Sweets From Morocco

by Jo Verity

  ‘Dad’s out,’ Tessa announced.

  ‘That’s odd.’ Peggy Swinburne checked her watch then took the house keys from her bag and unlocked the front door, calling, ‘Dick?’

  ‘The pram’s not here.’ Lewis pointed at the space in the hall where the pram usually stood.

  ‘Dad must have taken Gordon out for some fresh air. They’re sure to be back soon,’ she said, ‘it’s nearly dinner time and Gordon needs a bottle.’

  While the children tried on their new coats, she began preparing lunch.

  At half-past one, there was still no sign of their father and Gordon. The three of them sat down to cheese omelettes accompanied by wedges of bread and butter. Tessa could see from the way she kept glancing at her watch and getting up to peer out of the window that her mother was becoming uneasy. She attempted to reassure her. ‘Dad’s probably chatting to people in the street. Like you did.’

  ‘Yes, but…’ Peggy Swinburne shook her head, laying her knife and fork on the plate next to her half-eaten meal.

  At five minutes to two, the telephone rang and, with no attempt to conceal her anxiety, their mother hurried into the hall to answer it.

  ‘Something’s really wrong,’ Tessa whispered but they stayed where they were until a clunk-ching signalled the return of the heavy black handset to its cradle. There was a pause, followed by a low moan.

  Lewis wanted nothing more than to stay in the kitchen, the haven where sometimes Mum let him roll out the trimmings from apple pies, twisting the crinkly-edged cutter in the pastry to make jam tarts for tea; or soaked foreign stamps off envelopes, drying them on blotting paper before sticking them in his album; or watched Mum beating eggs, the soft flesh on her arm wobbling, the whirring fork striking the side of the tilted china bowl.

  ‘She’s crying.’ Tessa seemed uncertain what to do next but, in the end, they tiptoed out of the kitchen and along the hall.

  Their mother was sitting on the stairs, crumpled up somehow, folded arms clamped across her chest. She was crying, quietly but fiercely, tears trickling down to her jawline. She didn’t appear to notice her children, standing a few feet in front of her.

  Lewis edged closer, reaching a hand out to touch her knee. ‘Mum?’

  His voice tugged her back from wherever she was and she dragged first one hand, then the other, across her eyes and under her nose then wiped them on her best skirt, as if it were no more than an old towel. ‘Don’t worry. I’m being silly.’ She tried to smile but it didn’t work and the tears started again.

  ‘It’s Dad, isn’t it?’

  In her mind’s eye, Tessa watched her father crossing the main road, too impatient to do his road drill and failing to notice a van, or maybe a motorbike, bearing down on him. Hampered by the cumbersome pram and his limp, unable to sprint to the safety of the far pavement, the vehicle ploughed in to him.

  ‘He’s had an accident, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Is he dead?’ Without waiting for an answer, Lewis started sobbing.

  Peggy Swinburne held her arms out, inviting her children to hug her but still she didn’t explain. As they huddled together in an awkward embrace, the telephone rang again, jangly and threatening. She released them immediately, snatching up the receiver. ‘Have they found him? Please tell me they’ve found him.’

  Found him? Could their father have been scooped up on the bonnet of the speeding car and whisked off down the road?

  ‘I’m coming now… No… I’m coming.’ The call finished, she took several deep breaths before leading the children back to the kitchen. ‘There’s been some sort of terrible mix-up.’ She paused, shaking her head and pushing the hair away from her forehead.

  ‘Tell us, Mum,’ Lewis pleaded.

  ‘That was Dad. He went out. To give Gordon some fresh air. And buy a newspaper.’ The story came in short bursts, as though she could only manage a few words before needing to re-fill her lungs. ‘He went into the newsagent’s. Carson’s. Left the pram outside the shop door. Right outside. Then, when he came out, the pram was there but Gordon had disappeared. Gone.’ The last words came out with a rush and she held her hands up to her mouth, stifling a kind of squeaking noise that was coming from the back of her throat.

  Tessa and Lewis stood motionless and silent, not knowing which was worse – losing their baby brother or seeing their mother crying.

