Who Goes Home?

by Sylvia Waugh

  ‘There are levels of knowledge,’ he said to Jacob, avoiding a straightforward discussion. ‘Words are not everything. Your mother knows me as I am. She is a very special person.’

  No one will ever know me, thought Jacob bitterly. That is something you have made sure of. He clenched his fists and his eyes stung with tears.

  Steven put an arm around his shoulders, uncertain how to comfort him.

  ‘You’ll be my helper now,’ he said. ‘This has brought you closer to me. There is a lot to learn and I want to teach you. Take it all slowly. It will come right, Javayl ban.’

  ‘Will it? Will it, Sterekanda?’

  He could have said Sterekanda mesht, but preferred to leave off the endearment. The omission was not lost on his father.

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  Saturday Morning

  Lydia was mixing a cake. She mixed at a leisurely pace as if tomorrow would do, which it would. The mother of the Bradwell family was not a methodical housewife. If she took it in mind to bake a cake, that is what she would do. Yesterday’s feast had not included a homemade cake. But today the bowl on the shelf had managed to catch her attention, and there were still eggs left in the fridge.

  Her long, fair hair was pulled back severely to protect the cooking from unwanted strands. The slim hand that held the wooden spoon moved to the rhythm of the tune she was humming under her breath. The face inside her soul was very delicate and beautiful. The face she showed the world was heavy-jawed and quite plain, made plainer by the drawn-back hair and the lips that were closely sealed in tuneful thought.

  Jacob looked at his mother, seeing only the face of her soul. Young as he was, he knew she was vulnerable and felt that somehow she needed protection.

  How did you come to marry my father?

  This was the question he wanted to ask, but couldn’t. There was always a reticence, a fear of saying something that would hurt too much.

  Lydia looked across at him. He was sitting on a high stool beside the breakfast bar. She was standing by the table that was the pride of her kitchen, a scrubbable table with a top made of planks of plain, white wood. She smiled.

  Beneath the smile there was the expectation that her son would have something to say. He had seemed even more withdrawn than usual when he and his father returned from their walk the night before. But, being Lydia, she would not press for any confidence. Reticence was part of her code and deeply rooted in her character.

  ‘I make wonderful cakes,’ she said quite simply. ‘This one will be really special.’

  Jacob returned the smile with a grin that hid what he was feeling.

  ‘We fed well yesterday,’ he said. ‘Is this getting to be a habit?’

  ‘Cheeky!’ said Lydia. ‘If you’re not careful I won’t let you scrape the bowl!’

  Was now the moment to ask the question?

  How did you come to marry my father?

  No, thought Jacob, now was definitely not the time. There never would be a time when the question could be asked. The mystery of how this shy, retiring Earthling, comfortable only within the confines of her own home, came to be the wife of an alien would never be resolved.

  Jacob watched her in silence as she carefully turned the cake mixture into the greased tin.

  ‘Do you never think of doing other things, of being different?’ he asked. This was as near as he could come to approaching the subject nearest to his heart at that moment.

  ‘I am happy as I am,’ said Lydia. ‘This is the life of my choosing. I was lucky to be given the choice.’

  She turned to open the oven door and over her shoulder she added, ‘And the main ingredient in this cake is love. That’s what makes it taste so good.’

  There was nothing more to be said. How much did she know? How much had she guessed? How much was just buried deep in her heart? Jacob longed to know, but asking was impossible.

  Beth and Josie came into the kitchen together, bouncing noisily through a door more suited to one than to two.

  ‘Can we help Kerry this morning?’

  ‘Can we go with her to walk the dog?’

  ‘She’s got another dog. It’s called Mitsubishi.’

  ‘I don’t know how Mrs McKinley manages with all those animals!’ said Lydia. Their neighbours had two or maybe three cats, a parrot, and two brown rabbits. Their old dog, Leonora, had recently died. The twins were clearly excited about the new one.

