The House Martin

by William Parker

  And then there’s a cracking, twanging sound. Something hard pings against my cheek. Just for a single second I’m sure it must be Chirl flicking something with an elastic band from the other side of the dorm. But I’m underneath the blankets. I put my head out, but there’s nothing to see or hear apart from Lucky Lorrimer snoring quietly. I go back under to try and work out what’s going on, and it’s then that I know that the clock in my hand is in two separate pieces because the glass front has come off. I search around with my fingers to see if it will screw back on and then I feel that the back is half off as well, and there’s something sharp poking out. While I’m holding it, more of it comes out from inside. It’s uncoiling itself and growing bigger.

  The clock has stopped its ticking. The spring and all the insides are bursting out, and I know it means that my little clock is broken forever. I lie still with it all in my hands thinking about what I should do. Then I lean over and put my hand deep inside my bag and feel for Jollo and the old towel from the garage at home, and I pull them into the bed with me. I sit up, flatten the tissue paper on my pillow, and then collect up all the bits and pieces of my clock and put them in the middle. I fold the four corners over until it’s wrapped up as best as I can do in the dark. It doesn’t want to stay like that though, on account of the spring, which is beginning to tear the paper, so next I unfold the towel, put the little bundle in the centre, and roll it up into a sort of ball. I get out of bed and kneel on the floor beside my bag and then, ever so gently I put the towel with the dead clock right down far into the bottom where it will stay till I can get it home.

  When I get back into bed after quite a long time of sitting thinking by my bag, I wrap Jollo up in Mummy’s scarf until just his head is poking out so he’s like one of those babies you see from the Middle Ages. Then I go back under the blankets and put him close up to my face just the same as I did with my clock. I tell him that the clock has gone forever, and that we’ll always remember him from the days when we were all in Beirut, where he lived on my pillow and the clock ticked away on my little side table.

  I start to cry. I cry so hard that after a bit I worry that someone might wake up, so I go farther underneath the sheets and allow myself to cry even though I usually don’t like to do that. It’s just that I really can’t stop myself.

  ‘Teasdale?’ It’s Pugh’s voice. I’m frozen in my bed.

  ‘Teasdale, is that you blubbing?’ He’s sitting up.

  I’m praying with all my might that he won’t get out of bed and come over.

  ‘Teasdale?’ His voice isn’t so loud now. Perhaps he’s thinking he just imagined it. I hear the sound of his bedsprings as he settles himself down again. I wait for a little bit and by the time I hear he’s asleep again, I’m finished with the crying.

  I think I’m getting a bit sleepy now. I come up from deep inside the bed and put my head on the pillow. Then I roll on top of Jollo so he’s underneath my chest. I’m hoping that in the morning everything will be back to normal, and we both might be just a little bit better.

  Q

  I was dreaming then. A really horrid dream. I was outside by the house martins’ graves, kneeling down in the mud. It was raining hard, and I was wet right through. It was a bit like I’d turned into Mummy in the park with all her soaking clothes clinging to her. My broken clock wrapped up in the tissue paper was in the hole that Theo had got ready for Tom Thumb that didn’t have to be used. I put some daisies on top of the paper for remembrance. Then I was trying to put Jollo in the hole as well, but he was screaming to me that he wasn’t dead and I wasn’t to leave him alone buried in the ground. But I was telling him that it really was time for him to be going, and I forced him in and covered the hole with soil until there was not the slightest sign of him. I was crying out loud and that was alright because there was no one to hear me on account of it being in the darkest middle of the night.

  But I’m awake again now.

  And I’m wet. I’m really wet.

  I’m wet from my knees right up to my neck. My pajamas are clutching me tight. I stretch my hands out, and it’s wet and cold right to the edge of the bed. I’m shivering, and my teeth are chattering.

  I cover my face with my hands and plead that when I open my eyes again this will just be another terrible dream. ‘Please, please, please, God, make this not be true,’ but when I take my hands away and open my eyes, the wet and cold are still there.

  The day is just beginning outside. I stretch my hand up above me to where the curtain is, and when I move it I can see that the sky straight above is no longer black but the darkest blue.

  I push back all the wet bedclothes and stand up on my bed to draw the curtains back. The house martins are already out of their nests flying around. When they dive down towards the invisible river I’m able to see them for a second against the blue and yellow light that’s just beginning to come up from behind the shadow of the far away hills.

  I put my hands up to the collar of my pajamas and undo the buttons all the way down ever so slowly until my top slides off my shoulders and falls on the bed. It feels so lovely when the warm dry air touches my skin. Then I pull the cord of my pajama bottoms, and it gets stuck in a wet knot. But I quickly unpick it, and they fall down to my ankles, all heavy as though they can’t wait to be away from me. I step out of them, free of the wetness, and it’s like the truth of what’s happened has been thrown away. I lean towards the window and grab hold of the latch. When I pull it down it doesn’t budge for a bit because ever since the big storm it’s not been working so well. But I push it down again as hard as can be, and it goes ‘crack!’ and half the window is swinging open so fast I have to catch it in my hand to stop it making a noise. There’s a reflection of myself for a single second passing by in the glass, and I see that I’m smiling. The freshness of the outside touches the dampness on my chest and sends a little shiver through me.

