Clive, Thomas and Ieuan arrived on the back of a lorry during
breakfast on Blodwyn’s 21
st
birthday, which sent the
young goddess into a flurry of delight. The RAF Flight Sergeant
swelled with pride as he hugged his daughter before Mam attacked
him with an embrace that covered his uniform in flour and bacon
grease. The boys managed to avoid the same scenario by quickly
sitting down with the rest of us at the breakfast table. Thomas
slipped a brown paper packet out of his top pocket and handed it to
Blod, who ripped it open and screamed the place down in
delight.
“
Chocolate!” she cried like a child. “Oh I haven’t had
chocolate in forever! Thanks Tom!”
“
We brought some for everyone,” Ieuan whispered to me with a
glimmer in his eye, “But don’t tell her yet or she’ll
sulk.”
I just nodded
and mouthed a quiet ‘thank you’. Mam set about making a whole new
round of breakfast out of the meagre rations we had left to support
her boys. As Blod went off into excited chatter with Thomas about
all her plans for her birthday weekend, Clive sat himself down
between Leighton and I at the opposite end of the table. He ruffled
Leigh’s hair with a big, warm smile.
“
And how are you, young man?” he asked in a deep
voice.
“
The school here’s not as boring as the one in London,”
Leighton explained with a grin.
“
Is that so?” Clive asked.
My brother
nodded, shuffling right to the edge of his seat to be close to
Clive. I realised with a pang that perhaps he was missing Dad, but
then we’d both been missing Dad since before the war had even
begun. Clive clapped a warm arm around Leigh as he turned to
me.
“
And you Kit? Mam says that doctor’s doing wonders for you,
isn’t he?”
“
Well,” I began uncertainly, “He’s trying to get me to walk,
actually.”
“
Isn’t that wonderful?” Clive said to Leighton, who nodded
happily under his arm. The warm Welshman creased his dark eyes with
the width of his smile. “I bet you’ll be off like a shot by the
time I see you next!”
“
Do you know when it’ll be?” Leighton asked.
Clive shook
his head. “No, we’re all being sent down London way from next week,
training for some big manoeuver.” He tapped his free palm on the
knee of his navy uniform excitedly. “Us Welsh might finally get to
go head on with Jerry at last!”
“
Here’s hoping,” Ieuan added as he began the familiar process
of shovelling a truckload of food into his mouth.
***
Blod’s actual
birthday was the Friday, so after breakfast Leighton had been
carted off to school with a miserable sulk on his face and Blod was
released from her chores to go out and about with her father and
brothers. There was to be a much bigger celebration for her on the
Saturday afternoon when Bampi Idrys would also be able to come,
which meant I had to pick up as much of Blod’s slack as I could to
help Mam get ready for it. Which meant no time alone, no Oslo and
no Henri. I went to bed that night doubly miserable, not just
because I had spent the day peeling vegetables and mixing batter
until my arms burned for the sake of the most ungrateful young
woman on the planet, but also because I was worried that Henri
might think I wasn’t coming back.
I woke
unusually early on Saturday morning and lay looking at the ceiling,
waiting for either Mam or Leighton to help me up as usual. A glance
at the clock told me they were nearly half an hour away from either
of them expecting me to wake. For a brief moment I smiled as I
considered finding Henri, but it wasn’t our arrangement for me to
catch him in his pyjamas, however much I’d have liked to know
whether Norwegian boys wore striped shirts to bed or not. Instead I
raised one arm stiffly to try and wipe my eyes, only to realise I
had to combat the wooden splint forcing my elbow straight.
That was the
moment I decided to change my morning ritual for good. I clonked
one splinted arm over my waist to reach the other, fumbling blindly
until I could unfasten the fabric strap, then released my other arm
from the same diabolical contraption. The splints fell with a dull
thud to the carpeted floor of my makeshift bedroom. So far, so
good, but the harder part was coming next. Digging the heels of my
hands down under my back, I pushed with everything I had to sit up.
