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Mister October - Volume Two

Page 27

by Edited by Christopher Golden


  “This is all rather upsetting,” I said.

  “I know. It’s fine,” she said. She sat with her hands in her lap, smiling at me, her fingers twisting nervously. I looked around the room, feeling somewhat discomforted. I found it difficult to look at her safe, yet expectant, expression. It was easier to look away.

  “Everybody sends their love,” she remarked after a stretched and awkward silence. “James has been called up for National Service. Allie is in love … again. And wonderful news … Mark is going to university.”

  “Mark?” It was my turn to frown. I imagined the same vertical furrow appearing between my eyebrows.

  “Yes, Mum.” She looked at me deeply. “Your grandson.”

  I glanced at the flowers. A breeze from the open window made their petals whisper, like conspiring ladies. “Which university?”

  “Liverpool.”

  I bristled. “My husband went to Cambridge.”

  She pressed her lips together. Not quite a smile. “What was your husband’s name?”

  I opened my mouth to reply, but all at once my mind, usually so sharp, stopped short of providing the information. But oh, I was most disquieted; this strange lady coming to my room with her flowers and straight, white teeth, regaling news of no import. It would upset anyone. I shook my head and felt warm tears leak from the corners of my eyes, and wiped them away with my trembling hands.

  “I think you should leave,” I said.

  These episodes are infrequent, which is the best that can be said about them. The letters. The Visitors. Perhaps some curio that I will come across in one of my boxes, of which I have no memory, obviously left behind by another resident. Blessedly infrequent. Much of my day will be spent with the flowers of my life. Recalling my husband’s elevating touch. Feeling the small hand of my son or daughter curl softly into mine. Listening to the up-and-down song from the aviary at Wickington Manor.

  Three wonderful summers. Golden days. Endless, lazy hours watching the sun arc across the world. My friendship with Lillian Bliss was a thing to be cherished. How we laughed, the two of us, dashing through the gardens as the fat bumblebees droned and the butterflies impressed flower-shapes against the sky. We were inseparable. She would sit beside me at meal times, making faces as I played with my food (much to my uncle’s annoyance), and, at bed time, she would lie close and hold my hand, reciting vows of togetherness until we fell asleep.

  She showed me Wickington’s secrets: trapdoors and hidden rooms, and a narrow walkway between the walls of my uncle’s drawing-room and library, where we would spy on him smoking his pipe, tapping the ashes onto the carpet and rubbing them in with his foot. Sometimes he would pick his nose or loose an explosive, trumpeting fart, at which point Lily and I would surrender to gales of laughter. My uncle would sit bolt-straight, startled, looking around for the source of the sound, and we would have to hurry away, scurrying between the walls like giggling, joyous mice.

  There were other places around the grounds, perhaps not secret, but special to us. A silver river where we would stand to our knees, feel the cool water rush around us, and try to catch the trout as they flickered upstream. A sullen old oak with a hollowed trunk, into which you could crawl and climb upward and poke your face from a hole amongst the boughs, like an owl. A clearing in the woods we called Foxglove Fields—a spray of purple flowers that swished and nodded, looking both grand and sad, and of all the marvelous places Lily showed me, this was my favourite. It was where she would wait for me, at the beginning of each summer, looking so pretty amongst such vibrant colour. And it was where, when their petals matured and fell, I knew that our time together was coming to an end.

  “Oh, can you not come to Bledlow with me?” I would ask, fighting tears. Every time I would ask, and every time I would be fighting tears.

  “This is home, my dear Abigail,” she always replied.

  There was magic, too. I am certain of it. Lily knew things before they happened. She would tell me when to expect visitors, and how many. She told me that there would be a small fire in the kitchens, and that Cook would burn her hands quite badly. Sure enough, not two days later, it came to pass, exactly as she had said it would. And of course, she told me about my uncle’s illness, and that it would mean the end of our summers together.

  She could stop the rain. I saw her do it. She could move clouds and make the sun shine.

