Hermione’s family has escaped the stampeding biddies and is turning the corner up ahead. Hermione, heading for the same corner, stops when she spots Joan and at once demands to know why she is wearing wellies when it’s not raining? When it’s not even going to rain? This she knows, because there’s not a cloud in the sky, is there?
“It is,” she informs Joan, “ever so silly.”
“But I am silly, remember?” says Joan, slightly peeved.
Never in a hurry, the girl ponders the statement. “No, I don’t think so,” comes the verdict. “I think maybe Daddy was wrong. Sometimes he is, you know.”
“You don’t say?”
“No, I don’t. Lizzie does.”
Best change the subject. “And how is Lizzie?”
“She’s ever so tired of going for vigourating walks. It makes her feet hurt awfully.”
“Well, she has rather small feet, doesn’t she?”
“Yes. And Daddy walks very fast, you see, cause it’s good for the cari . . . cari . . . car-dee-vaksular system.”
“I see.”
At that moment, Hermione’s mother pops her head around the corner looking for her youngest. Seeing Hermione talk to that strange woman again, she hurries forward and, grabbing her daughter hard by the arm, shoots Joan a look that spills dread and disgust. Joan feels amused pity as she watches the woman drag her stoical child to safety.
It’s the last time she sees them. Afterwards she deems it best to cool her compulsion lest she gets arrested for stalking small children. It would not look good on the record of a well-respected Canadian crown attorney.
The following Saturday morning Abigail drives in to Bendlesfield train station to pick up the new laser printer she has ordered. It arrived by the two-carriage toy train on the Friday afternoon. She struggles through the door an hour later with a cumbersome box which Joan helps her lift onto the desk in her study.
“I saw the funniest thing at the station,” says Abigail. “Not ha-ha funny, just funny odd. A bit sad too.” Her voice is matter-of-fact, her eyes wistful. She glances sideways at her sister.
“Well,” says Joan, “I’m all ears.”
“Okay. Well, there was this couple waiting for the train, you know, stiff, silent, awkward people, repressed middle class on the lower side of the scale, that sort of type. This place is full of them during holiday time. Private people that keep to themselves. They rent cottages all around the countryside. Trek along the footpaths for a week or two. The wife was of the patient yes-dear variety, the husband this supreme fool decked out like he was going on a damn African safari.”
“Interesting. Go on.”
“Well, they had three little girls, but it was the youngest that caught my attention. She stood by herself by one of the waiting room windows clutching the gaudiest doll you ever saw. Once or twice she held it up to her ear pretending it was whispering to her. Then she widened her eyes and shook her head in amazement. It looked so cute. When the dad ordered them out onto the platform, she kept standing there with her back to him as if she hadn’t heard him.”
“She just stood there?”
“Yes, she stood by the window looking at two little girls on the opposite pavement. They were dancing along, those two, hand in hand, twirling and skipping, merry as can be. She seemed fascinated by them. When her dad shouted at her not to dawdle or they’d leave without her, she turned around and tried to imitate the girls on the sidewalk. You know, trying to do a similar dance with her doll. Only the poor thing couldn’t pull it off. Her little legs were too stiff. It made her stumble and drop her doll. In the end she gave up and trudged after the rest of her family. Trying hard not to cry.”
“The poor thing!”
“Yes, that’s what I thought.” Abigail falls silent for a moment, throwing Joan a quick glance before saying, “You know, and you’ll have to forgive me for saying so, but she reminded me of Kevin.”
Kevin is Joan’s youngest son. He recently turned twenty-four. A young man of defiant spirit.
“How on earth can a little English girl remind you of six-foot-two Canadian Kevin?”
“I’m not talking physical resemblance, Joanie. But remember when he was little? Always lagging behind? You always shouting, ‘Keviiin! Wake up already!’ Remember?”
“I most certainly do not.” It’s true, she does not. She has no recollection of anything of the sort, but Abigail’s talk of Kevin upsets her all the same. It’s not what she came to England for, being compared to some pompous pukka-sahib.
