Beneath the Rainbow

by Lisa Shambrook

  “We’ve all had it hard,” said Jake.

  Ben flinched and struggled for a moment to find his words. “Not in the same way… You had it alright until the day it went wrong, my life never began, never went right.”

  “Shush Ben, shhh,” Sophie tried to soothe the young boy.

  “My parents let me fend for myself…”

  Jake paled, but was quiet, and Sophie hugged the small boy close again, as if her embrace could in some way make up for six years of neglect.

  Freya shivered. Ben was always defensive, and Sophie always compensated, but looking at Ben now all Freya could see was a hurt and bewildered six-year-old. Freya had got used to seeing the children as older. Their speech was that of older children and the more time Freya spent immortal, the less ages were defined. They had turned into ambiguously ageless children, but their conversing had brought home to Freya just how young they really were.

  Freya suddenly understood why they were there, why she was there, and knew that acceptance would be the first step in moving on.

  She thought for a moment. “Ben had it right you know, most of us have had it good until it went wrong…I know some of us have had it really hard, but there must have been good moments, there must have been…”

  Carlos smiled; his thoughts were centred on the imminent arrival of Inez, his baby sister. “I love her laughter, even now, cradled in Aunt Serena’s arms, she laughs…”

  For the second time Freya recognised the collective mind as they gazed down at a toddler resting in the tired arms of her aunt. Inez was pale and limp, but her face shone as she grinned.

  “She’ll be here soon,” whispered Carlos, then he went on, “I love the blue sky, the warmth of the sun’s early morning rays, rain on a hot day. I loved Aunt Serena’s soothing voice…her safe arms when we were left alone, her love, her grace when all was lost.”

  As he spoke images from his memory emerged and rippled before them, then faded like echoes.

  “I loved Mam’s dinners,” broke in Keira, “I loved her cooking, and I loved her soups…” She paused to relish the taste she could clearly remember, and the aromas she could smell in her mind. “Chicken, and leek and potato, and creamy tomato, ooh, I can taste them now, I miss them!” She laughed. “And I miss my Mam, I miss her so much…I want to sit at the table and watch her cook…”

  Keira’s mother was plump and aproned and stood beside a large old-fashioned aga, in an old-fashioned kitchen, all green and white gingham, and lacy, cottage curtains. She stirred the thick, steaming broth in the pan on the stove, and took in a deep breath of its aroma. Keira did the same inhaling through her nose with a huge exaggerated sniff.

  “Oooh, leek and potato…” breathed Keira.

  Three children sat at the huge wooden table, each grasping spoons with anticipation. Keira sat at the head of the table, her two older brothers banging the butt of their spoons on the table.

  “Hush, and wait…” came her mother’s voice from the kitchen.

  “Aiden, stop it!” reproved Keira with a frown. “Banging won’t make it any quicker and you’re giving me a headache!”

  Aiden pounded his spoon louder and grinned widely. He dodged away as Keira’s fist lashed out and he fell against his brother. He laughed loudly as Declan’s spoon clattered to the floor.

  Keira’s mother turned from the stove with raised eyebrows and a wooden spoon at half-mast in her hand, it was enough to reduce the boys to smothered giggles. Keira regarded them with aloof superiority. “It’ll be me that gets the soup then,” she said, and the boys smoothed out their faces and sat in mock politeness for a moment, before dissolving into raucous guffaws.

  Keira slipped off her chair and skipped into the kitchen. She reached up and grabbed a bowl from the surface and moved close to her mother. “Mammmy…” she wheedled, rubbing against her mother’s skirts like a contented cat. She looked up and smiled as her mother dropped the spoon into the pan and caught her daughter up in her arms. Keira was in heaven, her mother’s hug enveloped her and the aroma of home cooked soup filled her nostrils…

  All the children in the pagoda breathed in simultaneously, and Keira sighed. “Oh, it was good!” she said. “I was wasted, dying of food poisoning…”

  Abu conjured up his own vision, and a vision of colour it was! Red peppers, green peppers, onions, white rice, saffron coloured rice, turmeric and ginger, mango, mustard, cloves, green coriander leaves, dill, cumin, black pepper… He opened his eyes. “I didn’t get to eat all that…” he said shaking his head, “But I imagined I could…one day”

  Sophie stepped in. “I remember butterflies,” she said softly. “I love butterflies.”

