A Cleansing of Souls (22 page)

Tom, like his father, did not receive many letters through the post that weren’t either offers of loans or seductive advances from catalogu
e companies. But, in this particular morning, the postman delivered something a little more welcoming - a Christmas card on Christmas Eve.

Upstairs in his bedroom, Tom opened the envelope and pulled out the card. On the front, there was a robin sitting on a twig, watching the snowfall. Inside, it read ‘To Tom, Happy Christmas, Love from Sandy.’ After reading it, he put it sharply down as if the words had not been written, but spoken. He then picked it up gently and looked at the front again. He eased his fingers across the red breast of the little robin and looked closely at the tiny flakes. He read the words over and over again. It was the word ‘love’ that lingered on. The very word made him ache for Sandy. Feelings and memories returned to him, washed over him. He could almost feel her beside him. He had been old then. He was so much younger now.

Tom hadn’t thought about Sandy for weeks. At first, he had been so tempted to call her but he realized he didn’t even know the number. He couldn’t write to her for he only knew where she lived by sight, not by address. The time was right. He had sorted out his mum and dad’s present that night. In fact, he had barely slept. It was Christmas Eve. And he would go and see her – give her a Christmas surprise.

Tom was aware that he was supposed to take the five-thirty train from the station in Big Town with his parents and then travel on north with them, so he left a note on his bed telling them he would meet them on the platform. He was just going to see an old friend and wish them a happy Christmas.

On his way to Big Town, he bought a card for Sandy, a cute card that was similar in style to the one she had sent him. He intended to write it on the train but was unable to find an empty seat.

It was whilst her son was on his way to Big Town once again, that Elaine came down the stairs and found a piece of paper on the kitchen table. She felt a sudden, terrifying grip upon her chest. Fear and anger bore down upon her. Eventually, with shaking hands, she picked the note up and read it. Her sigh of relief continued to fill the room even as her husband entered some moments later.

“Have you seen this, George?” she asked him, her voice a little unsteady.

“Yes. It was on his bed. He knows we’re leaving this evening. Don’t worry.”

“I did tell him the arrangements, didn’t I?”

“Yes. He’ll phone if he’s not sure,” said George, putting his gentle hands upon his wife.

“Yes. He will,” she said. She so wanted to ask her husband the question that dare not leave her lips. Pain held it in, but it slipped through all the same. “He will be there, won’t he?” she whispered meekly into her husband’s chest. He held her tighter now.

George kissed the top of her head and stroked her tousled hair with his hand. He looked out of the kitchen window but could see no reflection in the glass. He strained his eyes, but all he saw was the garden and the shed. It was just too light outside.

      So the mother and the father held onto one another as the winter sun looked down upon them in awe.

Tom walked to Sandy’s flat from the station under the weight of pendulous emotions. And somewhere at the back of his mind, he wondered whether the Beautiful Guitar had been found.

When he finally stood outside the flat, he took the card from his pocket and crouched down. Resting the card on his knee and taking a cracked pen from his jacket pocket, he wrote ‘To Sandy, have a great Christmas, Lots of Love, Tom.’ He slotted the card back into the envelope and licked it secure before taking the steps to the flat in threes and fours, bounding up them like a rabbit, just like poor Paul Regis would have done.

Hearing the knock on the door, Javed rose steadily to answer it, but Sandy was closer and got there before him. When she opened the door, she had to look again before being capable of displaying any reaction other than shock. Tom looked somehow so much cleaner, so much healthier than when she had known him. He had put on weight. Energy and excitement seemed to break from within him; sensations that at once thrilled and confounded her. “Tom,” she said.

“All right?” he replied, all ebullience. “Thanks for the card. I’ve got one for you here.”

Javed rustled the newspaper loudly and Sandy wavered for a moment.

“Come in, Tom,” she said at last. “You must be cold.”

“Cheers. I am a bit.”

And Tom breezed in as if he’d never been away.

He was surprised then to see somebody else in the flat but he did not let it bother him. His mood was high now. He was bigger, stronger than when last he was in this place.

Javed stood when Tom entered the room and the two men shook hands.

“Hello. I’m Javed.”

“Tom. Good to meet you.”

Sandy took Tom’s jacket and he sauntered over to the window to warm himself by the radiator beneath it.

“Do you want coffee, Tom?” asked Sandy.

“Cheers,” he said.

Once his hands had warmed a little, he moved to an armchair and sat down, Sandy had not been as excited to see him as he had hoped and he couldn’t really think of anything purposeful to say to Javed. The coffee took forever.

“See you got your stuff back!” he called out to the kitchen.