  Chapter 5

  Half an hour later, Gran turned up in a taxi and the children knew that the situation was serious. She bustled in, took one look at their mother who was standing at the sink, eyes tight shut, hands clamped over her ears, and waved the children away. ‘Off upstairs. No arguing.’

  Relieved to escape their mother’s embarrassing behaviour, they holed up in Tessa’s bedroom, lying back-to-back on her single bed, spines touching. Lewis was the first to break the silence, his voice gruff. ‘Will they find him?’

  Tessa rolled on to her back and stared at the ceiling. ‘Of course they will.’

  ‘Where d’you think he is?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps someone’s taken him by mistake. Instead of their own baby.’

  ‘But they wouldn’t have left the pram—’

  ‘Sshhh.’ Tessa held up her hand. ‘Listen.’ The sound of weeping filtered up the stairs.

  ‘Why isn’t Dad here?’ Sometimes Lewis asked questions, not because he expected Tessa to supply the answer but to organise his own thoughts.

  ‘He’s looking for him, stupid.’ The words were harsh but her tone unsure.

  The telephone rang and footsteps tapped down the hall. Although they couldn’t catch what she was saying, it was clear, from Gran’s solemn tone, that their brother hadn’t been found.

  The children lay alongside each other, warm and disconnected from the unfolding crisis, and soon they fell asleep.

  ‘Your mother’s gone … out.’ Doris Lloyd stood at the bedroom door. ‘I’ve got biscuits in the kitchen.’

  She seldom volunteered treats and as they sat at the table, drinking milk and eating custard creams, Tessa remembered that the last time Gran had made this much fuss of them was the previous spring, when she and Lewis had chickenpox. Come to think of it, there was an air of the sick room in the house today, as if they were all in quarantine, waiting to see whether a horrible disease was going to strike them down.

  Tessa held her biscuit between thumb and middle finger and prised the upper layer off with her front teeth. Once she’d eaten it, she licked the sweet filling. ‘Have they called the police, Gran?’

  Doris appeared uncomfortable at the direct reference to the crisis, clearing her throat before replying. ‘Yes. Just to be on the safe side.’ Then, as if no more needed to be said, suggested, ‘Why don’t you go outside and play?’

  Lewis, who had been studying the opaque skim that the milk had deposited on the inside of his empty glass, looked up. ‘It’s getting dark, Gran. We’re not allowed to play outside in the dark.’

  ‘Aren’t you, dear?’ Unprompted, Gran held out the plate of biscuits, saying nothing when Tessa took two.

  Sensing that her grandmother’s defences were down, Tessa pressed on with her interrogation. ‘What d’you think’s happened to Gordon, Gran?’

  ‘There’s been a mistake of some sort, I expect.’ Then, under her breath, she added, ‘Poor little mite.’ She removed her glasses and dabbed her eyes with the hem of her apron.

  This first hint that Gordon might be suffering – might be in danger – sent a recollection of his thin wail shooting through Tessa’s memory. Eager to silence it she asked. ‘Can we watch “Sugar and Spice”? We always watch it, don’t we, Lewis?’ Without waiting for a reply, they skipped off into the living room, stationing themselves on the sofa, facing the television set.

  ‘Gran?’ Some rules might be rewritten today, but Tessa was sure that the ones concerning the television – only grown-ups were allowed to touch it – would never be scrapped. Raising her voice, she directed her demand to the open door. ‘Gran? It’s nearly five o�
�clock. Can you switch it on for us?’

  Their grandmother appeared, approaching the set as though it were a beached mine, primed and ready to blow them to smithereens. It was a Philco Table Model. The name had a homeliness to it, like that of a best friend and Lewis loved everything about it – the curve of its snot-coloured screen; the smell of warm dust that seeped out of the slatted board at the back; the ribbed plastic knobs – Volume and Contrast – with gold inserts.

  Although Gran owned her own television, the children could see that she had no idea where to start with this one. Lewis, who had watched his father closely and memorised every step in the procedure, talked her through it, pointing at the relevant controls. ‘Power plug in … and switch it on. Now switch the set on … that’s it. It takes a while for the tube to warm up.’

  Tessa smiled proudly at her brother’s expertise and the three of them sat side by side, Tessa in the middle, watching the ghostly image sharpen. Bu there was something not quite right about watching their programme with Gran sitting alongside them. She would keep fidgeting and making stupid comments about the presenters – ‘He could do with a decent haircut,’ or ‘What does she think she looks like?’

