‘That’s settled then,’ he said. ‘Around eleven, all right?’
‘Eleven is fine, sir.’
The old bobby nodded again, adding, ‘Such a loverly stone, Mr. Greenbaum had them put on…’ then bade Thomas goodnight. The boy stood watching the car’s fading taillights, and listened to a gearbox rarely used above second gear, whine its protest into the distance.
*
Thomas put the fire out by simply thinking it, and after brushing his teeth in the cramped little bathroom, went back to the kitchen; locked the door (something unknown on Rainbow’s End), and switched off the light.
He lay in bed, covered by the same, but not the same duvet he had used at Rainbow’s End, and watched Merlin the Magician from an inverted position, the poster only a couple of feet above his head. Before thinking off the light, Thomas changed him to what he knew the greatest magician that ever lived, really looked like.
And slept, and dreamed: of sunshine and waterfalls, and forests and mountains and mountain streams, of children and dwarfs, of eagles and dolls and a dog… And of a lovely young woman with beautiful eyes - who lived in the water and conducted an orchestra of crickets and frogs.
*
Sounds from the kitchen and the smell of frying bacon woke him, and when Thomas walked into the kitchen, there was Marge. The smile on her face when she saw him, crinkled her eyes, and she embraced and held him for a long time. Then stepped back and stood holding his shoulders, looking him up and down.
Marge could have been Grammy’s smaller sister - with the emphasis on smaller. She had short dark hair with greying streaks, and the same flashing eyes - albeit for different reasons. She possessed a wonderful sense of humour and laughed a lot - at others, but mostly at herself. She was also a terrible gossip.
‘What a nice tan!’ she exclaimed. ‘And you look so healthy!’ She let go of him and gave a nice smile. ‘I’m so glad to see you, Thomas. Welcome home.’ Then turned back to the stove, and Thomas saw her pink something from the corner of her eye, before she spoke over her shoulder, ‘We can talk later, but right now you’d better go wash up and get dressed. Breakfast will be ready in five minutes and Sergeant Wilson,’ Marge glanced at her wristwatch, ‘will be here in about twenty. He phoned me last night to tell me you were back.’ Her normally happy face clouded over and she said, ‘He’s taking you to Rosie’s…’ she searched for words, but after a second, not finding any better, said, ‘grave.’ Softer.
Thomas nodded and turned to go back to his bedroom, said, ‘Marge?’ and when she looked up from her task, ‘I’m very happy to see you too.’
*
Rockham… The marble slab and headstone were of white and grey marble; the headstone’s top inscribed with large lettering, which simply read: “ROSE”; the centre inlaid with a glass window the size of a paperback book, a picture of a laughing Rose behind it, and below, again, simply: “Roshalee Ross”, and her dates of birth and death. That was all, and Thomas sat on the grass next to her, and told Rose all about Rainbow’s End and the past months; about the done-up cottage, and Marge and Sergeant Wilson… But not about his fight with Orson, and about leaving Rainbow’s End for good; and not about not knowing what, or where to next… That would come later; maybe next time.
He had picked a daisy from one of the two bushes growing on either side of the small cemetery’s entrance gate, and placed it where he thought Rose’s heart would be. Then - after a look around to be sure nobody watched, changed it into a beautiful yellow rose.
*
Firham…
‘Just walk behind and take out the one you want Thomas,’ said old Mr. Mackenzie.
Thomas had driven into the small town with Marge. They used Rose’s old Mini Cooper, which Izzy had given to Marge. Thomas had given her some money for groceries, saying it was from Izzy (blushing), before coming to Mr. Mackenzie’s barbershop to buy himself a new watch. The barber was sitting in one of his two barber chairs, reading a Louis L’Amour western with the aid of a large magnifying glass, and hadn’t bothered getting up when Thomas came in.
The boy went behind the glass showcase, which reminded him of the one he saw at Louis Men’s Hairdressers, on the ground floor of the Rainbow Building, and after sliding open one of the overlapping glass doors, selected an inexpensive electronic wristwatch, which he took to the old man in the large leather chair.
‘How much?’ Mr. Mackenzie squinted at him myopically through glasses resembling the bottoms of old-fashioned cold drink bottles. Thomas showed him the tag, (which he ignored), and said, ‘Ten pounds, sir.’
