Beneath the Rainbow

by Lisa Shambrook

  “There is something else…” said Pete. He picked up his helmet and took up a Schwarzenegger pose. “I’ll be back,” he said with a grin then he disappeared out the back door.

  “Your brother is something else…” said Olivia with a suggestive raised eyebrow as he powered up his motorbike and sped off down the road.

  Rachel grinned, and she continued whipping cream as Olivia smothered the base with strawberry jam. She kept back half of the cream and sifted cocoa into it.

  “You got a piping bag?” asked Olivia.

  Rachel nodded. “I have, but I’ve never used it!”

  “Let’s get it out then, I’ll show you.” And she did.

  When Pete returned, Rachel had a smudge of cream on her nose and Olivia had piped little rosettes all the way up her arm. Pete chuckled when Olivia offered him her arm. “Taste,” she ordered. He reddened but obliged, much to Olivia’s delight. “Just one.” He held up his hand when she offered again. She shrugged and moved back to the cake.

  Pete took off his gloves and pulled a little packet out of his jacket. “Chocolate Stars, for our little star. She loved them. And I hope she’s watching up there, somewhere in the Milky Way!”

  Rachel’s eyes misted over again. “They were her favourites.”

  She opened the packet and placed them carefully around Olivia’s piped swirls. Then she stood back and Pete put his arm around her. “Are you going to tell me why?” asked her brother.

  “Why what?” came a gruff voice as Joe wandered through the back door into the floury kitchen. “Chocolate cake!” He gave his wife a kiss and stretched out his hand towards the cake, only to receive a sharp slap on the back of his hand from Olivia. He grinned then offered a hurt expression. “It’s not for me then?”

  Rachel disappeared and retrieved Freya’s list from behind her photograph. She placed it softly in her husband’s hand. “It’s for Freya, it’s number three.”

  His eyes glistened as he read the note in his daughter’s familiar prose. He nodded and glanced up at Rachel. He gently wiped the smudge of cream from his wife’s nose and kissed it lightly. “It’s perfect, heavenly even…”

  Freya sashayed across the dusty white kitchen floor and leaned against the counter. As her father kissed her mother once more, she grinned and dipped her finger into a creamy swirl. She left no impression, but she put her finger into her mouth and her memory let her taste buds explode with chocolaty glory.

  She lingered by the cake as her family and friends moved out of the room and traced imaginary shapes in the flour-dusted worktop.

  Much, much later, after the cake had been devoured and Rachel was cleaning up, she paused for just a moment, before wiping the washcloth over the surface, and considered the child-like heart left in the residual flour…

  Freya knew that Uncle Pete wished he had a heated seat and handlebars on his bike because he had just told his sister so. He’d pulled his neck tube up over his chin and mouth and put on his helmet, and Freya had followed. The chilly March draughts did not put her off riding pillion.

  And without even a sneaking suspicion of a passenger, Uncle Pete did not hold back once he was on the road.

  Freya allowed her hair to flow behind her and she moved with the motorbike, feeling the thrill in her head as she leaned side to side with the machine. She let Uncle Pete’s oblivion drive her, and today she was looking forward to a long ride.

  She was, therefore, disappointed when after a few streets the revs lowered and Pete pulled to a halt just past a woman walking down the street. He glanced back over his shoulder and Freya noted his pupils dilate in his friendly green eyes. He unbuckled his helmet, slipped it off and rested it between his legs on the front of the bike. He revved the bike then turned it off. He glanced casually back again and Freya grinned as her unflappable Uncle Pete actually blushed and licked his lips nervously.

  She twisted on the bike to face backwards and watched as the object of his affection walked towards them.

  Jen’s red hair glimmered in the bright sun and her hand moved self-consciously towards her face. She swept her hair back and then looked down at her feet, but even Freya could see the lift in her step. Jen’s hair fell across her cheek and again she moved it as she reached the bike.

  “Hey,” greeted Pete.

  Jen smiled. “Hi.” The wind blew wildly and Jen pulled her coat tighter around her. “Cold isn’t it?” she offered.

  Pete nodded and ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. “Where are you off to today then?” he asked.