  ‘Mitsubishi wants us to go. He’s real fun and sometimes he gets away on the heath and Kerry has to catch him. And we can help. He’s just a puppy.’

  ‘When he grows up, he might be a giraffe.’

  ‘Ye-es?’ said their mother, pausing in the act of cleaning the wooden spoon.

  ‘Well, that’s what Kerry says!’

  ‘And is there nothing else you should be doing?’ said Lydia. ‘You don’t want to leave all your homework till the last minute.’

  ‘I finished all of mine in bed, Mum. I have no more left to do.’

  ‘You didn’t,’ said her twin. ‘I finished it – you just copied what I wrote.’

  ‘I understood it, anyway,’ said the other. ‘That’s the main thing. If Mrs Potts wants to know about-’

  ‘Hush!’ said their mother, her hands conducting their sound into silence. ‘You’ll spoil my cake. It is there in the oven trying hard to be beautiful. If it hears you two it will probably collapse in the middle!’

  The twins gave each other a look. No one they knew talked quite like their mother. And often it didn’t make sense.

  Jacob had been sitting quietly scraping the mixture from the bowl. Now he spoke. ‘Mitsubishi’s a daft name for a dog,’ he said.

  ‘No it’s not,’ said his sisters delightedly. ‘Do you want to know why he’s called Mitsubishi?’

  ‘All right,’ said Jacob, aware that a weak joke must be coming. ‘Let’s have a groan. Why is the dog called Mitsubishi?’

  ‘Because,’ said the girls in unison, ‘there are already too many dogs called Rover.’

  ‘My poor cake,’ said Lydia in mock despair. ‘What is it going to make of all this?’

  ‘So we can go now?’

  ‘Yes, you can go. Be back by half twelve. And put on your boots – the grass is sure to be wet.’

  After they’d gone, Lydia got out the ironing board.

  ‘I think I’ll iron some shirts,’ she said, pulling out the blue basket from under the table. ‘That way I’ll be on hand and won’t forget there’s a cake in the oven. It would be sad if I spoilt it after putting so much effort in!’

  Without being asked, Jacob got up and fixed the clotheshorse ready to receive the ironed washing.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Lydia. ‘Now I can have a nice warm morning in my nice warm kitchen listening to the radio.’

  ‘And I think I’ll go and see what Dad’s doing. I heard him go up to the computer room,’ said Jacob.

  So he left without making a single reference to aliens, without finding out any more than he already knew.

  Lydia plugged in the iron and stood it on its heel while she arranged a shirt on the ironing board. She switched on the radio, which had its usual Saturday mix of familiar music. This was the heart of the home. Stories took over her mind; memories drifted in and out.

  CHAPTER 5

  * * *

  Saturday Afternoon

  When Jacob entered the computer room, he felt strangely shy. It was a room he had visited many times before. He had even been shown how to use the computer – the ‘Earth’ computer. But today the place had lost all its old familiarity. He felt as if he had never been there before.

  Yesterday had been the most fantastic day of Jacob’s life. He had become part of something that all his Earthly knowledge would have rejected as totally impossible. It wasn’t a dream – he knew that for certain – but it felt dreamlike.

  Steven was working on his ordinary, Earth computer, creating a program for a purely human client, when Jacob came in. He half turned, absentl
y gestured to the camp stool beside the desk where the Brick was lodged, and motioned to his son to sit down.

  It was a large room with a long window under the eaves of the house. The ceiling sloped steeply. The floor of polished wood was partly covered with two large rugs. On the wall to the right of the door was a little old iron fireplace that housed a two-bar electric fire. The desk that held the Brick was against the wall to the left of the door. The Earth computer stood on a long, cluttered table beneath the window. And, in between, the remaining wall space was filled with shelves from floor to ceiling.

  ‘I won’t be a minute,’ said Steven. ‘Just let me finish this bit. I know we have things to talk about. Let’s take our time and talk.’

