Candelo

by Georgia Blain

  Like cigarettes? Mari’s mouth closes tight on the word and she glances angrily across at Vi, who refuses to be silenced.

  It’s certainly what I’d like right now, she says with her usual argumentative defiance.

  And as Mari glares at her once more, I find myself looking at Simon, wishing I could roll my eyes in some kind of conspiratorial understanding, but he only looks away.

  The first two houses that we stop at are so ugly, Vi refuses to get out of the car.

  By the third, Mari has no patience left. I don’t know why, she says, I don’t know why I bother, and she pulls over and leans forward, resting her head on the steering wheel.

  It is then that Simon decides he has had enough. Opening the door without a word, he gets out, and before any of us really knows what is happening, he starts walking off.

  Vi is comforting Mari, telling her to calm down, and as I lean forward to say that Simon has gone, Hadn’t we better go after him? I realise there is no point.

  It’s okay, Vi says as Mari cries, heavy tears from months of trying to fight back the fear she feels, the stress and strain of my mother’s illness, and I leave them, the pair of them, there in the car by the side of the road.

  Simon does not walk fast.

  Under the coolness of the autumn sky, he crosses the park slowly, walking without purpose towards the soft blue-grey of the mountains beyond.

  I do not call out to him. I do not rush to catch up with him.

  In the stillness of the park, I walk just a little faster than him, the bright leaves crisp underfoot, the air fresh and sweet, and I make my way towards him, there, by the war memorial, just ahead of me.

  There is a bench underneath an oak tree, half in the sun, half in the shade, and Simon sits, heavy, on one side; I sit on the other.

  Are you okay? I ask him.

  He looks across at me, and then turns his eyes to the ground.

  He does not speak straightaway. Together we listen to the gentle sigh of the wind from the valley below, slowly growing accustomed to the quiet of this place.

  I am looking at my feet, scratching a hole in the gravel. I am sorry, I tell him, about this morning, and as I try to meet his gaze, the sun catches my eye, so that I am forced to squint, and he looks, for just a moment, like the brother I used to know.

  I shouldn’t have told you. He stares out at the mountains beyond. I shouldn’t have told you.

  We are silent again. I am trying to find the words. I know what they are. But I cannot find them.

  Somewhere, in the distance, we hear the slam of a car door. And I know we do not have much time.

  Do you think she knows? I ask him, jerking my head back in the direction of the road.

  He shakes his head, and then leans forward into his hands. I tried to tell her, he says. I tried, and as he speaks, I know, now, that Bernard is probably right.

  I have to somehow let it go.

  Across the park, there is a group of young boys. Sleeves rolled up to their elbows, they try to tackle each other, to throw each other to the ground.

  I am watching them. They are so far away, I cannot tell whether it is a game or a fight. One breaks free and I watch as he runs, shouting out to the others, circling them, dodging them as they try to catch him and throw him to the ground.

  A glint of blond hair. A checked shirt.

  I close my eyes and they are no longer there.

  Everything is okay.

  And I hear Vi’s voice before I see her, making her way towards us, tiny, tottering in her high heels, with Mari right behind her, picnic basket in one hand.

  Lunch, she tells us, and as they spread the rug out, right there on the grass, I turn back for one moment, to the other side of the park, to where they were, the boys.

  But there is nothing.

  Just the trees and the autumn sky.

  They have gone.

  Time to eat, Mari tells us.

  And that is what we do.