  Then I turn away from the window to look into the dark gloom of the dormitory; no one’s been woken up by the noise of the latch. I look down at my pajamas, and I feel like a snake that has come out of its useless old skin.

  Jollo’s lying in the bed where it sinks in the middle, crushed by my lying on him. I bend down and pick him up. He’s wet through so his head is lolling about, and the fur on his face is all flat and Mummy’s scarf is sticking to him. He looks like a mangy homeless dog that’s been caught in a storm. I get off the bed and delve in the darkness under it for the bag. I open it and press my lips up against Jollo’s ear and whisper, ‘I love you, Jollo. I love you. I’ll see you another time, I promise.’ Then I put him right at the bottom, next to the towel where the body of our old clock is. I straighten him out so he’ll be comfortable, and I squeeze his paw to say goodbye.

  I’m standing on the bed again. My hand is on the little bolt that’s keeping the other side of the window from opening. I flick it up with my fingers, it clicks, and when I push, it swings open gently. I look up, over to the hills, and see that already, in just a few seconds, it’s grown lighter. There’s the very first sound of birds calling out to each other, and the dip in the hills with the yellow and blue sky coming through looks like a giant smile. The river below is tinkling like it’s playing a pretty song on the piano, and everything’s telling me that it’s a good thing for me to go and be free, away from the darkness of the dorm and the wetness of my bed. I’m going to be brave, and do what I know is right because it might be my very last chance.

  I put my hands on the top of each side of the open windows and my foot on the window ledge and straighten my legs. I stand up, leaning out towards the river like a carved figure you sometimes see pictures of on the prow of an old wooden battleship.

  I’m outside. I’m in the light. I’m right between my old life and a brand new one. I fill up my chest with fresh air and look straight above into the sky. My smile is getting bigger and bigger, and it’s spreading to the whole of my body. I really don
’t know why, but suddenly I’m nearly giggling, but I know I mustn’t because I’ve got to be silent for a bit longer.

  I turn back and bend my head for a look into the dorm before leaving for the last time. It’s too dark to see properly, but I can hear Lucky Lorrimer snoring gently, and I can just see the shape of Henry Pugh’s dark head on his white pillow.

  I pull myself up so that I’m sitting right on the very top of one side of the window, and for just a tiny second I’m wobbling like mad because it’s moving underneath me. I have to steady myself by grabbing hold of the gutter beside my head to stop from falling. I hold it with both hands and twist round. I lift my foot up to the top of the window, push with all my might, stretch myself out, and before I know it I’m lying on top of the tiles which are cold and damp underneath my bare tummy. I can’t see it, but I hear the window that’s been pushed by my foot swinging away and clattering closed. There’s no way now to go back. I’m a bit frightened, but at the same time I love it that I’m free. I’m frozen to the spot for a bit, not daring to take the slightest breath and not daring to look around. I stare at the silvery dew on the grey blackness of the tile that’s right in front of my eyes.

  But suddenly, I’m slipping and sliding downwards. Tiles are passing by my eyes, and I’m crazily moving my arms and legs around like Flopsy Gilligan in the swimming pool, trying to find something to grab hold of. Bright green bits of moss that have come unstuck start to roll downwards. My fingers and toes join in till my feet find the gutter. I wedge my toes in, and the slipping stops. I still don’t dare to look around but my hands travel ever so carefully, feeling up along the tiles of the little roof of the window until they come to the very top where it goes over. I hold on tight and pull myself up.

  I look over the top at the big trees that you can see from the window in the dormitory by the washstands. I twist my head round ever so carefully because the slightest movement might make me start slipping again, and I look out towards the river. I’m so high up it sends shivers right through me, and my willy feels tingly from the danger of it all. I laugh a little bit because I know no one can hear me now, and there’s nothing that anyone in the whole world can do about it.

  I want to be even higher. I want to be higher than the squirrels’ nests, higher than the very top of the trees. I want to be so high that I might know just what it’s like to be a house martin. I want to climb up onto the big roof, the one that covers the whole school. I’m going to go right to the very top, right up to where the chimneys are.

  But it’s like the side of a mountain—a dangerous, steep, cruel mountain. One of those mountains that you read about in the papers that some brave person has tried to climb but has never come back from because they’ve slipped and crashed down all the way to the bottom, or got mangled up by a very powerful avalanche, or fallen into an icy pitch-black crevice where they’ve had to wait forever with a broken ankle and no food until they’ve died of the cold and the loneliness.

  So I’ve got to be careful, because I can’t fly. But one thing’s for certain—I’m never going back down to underneath this roof.

  It’s best not to look down. I know that. And not to keep looking up, either, because if I do, all the time I’ll be knowing just how far I’ve got to go. I’ll go slowly, doing it one teensy-weensy bit at a time.

  I’m moving again now, like a sea lion who’s clumsy and heavy on the beach. With my hands still on top of the baby roof of the window, I flop myself sideways till I’m right up against the big roof. Then I take really big breaths and concentrate on the first few rows of tiles just like Marlowe in seniors’ does when he’s about to start the run up to the high jump on Sports Day.