  One shimmering morning, walking hand in hand along the gravel paths of the parterre, we came upon a sparrow with a broken wing. The desperate creature hopped and fluttered. Its lame wing dragged along the ground. I gasped and scooped it into my open palms.

  “Oh dear,” I said. “This poor little bird has a broken wing. It will surely die without our help.”

  “Yes,” Lily said. She stroked the bird and it immediately stopped trembling. Its tiny black eyes blinked brightly. “Then we should heal him. Make him strong.”

  “Oh, Lily, can we?”

  Her beautiful smile assured me that we could.

  Following Lily’s instruction, I fashioned a strip of bandage from some soft, dusty fabric I found in one of our secret rooms. With it I bound the sparrow, securing the broken wing, and wrapping it beneath the healthy one. I ‘borrowed’ an old, empty hatbox from my deceased aunt (Lily smiled again, this time assuring me that she would not mind in the least), lined it with the same dusty fabric, and popped several small holes into the lid. We placed the sparrow inside and decided to take him out to the aviary, where he could at least chatter to the other birds whilst he was healing.

  For the next three days we delighted in digging up fresh worms and feeding them to our little friend. His beak would yawn wide and he would snap the worms down gratefully. We fed him water from leaves, curled into tiny troughs. His song became brighter, and at times Lily and I would sit on either side of the hatbox, listening to him talk to his friends.

  “What do you think he’s saying?” I asked Lily, for she seemed to know so much.

  “A bird will always communicate through song,” Lily explained. “They are such graceful creatures, and their lives are filled with melody. They sing at all times, rather like an opera. Isn’t that a wonderful way to live?”

  “It is,” I agreed, looking at the sparrow as he hopped and chirped. “So, then, what do you think he is singing?”

  “He is rejoicing,” Lily said. Her eyes reflected the aviary’s fantastic colours. “He is singing to his friends that he is feeling much better and that he will be soon be ready to fly away.”

  “Really? Oh, but I shall miss him.”

  “All things fly away, Abigail.”

  “I’ll not fly away,” I said.

  But she nodded sadly. “You will,” she said.

  The very next morning, we took the sparrow from the hatbox, and I carefully unravelled the bandage. I was not at all surprised that there were tears in my eyes. The sparrow sat for a moment in my palm. His dark eyes blinked, and he was silent, despite the fact that the other birds of the aviary were joyously, loudly, heralding the occasion. Perhaps the sparrow thought that, with silence, he could mimic our comparatively dull method of communication.

  “Goodbye, little bird,” Lily whispered.

  “Yes … goodbye,” I echoed, and in a flicker he was gone. A healthy, winged heartbeat in the sky. The tears rushed down my cheeks, and I remember thinking that we would see him again, or at least that I hoped we would … chirruping on our window-ledge, or flying in circles around us as we played in the garden. But we never did.

  “Fly away,” Lily said, and then, to me, seeing my tears, “Think of him as a flower, dear Abigail, something strong and beautiful that you have planted within the garden of your life. We must every day endeavour to do such things, even if it seems a small thing—a kind word or gesture, perhaps. Every day, Abigail. Fill your garden with colour. Make it a grand and splendid thing, so that, in the end, you may turn and behold the most luxuriant meadow.”

  There was magic indeed. There were times when I wo
uld awake in the night and see Lily floating by the window, glimmering beautifully, like a flame. I think that, for all the rain she stopped, and all the clouds she moved, that is how I most fondly remember her.

  Her magic.

  A light in the darkness.

  It is called a care home, and there is care, I suppose. The staff will hold your elbow and walk you within the gardens. They will fluff your cushions. Talk with you. Recommend books. I look forward every Monday to having my hair washed and dried, and then we have lunch in the conservatory with rhubarb-whip for dessert (not a favourite amongst residents, which means I indulge in a second, and sometimes a third, helping). At four P.M. we gather around the transistor radio, tune to the Light Programme, and listen to Mrs. Dale’s Diary. Mondays are wonderful, but every day is pleasant. And that is really the best one can say about it. I am cared for, yes, but the people who care do it for money, not for love. The difference is staggering, and I believe even those with minds that are teetering on the edge feel it, too.