  The telephone rang and Gran hurried to answer it. She was back within minutes. ‘That was your mother. You’re to spend the night at my house. Why don’t you pop upstairs and sort out what you’ll need? And bear in mind we’ve got to take it on the bus, so don’t pack the kitchen sink.’

  Once upstairs, Lewis looked baffled. ‘What do I need, Tess?’

  Tessa reeled off a list. ‘Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Pyjamas. Slippers. Dressing gown.’

  ‘Books?’

  ‘That’s a good idea. And drawing paper and crayons. And a jigsaw. There’s nothing to do at Gran’s house.’

  ‘Can I bring my Dinkies?’ Lewis pictured himself toiling to the bus stop, dragging a sack containing his most precious belongings, but Gran appeared with two shopping bags, warning them to be sensible about what they took.

  It felt no warmer inside Gran’s house than it had in the street and a smell of cooked fish hung in the hallway.

  ‘Take your coats off and hang them up. Then we’ll have a bit of tea.’

  The children shivered in the ill-lit dining room, standing close to the electric fire, the single glowing bar scorching the wool of their long grey socks. When tea materialised, Lewis noticed that everything about the meal was yellow and white – a boiled egg and thin rounds of bread and butter, followed by banana – one between the three of them – sliced into bowls of custard, all laid out on a white tablecloth. To take his mind off the custard skin that was lodged at the back of his throat, he made a mental list of other things that were yellow and edible. Tinned peaches. And pineapple. Cheese. Oranges were sort of yellow. No they weren’t, they were orange. Tessa kicked him under the table, then stuck out her tongue, revealing a disc of discolouring banana surrounded by a sea of custard. He copied her and they kept this up, poking tongues out and pulling them back in until, unable to suppress their giggles, they spluttered custard over the tablecloth. Gran shook her head. ‘How can you behave like that when your poor mother … and your poor little brother…?’

  She made up the narrow beds in the spare room, slipping hot water bottles between the pilled, flannelette sheets. They undressed, Lewis turning away from her as he slipped off his underpants and struggled into his pyjama bottoms, tying the cord securely to ensure that the fly didn’t gape. They washed in the cheerless bathroom, the yellowness there again in the pungent bar of Coal Tar soap, and were cleaning their teeth when there was an insistent rat-a-tat at the front door.

  Gran raised a hand to her throat. ‘Now who can that be?’

  The visitor knocked again, more forcefully, and she went downstairs.

  Defying her instruction to stay where they were, the children tiptoed out on to the landing, hanging over the banister in an attempt to hear what was going on in the hall below.

  Lewis put his lips close to his sister’s ear. ‘Perhaps it’s Mum and Dad.’

  It wasn’t their parents, it was Uncle Frank but, rather than rushing downstairs to greet him, something made them hang back.

  Tessa and Lewis saw nothing strange in Frank Swinburne – their father’s brother – visiting Doris Lloyd – their mother’s mother. Their father had, on several occasions, tried to explain the relationships connecting their various aunts, uncles and cousins, drawing diagrams to show the Swinburne and the Lloyd family trees, but it was boring and complicated. A cousin was a cousin – why bother with tiresome details?

  The conversation, in low tones, continued in the hall until their uncle’s ‘I’d better pop up and see them,’ sent them scurrying back to their bedroom. They were engrossed in their library books when he tapped on the open door.

  ‘Well, well, well. What have we here?’ He bent to kiss them but seemed not to know how to continue.

  Tessa went to his rescue. ‘Have they found Gordon yet?’

  ‘No, love. Not yet.’

  ‘Where’s Mum and Dad?’ Lewis whispered, ‘Why can’t they come home?’

  ‘Nobody’s telling us anything,’ Tessa complained.

  Frank Swinburne sat on the edge of Lewis’s bed, fiddling with his watch strap. ‘You two are pretty sharp so there’s no point in pretending things aren’t serious. The baby’s been missing for,’ he looked at his watch, ‘roughly eight hours. Since about midday. And everyone’s starting to get a bit twitchy.’