“Yes,” replied Sandy, bringing in the black coffee.

“You’ve got quite a few cards.”

“Yes, we have, haven’t we,” replied Sandy, sitting beside Javed on the settee.

Tom allowed the answer to pass him by and, putting his coffee down, leaned back over the chair to take a card off the shelf. It was from someone called Mark and it was addressed to Javed and Sandy. He put that one back and picked up another. That too was addressed to Javed and Sandy. He had assumed somehow that Javed was a friend or a cousin. And now the truth of the situation truly fell down upon him.

“Well,” said Sandy, “where’s my card?”

Her voice was sure now, confident. She felt safe next to Javed. She was not her mother yet.

Tom was in agony. He just wanted the word ‘love’ to fade out of the card, to disappear, never to emerge before the eyes of another. He gave the card to Sandy as if it were a written confession of undreamed of guilt, just leaned across and handed it to her. He could not look at her as she opened it. He didn’t want to look at Javed.

“Ah,” said Sandy, passing the card to Javed. “That’s nice. Thank you Tom. That’s really sweet of you.”

She leaned over the arm of the chair and kissed him on the cheek. And that kiss burned into his face setting his whole being on fire.

The air was thick and impenetrable, heavy and intense.

“I’d better be going in a minute,” mumbled Tom, finally.

“Oh,” said Sandy, “but you haven’t finished your coffee.”

“Sorry. It’s just that I don’t drink much of it anymore. I’ve kind of gone off it. Anyway, I’ve got to meet mum and dad in half an hour. We’re going to my Aunt’s for Christmas.”

Sandy looked at him, searching his eyes. But they were cast down.

“I’ll get your coat then,” she said.

When Sandy left the room, Javed spoke.

“Tom,” he said, “Sandy has told me about the summer and things that happened. She loves you a lot. She has told me. I want you to know that. But things happen and things change. I am with her now.” He paused. His voice was low and captivating and Tom could not help but listen to him. “Sandy’s father says you are a good man and that’s good enough for me.”

Tom looked up into Javed’s dark eyes and could feel no anger, no pain. “Sure, mate,” he said. “Cheers.”

Sandy returned with Tom’s jacket. She had put it on the radiator in her bedroom and it now felt warm upon his back.

So, he stood on the doorstep once more. He said goodbye to Sandy and he said goodbye to Javed.

“Have a good Christmas, Tom,” called Sandy as he neared the bottom of the steps. He turned and looked up but all he saw was the empty spiral staircase down which he had descended.

And what Tom would have given to have somebody holding his cold hands as he walked to the station, to have felt the warmth of another. This yearning all but broke him.

The station was crowded and awash with panic. Nobody stood still. Movement was mindless and frenetic. Christmas Eve.

Tom wandered towards the platform and sat upon the ground amidst the slush and the damp and the dirt. A sudden thought came to him and he rummaged through his jacket pockets to see if Sandy had left a secret note like they do in films. But no, nothing. He sat there for an hour before his mother and father finally found him. They lifted him gently to his feet and together, this precious, heroic family boarded the train.

The night was clear and cold and the moon lit up the factories of Northern Town. Tom’s Aunt Sheila and Uncle Malcolm met them all at the station with a hug and a handshake and everyone squeezed silently into Malcolm’s Cortina. Sheila
seemed to Tom even larger than he had remembered. He hadn’t seen her for three years and his abiding memory of her was that she appeared never to have any ankles, how her sturdy legs just became feet after a certain point. He saw now that she had a kind, friendly face and a bright, appealing countenance. He was seeing through new eyes now. Uncle Malcolm, well, he was the same as ever. Tom liked Uncle Malcolm.

On their arrival at the small, end-terraced house, Tom volunteered to sleep downstairs on the settee. Sheila said she wouldn’t hear of such a thing until George persuaded her that they were all very tired and that it would be easier on Tom’s back than it would be on any of theirs. Thus placated, Sheila led her sister and her brother-in-law upstairs and showed them to the second bedroom. Malcolm followed them up, some steps behind.

There was much talk upstairs but Tom was unable to hear it clearly. He was weary now, in so many ways, and had not the will to concentrate. Eventually, he gave up trying to listen, sat back on the settee, and looked around the room. He noticed there were no curtains on the main window. A wooden curtain rail was propped against the wall behind the Christmas tree, the curtains draped from it like a flag of surrender. He recalled how Uncle Malcolm always used to say ‘Why do today what she will do herself tomorrow?’ and he smiled. This was a safe and a comfortable place.