  There are occasional outings. A trip to the theatre, or, if weather permits, a train ride to the Dorset coast. Yellows sands and laughing children will always heighten one’s spirits. Seaside rock may be out of the question, but it is a rare pleasure to sit and listen to the waves, or watch the children cluster around the Punch and Judy tent (much like we cluster around the transistor radio) whilst plucking winkles from a cocktail stick.

  We will, very occasionally, be treated to individual trips. Nothing extravagant. An hour at the library, perhaps, or we’ll take some stale crusts to the park and feed the ducks. I am often content with that, but the last time (or maybe it was the time before?), I asked my care worker, a quite lovely young lady named Geraldine, or perhaps Jennifer, if she would take me to Wickington Manor.

  “I used to summer there,” I explained. “I should love to see it again.”

  “Do you know where it is?” she asked.

  “But of course.”

  We travelled in Geraldine’s (yes, I am certain that is her name, but if it isn’t, no matter) automobile. A disconcerting contraption, loud and jarring, and I should like to have closed my eyes were I not offering direction. Geraldine said very little. She steered her precarious automobile through narrow, unlikely roadways, no wider than the bridleways we used to ride upon around Bledlow. The country hadn’t changed at all, and as we trundled into the Cotswolds I saw things that were at once familiar. The Church of St. Peter and St. Paul in Northleach, where my uncle would take me to service every Sunday morning. The pale ruins of Hailes Abbey, jutting like old teeth from the ground. Cleeve Hill, rising powerfully above the green landscape, its summit masked in whorls of low cloud. Unfortunately, familiarity and I were soon to part ways. I had Geraldine slow her automobile as we neared Wickington’s handsome acreage, expecting to glimpse its west façade through the infantry of bordering trees.

  “Are we close?” asked Geraldine.

  “This is it,” I uttered, but something was awry. Where once I could see the house, now there was nothing. I looked desperately at Geraldine, who only frowned. We rounded a bend and emerged from the blanket of trees. A clear view of the grounds confirmed my fears. Wickington Manor—three floors of beatific Tudor craftsmanship—had been razed to the ground, and in its place stood unsightly ranks of terraced housing.

  I pressed a hand to my lips, but could not suppress the emotion. A powerful sob escaped me. “Oh,” I said, over and over. I gathered a handkerchief from my sleeve and dabbed at my tears.

  The front gates—red brick and baroque ironwork—were also gone. The entranceway, once lined with wild lavender, was now an ugly grey string of road. Geraldine turned the wheel and we juddered onto it, her automobile puffing and rattling. My poor heart dropped a little deeper with every second.

  “Which one?” Geraldine enquired as we approached the nearest terrace.

  I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  She pointed at the houses, as though I had not seen them. “Which house did you used to spend your summers in?”

  I shook my head and more tears cascaded onto my cheeks, far too many to catch in a handkerchief. “Oh, my dear girl,” I said. “You do not understand.”

  She stopped the car. It made a disagreeable grunting sound and bounced on its springs. “What’s the matter, Abigail?”

  I looked out the window. “It’s gone,” I said, and repeated it, but in a whisper.

  “What’s gone?” she asked. “The house?”

  I nodded. “Wickington Manor. The gardens. The aviary. A place of laughter and happiness and magic and so many wonderful memories. And now it’s gone, my dear, pulled to the ground and replaced with these … these ghastly little houses. It’s so terribly sad.”

  “A manor house?” Geraldine asked. “And you used to come here as a child?”

  I nodded. My wet handkerchief left thick trails on my face.

  “And you’re sure we’re in the right place?”

  “Of course.”

  “But, Abigail … these terraces must be a hundred years old.”

  “No,” I said. A worthless word, like a diminutive object falling into a vast space. As if I could make it bigger, more important, I said it again. “No … no.”