  “Oh, just off to see a friend.”

  His eyebrows rose in interest. “Anyone I know?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t think so…Oh, yes, you do…remember old Thomas?”

  He frowned, not recognising the name.

  “Yes, you do…at the shop, the old man who loved your bike, way back, last autumn.”

  Pete thought hard, willing himself to remember.

  Jen continued. “When I first met you, you were buying milk…”

  Pete smiled, happy that she could recall the first time they had met, then he trawled back into his memory banks. “Yes! I remember, old Mr Thomas…”

  “Thomas Hillman, Mr Hillman.”

  “Yes, Thomas, he had an old Bonneville, an old Triumph!” Pete recollected.

  “That’s right, and he wanted a go on yours, on this!” said Jen, tapping the back of Pete’s bike.

  “He did? He did, yes, he did mention it. He’s getting on a bit though isn’t he?”

  “I didn’t say you should let him have a go!” Jen laughed.

  “So why are you going to see him?”

  “I’m not, I like to spend time with his wife, she’s teaching me how to sew.”

  Pete laughed, and Jen took a mock hurt stance. “Thanks very much!” she said, “I’ll have you know I can sew on a button now!”

  “Very good, you’ll make someone a good wife one day,” quipped Pete.

  Jen smiled, reddened and stared at her shoes. Pete sobered and stuttered. “I, I mean, you know…”

  Jen glanced up at him and met his eyes. “Yes, I will one day, when the right man comes along and sweeps me off my feet.” She laughed.

  There was an awkward silence for a moment, when Jen’s watch became very interesting, and Pete’s bike needed a quick polish then Jen spoke. “You could come with me you know, Thomas would love to see the bike again…”

  Pete looked up at her.

  “I mean, if you’re not on your way somewhere…” She shook her head noncommittally.

  “No, I’m not going anywhere, I could come,” he said.

  There was another moment of silence.

  “I’ve not got another helmet at the moment…” he began.

  “That’s okay, I’m not going on the bike!” She smiled.

  “Where do they live then?”

  Jen grinned. “I’ll meet you there,” she told him. “Start up the bike…”

  Pete did and glanced at her expectantly.

  “And your helmet, got to be safe you know.”

  He put the helmet back on and revved the engine. He stared at her through the raised visor.

  “It’s a pretty house, not far…” she began walking.

  Pete kicked up the stand and moved the bike forward.

  She walked briskly.

  “How far?” asked Pete, keeping up.

  “Not far, be careful driving.”

  “It’s riding,” he corrected her, “not driving…”

  “Okay, be careful, on that big bike…”

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going then?” he asked, braking as he moved ahead of her.

  Jen kept walking, catching up and moving on. “C’mon,” she said.

  Pete grinned inside his helmet and revved hard. He glanced over his shoulder and moved out, away from the kerb. He rode down the road a little further then pulled in again to wait. When she didn’t catch up he looked behind and saw her standing by a gate. She waved and opened the
gate with a big smile.

  Pete felt his heart flutter as he watched her and Freya knew he was wondering whether to follow or not. Freya slipped off the bike. Pete chuckled and waved back then shot away and off down the road. Freya laughed as Pete disappeared. The motorbike roared and faded just as the smile did on Jen’s face.

  Jen faltered, her hand on the gate and her eyes staring down the road. Freya stood beside her and could hear Jen’s heart as it beat faster than usual.

  “Hello dear,” came Mrs Hillman’s voice from the door. “Hello Jen.”

  Jen wiped the crestfallen look from her face and replaced it with a big smile. “Hi Joan.” Jen glanced back down the road one more time, before closing the gate and moving up the path.

  Freya stood at the gatepost, and from there she watched as Jen’s ears picked up the buzz of a motorbike as it returned up the street. She saw Jen’s shoulders rise and heard the little sigh that escaped her lips. Jen held herself and smiled at Joan, but didn’t turn as the bike purred on the kerb.

  “Hi Jen!” came Pete’s muffled voice, “Fancy seeing you here!”

  Jen’s smile grew and her heart felt like it would burst, and even Mrs Hillman could see the flush that spread across Jen’s cheeks.

