In Times Of Want

by Marie O'Regan

  Matthew’s smile widened, baring his teeth; his eyes seemed to shine yellow in the firelight, and the old man cursed himself for a fool.

  Matthew drew closer, his mouth close to the old man’s ear. “You said you must never break a promise. You said God watches.”

  “God always watches, Matthew, you know that.” His voice was thin, quavery, and the boy sniggered as he drew back.

  “God’s not the only one who watches, Grandpa.”

  He fought to quell the chill that rose in him at the boy’s words. “What do you mean?”

  “Others watch, too…” Matthew glanced around, nervous again. “Sometimes I can almost see…”

  The wind moaned and whispered in the trees, and the boy’s attention was broken. Restless, he returned to the window, and the old man sighed with relief. Matthew had always been such a sunny little child. When had this solemn creature taken his place?

  The wind sobbed and moaned in the eaves; this old house was far from well insulated, and it found its way through numerous cracks and gaps with ease. The old man turned his head to the sound – it seemed deeper, somehow, more sonorous. Was that a voice he could hear? The wind seemed to whisper to him, and he fancied he could smell something – a scent that was tantalisingly familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

  Not yet.

  Music wafted down the stairs, a piano tinkling somewhere close by. Matthew stood, and this time his smile was genuine. “Listen, Grandpa. Listen!”

  The old man took a step closer to the closed door, flinching as a gust of wind blew it open. The hall was empty, no sign of trespass – just dust motes dancing in the chill night air. Turning back to the boy, he asked, “I almost recognise it, don’t you?” He moved towards the door, but hesitated at the threshold to the hall. It was dark out there, the shadows thick and somehow glutinous.

  He sensed Matthew, standing just behind him, and moved to take the boy’s hand. The boy moved back once more, and the old man sighed. He should have known better. Matthew had never liked to be touched, even before…

  “Who is it, Grandpa?”

  The boy was eager, but not so eager that he’d come close. The old man yearned for the warmth of a hug from his grandchild, but – as ever – he knew the child wouldn’t allow it.

  “I’m not sure, Matthew.” He glanced back at the front door, dots of white peppering the blackened glass as the snow fell outside in the dark. It was firmly closed. “I didn’t hear anyone come in, did you?”

  Matthew looked at him strangely, and started up the stairs.

  “Come back, boy!” His voice was harsher than he’d intended, and Matthew stopped at once.

  The old man moved forward, climbed past Matthew slowly, then continued his ascent. The music faltered, just for a moment, and he froze; gesturing to Matthew to be still. He listened to his breath rasping in his throat, his heart stuttering in his chest – and finally the music began again. It was clearer now, and he thought he recognised it. Für Elise. His breath caught in his throat as the memories came thick and fast; how his daughter had loved that melody. One of the earliest tunes she had learnt when she was taking lessons, she had fallen in love with it and played it relentlessly, driving him to distraction even though he loved it. Now it floated down the stairs, bringing images of his beloved girl: Elise drawing, one foot curled beneath her as it always was; Elise at the piano, tongue poking between her lips as she concentrated on her lesson; Elise sleeping, hair spread across her pillow like a little angel…

  He wiped a tear from his cheek, and took another step forward, only to freeze when the door at the top of the stairs opened and light spilled out, bathing him and Matthew in a golden glow.

  A woman stood silhouetted in the doorway, her features indistinct in the light. Matthew made a move as if to step forward, arms outstretched…and the old man’s heart leapt. “Matthew, no!”

  Matthew turned to face him, his face wet with tears. “You said she wasn’t here! You said we were waiting for them to come!”

  “We are, boy, trust me!” Helpless in the face of the child’s anger, he struggled for the words to make this right: a way to convince him of the truth.

  Matthew’s face was all the answer he needed, and it pained him to see so much anger on that sweet face.

  The woman at the top of the stairs took a step forward, peering down the darkened hall. The old man stared at her, tears streaming down his face. Why wouldn’t she look at them? What more did he have to do?