  Suddenly butterflies of all colours and designs fluttered around the gazebo. Sophie grabbed Ben’s hand and pulled him to his feet. She jumped down the little steps, towing Ben with her. “Look!” she cried and threw her arms up in the air. She twirled and whirled, dancing with the myriad butterflies. She seized Ben’s hands again and skipped in circles. Keira jumped to her feet and joined the circle grabbing Ben’s hand on one side and Sophie’s to the other.

  Freya leaned out of the pagoda, resting her chin on her hands on the low wall. She glanced at Jake. “You haven’t said much,” she said.

  He shook his head, but smiled as a butterfly landed on Freya’s nose. She went cross-eyed and laughed. The butterfly lifted away and fluttered over Jake’s head.

  Carlos swung his legs down the steps and jumped up to join the dancers and Abu leaned forward to watch. The butterflies didn’t stop, they fluttered and waltzed between the children, mesmerising Freya.

  Memories were powerful, and good ones even more so.

  Ben let go of the girls’ hands, but continued revolving round and round, until he got dizzy. He wasn’t really dizzy, it wasn’t possible to be, his mind was strong enough to counter the motion, but Ben was dizzy and he was smiling, and he recalled the luxurious physical response to spinning on the spot…in an empty room, with walls of torn wall-paper, and a floor clothed in threadbare carpet, but Ben was happy as he spun.

  Freya watched with tears in her eyes, as Sophie, Keira and Carlos slowed to a halt. They stood watching Ben, aware of the barely papered walls and floorboards between the scraps of carpet, and dirty, cracked ceiling. Aware of the mattress atop the dirty divan, and the thin blanket and the lone, rusted, matchbox car. Conscious of all these things, but also aware that Ben was happy, lost in his memory of a solitary moment when his painful childhood was eased.

  It was all Freya could do to stop herself tearing down the dusty road after Carlos.

  Carlos was ready, he’d always been ready, and he knew the moment his baby sister arrived.

  His shining face far surpassed serenity, and joy couldn’t even touch it. He moved with the ease of tumbleweed and the grace of a light wind, and made his way down the dustbowl of a highway. Not much adorned the road. A patch of yellow desert marigolds bobbed atop their silver green foliage and blue hyssop doggedly pushed through the wayside’s dry earth, but aside from a giant saguaro towering in the distance and a few obligatory prickly pears, Carlos hadn’t needed anything else.

  Freya bit her lip, willing Carlos to turn around. She already knew he’d changed, his countenance had already matured, and even without the backward glance, she could see he walked with the assuredness of a young man.

  The road was long, but Carlos remained steady and the sunset before him cast a lengthy shadow behind. It was just an illusion, Freya told herself, there were no shadows in heaven, and no suns either, but this was Carlos’ illusion, his perfect moment, and the sun blazed in the azure sky.

  Carlos became a dark figure against the sun, and the only thing to measure him against was the saguaro. The cactus stood, black before the sun, its upturned arms stretching towards the golden, cloudless sky.

  Suddenly, ahead of Carlos, the saguaro was joined by a group of silhouettes.

  A baby, a toddler, sat on the dusty floor, and Freya knew it was Inez who gaze
d down the road with adoration in her face. By her side was a small boy, just a little smaller than Carlos himself, who stretched out his arms to Carlos, and at the rear of the cluster, hands gripped tightly, waited a young couple.

  A ripple of delight passed through the group of watching children, and Carlos picked up his feet to sprint into those waiting open arms.

  The setting sun dipped a little lower, and a rose blush spread across the horizon, then the golden bronze sky brightened and pure light infused the atmosphere, and when it lessened, Carlos had vanished.

  Freya’s thoughts returned to her family.

  Jasmine stood at the top of the steps to the house. She clung tightly to the black post beside the steps and peered underneath the rail. She observed the huge man, mounting the steps, with trepidation. He was all in black, from top to bottom, and the big black, goldfish bowl covering his head was scary. She stared and clung even tighter. Then he reached both hands up and lifted the little window at the front of the goldfish bowl and showed his face.

