hand in his. ‘I was eighteen and am now almost fifty. At that time, I was not expecting to live much beyond thirty-five.’

  ‘I prefer to count the years since we met as thirty, Albert, not thirty-two. Then I will be fifty, not fifty-two,’ his wife retorted. ‘If we have to go, can we at least wait out the winter until Robert returns?’

  ‘Marie, I can’t say for certain that the carinatae will come back next spring.’

  ‘Surely? They have responsibilities here … wives and children! You mean … it makes no difference?’

  M. Meijer shifted uncomfortably. ‘I agree it should but it doesn’t always.’

  ‘How will Robert learn what has happened if we leave now?’

  ‘If we go north to our old home, he will find us, never fear.’

  ‘Albert, winters there are horrid. That’s why we came south,’ she protested, stabbing her needle into the cloth.

  ‘Then we will buy warm clothes and stay inside. Does it really matter so long as we keep the children safe?’

  Silence fell, with Mme Meijer’s attention drawn to the window, as if seeing through the curtains to the view beyond. ‘If I agree, will you promise me one thing?’

  ‘Yes, my love, anything.’

  ‘Once the children are back with their family, we will return and spend our final years here.’

  ‘We have winter here too,’ he reminded with a fond smile.

  ‘Rarely snow and never ice,’ she retorted, her tone as tart as a lemon. ‘And here spring flowers arrive in February and March, not April and May as they do further north. Promise me, Albert,’ she coaxed.

  He blew her a kiss. ‘Of course, my dear.’ Picking up his pipe again, he tamped down a fresh pinch of tobacco and struck a match. ‘It’s a good thought to hold on to. Because of you, I may even achieve the span of years promised in your Bible … three score and ten.’

  7

  ‘Yöst, you are wearing out my carpet, pacing backwards and forwards.’ Mme Meijer arrived at the top of the stairs, the finished nightshirt over her arm.

  Startled, the boy stared down at the bare floorboards, quickly glancing up again, his frown replaced by a rueful grin.

  ‘That’s better,’ she brushed his cheek with the tips of her fingers. ‘I like your short hair.’

  Yöst glowered. ‘It makes my ears stick out.’

  ‘It will grow. So why the pacing?’

  ‘I was going to ask if I could go back to school, I’m not used to doing nothing,’ he confessed. He sat down cross-legged next to Zande and Tatania who were drawing pictures, using pencils and some scraps of cardboard Mme Meijer had unearthed from a pile in the outhouse. As if the gesture had now become automatic, Zande reached out a hand. Yöst ruffled his curls in reply.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you.’ She raised her voice. ‘Zande, tonight you will have a new nightshirt to wear. Won’t that be good?’ She held it up.

  The boy glanced up from under his lashes. Without replying, he flicked his attention back to his drawing.

  Sighing, she placed it down on the bed the three children shared. ‘Come downstairs, we can talk while I do some
washing.’ Through the window grey clouds heavy with rain scudded past, leaving a neat line of puddles on the garden path, as if they were part of some child’s game. ‘It will be dry by nightfall in this wind.’

  Yöst sprang to his feet. Immediately, Zande grabbed his hand and hung on. ‘Didn’t I swear never to leave you,’ he chided him. ‘I’m just going downstairs with Madame Meijer, Tante Marie,’ he corrected, remembering what she’d asked the children to call her. ‘Stay with TaTa,’ he said, gently disengaging his hand.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Mme Meijer sighed. She led the way downstairs and into the kitchen. ‘I am so worried about him. He’s not said a word since last night.’

  Yöst pulled out a stool from under the kitchen table and sat down, engrossed in watching the boiling kettle, its lid rattling with the force of the steam. ‘It’s like something is trying to escape.’

  Skilfully upending the boiling water into the sink, Mme Meijer added cold water and began to rub soap into Tatania’s soiled clothes. ‘The same as you then.’

  Yöst’s lips twisted in a grin. ‘Oh, I do like you, Madame Meijer!’