  “Mark, is that you?”

  As if summoned by his name, the front door blew open and snow blasted through the opening. A tall, dark-haired man rushed through and forced the door shut behind him. As the wind died he took his coat off, but first he shook the snow from his shoulders. He raised his eyes to the woman at the top of the stairs, and his face broke into a smile of such warmth that even the old man couldn’t fail to be moved by it.

  “Elise!” He stepped forward, raking a hand through the unruly mop that fell over his eyes. “Am I glad to be home! Have you seen the snow?”

  The woman laughed, and started down the stairs towards him. “It’s coming down fast now, isn’t it.”

  As she reached the bottom he swept her into his arms, holding her tight. Her face was buried against his neck as he asked, “How is he? Is there any change?” Her body stiffened, and he knew the answer even before she shook her head

  He held her tighter.

  Matthew, sitting on a step about halfway up, turned to glare at his grandfather. “Who does he mean?”

  The old man shook his head, unsure. “I…I don’t know.”

  “You do, don’t you! You do know who it is!” The boy ran down the stairs towards his parents, but stopped short of going to them. He turned to his grandfather suddenly, terrified. “But…when did she come in, Grandpa? I didn’t hear her, did you?”

  “No, Matthew, I didn’t.” He stared at the couple entwined in the hall, and gasped as the shadows grew deeper, swallowing them whole. They were alone once more. The boy whimpered and ran back to him, cowering by his side but not touching. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Where did they go? Did you see?”

  The old man could only shake his head – the house had changed, somehow; the wind carried voices and sounds from things unseen, and the night outside was fierce.

  They couldn’t leave.

  Midnight, and the old man woke to find the fire sputtering. Matthew was asleep on the rug before it, curled up in a ball. His beloved puzzle was gone.

  The old man stared around the familiar room, wondering how things had changed, and why. Shadows flickered in the dying firelight, and with them, the room…altered. There was a painting over on the far wall that he didn’t remember, had certainly not bought – it was too modern for his tastes, too bright. The television (how he hated the things, had always kept it hidden in a unit that looked like a wooden chest) was displayed proudly, and it was huge – not the smaller model he remembered. The ticking seemed to grow louder, and he turned to stare at the clock on the mantel. It was still there, calling him, but some of the ornaments up there were new, weren’t they? There was a photo frame that was unfamiliar, with a bud vase beside it, now empty. He went and stared at the photo, felt the chill of the room sink into him. The figure that stared back was his own, a photo taken by his daughter Elise, on his seventieth birthday. For the life of him he couldn’t remember when that had been, and wondered anew if he was going senile. He moved to the window and looked out at a wonderland; the ground was thickly carpeted with fresh snow and the sky was midnight blue, starlight making the snow glow cobalt-white.

  There was another photograph on the windowsill, and he traced the outlines of that familiar face – feeling the chill pervade his body. Matthew. A happy, cheeky Matthew – not the quiet, untouchable shadow he had become. Next to this was a photograph of Elise with her husband, Mark; as yet untouched by the world’s harsh reality. These pictures spoke of happy times, and he struggled to remember them…to
remember his place in all this. And Matthew’s.

  He looked back at his chair, and froze. His beloved chair was gone, replaced by something newer, sleeker. He didn’t like it. Yet when he closed his eyes and touched this…the familiar cloth sprouted beneath his fingers, only to vanish when he looked again. The smell of smoke made him cough, and for just a moment the heat in the room was intense – then the chill settled in once more.

  And what of Matthew? He stared at the sleeping boy, wondering whether to wake him; he knew the child wouldn’t react well. He rubbed his eyes, unsure of his vision suddenly – the boy appeared dimmer, somehow. Less there. He wondered how many more of these tricks the house would play on him before the night was over.

  He stumbled into the hall, lost in this space that, once so familiar, now felt so strange. Music floated downstairs again, and he cried out in fear. Where was she? He made his way quickly up the stairs, eager to see his daughter, have her tell him what was happening.