He held out his hand, and when handed a single note, folded it in half without checking its denomination, before putting it in his shirt’s pocket. He squinted again. ‘Do you need a haircut, Thomas?’ Mr. Mackenzie’s huge blue eyes blinked owlishly behind his thick spectacle lenses, and Thomas took an involuntary step backwards. Firham’s barber was known for his haircuts all over the county; his customers invariably left with one of two.
His memory was as short as his sight, and Mr. Mackenzie would sometimes do the same patch of hair repeatedly - leaving one with a rat-eaten look; alternatively, and worse - he frequently neglected to do one side of a customer’s head, and stripped the sheet off said half-mown victim with a flourish, declaring him satisfied and as handsome as a newly-minted £1 coin, before demanding payment. During both of these ordeals, because of his poor eye-sight, he had to lean in so close that one could count the individual thick grey hairs sprouting from both his nostrils and his ears. Then forced to breathe the cloying smell of the Brylcreem he slathered his remaining hair with, and listen to his stentorious breathing whilst he bent to his task.
‘No, thank you, sir,’ Thomas said.
Mr. Mackenzie grunted and took up his novel again. ‘Well, come in before school starts up again,’ he said, ‘and give my regards to your grandmother.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Thomas closed the door behind him with a contented smile. At least some things - and some people - never change. The schools had re-opened more than a month ago.
He had been back three days.
*
The woods were strangely quiet; the trees seemed suddenly small, the brown trunks in their long straight rows impersonal, the yellow foliage of a few months ago, now turned green. He heard a very few birds, and saw none. Not that he was looking - his mind was somewhere else.
Wondering about tomorrow, and about the future. How long he would be allowed to stay at Pine Cottage: How long before Sergeant Wilson or Marge started asking questions he could not answer; questions he would not lie about… How long before William, his best friend from school, found out he was home and came visiting, and asked questions impossible to answer… For that matter - how long before he would have to go back to school, although, and Thomas gave a small smile; after his initiation ceremony at Rainbow’s End, he probably had enough knowledge in his young head to qualify him for several Masters, even Doctoral, degrees… How long before Izzy would send for him… and if a place in one of the Rainbow’s End children’s homes would be found for him… And, and, and… He touched the crystal, which lay warm against his breastbone, and wondered how soon it would leave him: it would not come off at all now, not even when he took a bath or a shower.
There were so many questions, and right then, in that place, no answers. He looked to the trees again, wistfully, wishfully…
*
It was Thomas’ fifth day back - if you counted the few hours of the first as one, and he had early in the day (after leaving Marge a note), used the crystal to go back to the Forestry cabin. It was locked, and he used his handkerchief and some water from the rainwater tank, to wipe away the dirt on a pane of one of the two dirty windows, before standing on tip-toes and peering inside. It was just as he remembered; small, yellow foam mattresses… He sat on the single step for an hour at least; just staring at the large field of rocks in front of him, and remembering. Remembering a sick boy and a black-clad gang of young no-goods, and th
e ferociously protective old man who dared them… And then dared defy them.
The walk home was a two hour stroll through the silent woods, and Thomas was surprised at how close it really was. This time, he talked to the trees. None answered of course, not even with a rustle of the wind...
He got home in time for lunch, and of course, Marge was there.
*
Another fire was burning in the grate: more for the comfort it provided than the warmth. They were both on the lumpy sofa: Thomas with a mug of hot chocolate and Sergeant Wilson with a large whiskey and water (Grammy had kept a bottle for his sometime visits, and occasionally had one herself).
‘So, Thomas,’ the old policeman said, ‘tell me about the school you go to.’
He thought furiously for a few seconds, and then Thomas said, ‘I don’t go to school, sir.’ At the lift of the grey eyebrows, quickly added: ‘I have private tutors. Four of them.’ Visions of Ariana, Orson and Izzy, and Joshi, flashed before his mind’s eye, and he realized, with relief, that it was not a lie after all. Even more relieved when the Sergeant, staring pensively into the fire, took a large swallow of his drink, and gravely stated: ‘A very rich man indeed, is Mr. Greenbaum. Very rich…’ Nodding sagely at his own wisdom, and then, ‘So you’re on holiday, then?’