I bit my lip with the strain of it. Bickerstaff was right, my arms
weren’t strong enough. But the thought of him and his awful smug
face spurred something new in me and I withstood the pressure a
little longer, giving one final push.
I was up. I
scrabbled to grab at my legs in order to stay sitting up, shuffling
until I had a little balance. It was strange to be sitting up in
bed alone, but I didn’t have time to dwell on such a tiny victory.
Instead I went straight for the larger, heavier splints flattening
my knees out, pulling off the straps that always left little red
lines across my legs where they were tight against them. After
several months of the hellish treatment my skin had become hardened
against the pressure, so it only glowed pink for a short time now
in the mornings, gone were the ugly purple bruises of the early
days. With some agonising shuffles I got away from the splints and
left them lying on the bed, swinging my legs around until they hung
off the edge.
The bed was
quite a low one and my toes grazed against the thin carpet of the
converted sitting room. I pushed my feet out to trace a little line
along a frayed part of the material with my toe, considering my
next move. My wheelchair was parked below the window some three
feet away with just clear space between me and it; there was
nothing to take hold of or anything to help me get there, and I
didn’t fancy crawling on my belly to perhaps only get halfway and
be found flailing like a fish by Mam in twenty minutes’ time. I
slumped, a little defeated, taking a sip of the water she always
left at my bedside.
There was a
dark, wooden wainscoting running the whole length of the room that
came up to nearly the height of my chest and jutted out three or
four inches like a little mantelpiece. On the far side of the room,
above the fireplace, Mam had propped a few family photographs up on
it which she always made Blod come and dust after chapel on
Sundays, but on my side it was clear all the way to the wash basin
in the corner. I put down my water and stretched to grip it,
testing how good a purchase my fingers could get on it. It had a
little lip that curled up at the end which seemed very steady to
grip. I put both hands on it to test it a little more.
Bickerstaff
had wanted me to find something to lean on to practise standing,
had he not? I put my feet into the best position I could get and
pulled hard on the wainscoting. For a moment I panicked in case it
came away in my hand, but the old house was stronger than I was and
it took my weight until I was up. I leaned hard on the wall,
shuffling my feet like a penguin until they were straight enough to
take more bulk. My knees quivered a bit, but they held. This was as
far as I’d ever gotten without falling flat on my face and I was
actually a bit sad that no-one was in here to see it. I stood there
in my nightie leaning on the wall for a few more moments, pondering
if the stiffness of my legs in the morning was actually helping me
to stay on my feet. Whatever the contributing factor, I was
grateful.
The next step
was quite literally waiting to be taken. It wasn’t that far to the
corner really, perhaps about three or four paces for a normal
person, surely it wouldn’t be too much to bear if I leant on the
wall as much as possible? I took a very deep breath and pushed one
bare foot sideways a few inches on the thin carpet. I crossed one
hand over the other, then brought the remaining hand and foot up to
meet them. The ache was considerable, especially in my arms, but
the fluttering elation that settled on my chest outweighed it
plenty. I had moved on my own, if you didn’t count wall, which I
wouldn’t of course.
I shuffled
like a crab closer and closer to the basin, but it was such a slow
pace that I began to feel really sorry for snails and tortoises and
all the other disastrously slow things that I was currently on par
with. By the time I made it to the basin and transferred to leaning
on the stand, sweat beads clung to my head and my legs were
shaking. I realised how long it must have taken me to get there
when I heard the door opening behind me, followed by a sudden
joyous whooping that could only mean it was Mam coming in.
“
Kit! You’re walking love!”
She rushed
over to me and put an arm under my torso to keep my back straight;
it was only with her warm, solid frame next to me that I realised
how much I was shuddering. I turned to her delighted face and let
out a sighing smile.
“
Well I was awake,” I mumbled, “So I thought I’d just sort of…
have a go.”
