Remember Me (14 page)

~ ~ ~

At Chapelfield, the garden grows wild. Brambles curving over the path, the wall shaking itself down at the far corner, brick by brick, dropping onto the railway sidings below.
With his hands in his lap, my grandfather sits under the elder tree. In the house, he sits under the stairs. Silence all around him, soft as a newborn. He thinks the quiet is outside, in the world.
He thinks it has been growing steadily, creeping up, after all that noise. He doesn’t understand, as people do who realize they are going deaf, that the world is pulling away from him. He
doesn’t think, after the screams and screaming bombs, that it’s a bad thing, this silence. When he speaks, which he rarely does these days, he can still hear his own voice in his head.
So he knows it’s not that. It’s not deafness, only quiet after bedlam, like the clear air after a storm. He thinks of me, and of Mr Stadnik, hoping we stay safe, hoping we are
happy.

~

In another part of the city, a blue suit hangs in the window of the pawn shop. It jostles for space with other suits in more tasteful hues. They remain unclaimed.

~ ~ ~

We eat what there is, where we find it. Hunger is our companion. Scouring the earth for vegetables, we walk minute steps along the side of the verge where the beets and potatoes
were bagged. Nearly all are gone; the few that are left behind are wormy and black. We eat standing up, wherever we happen to stop. Crumbs on the piano lid, the floor, the seat of the couch. Later
when she finds them, Aunty Ena picks them off and puts them in her mouth, absently, without thought to what it is she might be chewing on. She won’t sit at the kitchen table. I think she sees
Mr Stadnik there, his napkin, big as a tablecloth, tucked neatly at his throat, his dainty fingers marking the air as he describes the progress of his day. She wears the memory of him in her face.
At times during the day, I will find her lying on the mattress, her head beneath the piano. The world gives her a headache, she says, when she’s tired of me asking. But it’s a quiet
world for us. It makes me long for Billy’s hammering bark and the grating chain. Mr Stadnik goes very small in my mind, even smaller than real life: tiny, far away, vanishing over the edge of
the horizon, until he is doll-sized and Billy at his heel is no bigger than a flea. He’s barking, but I can’t hear him.

We see no one except each other; we leave off speaking, not even to remark on the weather. Aunty Ena’s words are few and carefully chosen:

God watches over us, she says, as if watching alone can make a difference to how hungry I am. Occasionally, when she senses that I’ve been out further than the bottom of the track,
she’ll look me in the eye.

God sees everything.

Inside, we see nothing. But from the back door, I can make out people in the distance, horses in the field, and the scarecrow, hanging his head. But no one comes near, not even
the vicar. After that one visit, he doesn’t trouble us again. I stand at the back door, I walk the lane, circle the yard in a perfect round – anywhere, just to be out of the house. I
see sky and land, sky and land, until the sky becomes the land and I can no longer tell where one begins and the other ends. I see birds in that first black summer, and then not a single one, as if
they too had abandoned us.

God sees everything, but he mustn’t see me with Joseph Dodd. I’m down at the far end of the track, where I shouldn’t be, looking for berries. It’s the
second summer without Mr Stadnik and Billy. They’re not in my dreams any more. I’ve been here forever, with my aunt, with not a single other person: no one to talk to, no one to tell me
that I’ve grown as tall as my mother was, or that my red hair is Telltale. No one to call me by name.

He saunters up the dusty path, hidden most of the way by the cow parsley, grown wild with the sunshine. He could have dropped from the sky. He is as tall as a tree. He’s got no shoes on,
his hair’s all sticking out. I don’t know what Aunty Ena will think if she sees him standing in the lane. He’s got a big wide mouth. Eyes glittering like flint. He greets me.

’Bor.

I’m wearing one of Aunty Ena’s summer dresses. It’s too short at the knee, or the fabric is too thin: whatever it is, the dress feels wrong on me now, as if it
isn’t there at all. And I’ve got no hat; my hair’s stuck to my head with sweat and grease. I don’t recall the last time it was washed.

Found any? he says, eyeing the scratches on my hands. I shake my head at him. He smiles, scuffing the dirt with his naked toe.

Want to find any?