  And then I’m off. The first thing I notice is that once I’m actually on it, the roof’s not so steep as I thought. Like I promised myself, I don’t look down, and I don’t look so far up that it gets to be really frightening. I just look at the bit right in front of me. At first I move gingerly, thinking about every tile that passes by, but quite soon I start to go quicker.

  I’m not like a sea lion at all, now. More like a sleek lizard, moving my hips from side to side, slithering upwards on my tummy. It’s just once or twice that I quickly look up for the direction of the chimney. It gets closer and closer, and it’s standing there waiting for me right at the summit of this mountain, growing bigger and bigger till it’s the same as a huge cliff coming straight out of the water like you see in Cornwall.

  I’m there. I’m at the very top, where the roof goes over to the other side. I reach out and touch the chimney like it’s a game of tag and no one can get me now because I’m home and dry. I put my leg over and straddle the centre of the roof with my arms down on either side as though I’m hugging the back of an enormous whale. My ear’s against the tiles, and I listen to the silence of the sleeping school.

  I close my eyes tight and pull myself up, holding onto the chimney. Very carefully I turn myself round, making sure not to lose my balance, till I’m sitting with my legs dangling down on either side, with my back up against the bricks of the chimney. There’s been just enough light from the sun to warm them up a little, and it feels good against my skin. My eyes are still closed tight, partly because I’m frightened and partly because I want the surprise when I open them, like on Christmas day when you first see the big pile of presents under the tree.

  Something slips away underneath my foot, and I open my eyes automatically just in time to see a tile coming loose. I watch it slide down the roof, faster and faster, skimming across the other tiles like a flat round stone thrown between the waves on the beach and making a noise like Theo practising his scales on the piano when he goes from the top notes to the bottom. It reaches the gutter by the window where I’ve just come from and disappears over the edge. There’s a silence and a tiny while later a big crashing sound when it smashes onto the balcony far away down below.

  I don’t close my eyes again. I can’t. There’s too much to see, and I hold my breath with the surprise of it all. The whole of Saxham’s underneath me, roofs and chimneys, and narrow lanes, and far away in the distance the beginning of the hills where the forest starts. The whole world’s changed into doll’s houses and dinky-toy gardens, tiny red telephone boxes, midget cars and make believe doll’s clothes on washing lines. I look the other way, past Mrs. Ridgeley’s vegetable garden and the paths in the school grounds that lead down towards the water. I’m so high up I might as well be floating above the river itself like Aladdin on a magic flying carpet. I push my back up against the chimney for safety’s sake and hold on tight as tight can be to the row of red tiles that run along the very top of the roof. And then I’m thinking how would it be to let go? It might feel as though I’m really, truly flying! My hands dare to hold on less tightly. Just for a teeny while I loosen my grip to see what it’s like, and then I’m holding on again with all my strength because I’m not quite ready yet. I take a long deep breath in again and let go, and my hands hover for an instant just an inch or two above the tiles. They’re trembling, testing to see if it’s safe for me to balance.

  And then I lift my hands in the air and stretch out my arms as though they might be wings. I tilt my head right back so I’m looking far above myself until I see nothing but the sky. Nothing at all but the sky and the house martins. I’m not on a magic carpet at all, but flying with the birds. We’re swooping and swirling around, and I laugh out loud because I’m happy and I’m free. I’ve travelled a million miles away from my old life, and I’m never going back.

  I’ve got wings now. I’m with Tom Thumb. I’m flying with the house martins.

  V.

  January, 1969. Seven months later.

  It’s Swedish Lena, the au pair, who’s going to take me to the station today. That’s ever so silly; I’ve been there millions of times, and she’s never been once in her whole life, so what’s the point of her taking me? I’ll be in charge anyway. I’ve even got the keys to the fro
nt door in my own pocket. But my dad says I’m not to go by myself. One of these days, probably quite soon, I certainly will go all by myself.

  So here I am waiting for the taxi again, like I do at the beginning of every single term, sitting on the sofa with my cap and navy blue coat on. Lena’s in the armchair with Mrs. Hamilton standing by the door with the lemon drops that she always gives me when I’m leaving; we’re all listening out for the car coming up the road, and as usual I want it to come because I don’t want to be late, and I don’t want it to come because I don’t want to go. The only different thing is that I’m not having a glass of sherry like I used to have with Mummy, because she’s not here.

  I packed my blue bag last night, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got everything I need—my stamp collection, my new Stanley Gibbons catalogue that my dad gave me for Christmas, the big wooly jumper from Granny—on account of the new rule allowing us to wear things from home on Sundays after church—my wash bag with the new toothbrush, and my new alarm clock that I’d specially asked Granny for at Christmas. It’s ticking away like my old one from Rome airport, but it doesn’t really feel the same. I took one of Mummy’s perfumy scarves from the wardrobe in the bedroom while my dad was out for his walk yesterday. Then I thought he might just possibly see that it had gone missing so I sneaked it back in there this morning after he’d gone to work. I just completely hope he doesn’t notice it’s been moved around, and actually that really is a bit of a worry. The thing is, I don’t need to have the scarf anyway. Not really.