He didn’t trust himself to answer, but Thomas felt himself blush when he nodded.
Another drink later and the policeman left; and just minutes after, Thomas lay in bed, staring at nothing again, his mind somewhere else…
He closed his eyes, and the light went out.
*
Marge handed him a cup of tea, and Thomas thanked her, then said, ‘You don’t have to come in every day, Marge. Izzy - Mr. Greenbaum only pays you to clean and to keep an eye on Pine Cottage. Not to look after me.’
‘He pays me very well, he does,’ Grammy’s old friend sniffed. ‘And what else am I supposed to do with my time anyway.’ She sat down with her chin cupped in her hands. ‘Tell us about the restaurant again,’ she said. ‘And that penthouse - on top of a building’s roof, you said it was?’
He’d been back at Pine Cottage a week.
*
A few nights later Thomas was laying turned around, with his feet on his pillow, looking at Orson staring down from the poster, and telling the Traveller about his day.
He had again been to Rock-and Firham both, and as on almost every other day, to Rose’s grave; leaving a fresh bunch of roses (daisies picked from Pine Cottage’s own little flower garden, this time). He had gone to the small local “Fish-and-Chipper” for lunch (good, but not half as good as Christina’s), and Sergeant Wilson had run him home in the late afternoon.
On their way back, they passed the old manor house, and Thomas thought again how different it looked. It had been cleared of most of the ever-encroaching ivy, and looked less gloomy, even happier, than before.
‘How are Mayor and Mrs. Ridley?’ he asked.
The old bobby glanced at the big old house himself. ‘Oh, they’re fine,’ he said. ‘The mayor stopped drinking just about the time you disappeared; and missus Ridley’s singing and humming to herself all the time. Like a happy sixteen-year old, she is.’
The sergeant didn’t stay for a drink, begging an early night for a change, and Thomas, after listlessly nibbling on the club sandwich Marge had left him in the refrigerator, took a long bath and got into bed. He twisted around and pulled the duvet over himself, and after a last look at the other posters - which now held images of Joshi, the Little People, the Dwarves and the Fairies; all with backdrops of Rainbow’s End - thought off the bedroom light and turned on his side. He had been back at Pine Cottage ten days, and was falling asleep when the telephone rang.
*
The heavy black handset was cold against his ear, and Thomas listened to the hiss of a long-distance call, or a bad line. ‘Hello,’ he said.
The voice at the other end was very small, and Thomas, with another part of his mind, wondered why Grammy had never replaced the old telephone.
‘Thomas? Thomas, is that you…? Thomas?’ Concerned.
‘Hello, Izzy,’ Thomas said. His throat felt dry and he leaned his forehead against the cool wall.
‘Thank the gods,’ Izzy said, and then - ‘I was so worried… Are you all right, Thomas?’
‘Yes, Izzy. Thank you.’ Thomas waited.
‘Thomas, we, I… I need to see you - to speak with you…’ and after a silent pause, ‘please.’
‘Yes, yes of course.’ Thomas turned his face so the cold wall touched his cheek as well.
‘Are you sure you are all right, Thomas?’ Izzy asked, his voice fraught with worry.
‘Yes, of course,’ Thomas said again, and then, ‘I’m sorry Izzy. I’m just surprised… And half asleep, I guess.’
‘I woke you up?’ Izzy sounded relieved, and Thomas smiled. ‘No, but I was getting there. I was just fading away.’
‘Oh… I’m sorry.’
‘Who’s “we”, Izzy?’
‘I beg yours?’
‘We. You said “we” need to speak with you. Who is “we”?’
‘There is no we,’ Izzy said. ‘Just me, Thomas. I need to speak to you.’ Some more silent seconds on the hissing line, then, ‘I give you my word Thomas. Just me.’
Thomas sighed. ‘You will have to send a car,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Wilson and Marge both see me every day, and they’d be very suspicious if I just disappeared again - if I Travelled. They’d have to see me leave.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Izzy said, then asked, ‘Will tomorrow be all right? My driver can leave within the hour, and be with you quite early. It’s a seven or eight hour drive, I think.’