I shake my head again, and at this first meeting, he just moves away, slow, like a cart horse, kicking up the dust on the road behind him.

The second time he comes, he stands and looks. Saying nothing, standing there, one hand on his hip, his shoulders shiny and conker-brown against the white of his vest. Making the day even hotter
than it is; unbearably hot, so I have to take off my shawl to stop the heat of his look on me. He smiles as I do it. Next time, I tell myself, I’ll do it again. And I’ll wash my
hair.

But next time, he’s holding something. With the sun right above us, there’s nowhere to hide. Aunty Ena is lying down in the darkness, her head under the piano, having a headache. God
is in his heaven. The giant boy has his fist held in front of him, heavy as a maul.

Can I come down? he says, nodding at the house, Got something for you.

No, you can’t.

My voice sounds faint in my ears. I’m not used to the sound. It can’t be loud enough, anyway, because he doesn’t stop. He walks steadily towards me, jumping
the ditch, traipsing over the stones beneath his feet as if they’re chaff. He’s so near, I could tilt his chin, see Alice Dodd’s birthmark underneath it. Closer still, and
he’s way tall, so I can see it anyway: a tea-stained clover.

My aunt doesn’t like visitors, I say, turning away.

That’s all right, he says, following close, I arn’t visiting her. I’m visiting you, Beauty. He goes ahead of me, sidelong around the corner of the barn.

It’s locked, I say.

I know that.

Round the back, over the stile into the church plantation, and down through the thicket where I never go. The scarecrow can’t see us, Aunty Ena can’t see us; no one
can. This is the beginning. I follow him. He sits down on a stretch of moss, leans back, grins. I take off my shawl. He smiles again, opening his fist. It’s full of berries. This is the
beginning of everything.

Have one, he says.

They are small and warm and sweet.

God can’t see us here.

~ ~ ~

She’s counting the years. Ena lying down, so close to the pedals that if she turns her head she can see herself reflected. She longed to press them when she first learned
to play. Too small to reach, her feet dangling in mid-air, and the piano teacher saying in his soft brown voice, No need just now, learn the span now, his hand making a starfish on the keys. What
was his name? Something foreign, something like Stadnik. No, she’s getting confused. Small things betray her. She thought Henry was a romantic hero, because he spoke like a prince. Not a
risk, not a threat. She couldn’t protect him, and would not be allowed to keep him. The villagers had made it clear enough: any foreigner was unwelcome. She thought they could brave it out.
But the vicar’s words should have warned her.

You’re putting everyone in danger to sate your lust, he said, enjoying his moment. Think of the poor child, he said, spinning her round and staring at her hair. The girl’s hair.
Extraordinary, platinum hair, like a starlet. And that wasn’t real either, tarnishing like cheap metal, growing out red as rust.

~ ~ ~

What is it?

Joseph puts his finger to his lips,

Shhh, he goes.

He creeps up to the edge of the field, ducking low to avoid being seen. Puts his hand round the far side of the post, pulling at the thing, twisting it, until he’s free
again and running back breathless.

There you go, Beauty, he says, throwing the bundle of feathers at my feet.

What is it?

He cocks his head to one side,

Don’t you know a bird when you see one? That’s a crow. They nail ’em there, he says, pointing to the fence, Keep the pests off.

The smell was rotten: a green, retching stink.

What do I want that for? I say, through my fingers.

He frowns at me, turning the bird with his toe.

We’re going to bury him, he says, lifting the bent wing in a pinch, That’s no place for it. Birds ought to be flying, not nailed on a bit of wood. Not nailed up for everyone to
see.

Where? I say, looking at the dry, cracked earth around us.

Over, he says, pointing to the high grass in the distance, It’s easy, everything sink in that. Sink in a minute. Cows, horses, wagons.

Aeroplanes, I say, watching his face.

Birds, he says, Men.