  We drove around the houses, but I could barely look at them. Their ugly brickwork. Their bland, square gardens. My tear-flashed eyes tracked to the south, where my uncle’s land had given way to the woods. Our hollowed oak used to be there, and the silver river where we used to try to catch trout with our bare hands. And, of course, Foxglove Fields, our spray of wild purple, our favourite place. All gone now. Removed from the world. Even the air was different, and after my heart had dropped as low as it could go, I inclined my head and looked at the sky through the small window. Overcast. Textures of grey and white. An unimaginative sky. I wished that Lily were with me—that she would move the heavy curtain of cloud and present that eternal, polished blue. I wanted to feel the sun warm my skin. I wanted to shield my eyes as it flared across the windscreen.

  Everything I had known was gone.

  But even so, as we bumped along the narrow lanes between terraces, I achieved a sense of place. I could feel it deep inside. A knowledge that I had been there before. A young girl with the sun in her hair. We drove amongst the places where I played, skipping hand-in-hand with Lily. We idled, for a moment, where the aviary had been. And I heard the birdsong. Peaceful, exotic conversation. Not heard with my ears, but with my heart. We passed through the ghost of the manor itself … through my uncle’s drawing-room, where I could smell traces of his ever-burning pipe … through the kitchens and the parlour and, of course, the great hall, where I first saw Lillian Bliss, and where I sensed her ghost twirling still, fading in and out.

  “I’m coming, Lily,” I said.

  Geraldine slowed her automobile and looked at me. “Did you say something, Abigail?”

  I shook my head. The emotion exhausted my body. I felt suddenly very tired.

  “Let’s get you home,” she said.

  We came to the end of a terrace and I caught movement from the corner of my eye. I turned to see a sparrow circle spritely in the sky before landing on a gatepost. It chirruped and hopped. Its bright little eyes seemed fixed on mine. For all my used emotion, my heart jumped still. I gasped and pressed my handkerchief to my lips. As Geraldine began to pull away, I looked at the front of the gate on which the sparrow perched. The name of the house was painted on a decorated plate.

  “Stop,” I said.

  The brakes whined. The engine clattered. “What is it?”

  “There.” I pointed at the gate. “The name of that house.”

  Geraldine looked and read the nameplate.

  “Foxgloves,” she said, and I smiled.

  The petals had lost their intense colour. Some were still purple, but most were pink or white or a dull, washed blue. They seemed sadder than ever, and would flake away from the stem with the merest breeze.

  It was the end of summer, and the
ghost of Lillian Bliss stood amongst the foxgloves. She smiled. Her auburn hair caught the sun like a mirror.

  “It’s time to go home,” I said. I tried to be brave but could feel the tears welling behind my eyes. They would come. I would cry all the way home. I always did.

  “Yes,” she said. “Time to fly away.”

  “I shall miss you, Lady Bliss.”

  She nodded, still smiling, held out her hands, and I took them. Not cold, as you might expect. Touching Lily was like … it was like touching a memory. Something you felt, and experienced. Something real. The birds, in the aviary, were in heartfelt voice. The rousing finale of their opera. Insects ticked and flicked amongst the long grass and flower stems. I held Lily’s hands. She was always smiling.

  Three weeks had passed since we healed our sparrow and watched him fly away. Something Lily had said at the time recurred to me.

  “You said that all things fly away.” The first of many tears moved down my face. I imagined them grabbing the sunlight, like Lily’s hair. “You said that I would, too, but as though I would never come back. As though I would fly away forever.”

  “Yes,” she said. She squeezed my hands.

  “Oh, Lily, but you know I’ll be back next year.”

  She never looked away from me. She never stopped smiling. “Not next year, dear Abigail. Nor the year after. I’m afraid that we’ll not see each other for a great many years.”

  “No,” I said. She was wrong, I was sure of it. “Why would you say that, Lily?”

  “It will all change,” she started. “You are growing into a fine young lady, Abigail. So full of promise, and beautiful things are waiting for you.”

  I shook my head. The coals of my emotion burned brightly. I imagined my tears like fire, spilling from the furnace of my soul. Lily was my friend. Without her … nothing. I would be a girl like any other. She was my purpose under heaven. My light in the darkness.

  “Don’t say that.” My words felt as fragile as … a broken wing. They dragged along the ground, needing to be healed.

 

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