  Elise sat on the bed, clasping a picture in her hands, her face wet with tears. A bedside lamp made the tear tracking down her cheek glisten. The old man hovered in the doorway, unwilling suddenly to intrude on this, his daughter’s grief. A door on the other side of the bedroom opened, and Mark appeared.

  “Elise?”

  She smiled up at him, put the photo back on the bedside table. Matthew laughed at her from it, caught in delight at some past party. “I’m sorry. I’m okay, really.”

  Mark nodded, sympathy evident as he asked, “Can I get you anything?”

  She thought for a moment. “A tea would be nice, if that’s okay?”

  He grinned at her, then. “Should have known.” He crossed to the bed, kissed her on the forehead. “Of course it is. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He brushed past the old man without acknowledgement, his face set. The good humour was purely for his daughter’s benefit. What was wrong, he wondered? Was she ill? He moved closer, silent, unwilling to disturb her now she seemed to be resting.

  She lay on the bed, eyes closed, and the old man became aware of the plaintive strains of Für Elise once more, the CD player beside the bed set low. He had named her for this song, over her mother’s wishes. She had thought it too fanciful, instead of beautiful. He supposed it was lucky she’d loved the tune as much as he did.

  He sensed movement beside him, and realised Matthew had joined him at his mother’s bedside. The boy stared forlornly, and the old man was saddened to see how pale he was. Elise rolled over, and before he could think what to do, he found himself and the boy back out in the hall, just in time to sink deeper into the shadows as Mark returned.

  The hall brightened for a moment as Mark went into the bedroom, then darkened again. Matthew and his grandfather stood just outside the door, listening, a little ashamed of themselves. Elise and Mark thought they were alone, and perhaps that was best – though neither of them could have said why.

  Mark sat on the edge of the bed, a steaming mug of tea in his hand. He shook his wife gently. “Elise, wake up. Your tea.”

  She opened her eyes and stared blankly at him for a moment, then smiled and sat up, taking the cup. “I must have drifted off.”

  “Not surprising, love. You must be exhausted.”

  Her smile faded as she tried not to cry. “I’ll rest when he wakes up.”

  Mark opened his mouth as if to speak…and then closed it again. This was old ground, gone over too many times already. The wounds were fresh, just under the surface, and he had no wish to open them again.

  The phone shrilled, and Elise dropped her cup.

  Matthew sat on the hearth, his arms wrapped tightly around him. He stared up at his grandfather.

  “Where did they go, Grandpa?”

  “I don’t know, boy.” He was staring out of the window, at the tracks their car had left in the snow as it screeched out of the drive. “I don’t know.”

  Matthew wasn’t about to give up. “But it’s late – the middle of the night. Why didn’t they check I was alright, or take me with them?”

  The old man could only shake his head. “I suppose because they knew I’d look after you.” He sat down heavily, relieved to find the room back as he remembered. “But they should have told us, that’s true.”

  The house was dark, and cold, but neither moved to turn a light on, or lay the fire.

  Time passed, shadows fell. And the wind was screaming.

  Elise stared at the shape in the bed before her, so pale and weak. She could barely take in the doctor’s words. “He’s been showing signs of waking, Mrs Banks. Very slight…but definitely there.” A monitor went off again, and nurses bustled, clustering around their patient. He still hadn’t moved. She felt a hand rest on her shoulder, and another snake round her waist. She leaned back – grateful for Mark’s warmth. He kissed her hair.

  “What do you think, Mark? Will he wake up?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know, darling. But God, I hope so.”

  “It’s been so long…” Elise’s voice cracked, and she put a hand to her mouth; desperate to contain her grief.

  Mark nodded. “I know.”

  They looked on, then, as the doctors worked; and they waited and watched, as they had for so long – forlorn in the hope that this time, maybe this time, hope would win.