~

We’re fast, but the flies are faster. They thicken the air with the noise of heat, coming from nowhere to find the bird. Joseph runs to free himself from them; up ahead of
me, the bird swings in his fist and the wings flap open like a wound. I can’t keep up. Over, Joseph had said, but it’s straight as an arrow, through the fields, into the reeds and tall
grass bordering the edge of Middle Drain. Up close, the windmill stands massive on the skyline. Land turns to water under my feet, softening between my toes, sucking me in. I look up to find
Joseph, and he’s gone. He
can’t
be gone; there’s nowhere to hide under this sky. Standing still, all I can hear is the blood rushing in my head. Everything can sink in the
fen, he said, sink in a minute. I call his name. I call his name and I call God’s name and I call until I’m hoarse; I’m calling, I’m roaring. He’s all I have in the
world. I make a wish, I promise, cross my heart and hope to die. I’m roaring in the stillness, turning around, listening for the haze of flies, anything, any sound: and then he comes out of
the earth, hand over hand, sticky as the mud that nearly took him.

Careful, he says, backing me away. Close up, his face is ash, his skin shivering and dotted with black specks. The bird is gone.

Nearly buried us both, he says, trying to make a joke of it.

Don’t, I say, Don’t ever leave me again.

I make him promise that he won’t.

~

Joseph knows all the birds; some by name and some by call. He says Father Peter gave him a book when he was in hospital, full of pictures. I ask him what he was there for.

Broke a wing, he says, Couldn’t fly for a bit.

Mainly, he says, he learns by watching: from the tower, stalking the fen like a hunter, lying near the reed-beds, listening. I tell him about me, how I was called one thing,
then another, and another.

A bird can have lots of names too, and with a knowing smile, And more than one colour. Doesn’t alter what they are, doesn’t stop ’em flying. They don’t care what other
people call ’em.

He shows me a feather, golden brown. When I ask him where it’s from, he gives a slow cry, animal sounding, nearly pain.

That’s from a boomer, he says, turning the feather in the sunlight, A bittern, too, it’s called. They say the sound’s bad luck.

I’ve never heard it, I say, superstitious now.

Maybe you won’t, he says, They’re like us, they keep away from the world – trailing the feather along my arm.

Getting hot now, he says, leaning back to stare up through the trees, Take that shawl off, won’t you?

Joseph’s stories are about priests and bells and babies at the font. He talks all the time, of towers and earthquakes, hiding and secrets. Undoing the laces on my
dress.

Look, he says, catching a strand of my hair and holding it up to the light, Them above us would want it for the angels. I can tell him anything; talking comes easy now. I confess to Mr
Stadnik’s dye, now long grown out, about how my hair is Telltale. Joseph gives me a dark look.

My mother always say there’s no mistaking a Dodd, he scratches at the birthmark under his chin, We got our stamp, and you, Beauty – tangling my hair between his fingers – You
got yours.

The birthmark under his chin is perfectly smooth. Between the talking and the stories, is bliss.

We must have a plan, he says, laying me down into the moss; and we do plan, afterwards, telling each other that we’ll run away. We’ll run away, we’ll do it tomorrow, to the end
of the world.

Through the summer, and on through the year; into green, then russet, the brown stings of bracken, until the sky is ice blue through the naked trees above our heads. We lie down on the earth,
and when it’s too cold, we lie on sacking. The year turns itself over, another summer comes. We promise each other, every day, we’ll run away tomorrow.

Sometimes talking’s like being behind glass, the words can be hard to fathom. I couldn’t tell with Carol whether I was near or far in my talking. I took out my
plastic bag with the face on it, and showed her the angel hair inside it. She pulled a face.

Ur. It looks very . . . musty, she said.

She didn’t want to touch it, I could tell. I put the bag away again. It wasn’t helping.

Why not make a list, she said, You know, of all the things you’ve lost.

Got stolen, I said, not liking her now.

All the things you’ve got stolen, she said, And then you could show it to the police.

She went away to get a piece of paper and a pen. I sat in the cubicle; I was thinking about the bag in my pocket when I heard them laughing, her and the other girl called Debs,
and in the gap in the curtain Debs was waving her hand in front of her and bending double. Her face was still very pink.

A woman arrived with a heap of dresses to try on. Carol showed her into the other changing room and pulled the curtain on her. I could feel the heat of the woman as she squeezed herself into the
clothes, zipping and breathing, her body smell leaking through the gaps, over the partition, filling my air. I’m glad I didn’t smell like that.

When Carol came back, she didn’t have any paper in her hand, or a pen; she had a hat. Two hats.