  Jen composed herself and turned, catching Pete’s eye as he lifted his visor. “Hey Pete, what a coincidence!”

  Joan Hillman sensed the start of something special, and was unable to resist. “Hello, young man, do you know Jen? Would you like to come and join us? I’ve been baking this morning.”

  Freya looked beyond Mrs Hillman and saw old Thomas, alerted by the sound of a meaty motorbike, hurrying down the side passage of the house.

  “It’s the bike!” he grinned in delight. “Save us some cakes, biscuits, whatever you’ve been baking, but we’ll be out here a while!”

  Joan huffed and waved her hand, dismissing her husband as he reached the motorbike. “We won’t see them for hours dear,” she said and she ushered Jen indoors.

  Joan did not see the glance that Jen cast behind her, but Freya did, and Freya felt her heart leap in exactly the same way Jen’s did.

  The sweet smell of cupcakes pervaded the house, a sugary, fresh baked fragrance, tinged with citrus. Joan guided Jen into the kitchen. “The icing,” she told her, “takes the edge off the sweetness, one last thing…” Joan picked up a half-skinned lemon and continued grating it. “Looks good too,” she said as she sprinkled sunshine-yellow rind over the top of the lemon icing.

  “You should teach me to cook as well as to sew,” Jen said as she accepted a cake. “Oooh, heavenly…” she murmured.

  “Is there a reason you should be able to cook then?” probed Joan.

  “Oh…” Jen shook her head, wiping lemon off her lip. “I can cook, just can’t bake. I’m useless with cakes.”

  “Anytime you need a cake…any cake, big or small…” hinted Joan, “Just come to me.”

  Freya stood at the kitchen door, reminiscing. She remembered standing in that doorway a couple of years ago, having followed her nose down several streets. She recalled Mrs Hillman’s cakes and pastries and puddings from a variety of church functions. Her favourite had been an evening of puddings, most donated by Mrs Hillman, and Freya had moved from one to the next, trying a spoonful of each, and so on all evening. Chocolate fudge cake, raspberry cheesecake, lemon meringue, a divine strawberry Pavlova, cookies, honeycomb ice-cream…the list went on, and Freya could almost taste the light, crumbly, lemony sponge as it disappeared into Jen’s mouth.

  Freya blinked and moved to Uncle Pete’s motorbike.

  “It purred like the proverbial cat…” Mr Hillman mused, “No, more like a tiger, it had bite…”

  “This roars…like a lion,” said Pete.

  “Like a dragon!” Thomas laughed and patted the machine’s engine.

  “Did you have it long?”

  “Oh years and years, they were built to last in those days.” Thomas stared at the bike. “Lots of elbow grease and hard work, I spent many a day brandishing a chamois!”

  “When were you last on a bike?” asked Pete. Thomas’s eyes brightened and his smile broadened, and Pete felt slightly guilty at having asked the question.

  “Not for many years now, but,” He glanced at Pete. “I never give up hope.”

  Pete changed the subject. “What are you driving now?”

  Thomas smiled wistfully and kept his eyes trained on Pete for a moment longer than was comfortable. Then he indicated the kerbside behind the bike. “This old Toyota, I know it’s ancient, but I just don’t like the new cars out these days, just don’t trust them. It’s like me, it’s old, it’s going nowhere fast, but it’s reliable. I trust it.”

  Pete grinned.

  “It’s got a tape player, and a radio, none of that new-fangled stuff, mp-thingamabobs, and,” he added insistently, “I don’t need satellites to show me where to go either!”

  “Have you got far to go then?”

  Thomas looked pensive. “I must be a Thursday’s child…”

  Pete frowned, not comprehending Thomas’s reticence. A brisk wind kicked up and Thomas shivered. “Let’s go inside,” said Pete, placing his hand on Thomas’s arm. Up to a moment ago the old man had looked strong and robust, but within a single instant he had changed and now appeared both frail and fragile. Pete helped the old man down the path.

  They walked down the side passage and to the back door. Pete glanced at the immaculate garden, full of yellow daffodils and vibrant tulips, all swaying in the wind, and he could not associate the garden with this feeble man gripping his arm.