  Dawn was breaking through the living room window, its watery rays struggling to illuminate the cold and stark room, where Matthew and his grandfather sat waiting. As the room brightened, Matthew cried out – and his grandfather whirled towards him. The boy was…flickering. The old man watched in shock as the image of the lad faded out of sight. Then he was back, just for a moment…reaching out towards him. With a cry, he made a grab for his grandson’s hand, desperate for the contact…and to keep Matthew with him.

  Too late.

  Elise was exhausted. Mark was by her side, and they leant on each other as they searched for some sign of the doctors’ success. As dawn broke, Elise called her son’s name, her voice shocked. Following the direction of her gaze, Mark saw his son open his eyes briefly, and smile at his mother.

  “Matthew!” He was back, suddenly, and the old man slumped with relief. The boy was jittery, frightened…but he was here. “What happened, boy? Where did you go?”

  “I don’t know.” The boy was staring around him, as if he were trying to fix his position, set it in stone. “It was bright…there was a bed…and my mother was there.”

  The old man wept. “Did she see you?”

  “I think so.” Matthew’s voice shook with emotion, the first real feeling the old man had seen since…when, exactly? “She smiled…I think it was at me.”

  The boy began to fade again, and the old man moaned. “Don’t leave me, Matthew. Don’t leave me alone.”

  The boy flickered back into view and smiled. “Don’t worry, Grandpa. I won’t.” He grasped his grandfather’s wrist, and the old man cried out at the surge of feeling that shot up his arm.

  They were back in that room, by the bed, but this time they were together. Matthew stared up at his grandfather, then at the figure in the bed, his face milk-white.

  “Grandpa, look!”

  The old man obeyed. “I don’t understand, Matthew. How can this be?”

  Matthew drew closer to the figure, traced the contours of its face, entranced. “I don’t understand either. How can it be me, Grandpa?”

  Back in the house. Alone. The old man groaned as he surveyed the living room he’d loved so much, and he remembered. The heat rose around him as he saw those flames lick the carpet and up the walls, the ember of coal that had caused this carnage glowing innocuously on the floor in the midst of it all.

  He saw, again, the Christmas tree going up in flames, the smell of pine pervading the house as if it were no more than a scented candle. He groaned as he saw his beloved chair blacken, then burst into flames, the fumes causing the old man (he recognised himself, and started to cry) to scream in anguish as he rose to his feet and tried to put the flames out,
calling out the name of the boy entrusted to his care while his parents were at a party. “Matthew! Matthew!”

  He saw the child, huddled on the stairs, coughing; tears tracking through the grime on his face as he called in vain for his grandfather. He saw the hope in his eyes die as he realised no help was coming. Then he saw the boy slump to the floor as the smoke overcame him, eyes closed.

  As he watched himself fall to the floor, flesh blackening as the flames licked at his body, he heard the front door as it broke under the force of the fireman’s axe. He felt himself smothered – too late – by a blanket as he heard another man’s voice call for oxygen: “There’s a kid up here! Quick, bring oxygen – he’s still alive!” He remembered the feeling of panic as he fought to stay alive. He’d been entrusted with the child; he had to look after his grandson!

  Now, as the memories crashed in and he realised – too late – what had happened that fateful night, he heard Matthew calling him; and then he was back by the boy’s bed, watching as he woke.

  “Grandpa?”

  Elise was crying, even as she smiled at the boy and shushed him, brushing his hair back off his face just like she had every night since the beginning. Mark watched his wife and son whilst trying not to show that he too wanted nothing more than to break down after the stress of the last months.

  Matthew looked beyond them, his body frail and his face wan – but he saw his grandfather. And he smiled.

  The doctors were checking the boy over, this child that had hovered for so long in the between spaces, neither dead nor alive. Matthew took no notice. He looked at his grandfather, and he reached out his hand.

  The old man reached for the boy’s fingers, clasped his hand in his own even though he knew neither of them could really feel it. He tried to explain, to make it right.

  “I was supposed to look after you, Matthew.”

  “You did, Grandpa. It wasn’t your fault.”