  Jasmine let out a little breath, and put on her bravest, most bold, face, as the hairy man climbed closer.

  Uncle Pete pulled off a glove and stuck it under his arm then waved enthusiastically at the little girl staring at him with such solemnity. Her eyes filled with terror and tears and Uncle Pete caught on. He paused and raised his arms once more to twist and lift off his motorcycle helmet. As he did, the glove slipped from under his arm and flopped onto the ground. He bent to retrieve the glove and stuffed it into the helmet.

  When he waved and smiled again, Jasmine looked somewhat calmer, but still unsure.

  There was a loud squeal from behind the little girl and Uncle Pete’s grin widened. He held out his arms as Jasmine’s mum jumped down the steps and threw herself at her older brother. His leathers creaked and Rachel released him. “You could’ve shaved!” She grinned. “C’mon Jaz, say hello to Uncle Pete.”

  Jasmine remained on the steps, still clinging to the rail.

  Uncle Pete raised his eyebrows and lowered to his knee. He watched Jasmine with a smile that Freya recognised.

  Freya moved close to Jasmine and whispered in her ear. “Go on, he wants to give you a bear hug…”

  Jasmine chewed her bottom lip and regarded Uncle Pete with suspicion.

  The girls’ mum stood waiting. “She’s not usually this shy,” she told her brother.

  “Well, she hasn’t seen me since the funeral, and she doesn’t know me as well as Freya…” His words trailed off.

  Freya moved down the steps and stood between Jasmine and Uncle Pete. When it appeared Jasmine was never going to budge from the top step, Freya diverted all her attention to her beloved uncle. He patiently crouched, balancing on one knee, waiting for his niece, with his motorbike helmet beside him, but he was not aware of the niece who already approached him.

  Freya longed to throw herself into his big, strong arms. To be lifted high above his head and twirled…

  Suddenly a force stronger than the wind ripped through her and caught her up in its vortex, and she was impelled into Uncle Pete’s arms along with her little sister.

  Uncle Pete took Jasmine in his arms, gently, but firmly, and hugged her.

  Freya allowed herself to be enveloped in his hug for as long as her mind would allow the illusion. Then she gently withdrew, and sat with a lump in her throat, watching the bond that began to form between her uncle and sister.

  Freya accompanied the trio indoors, but like Jasmine, lost interest when the chat became adult orientated. Jasmine spent the afternoon traipsing up and downstairs, bringing down her cuddly toys, one by one, for Uncle Pete’s approval. The little girl was oblivious to the sadness that pervaded the room when she dropped Purple Ted into Pete’s lap.

  The ensuing silence was filled with small sobs from Rachel and toddler chatter from Jasmine.

  Uncle Pete held his sister and offered what comfort he could, whilst nodding and smiling at Jasmine and all her furry offerings.

  The melancholy didn’t last too long, which Freya knew would be a relief to Uncle Pete, and soon the chat moved to the kitchen so Rachel could prepare dinner.

  “Have you spoken to Anna?” asked Pete.

  Rachel nodded. “You?”

  “Emails,” he told her, “it’s easier.”

  “For men!” Rachel grinned as she sliced a carrot. “Here.” She offered a piece to Jasmine. “Calls to Canada are free at the weekend,” she said.

  “And when am I free at the weekend?” he asked. “And how on earth do I know what the time is over there? I have no idea of the time difference!”

  “What are your weekends filled with then?” she asked.

  Pete glanced at her then laughed. “Not much actually.”

  Rachel looked up at him and stopped chopping the carrot. “You know,” she began, “You’re welcome to come over here, anytime, you don’t have to sit alone in that big old house you know!”

  “Big old house!” he scoffed, “That little matchbox of mine?”

  She laughed and waved the knife. “Whatever, but you don’t have to, you’re not far away, come visit more.” She reached for another carrot. “You know Jasmine would like to see you.”

  “See you,” repeated Jasmine from the floor, her mouth full of carrot.

  Uncle Pete leaned back against the sink. “I didn‘t want to get in your way.”

  “In our way?” Rachel raised her eyes to him.

  “You know, after Freya.”

  Rachel sighed. “You’d not be in the way Pete, not ever.”