‘Yes. But wouldn’t he be terribly tired then? Too tired to drive back, surely.’ It was Thomas’ turn to sound concerned, and Izzy laughed.
‘Not Jonesey,’ he said, ‘that’s his name - Jones. He only works nights, normally, and he’d love this job. He loves driving, can do it for twenty-hour stretches, if he wants. He has before…’
Thomas sighed again. ‘Tomorrow is fine,’ he said, and then, as an afterthought - ‘Izzy?’
‘Yes, Thomas?’
‘Would you please send me something for Sergeant Wilson, and something for Marge? To say thank you. They’ve both been very good to me these past ten days…’ Thomas took a deep breath. ‘I will pay for it of course,’ and then, defensively - ‘I can. I have my own money.’
‘It is not necessary, Thomas,’ said Izzy, ‘to pay for it,’ and after a stubborn silence, a sigh. ‘Scotch or Irish?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Thomas was confused.
‘Never mind, Thomas.’ Izzy sighed. ‘I will let you get back to bed now.’ And then, just to reassure himself, ‘Tomorrow, then?’
‘Tomorrow,’ the boy agreed. ‘Good night, Izzy.’ He replaced the handset, and returned to his room, numb.
*
The two cars came slowly up the slight hill, the police Rover in the lead, labouring in second gear; and behind - like a great grey ghost, silently gliding, a two-toned Rolls Royce. Both stopped in front of the cottage, and Sergeant Wilson got out first, joining Thomas, who stood waiting at the garden gate.
‘Gentleman stopped in the village,’ he said, gesturing to the man getting out of the other car. ‘Asked the way to Pine Cottage, so I thought I’d just bring him over here myself.’ The man was tall and thin, and reminded Thomas a little of Izzy, just younger. He wore a uniform of the same dove-grey as the top of the Rolls Royce, and fitted his matching cap onto a brush-cut of silvering black hair, before coming closer. He gave a little salute, and said, ‘Thank you, very much, Sergeant,’ before turning to Thomas and asking - ‘Master Ross? Thomas Ross?’
A bemused Sergeant Wilson lifted his eyebrows and Thomas blushed. ‘Just Thomas, please,’ he said.
A little bow from the man, and a nod. ‘Very well,’ he said, and then smiled. ‘My name is Jones - or Jonesey, if you will. Excuse me.’ He walked to the back of the big
car, and opened its boot, closed it and came back with a cardboard case that tinkled as he walked. Writing on its side said - “Glenn Morach”, below that “12 Years old”, and below that “12×750 ml”. ‘What do you want me to do with this?’ the chauffeur asked, and Thomas pointed at the old policeman embarrassedly.
‘It’s for the Sergeant,’ he said, and Sergeant Wilson started sputtering, protesting, ‘No, Thomas, it is too much… unnecessary…’
‘I know it’s not necessary, sir,’ said the boy, ‘but it is something I want to give you. And it is not too much… After all,’ his voice turned conspiratorial, ‘Mr. Greenbaum is a very rich man.’
The law of Rockham’s eyes started twinkling and Thomas watched with a smile as he opened the Rover’s boot, allowing Jonesey to place the box inside, and rebuffing him with a growled “careful”, when he irreverently, with another tinkle, shoved it further back.
‘Enjoy, Sergeant,’ said Jonesey, closing the Rover’s boot and standing back, dusting his hands on each other. Then dug a small pouch out of his breast-pocket which he handed to Thomas. ‘This is for you as well,’ he said.
Thomas nodded his silent thanks, and excused himself; and went back inside the cottage, to say goodbye once again.
The pouch was of black velvet with a small rainbow embroidered onto its side. It opened with a drawstring, and Thomas upended its contents into his turned-up palm. It was a brooch: small and exquisitely made; with leaves of emeralds and green; its petals rubies and red; the whole dusted with tiny glittering diamonds to give it light and life. A rose. Thomas felt his eyes flood, and dropped the beautiful thing back into its pouch, pulling the string to close it properly. He had written Marge a goodbye letter earlier, and left it in an envelope addressed to her on the kitchen table; he softly placed the little bag on top of it.
Rainbow's End - Wizard Page 28