  Tessa had never seen their uncle anything but cheerful and, although it bothered her, it didn’t prevent her from taking the opportunity to ask the question that her grandmother seemed intent on avoiding. ‘What happened exactly, Uncle Frank? Gran won’t tell us.’

  Frank dragged the palm of his hand across his mouth. ‘Okay. Dick – your dad, I should say – went to Carson’s to buy a newspaper. When he got there he found that the pram was too big – too wide – to go through the shop doorway. So he left it parked outside, just for a few minutes, while he nipped in. There was a queue – the man in the shop says it’s always busy on a Saturday morning – and he was a bit longer than he might have been. When he came out, the pram was precisely where he left it but,’ he cleared his throat, ‘Gordon had disappeared.’

  Tessa was disappointed. Apart from the bit about the queue in the shop, this was more or less what Gran had told them. But there had to be more to it.

  ‘Did Dad phone nine-nine-nine?’ Lewis asked

  ‘Not straight away. Your dad and the other people who were there went searching to see if they could spot him and to ask if anyone had seen anything suspicious.’

  ‘Like what?’ Tessa pressed.

  This appeared to confound Frank. ‘Well…’

  ‘He couldn’t have got out of the pram on his own, could he? He’s a baby. He can’t even crawl yet.’

  ‘Well, if he’d been crying, someone might have picked him up. To comfort him, sort of thing.’ Uncle Frank was clearly struggling.

  ‘What, and forgot to put him back in the pram?’ Tessa frowned.

  ‘D’you want to hear the rest of it or not?’ Frank Swinburne snapped, then shook his head, ‘Sorry. Sorry. We’re all at the end of our tethers. Anyway, that’s when they called the police in and they took over. There’s not much we can do now, apart from wait.’

  ‘Where are Mum and Dad?’ Lewis asked. ‘Why did we have to come to Gran’s?’

  ‘To be honest, kids, your Mum and Dad are both pretty upset. They’re at the police station so as to be on the spot if they’re needed. It’s best for you to stay here, so they know you’re absolutely safe.’

  ‘But we could help, couldn’t we, Tess? We’re excellent at looking for things.’

  Their uncle gave a tired smile and planted a mock punch on Lewis’s jaw. ‘Tell you what, kiddo,’ he pointed to the paper and pencils lying on the table between the beds, ‘why don’t you write them a letter? Cheer ’em up. Tell them you’ll see them soon. How does that sound?’ He
stood up. ‘While you’re doing that, I’ll nip down and have a word with your gran. Give me a shout when you’ve finished.’

  The children sat in bed, wondering what they could write. They thought about including a selection of jokes or riddles but in the end decided simply to say that they loved and missed them both. Neither of them mentioned Gordon.

  After Uncle Frank had gone and Gran had been up to switch off the light and wish them goodnight, they lay awake in the unfamiliar darkness. ‘What’s that?’ Lewis asked, suddenly, but it was only a cat yowling in a back yard along the terrace.

  In the end, it was Lewis who voiced the question that had been suspended between them from the moment they’d heard of Gordon’s disappearance. ‘Was it us?’

  ‘Was what us?’ Tessa asked knowing quite well what he was talking about.

  ‘Did we do it? Did we make him disappear? Did the magic work?’ His worries tumbled out.

  ‘Be sensible. How could a lump of clay make a baby disappear?’

  ‘I don’t know. But something has.’

  ‘Someone has,’ Tessa corrected him. ‘Someone took Gordon out of the pram.’

  Lewis sat up, the hot water bottle slurping with his sudden movement. ‘Why would anyone steal a baby? They’re just a nuisance.’

  Tessa flicked back the covers on Lewis’s bed and wriggled in beside him. ‘Were you listening, really listening I mean, when Uncle Frank told us how it happened?’

  ‘Yes.’ He thought he had been.

  ‘Didn’t you spot something … fishy?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, Uncle Frank said that Dad went to buy a newspaper.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Dad has a newspaper delivered every morning, doesn’t he? He already had a newspaper.’

  Lewis flopped back on the pillow. ‘Yes. But he might have read it quickly. And wanted another one.’

  ‘He’s never, ever, bought two papers, has he?’ Tessa dug an elbow into her brother’s ribcage. ‘Has he?’