Breaking Light (15 page)

He had noticed her flattery and was grateful for it.

‘Such a beautiful old house,' she continued. ‘A pity more people around here can't see it …'

‘Yes,' he said, feeling somewhat ungenerous. ‘Yes, that is, I prefer to be on my own, if at all possible.'

Mrs Ludgate snorted and pressed her lips together.

‘Yes, I can understand that. Village life can be a bit intimidating at first,' said Ann Chandler, smilingly, and turned back to Mrs Sarobi. ‘I was wondering whether you would be interested in joining the Mortford WI? Most of us are members now …'

‘Oh, well, what a surprise …' She seemed genuinely taken aback. ‘I mean, I'm honoured, naturally, but are you
sure
you would like me in your group?'

‘Yes, of course. Why not?'

‘Well, it's just that I thought the WI was mainly for the homegrown …'

Ann Chandler laughed so that her rosy cheeks shuddered. ‘I'm sure that used to be the case, but we cannot afford to be so narrow-minded anymore. Where would that leave womankind, eh?'

‘Yeah, but just the same, perhaps we ought to have a vote about this?' Mrs Ludgate interrupted, staring intensely at Mrs Chandler.

‘Nonsense. We don't vote people into this community. And we are in dire need of a Skills Coordinator.'

But Mrs Ludgate was not entirely convinced. ‘No one,' she said and looked at the other three, each one in turn, ‘can say that I'm not an open-minded person.' She stretched her neck a little, like a turtle, and added, ‘At least, not when it comes to skills … and coordination. But, for somebody to take on such a major role right from the start, it seems, well, out of order … or at least not quite proper. Wouldn't you say, Mrs Chandler?' She turned, deliberately, to the plump woman standing to her left.

‘Well, my dear, let's not argue about it, shall we?' The chair of the WI smiled so that her doll's face took on a radiant, globe-like quality, like a very small moon.

‘There's no need to worry,' Mrs Sarobi said firmly. ‘I'm not one for groups, really, and I haven't got time at the moment to get too engaged … I'd be happy to come for some of the meetings, though.' She seemed calm enough as she spoke, but then something inside her flared. She turned to face Mrs Ludgate. ‘It's not a competition, you know – life. It's just about trying to be
decent
. To other people. And to oneself, for that matter.'

Mrs Ludgate sulked and Mrs Sarobi rearranged some courgettes in a basket.

Mrs Chandler, sensing some discomfort, turned back to Mr
Askew. ‘Anyway, I'm delighted you're putting some new life into Oakstone. It's been empty for a while. I remember it from when I was a child; it seemed a jolly place … until … There was a boy. They said there was something not quite right about him – in terms of the mind. I forget what he was called—' She stopped abruptly and looked down at her feet.

‘Bradley! I told you, didn't I?' Mrs Ludgate said triumphantly and gestured at Mr Askew. For a moment, they looked at each other, intently, each measuring the other.

‘Yes, that's right; Michael Bradley was his name. But he disappeared at some point – never came back. After that, Oakstone was quite dreary. There were rumours something terrible happened to him as a young boy. But it's all such a long time ago now …'

‘A scandal, no doubt,' Mrs Ludgate suggested, cocking her head.

‘Mr Askew, are you okay?' Mrs Sarobi asked, her eyes alive with concern. She reached out to touch him, but something, a look on his face, held her back.

‘Yes, yes,' he mumbled, ‘I'm quite all right. I need … just need to get out. Some fresh air.' As he pushed past the table and the astounded women, a few petals detached themselves from one of the white poppies and fell on to the floor.

To always remember those eyes.

After Michael, there were no friends, or, if there were, they were of no consequence, easily forgotten. In their place – or absence – Gabriel went for walks on the moor. He walked and walked. The rhythm of his steps pounded on his mind.