She couldn’t
have missed the quivering wreck I was from the effort, but Mam was
wonderful at ignoring things like that. She gave me a little
squeeze and then delicately put my chair behind me, settling me
back into it with a smile.
“
Well you sit yur a minute and I’ll fetch some water for you
to wash,” she said, patting me on the shoulder, “I’ll have to watch
out eh? You’ll be wandering all over the house in no
time!”
I sat
breathing heavily as she bustled away, my smile so wide it
threatened to split my face in half forever.
***
The news of
my independent perambulation spread fast through the contents of Ty
Gwyn, which had the unfortunate side effect of totally
overshadowing Blod’s second day of celebrations. Though Mam was
still frantically preparing cake and afternoon snacks for her
party, she kept stopping to question me about what we should report
to Doctor Bickerstaff and would I need a walking stick and should
we get me some new shoes if I was going to be using them properly
at last. The mention of brand new shoes sent Blod over the edge;
she stampeded upstairs and her radio could be heard blaring down
and filling the hall with jangling notes for the duration of the
morning.
“
Don’t mind her,” Clive told me with a patient smile, “She’d
be more understanding if she had your problems.”
My eyes
flicked to Ness Fach, who sat on the kitchen floor giggling and
playing pat-a-cake with a very patient Leighton. If my suspicions
were anywhere near correct, then Blod had enough problems of her
own.
I was granted
the sanctuary of a free hour in the little sitting room at the
front of the house to rest after my big exertion that morning. Mam
promised that I could read or do whatever I wanted in peace until
Bampi Idrys arrived for Blod’s party lunch at two o’clock.
‘Whatever I wanted’ sounded extremely appealing. As soon as the
door was closed I prepared myself for my usual ritual and though my
arms were aching I raised them eagerly up to my forehead.
I was
confused when I first found Henri, until I realised he had his
hands over his face. His vision was blurry and his shoulders were
heaving, stunted breaths were hot and ragged where they raged
against his fingers. Wherever he was, it was dark and empty. And he
was crying.
Henri, what’s
happened?
For once he
wasn’t surprised to hear my voice in his head; he had far too many
emotions going on inside him for that. He wiped his tears away
hurriedly until I could see his vision clearing, uncurling himself
from his cramped position. He was in what seemed like a tiny little
attic room where everything was brown and grey. The windowless
space was lit by a dim lantern sitting on a little box beside the
bed he was settled on. Henri sucked in his last sob, wiping his
face on an old handkerchief before he replied.
“
I’m sorry Kit, I wouldn’t have intended for you to see me
like this.”
Don’t be silly,
I answered,
We all cry sometimes. I cried yesterday, just
because I was sick of peeling vegetables.
Henri laughed
but it was hollow and sad. I could feel him rubbing his palms
against his legs; a vein in his neck was throbbing too. He must
have been upset for quite some time before I found him.
Whatever’s the matter?
I
pressed.
“
I will show you,” he answered, shaking out his final tears
before dabbing his eyes dry.
Henri rose
from the bed and brushed himself down; through his eyes I saw his
brown trousers were scuffed and dirty, his shirt un-tucked, his
shoes covered in scratches. He walked slowly out of the dark room
into the rest of the roof space where a dirty white door was ajar.
He pushed it open with the swing of one smooth hand, revealing a
dark little wash room with a grey sink.
“
I shan’t turn on the light,” Henri continued, “You’ll see me
well enough.”
Above the
worn old sink was a small mirror and, a moment later, there was
Henri’s reflection. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been imagining
what he might look like, running hundreds of debonair faces through
my mind, all foreign and interesting and all terribly handsome.
Henri would have been handsome, if not for the huge purple bruises
all over his face. Cocoa brown eyes stared out of his damaged face,
sad eyes with red rings enclosing them from his crying fit. He had
dark hair, almost black, that fell about his face like it was due
for a cut, under his fringe on one side was a huge gash that had
only recently finished bleeding. It had two poorly-done stitches in
it; I shuddered to think he might have done them himself.