“Oh, come on, Joanie! You can’t possibly have forgotten?”
“And Kevin never had a doll.”
“I know Kevin never had a doll, for chrissake! But he had that ugly black and white bear with the pink baby socks, didn’t he? And that polka dot bow tie his brothers put on it as a joke, only Kevin decided the bear liked it just fine. Surely you haven’t forgotten that?”
“What bear?”
“You know the one I mean! He never went anywhere without it, for God’s sake, Joanie! What was its name? Tilley? No, wait . . . Talley . . . no . . . Tooley! Yes, that’s it, Tooley the Bear!”
“I don’t recall any bear.” Joan does not remember. Nor does she not remember. “How can you compare a boy to a girl? And how dare you compare me to some pompous twit of an Englishman?”
“A child’s a child. An overbearing parent is an overbearing parent.”
Joan explodes. “I BEG YOUR PARDON?”
Abigail does not bat an eyelid. “Oh, don’t look like that, for crying out loud! You know what I mean! It’s not like you were a bad parent, Joanie. You just had firm opinions.”
“I see no comparison at all.” Joan feels her face heat up. It’s a blush of intense fury.
Abigail forgets to bite her tongue. “How can you not see the comparison? Are you selectively blind?”
Joan sputters. “Because there is no comparison!”
“You just won’t let yourself remember, will you? You’re so damn stubborn!”
“Remember what, for heaven’s sake?”
“Kevin pretending to be deaf. Walking off to talk to strangers. Whispering to that raggedy bear. Daydreaming. Rebelling. Then blaming it on the bear, saying ‘Tooley told me to’. And you going, ‘Keviiin!’ And you’re telling me you don’t recall any of that?”
“That’s right. I don’t.” Each reply shorter, more clipped.
“Amazing! Could be early Alzheimer’s, I suppose. Maybe you should have a brain scan when you get home.”
Abigail can tell by Joan’s stare that she has donned her well-worn suit of armour. It’s what she always does in the face of criticism. Abigail decides to cut it short without giving in. “Oh, don’t be so damn huffy! You’re a grown woman! And a grandmother. Kevin’s a grown man. Anyway, you’d have liked the little girl at the station. She was the sweetest little thing, her ponytail bobbing up and down when she tried to dance. I felt rather bad for her.”
“She’ll be all right, I’m sure. You always exaggerate.” Thinking, repeatedly, I’m not like that.
“I do not! Besides, Kevin turned out all right. So he didn’t go into law, big deal. He’s doing just fine, isn’t he? Didn’t he get a scholarship to do his doctorate in archeology?”
“He did. Top of his year. He’s . . . Was I really that judgmental?” Joan asks the question in order for Abigail to gush her protestations, to say of course not, darling sister, you were a role model for us all.
“You certainly were,” says Abigail. “Now then, do you know how to hook up this frigging printer?”
“Of course I do.” Resentment coats Joan’s face like an early frost. She can’t stop thinking of Hermione’s little legs being unfamiliar with the simple rhythm of joy. Kevin was never like that. “Kevin was a good dancer,” she blurts out, aware of the supreme idiocy of the statement.
“He was okay. But only because you made him go to dance school even though he hated it.”
“I sent him because he was good at it. He
had talent.”
“Think again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he didn’t exactly skip and twirl with natural grace, did he?”
“Of course he did!”
Abigail sighs and slides a hand over the new printer as if trying to calm it, and looks at her sister, wondering why pompous people have such a raw talent for self-delusion. Maybe you can’t have one without the other. She shakes her head and bursts out laughing. No point arguing with a brick wall. “I’ll leave you to it,” she says and disappears.
Standing alone by the laser printer, the warmth of the afternoon sun trying hard to melt her frosted features, Joan, against her will, looks back. Then farther back. Squints. Looks farther still. It takes courage to do so. Her hands are trembling, but she does not give up.