  “Then maybe I will,” he said grabbing a pinch of grated cheese from the bowl.

  “Hey!” she cried and slapped his hand, “Get off the dinner!” She put her knife down and moved to the fridge. “Oh no,” she groaned.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I forgot to get more milk.” She sighed. “I need cheese sauce for the fish pie, but I’ve only got enough milk for breakfast tomorrow…”

  Pete was already half way across the room. “Not a problem!” he called back, “That’s what the bike’s for, little emergencies, especially if I get an invite to dinner! See you in a mo.”

  Freya was quick to follow.

  Uncle Pete’s big, shiny motorbike was, and always had been, a magnet to Freya. Though, try as she had, she’d never been allowed to do more than sit on the back for a short ride up the street and back, and she doubted the speedometer’s needle had risen higher than five miles an hour.

  Right now there was nothing and no one to stop her!

  Pete grabbed his helmet and pulled it on, waved at Jasmine and donned his gloves. He ran down the steps two at a time and jumped onto his bike. Once astride, keys in ignition, he kicked back the stand and rolled the bike off the pavement. The bike roared into action.

  Freya whooped in delight as she leapt onto the bike. After a quick shoulder check, Pete was off, flipping down the visor as an afterthought.

  Freya was fluid; she made believe her hands were gripping Pete’s jacket buckles, and that the wind was coursing through her long hair, as the late autumn sun kissed her face.

  It was only a few streets away that Pete pulled up onto the pavement and stopped. He took off his helmet, pushed his gloves inside and placed it on the seat. He yanked out the keys, felt for his wallet and strode towards the Post Office Shop.

  The bell jangled as he pushed the door open wide, and his boots clapped on the old linoleum floor. His feet tapped all the way to the refrigerated shelves, but Pete wasn’t self-conscious. He loved the way he looked, decked in his biker finery. Nothing intimidated Pete, except perhaps, the disapproving look Mrs French gave him as he almost toppled a magazine rack.

  Pete reached out and picked up a litre bottle of milk, blue top of course, none of that green or red lid skinny stuff for Pete.

  He swung round, brandishing the milk, and almost knocked out poor Mrs Taylor as she stood intent on the cereal display. Pete grunted, as he shimmied left to avoid her wire basket. Mrs T
aylor squeaked something unintelligible and Pete had the grace to blush.

  With the milk, he clip-clopped across the shop floor, trying to avoid the Post Mistress’s gaze and plonked the bottle onto the counter by the till.

  Jen grinned at him, having watched his clumsy exhibition, and scanned the milk. “That’ll be eighty-six pence please,” she said.

  Pete fished out his wallet and plunged his fingers into the cash compartment, not finding what he wanted he began to tip the coins out onto the counter. Jen smiled patiently.

  “Oh hello Mr Hillman,” she said brightly.

  Pete glanced up and smiled at the old man who placed his basket on the floor behind him. He noticed Jen’s concerned expression as she spoke warmly to the man, and he used her inattentiveness to search his pockets.

  “How are you Mr Hillman,” she said.

  “Very well thank you, a bit of pain with the wet weather but today is glorious and that always helps an old man,” he said cheerily.

  “And Joan, not with you today?”

  “She’s good, stuck with her embroidery, nearly finished this one, so I can’t tear her away.”

  “Oh that’s lovely, never been good with a needle myself,” said Jen. “Can’t even sew a button.”

  Pete listened, wondering whether to interrupt. He chose not to, but wondered why he was prolonging the inevitable.

  “You should try it,” said Mr Hillman, “she says it’s very relaxing.”

  “Maybe I will.” Jen turned her attention back to the milk. “Eighty-six pence?”

  “Um, I thought one of these tens was a pound coin…” Pete reddened, “You don’t take credit cards do you?”

  Jen indicated a sign on the cash register.

  “If I spend over a fiver…” Pete sighed, “Oh well, it’ll be a box of chocs for Rachel and something for Jasmine then.”

  Mr Hillman put his hand on Pete’s shoulder. “You Rachel’s brother?” Pete nodded. “Don’t worry about the money, a few pence won’t kill me!” He winked at Jen, who gave him a strange look in return. “And get a chocolate bar for little Jasmine anyway, I’m paying.”