In between the walks, during the hours and days when he outwardly lived his own life, he sat at the back of the classroom and listened to the drone of Miss Simmons' voice as it listed Latin verbs along with the kings and queens of England and the rivers of Europe. Often enough, as the grey yarn of boredom was knitted into the afternoon, he wondered what the point of it all was. At least nobody bothered him anymore – he was left alone. After school, he would still go to Uncle Gerry's cottage. As the twilight waned and emptied itself into evening darkness and the blackbirds in the trees were silenced, one after another, like gas lamps going out along a street, the cottage filled with what was no longer there. While Uncle Gerry slept off the day's drink in his armchair by the fireplace, Gabriel would sometimes look up from his homework or his book with a sense that something had been left behind, like a ball on an abandoned playing field where the cries of the players are still ringing in the air. The emptiness in the cottage was full of Michael's breath and, if he listened closely, he could still hear Michael's voice and, sometimes, in his mind, he would answer.

‘Honest, Gabe, Biggles knew how to fly both Hurricanes
and
Spitfires! And he flew a lot faster than the Focke-Wulfs and Messerschmitts. Although they are actually quite good planes too …'

‘Yeah, I
know
that. But Algy was a really good pilot as well – they were best mates.'

‘Um, they were related, actually – cousins, I think.'

‘Or like brothers, even?'

‘Yeah, perhaps a bit like brothers.'

*

Shortly after the travelling fair visited Mortford, Michael had been taken out of the village school and sent to a private school
in Ramleigh, which was only a few miles away. Mr Bradley had bought Michael a bicycle so that he could cycle to school. Gabriel only knew this because Uncle Gerry had told him. He had not seen Michael since the day at the Giant's Table, but Uncle Gerry would sometimes meet Mr Bradley in the pub on a Saturday evening. Mr and Mrs Bradley must have known that
something
had happened, they must have noticed, but it was clear that Michael had not told his parents any details, and Gabriel was greatly relieved by this. Relieved and puzzled, because it must have shown on Michael's face, like he was sure it showed on his own. And the dreams that ripped opened the night – the dreams where he was the one pushed to the ground. Once again, he was the one eating grass. And Jim of Blackaton in iron armour. There were nights when he dared not fall asleep at all and the days that followed such nights were yellow and full of pain from a place somewhere behind his eyes. And yet, no one seemed to notice. But sometimes, when he was sober, Uncle Gerry would look at him strangely and ask why he would not play with Michael. He would shrug and mumble something about them not having so much in common anymore, but, while he spoke those words, shame would open its terrible, stinking jaws and breathe into his face so that he went all red and hot. At such times, Uncle Gerry looked very sad and shook his head.

One Sunday in early September, when Gabriel reached the cottage, Uncle Gerry was in the yard oiling the chain of a rusty old bike, which was standing on its saddle. He looked up when he heard Gabriel approaching.

‘Hello there, Gabe; look what I got for you.' He stood back, beaming.

‘For me?'

‘That's right – Mr Green gave it to me in exchange for some stuff I did for him up at Chidcombe Farm.'

Gabriel blinked and stared at the bike, which looked as if it had been dug out of a bog.

Uncle Gerry noticed the look on his face and frowned. ‘I know it's not new, like Michael's bike, but, believe me, once I've straightened out the back wheel and cleaned it up a bit, it will be as good as any bike around here.'

‘It's very nice, Uncle G. It's just … well, I don't know how to ride a bike.'

‘Easiest thing in the world, lad. Trust me, you'll learn it in less than an hour.'

‘But where would I go?' For some reason Gabriel felt that the bike was going to be a problem and he struggled to keep his sinking heart out of his voice. ‘I … I wouldn't know where to ride it …' His world had shrunk that much.

‘Now you sound like an old bag. You should go around with Michael, of course,' Uncle Gerry replied, with genuine surprise. ‘Gives you a new interest to share with him, doesn't it? Boys your age need a bit of adventure and freedom, eh?'

There was a thickening in his throat and he felt hot behind the eyes. ‘I can't go cycling with Michael,' he muttered and kicked his heel at the gravel in the yard.

‘Come on, now, Gabe; you should be ashamed of yourself. I have never known you to be ungrateful before …'

‘No, it's not that. I like the bike; it's just that—'

‘I know it's not a new bike, like Michael's, but I was going to give it a lick of paint. I found some tractor paint in Green's barn and he said I could have that, too.' Gabriel could tell that Uncle
Gerry was very upset – there were spits of saliva coming out of his mouth as he continued. ‘I was quite excited about this, you know, quite determined to make something good out of it, and now you have spoilt it … Metallic blue is what I was going to paint it. But you can do the bloody work yourself, if you think you can do it better.'