And sure enough, when she goes back far enough, she sees it, the memory waving back at her, shouting, How the hell are you, Mrs. D! Bet you didn’t expect to see me here today?
No, says Mrs. D. I did not.
Tough luck, says the memory and slaps her in the face.
They had been on holiday in Cornwall. It was their first trip to England, their first holiday abroad since Kevin was born. He had just turned five. They were hiking on the moors of the Land’s End peninsula. Up in the empty landscape where the wind wailed like a live thing, sentineled by two tall megaliths, stood the donut-shaped stone known as Men-an-Tol.
According to legend the mysterious stones had once been part of a larger stone circle thought to be an ancient burial ground. They were supposed to have stood there for thousands of years. Men-an-Tol was believed to have curative powers, and people had for centuries brought their children there to pass them naked through the hole in the stone three times in the hope of curing rickets, scrofula and other diseases common as dirt at the time. The procedure worked best if performed at dawn against the sun.
Adults, harder to cure, had to crawl through nine times.
One by one, the Deacon family crawled through the hole. They did so for fun and only once, not suffering from rickets. Nor were they naked. They did not do so at dawn, or against the sun. There was no sun.
The mist began to roll in unexpectedly when they arrived at the stones. In no time at all the fog had grown so thick it obscured the horizon. By the time they had made it through the stone — all except for Kevin — it had eclipsed everything else as well.
They pretended that if they crawled through the stone to the other side, they would end up in a different world, a place of sunshine and blue summer sky. Joan, taking the lead, was the first through. Kevin was last because he flatly refused.
Or, rather, Tooley did.
Kevin stood pigeon-toed, red baseball cap back to front, mist twirling around him, about to embrace him and carry him away. He clutched the black and white bear wearing pink baby socks and a red and white polka dot bow tie, while all around the mist rolled, roiled, got thicker by the minute, more sinister.
She felt the cold fear of losing him.
“Keviiin! Come on! Or you’ll be left behind in that foggy old world all by yourself!”
Was that her voice? That shrill?
“I don’t care.” Kevin stood firm, peering angrily at her through the hole in the stone. “Why do I have to be in your world? Tooley doesn’t like it there. He says you hate him.”
“Don’t be silly! You can crawl through the stone and still be in your own world.” Thinking, screw that fucking bear. I’m going to throw the damn thing out when Kevin’s asleep. The night before we leave England. Pretend Tooley ran away to join the circus.
Kevin repeats his question. “Why do I have to live in your stupid world?”
“Sweetie, there’s only one world. This is just a game.”
“That’s not true!”
The idea had been for them to have a family adventure, to wiggle snail-like through the stone, taking pictures for posterity. It’s what you do when you’re on holiday.
When Kevin still refused to move, Joan reached through the hole, grabbed him by his bony little shoulders and dragged him through the stone in one swift motion. He screamed in rage at this violent rebirth, being forced against his will to pass through another small opening into a world where voices screamed at him out of the fog.
“Tooley and I don’t want to be in your world!”
She ignored his childish tantrum.
Craig did not take any pictures of Kevin being dragged through the stone, arms protectively around his bear.
She did not mean to be bossy, and it certainly was not her intention to upset her youngest son. Only by then the fog had made the empty moor invisible. She was afraid they would get lost, afraid Kevin would be left behind, afraid they would never find him again. She did not want to lose him, because she loved him too much.
She had assumed he understood that.
Kevin had always lagged behind.
Kevin and Tooley.
That day, having dragged her protesting five-year-old and his bear through the magic stone into the other world that was not supposed to be foggy, they got lost. It was like being surrounded by a grey concrete wall.
“Is this fog real?” asked Jeff, their oldest.
“Of course it is.”
“It’s creepy.”
They were forced to stop, fearful to take another step, when through the fog there appeared a tall dark shape followed by a small squat one. They were almost face to face before the tall shape turned into a woman. The small shape at her feet was a black terrier. An ordinary woman, as far as they could make out. They could not see her clearly, but there seemed to be nothing remarkable about her appearance. She was dressed in a cardigan and rubber boots, a scarf tied around her head, looking like she knew her way about.