  He pointed at the black-leaded stove, its tiny firebox glowing with light. ‘I wish we’d owned a stove as good as that one. Our fire mostly went out at night and had to be lit afresh every morning. That was my job. Sometimes I got lucky and it was still alight, then all I needed to do was add a few scraps of wood. Grandmother had a tinder box which helped.’ His words flooded out as if they’d been gripped in the jaws of a spring and had just wriggled free. ‘Even then we could only cook one thing at a time. Sometimes at night, families ate together, roasting a …’

  Faltering to a stop, he stared blindly at his hand and arm, his burns covered in fresh scabs. ‘I forgot about the tinder box when Monsieur Meijer took us away. I wish I could go and fetch it.’

  Mme Meijer bent a little lower over the sink, apparently giving her full attention to the clothes soaking in the enamel bowl.

  ‘It’s all I have left.’ His voice took on a pleading tone. ‘Do you think I might ask Monsieur to take me? I remember exactly where I left it. I put it under a rock for safekeeping.’

  Concerned, she swung away from the sink. Wiping her hands on her apron, she took his hands in hers. ‘Yöst, I’m afraid …’

  He snatched them away. ‘He’ll say no, won’t he?’

  ‘Because it’s far too dangerous and he’s responsible for you now.’

  ‘I understand.’ He swallowed loudly and straightened his shoulders. ‘Please don’t worry about Zande, he’ll speak when he’s ready and then you won’t be able to stop him. I remember …’ He hesitated and once more came to a halt.

  ‘Talk it all out, Yöst, if it helps.’

  ‘Will it help? Will it stop the nightmares?’ he exclaimed his eyebrows drawn together in pain. ‘On the island, Zande was always talking, although mostly with his mother. They spoke a different language between themselves. Maybe our language still feels awkward on his tongue,’ he excused the small boy.

  ‘You’re very old for … what twelve?’ she guessed.

  ‘I was born old, Madame Meijer, I mean Tante Marie … my grandmother said so. Except I’m not really sure how old I am.’ His mouth twisted wryly. ‘Grandmother said something different each time I asked. According to her, my age depended on how I acted. If I displeased her, I was nine or ten. Once or twice, if she was especially annoyed, she’d tell me I was behaving like a two-year-old. Other times, if I was sensible, a fledgling.’ He hesitated. ‘That’s what we call older boys, those about to change.’ He pointed to the piece of soap sitting on the side of the sink. ‘She used a bar of soap like that one; dark yellow it was.’

  ‘And?’

  He grinned at her. ‘Last year when I moved into a house with the other boys—’

  ‘You didn’t live with your father?’

  ‘No!’ Yöst sounded almost shocked. ‘Never, until we fledge. Besides, it wasn’t worth it for the few months of summer. In any case, he wasn’t there. He stayed away last year. I’m glad, he might have been caught up—’ He swallowed hard. ‘Anyway, we were supposed to wash our own clothes and my half-brother …’ The elderly woman glanced at him sharply. ‘My father had two sons,’ he explained, ‘Rue was older than me.’

  She stayed silent as the young boy replaced his happy memories with bitter ones. ‘He was sixteen and had changed a few days before,’ he burst out furiously. ‘He’d waited so long for it to happen. Sometimes he despaired, wondering if it ever would. Often at night, he’d sneak out to watch the men transform into the celeste and vanish into the heavens.’

  ‘Tell me about the soap,’ she changed the subject.

  ‘We didn’t have any,’ Yöst continued, his voice cracking. ‘The Black insisted it was something we had to earn. Rue told us he’d seen women beating dirt out of clothes with stones. It worked brilliantly too,’ he boasted, his eyes shining again, flinging off his anger and distress. ‘Unfortunately, after a few washes the fabric became so thin, it tore.’ He stopped. ‘Madame Meijer, can I tell you something?’ his tone had changed again.

  ‘Anything.’ She wrung out the child’s dress, squeezing it between her strong hands before laying it to one side. Picking up the man’s jacket Yöst had been wearing, she inspected it closely. ‘You can wear this round the house,’ she announced, and plunged it into the soapy water.

  ‘You know when I was hiding?’ Yöst faltered to a standstill, his expression almost belligerent, challenging her not to believe him.

  ‘My husband said it was in a graveyard.’

  ‘Yes, it was, except that’s not it. I wanted to ….’ He hesitated, bursting out, ‘It was the priest from the church. He was there.’