  The back door opened and Jen invited them in. As Thomas stepped over the threshold his whole persona changed much to Pete’s astonishment. Pete caught Jen’s eye and he understood her concern. Freya watched as the couple connected on a deeper level and they both eyed Thomas with a new outlook.

  Thomas moved across the kitchen floor with a spring in his step and he cheekily smacked his wife’s bottom, moving his other hand over her shoulder to steal a cupcake. She beat him to it and rapped his knuckles. He cried out and jumped back, and Joan turned to grin at him. He leaned forward and kissed her.

  “Now leave them alone until I tell you otherwise.” She scolded. “What am I going to do with you?”

  She turned back to her cakes.

  Thomas chuckled and turned back to Pete and Jen. He made light of his wife’s reprimand, but both Pete and Jen could see a physical pain that coursed through his body. They could see it every time he moved, every time he carefully positioned himself, and every time he checked himself.

  Freya could see deeper still. She could see every physical twinge, but she could also see every emotional twinge, every wrench in his heart and she could hear what no one else could, she could hear his heart breaking…

  Rachel stared at Freya’s list, unaware that her daughter studied it with her. It was number one that still troubled her, but when the bluebells began to open and nod at her, when fields became blue and woodlands were carpeted, she knew the time had come.

  Jasmine clutched a bunch of bluebells tightly in one fist and held Daddy’s hand with the other. Rachel walked slightly ahead.

  The sun had risen on the horizon and Jasmine yawned, it was still too early for her chatter. She just grasped her flowers and her daddy, and tried to keep up. As Rachel moved ahead, Joe picked up his daughter and carried her. He stopped as they reached the park gates.

  He hadn’t witnessed the tragedy and the park held no demons for him, but he watched his wife’s posture stiffen as she walked right up to the gates.

  There were no flowers, no cuddly toys, nothing adorning the gate in Freya’s memory.

  Rachel reached into her pocket and pulled out a ribbon, a lilac ribbon. Her eyes blurred as she threaded it through the metal bars and her fingers shook, almost uncontrollably, as she tried to tie it.

  Joe placed Jasmine on the grass inside the gate and moved to his wife’s side. He gently touched Rachel’s fingers
and cupped her hands in his then he reached out and tied the ribbon. Freya’s mother ran her fingers across the bow, letting the satin ribbon slip through her hand, and leaned heavily against her husband. Jasmine moved forward and held out her bluebells. Her mother took her hand and nodded, taking the flowers. She dropped them at the foot of the gate, beneath the ribbon, and stepped back.

  Bluebells lay across the pavement, and the ribbon rippled in the breeze just as it had in Freya’s ponytail.

  You have to come with me.” Jake’s expression was serious. “I can’t do this on my own.”

  Freya sighed, after seeing her mother’s distress, she knew another time had come, and this one was Jake’s. “Just close your eyes,” she said. His blue eyes pierced her then his eyelids fluttered closed. She took his hand. “Think us there.”

  The sun beat down upon them, and as they opened their eyes they were flooded with hot summer memories, evoking the smell of the sea, sunscreen, and strangely enough, coconuts.

  “Sorry,” said Jake, “Mum always used coconut oil sun lotion.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” chided Freya, “We’re here, where you’re meant to be, and your memories match!”

  They did, and soon chlorine overtook memories of the beach. The pool glistened and the sunshine shimmered on its gently rippling surface.

  Freya glanced at Jake. He was pale and wrung his hands nervously. His eyes, the same colour as the swimming pool, flit back and forth, searching, but not finding.

  “She’s not here,” he said with a trace of relief.

  “She’s always here,” Freya replied.

  He scanned the terrace, searched the garden beyond and checked all the plastic sun loungers.

  “She’s not here,” he insisted, “Unless she’s hiding on top of a parasol.”

  Freya threw him an annoyed glare and told him to wait and be patient. “She’s here…somewhere.”

  Jake wasn’t so sure. “Would she be in the house?”

  Freya shrugged.

  Jake took a step forward intending to move to his old house, but a ripple in the pool distracted him. He wandered closer, to the edge, standing on the very tiles that had once ended his life.