  Jacob sat in uncomfortable silence for a while. He looked at the Brick from time to time, seeing it with different eyes now that he knew more of its history. It did not look like any other computer he had ever seen. The brick shape gave it a heavy appearance, as if it were made of real brick, and certainly not of any sort of plastic. Its buttons were colourful and looked stuck on rather than embedded. Its screen, which he had seen before, was furled up out of sight. It had no recognizable monitor. Jacob had never been allowed to touch this instrument. For a second or two he felt tempted to let his fingers slide a little lever at the base of it, or maybe just gently push the scarlet button.

  ‘No!’ said his father, without even turning his head. ‘That could be dangerous!’

  Jacob blushed and drew back. Steven remained hunched over and busy for a few more minutes. The window had no curtains. The sun was slanting in on him.

  Jacob saw him ease back on his chair and stretch out his arms. It was only then that he ventured to speak.

  ‘I tried to talk to Mum today,’ he said in a very strained voice, glad somehow that he was saying this to the back of his father’s head.

  ‘I imagine you talk to your mother most days,’ said Steven, tightening up, ready for what might follow. He swivelled round in his chair to face his son.

  ‘I wanted to ask her how much she knew,’ said Jacob. It was not necessary to be more specific. Each knew what the other meant.

  ‘And?’ said his father.

  ‘I couldn’t,’ said Jacob. ‘Whenever I was on the brink of saying something I was held back.’

  Steven let out a sigh. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘That has to do with the fencing.’

  Jacob waited to hear what his father would say next. He refused to be led on to asking any more questions. He still resented the thirteen years of silence. For thirteen years one of the most important facts of his life had been withheld from him. So, he thought sullenly, tell me, or don’t tell me. It’s up to you.

  ‘You see,’ his father continued, after an almost painful pause, ‘there are certain subjects that are fenced about. Neither you nor anybody on Earth is permitted to probe into them too far.’

  Jacob thought fast. Before his father could construct any more ‘fences’, he blurted out the words, ‘Why did you marry my mother? How did you meet her?’

  Steven was startled by the questions, but he managed a smile, a mischievous smile. ‘I found her standing barefoot outside in the snow,’ he said. ‘She was striking matches in an effort to keep herself warm.’

  Jacob looked angry. ‘Why talk such rubbish?’ he snapped. ‘I ask you a sensible question and you try to make out she’s the Little Match Girl. Uncle Mark is her brother. My grandmother was still alive when I was born. Mum was never alone or neglected.’

  ‘She was not neglected,’ said Steven, ‘but she was often alone. She was alone at the concert hall where I first met her. She looked lost. She told me later that she had been trying to be like everybody else but couldn’t quite manage it!’

  He put one hand on his son’s shoulder and gave him a look that was serious and penetrating.

  ‘I was speaking in metaphor, Javayl,’ he said. ‘There are waif-souls in this universe. Your mother is one such. And I – I have great love for the waif-soul. Do you understand?’

  ‘And is my soul a waif?’ said Jacob, knowing only too well what loneliness was.

  ‘Who knows?’ said his father, unwilling to discuss it further. ‘Who really knows anything?’

  He turned abruptly to the computer and typed in a few more lines before turning to face his son again. He had decided to tell Jacob another story, a true one.

  ‘The tale I told you has a basis in reality. Your mother did once stand outside the window one snowy January afternoon when dark had just fallen and the house was lit up but the curtains were open. She had taken off her shoes and was standing out there in just a party dress. She was eight years old at the time. She wanted to see what it felt like to be the Little Match Girl. So she stood there, striking matches till she was caught.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Jacob.

  ‘She told me, or at least I think she told me.’

  ‘Didn’t she catch pneumonia?’

  ‘No,’ said Steven with a smile. ‘I think she caught a spanking and was sent to bed!’

  Jacob decided that there was no point in pursuing the question any further, but he did say resentfully, ‘You are wrong about the so-called “fencing”.’