“So, Tom,” said Uncle Malcolm as they all gathered once more in the living room, their upstairs conspiratorial chat concluded, “how goes it?”

“Not bad,” replied Tom. “It’s all right.”

“Still a Town supporter like your dad?”

“I’ve kind of not got into it too much this season, to tell you the truth. Funnily enough, I’m really looking forward to next season. To get back into it all again."

“Next season? When they start doing a bit better you mean?” chuckled Malcolm.

“Something like that,” replied Tom, looking down now. Talking was sometimes a great strain for him.

“Don’t get at the boy, Malcolm,” said Sheila, cutting off her husband mid-chuckle. “He’s probably tired, aren’t you love?”

“I’m okay,” said Tom quietly, trying to smile. Malcolm winked at him.

“Just let us know when you’re ready to get your head down and we’ll all disappear and leave you to sleep," continued Sheila. "I’ll get your blankets in a minute. Now, you’re sure you don’t mind sleeping down here, love?”

“It’s fine. Honest.”

There was a silence in the room as each person gazed upon the other unnoticed. A family together, all good people.

“I think I’ll go to bed now, Sheila,” said Elaine after some moments. “I don’t mean to be unsociable, it’s just that tomorrow will be a long day.”

“Me too,” said George. “Big day tomorrow.”

“Up you go then, you two. I’ll bring you up a hot water bottle in a minute. It can get quite cold in that bedroom sometimes. The thermostat’s not working properly is it Malcolm?” She looked at her husband with reproach though he sailed through it expertly on the HMS Bravado.

“He’s useless,” she said to Elaine, shooting another glance towards her errant husband. “Bloody useless. You’re lucky. You’ve got a good one there. I’ve always said that.”

They both looked over at George who was by the Christmas tree inspecting the forlorn curtain rail.

“Yes,” replied Elaine. “He’s great.” And in that moment, she realised she had fallen in love with her husband all over again.

George and Elaine soon went upstairs, followed shortly afterwards by Sheila, complete with hot water bottle. Tom felt she would probably tuck everyone in too, until they were all tight and snug in their beds.

“So, Tom, my lad. It looks like it’s just you and me now,” said Malcolm. “Fancy a drink?”

But before Tom could answer, a stern voice called from the top of the stairs. “And don’t have any ideas about getting the boy drunk, Malcolm. I want you up here in five minutes so he can get some sleep.”

Malcolm shrugged and, leaning over to Tom as he stood, whispered, “Don’t worry, lad. There’s always tomorrow,” before going up to his bed.

As Tom sat there alone in this house, so far from his own life, his mind began to nag at him, to throw images before his eyes. During his struggle to comprehend them, Sheila came down with his blankets, placing them neatly on the floor by his feet.

“Are you okay now, love?” she asked in a voice quavering with compassion. Tom had to turn to check that it was indeed his Aunt. He didn’t know what she had been told about the events of the summer, just that his mum had stayed with her for a while. So he just nodded and yawned.

Sheila looked at her young nephew. She had wanted to hold him for years, to tell him that he was safe and loved and that his family would always be there for him. But he would learn that in time, she thought. Maybe tomorrow.

“Your blankets are here, love. We’ll all see you in the morning.”

But Tom was already asleep. So she covered him softly with the blankets, making him as comfortable as she could, comfortable and warm for the night. She sat there for an hour just looking at him, fearing for him, before turning out the light and lumbering solidly up the stairs to her room where her husband was snoring blissfully.

Tom awoke several times that night. The settee was rigid and unyielding and the heavy blankets irritated his skin. He had grown used to the luxury of his quilt. Oh it is strange how
the pauper can slip so swiftly into the fallen robes of the king. Eventually, he discarded the blankets and just curled himself up for warmth. In a way, he felt he needed to be cold, to keep struggling.

He soon lapsed into dreams full of wild images, distorted and vague. He saw the faces of children from his infant school and outlines of teachers long forgotten. All his childhood was thrown together in his sleep, presented before him like some incongruous montage of fears and hopes. And when he awoke, startled, there was just darkness and the sound of his own breathing. Sleep would then take him once more only for different colours to be daubed upon the canvass of his night.

Tom became warm and sweaty even though the room itself was cold and his blankets were on the floor. At one point, he staggered aimlessly into the kitchen for a glass of water, the noise he made causing his Aunt to stir upstairs.

“Tom?” she called in a whispered shout, “are you okay, love?”

Tom’s mouth was dry and sore as he moved to the bottom of the stairs. “I’m just getting a drink,” he croaked.