  She swung round, water dripping from the cloth she was holding onto the floor. Seeing the boy’s white face, his pupils tiny pinpricks of confusion, she dropped it back into the water and reached out with her arms, holding him close. ‘You mean from our chur—’ She stopped, too shocked to even complete the word.

  ‘He killed TaTa’s mother.’ Yöst began to shake, the thin veneer of sophistication in which he had garbed himself torn away. She tightened her grip around him. ‘That’s why I asked about sending us to the church. I’m scared he might come searching for Zande.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ She pushed him down onto a stool and sat down next to him, continuing to hold his hands.

  ‘Because she … I didn’t even know her name,’ he cried out. ‘I should have known her name.’

  ‘Shush, dear, the children.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Yöst sobbed. ‘Only I can’t forgive myself about that. I was so scared. The thing is … she saved me. She helped me to dig a hole under the gravestone and then pulled the stone over us. I called after her, I did … I promise. But he was there and she couldn’t answer. He was questioning her and she was begging for her life. She confessed to him that she had a child on the mainland. I just know he’ll come looking.’

  Mme Meijer got to her feet. ‘Are you so sure, Yöst? In the darkness and confusion, it would have been easy enough to make a mistake.’ Absent-mindedly, she picked up Zande’s shorts. Dunking them in the water with the jacket, she began rubbing them with soap.

  ‘It was the priest,’ he insisted. He clenched his fists, drumming them on the table. ‘I recognised him from school.’

  ‘You met up with him before?’

  ‘Sometimes he visited our school. He’d talk to us about his god and his son, Jesus, who loved children. Then he’d beat you, if you didn’t know your sums or tripped over a word when you were reading aloud. One time he beat a girl because she was wearing a mob cap. She’d caught ringworm and had had her head shaved.’ He paused then rushed on, ‘Zande’s mother had black skin. When we came through the town, people stared at him.’

  ‘Is that why I’m a Black, because I have black skin?’

  They jumped and spun round, spotting the small figure in the doorway. ‘You were a long time, Yöst,’ Zande explained, his
eyelashes fluttering in imitation of a young bird taking to the wing.

  ‘Your skin isn’t black. Do you know what milk chocolate is?’ Mme Meijer’s tone was gentle. She sat down at the table, and ignoring her wet hands drew the young boy onto her knee. Zande looked enquiring, his eyes wide. ‘It’s something very special to eat. I was given a piece once to celebrate the winter solstice. It’s sweet and warm and melts in your mouth; exactly like you, Zande.’ She flicked his cheek. ‘I am not sure, you will have to ask my husband, but I don’t imagine being a Black has anything to do with the colour of your skin. Blacks are born with extra gifts and when they grow up, they become leaders of their people. Isn’t that right, Yöst?’

  ‘I want Yöst to be the leader because he has promised to keep me safe ’til my mother comes back.’

  Miserably, Yöst regarded the older woman over the top of the small boy’s head. ‘And I will,’ he agreed. ‘Is TaTa all right? I don’t want her falling downstairs.’

  ‘I closed the door,’ Zande replied, his tone decisive.

  ‘What you were saying just now, Yöst,’ Rubbing her hands over her apron to dry them, Mme Meijer lifted Zande down. Crossing the kitchen, she opened the door to the outhouse. ‘Come with me.’

  It was a dingy building, dark and small, its stone innocent of both paint and plaster. In the far corner, a door, constructed from lengths of rough planking, opened up into a privy, the tiny window on a level with its iron cistern, too small even for a child to climb through. A well-used spade and garden fork leaned against the garden wall, adjacent to a ramshackle old lawnmower, its rubber handles bound with string. Next to it lay a neat pile of kindling for the stove and a half-empty sack of coal.

  Crossing the narrow space, she lifted down the tin bath from its hook on the wall. Behind was a wooden hatch, fine mesh covering the centre of the door, with a hook and eye fastening. ‘In summer we use this as a food safe because it’s always cold in here.’ She gestured round the small outhouse. ‘Once upon a time an entire family would have been housed in this tiny space and this would have been used as an oven. It used to have a chimney but that was bricked up a long time ago. If necessary,’ she bit her lip, ‘you can hide in there. It’s easily big enough for the three of you.’ She caught Zande’s expression, his mouth clamped tightly shut, holding back words of protest. ‘Shall we go and fetch Tatania and you can play in the kitchen?’