Relieved to see her outline, they asked for directions.
“Straight down this path,” she told them, pointing in the direction she had come from, “then turn left when you come to a gate.” They thanked her and began walking in the direction indicated, step by careful step. The woman and her dog had already disappeared in the fog.
At the outline of the gate were they were supposed to turn left, Kevin erupted in another furious protest. “No! She’s wrong! We should be going that way, over there! There’s a tower over there. That’s where we should be going.” He pointed in the opposite direction.
“No, Kevin, the woman said . . . ”
“I don’t care! It’s the wrong way! She was lying!” He shouted the accusation.
“Honey, that woman lives around here. Don’t you think she knows her way about?”
“She’s lying! That path goes away from the sea! I know it!”
By then something in his face had caught his father’s attention. “How do you know, Kev?”
“Because Tooley can hear the ocean breathing way over there.” He pointed again. “I can hear it too.”
Nobody else could hear a damn thing. As Joan told Kevin, the ocean was too far away, and besides water doesn’t breathe, so stop your nonsense.
Before they had time to react, Kevin had marched off into the dense fog. They had no choice but to run after the stubborn child before they lost him, all of them shouting “Kevin, wait up!” By then Joan was cold with terror. Craig looked like he might burst into tears.
Hurrying blindly after Kevin they arrived at a tall brick structure that looked like a tower. Just then the fog began to lift. As swiftly as it had descended it was gone. It was with immeasurable relief they were able to discern first Kevin, then the path leading down to the road, and, as they walked towards the path, the sea and the faraway horizon. The tower turned out to be the remnant of a building at an old mine site.
“How did you know there was a tower, Kev?”
The sun appeared, the sky turned blue, the world was a safe place.
“I saw the top of it from far away before it got foggy. In the old world. You know, when you carried me on your shoulders, Dad. Remember?”
“Good for you, Kev.
” Craig clamped a hand on his youngest son’s shoulder and did not let go of him until they reached their rental car.
In the car they debated whether the woman had lied or if they had misunderstood. Craig’s opinion was that she had mistaken them for Americans and, being anti-American, had sent them in the opposite direction.
Jeff and Russell, the two older boys, were convinced she was a ghost. “And the dog too.”
“Ghosts don’t wear rubber boots,” Joan informed them.
“How do you know? Have you ever seen a ghost?”
“There are no ghosts.”
According to Kevin, Tooley knew exactly why the woman had lied, but that Tooley would never tell because they’d never believe him anyway.
A comment Joan dismissed with “Oh, Kevin.”
She had not thrown the old bear away, that much she remembers.
What happened to it?
Does he still have it?
Kevin never knew how to dance. He was not a graceful child. He was tuned to a different wavelength, which, while providing no sense of rhythm, gave him an unwavering sense of direction.
When he moved away from home at age eighteen, Joan assumed that it was his inner voice guiding him, the voice of Tooley, and that he knew where he was going, and why. And he did know, by the looks of it. He is doing splendidly in his own world and has no intention of ever crawling through a magic circle back into the confinement of his mother’s well regulated one.
Because there is, Kevin discovered early in life, more than one world.
It’s not until now, standing by the window in Abigail’s study with its low ceiling and slanting floor, arms crossed, shoulders tensed, that Joan wonders for the first time whether Kevin prefers to pay an inflated rent for a small one-bedroom apartment in faraway Vancouver in order to escape his mother rather than live at home for free. If it’s his way of impressing upon her that her world is not for him.
He doesn’t call very often. She calls him at least once a week to ask why she hasn’t heard from him, trying not to sound like a nag. “I just got back from a dig in Iran,” he will say, or some equally solid defense. Excavating in Brittany. Digging holes in Uzbekistan. Looking for Neolithic treasures beyond the reach of her judgment.
Leaving Berlin Page 22