Gabriel could feel weeks of dammed pain and frustration welling up inside him. ‘You don't get it!' he screamed and kicked the bike so that it fell over. ‘You don't get anything. None of you do!'

‘Whoa! Hang on a minute. I think you'd better tell me what it is that I'm supposed to understand. I'm no mind reader, you know, and you never speak to me these days.'

Through his tears, Gabriel looked up at Uncle Gerry and, for a moment, he hoped that there was perhaps a way, after all, to tell his uncle about the badness, about the
wrong
that lived inside him like a black beetle in a tree stump. But as the moment stretched – thinner and thinner – he realised that it was not possible, that it would never be possible, and that Uncle Gerry would be better off going back inside the cottage to his bottle of Bells than staying here trying to understand Gabriel.

‘Go on, lad. Is there something you want to tell me about?'

‘No, there's nothing,' he muttered and managed a smile – which did the trick.

‘Ah, well, in that case I think I'll go inside … to read for a while,' Uncle Gerry said vaguely, and turned his back on the failed bike project.

As the boy watched his uncle's departing back, a ray of sunlight found its way through the canopy of trees and got entangled
in the spokes of the wonky back wheel, which was still spinning, although ever slower, on the upturned bike.

*

In the end, Gabriel painted the bike himself and, although the back wheel was never to be quite right, he learnt to ride the bike in Uncle Gerry's yard on a sunny Sunday morning. The early autumn dew made the grass in the nearby meadow look as fresh as spring and the brightness of that morning would forever be linked in Gabriel's mind with the exhilaration of freedom. Once he had got the hang of it, Gabriel wobbled towards the lane, where the very first of the fallen leaves stuck to the tyres and attached themselves to his sodden plimsolls. The bike was too large for him and he had to stand up in order to reach both pedals but, after a while, as he got more confident, he would sometimes sit on the saddle to go down gentle slopes, and let the pedals turn on their own.

For a while, the bicycle offered boundless delight and, as the boy looked upon the world anew from the elevated position of the saddle, the wind smattering through the red and green ribbons he had tied around the handlebars, it all seemed fine – as if he was part of life's adventure, after all; as if he actually deserved to be. Once or twice, like on the day when he first dared to let go of the handlebars, he cycled past Oakstone, slowing down in the place where the large trees opened on to the gravel drive. One afternoon when he made the detour past Oakstone after school, he thought he saw Mrs Bradley in an upstairs window, her soft shape further indulged by the smoky glass. But Michael was never to be seen. Gabriel could not stop thinking about Michael's bike. Uncle Gerry, who had seen it, had told him that it was a Raleigh in racing green with three
gears. Gabriel did not have any gears, but he had the streamers that Uncle Gerry had helped him make, and the blue metallic colour
was
unusual.

Deciding to make the streamers for Michael was certainly part of bringing to life that magnificent Raleigh, which he had never seen but which, in his mind, had taken on extraordinary properties. He set about the task with unusual fervour. He found the fabric in a pile of clothes at the back of his mother's wardrobe. There was an old skirt or slip of a soft crimson silk. It was the kind of thing Uncle Gerry's American singers would wear while singing in their soft, husky voices. He had never seen his mother wear the garment and reckoned that it would be okay if he cut the fabric horizontally along the hem – he did not need much, anyway. It proved more difficult to find the gold fabric needed for the project, but then he remembered the old sofa in Uncle Gerry's cottage. It was dirty now and piled with stuff which Uncle Gerry had once left there and never removed, but once, a few years ago, when Gabriel had looked under the sofa to retrieve some lost object, he had been struck by the colour that the fabric had preserved out of the light. Turning over one of the seat cushions, he was thrilled to see that the deep golden colour was still there. He hesitated for a while before cutting into the sofa cushion, but reasoned that Uncle Gerry never had seemed too bothered about it and the cut-out area would not show unless you turned the cushion over. Once Uncle Gerry had fallen asleep in his chair, Gabriel started shredding the two pieces of fabric. ‘Just like Captain Marvel's uniform,' he breathed, as he cut into the crimson and the gold. And, as he tied the ends of the bands together, he was again consoled by the simplicity of things.