  ‘What do you mean by “wrong”?’ said Steven haughtily. ‘You know nothing about it.’

  Jacob stood up to leave.

  ‘I failed to question my mother,’ he said, ‘because I couldn’t bear to hurt her. That failure had nothing at all to do with you or any power of Ormingat.’

  CHAPTER 6

  * * *

  Working with Dad

  Steven was determined to make things right with his son. To Lydia’s surprise, he spent more and more time talking to him, explaining about computers, even playing family games he had formerly disdained – ‘old-fashioned’ games like Scrabble and Monopoly. The girls joined in, of course, and found it fun.

  But when Steven took Jacob to work in the computer room, the others were not invited. That was accepted by everyone. It was as if Jacob had started on an apprenticeship, ready to take over the family business.

  The early days were the best. Everything was so amazing. Jacob watched with wonder as his father set the Brick to work. Steven always worked from instructions, like a job-sheet. He used his special skills to do what others told him needed to be done. If some operative from Ormingat required special protection of the type the Brick could provide, Steven would find him or her on the map, would study the circumstances, and then would do what was required. The Brick was able to search, to find and then, on Steven’s considered decision, to protect from notice.

  At the touch of a button, a screen would roll upwards on a frame to a vertical position above the Brick. It was the size of a sheet of A4 paper, laid horizontally. Steven could produce on the screen the map of any area in Europe. He could home in on a single house in a single street. Then the Brick’s viewer could enter the house and focus on any object in any room. The Ormingatrig observers were here on Earth in a variety of places with a variety of persona. Some had an easy time of it; others found themselves in situations where the power of the Brick was often a dire necessity.

  ‘Harsheelin needs our assistance,’ said Steven as he focussed on a little shop in Amsterdam where something decidedly strange was made to happen to an exceptionally fine diamond. It was in its velvet tray on a glass counter. Two thieves entered the shop as Harsheelin stood by, helpless. In his Earth persona, Harsheelin was a diamond merchant dealing in fine stones. It was his mission to learn about and report upon what this world most valued.

  In came the thieves, both masked and armed. Harsheelin froze. The two men looked round vaguely, and then walked out again without seeing either the man or the stone.

  Jacob watched them wandering in and then out of the shop like drunken sailors, and gave a laugh.

  ‘There now,’ said Steven. ‘Our man is well-protected. Those two will be well and truly bewildered when they make their getaway!’

  ‘You did that?’
said Jacob. ‘That was sensational!’

  ‘That was easy,’ said Steven. ‘It isn’t always as easy as that. We have to be put on the right track. Other Ormingatriga have to supply the information, which is relayed to me. I never meet them or talk to them. That’s the rule. I have not yet found it necessary to break it!’

  Jacob’s cleverness stopped short of understanding his father’s humour. When Steven’s lips curled in a smile and his eyes twinkled, it was a mixture of self-mockery and impudence. His name, after all, was Sterekanda, which in his own tongue meant rule-breaker, the name playfully but prophetically given to him by his parents in his infancy.

  ‘It is the Brick that protects me, isn’t it?’ said Jacob one day, when he had had time to assimilate all that was happening.

  Steven nodded.

  ‘Withdraw the protection,’ said Jacob. ‘I don’t need it any more.’

  Steven had just enough sensitivity to look regretful.

  ‘It’s too late. You have been surrounded by the shield for so long that I don’t know what would happen if I attempted to withdraw it.’

  Jacob clenched his fists, but said no more. His own self-knowledge made him accept that what his father said was true, however much he might hate it.

  Steven still kept secrets from his son. At no time did Jacob ask about his father’s return to Ormingat. At no time did he ever ask anything about the great disc that ticked like a dock on the spaceship’s floor. The questions were fenced off from him. He was never permitted to wonder about them. That was part of his father’s power: the ability to deflect attention. The Brick provided total cover from a distance, in limited situations. Steven’s own mesmeric capability was more intimate, depending upon dose contact, but every bit as powerful.