His Aunt drifted back to sleep and Tom returned to the settee and pressed the palms of his hands, damp from the glass, against his eyes. He pressed harder and harder just to feel some tangible pain, not this furtive stinging that so constantly assailed him.

Outside, the snow began to fall again. Snow at Christmas. When he was younger, Tom and Little Norman would long for snow. Little Norman was always so sure it would snow. He would kneel on his bed and rest his chubby chin upon the windowsill. For hours he would stay there until, finally, his mother would cover him in his soft, warm duvet. And then Tom would rush into his baby brother’s room as the morning eased out of the shadows of the night and wake him saying ‘Norm, it’s snowed! Look! Look!’ And he would lift Little Norman from the bed and hug him saying ‘Happy Christmas, mate.’ Little Norman would gaze over the shoulder of his big brother, who was so great by the way, just gaze at the snow-covered garden and the snow covered rooftops, smiling proudly, wide eyes glistening as if each tiny snowflake had fallen straight from his dreams.

Tom thought of Little Norman as he sat there with his hands pressed against his eyes.

And it was only Little Norman that kept him from crying.

The pale morning sun glowed against the fresh snow and lit the windows like lanterns. It was Christmas Day at last. Tom was the last to wake and he opened his weary eyes under the gaze of the people that loved him.

“Who’s for something to eat?” asked Sheila. “Sausages, eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms, fried tomatoes and bread and butter for anyone who wants it.”

Tom rubbed his eyes and nodded, feeling a
sense of relief. The long night was over and he felt something had changed somewhere deep down within him.

Elaine wasn’t hungry and Malcolm was restricted with regard to fatty foods, so Tom, George and Sheila had their fill of the breakfast. Whilst they were wiping up the beans and egg with the thick, buttered bread, Malcolm made a start on his Christmas bottle of whisky.

The tree in the corner was weighed down with decorations and chocolates. Tom sat back down on the settee, very full, and looked drowsily at the shimmering tinsel, losing himself at times in the gleaming plastic balls. The breakfast had just enhanced his feeling of weariness, though it had also brought with it a welcome satisfaction. He wanted to sit there all day without moving and just watch his family move and talk around him. But it was Christmas Day and he supposed he should make an effort. It wasn’t that he was particularly miserable. He just felt a little weak.

“Tom, lad,” called Malcolm from his ever growing armchair and his ever decreasing bottle of whisky. “Fancy a drop?”

“Not yet, thanks,” replied Tom. “I will do later, though,” he added, hoping his Aunt Sheila would save him if it came to it. He really didn’t fancy a drink.

Sheila finished washing up and they all sat together in the lounge. It was eleven thirty in the morning.

“Well, first of all,” announced Sheila, “I’d like to wish everyone a happy Christmas.” There was general agreement and a nodding of heads before she continued. “And I would like to say how lovely it is to spend Christmas with family. We haven’t done that nearly enough over the past few years. I think we should all agree to see more of each other.” Again, everyone assented to this point of view. You didn’t argue with Sheila. She always managed to say what everyone else was feeling anyway.

“Come on Sheila,” interjected her husband. “It’s Christmas. Let’s get to the presents.”

Sheila gave her husband a look so beautifully expressive that a page would not do justice to describing it. And he genuinely thought for a moment that this could actually be his last Christmas. Then the look transformed into a loving smile almost instantly. “Okay, then,” she said, “shall I give the presents out?”

There was no audible reply, just a collective thought that passed between Tom and George that she was not unduly suited to the role of present distributor.

The presents beneath the tree were all but obscured by the branches and the decorations. To Tom, momentarily, they seemed pitiful. He was still young, after all. He knew that some children always awoke on Christmas Days where the whole floor was covered with boxes and wrapping paper and so many presents that they wouldn’t be able to move. And he knew there were others, so many others.

“George,” said Sheila, “this is from Malcolm and I.”

George took the present with bashful unease and unwrapped it, all eyes upon him.

“Sheila chose it,” chirped Malcolm from his chair, trying to wink as he said it but having great difficulty in doing so. Simultaneous movement was becoming something of a chore for him now.

The present was a packet of hacksaw blades and a hammer. George thanked Malcolm and Sheila and the latter nodded her acceptance of his honest gratitude.

And so it went on.

Elaine received an embroidery kit that she liked immensely. Tom saw her face soften and ignite as she opened it. He saw the beauty in her. He saw the little girl in her.

Uncle Malcolm received a handkerchief and a diary from his wife who pointedly instructed him to use them both as she was, frankly, beginning to lose patience with him. He smirked at her knowingly before swapping his presents for his glass of whisky.