As they sailed south, the new freedom took him back to that old freedom of childhood.
But it was only memory that represented that time as freedom. The child he had been was less free than the sunburnt man with bald head and grey beard who sat by his wife in his boat. The child was a prisoner, a prisoner of his weakness and lack of knowledge, of his parents’ whims, of the monstrous fate unleashed so recently on the world that the world had yet to grasp its full power. The child was a pawn.
Moreover, the child had a long road of sorrow, perplexity, and struggle before him. Why then could the man look back down the perspective of forty-nine years and regard that little boy boxed in by events with an emotion more like envy than compassion?
As the car stopped, Jock Bear, the teddy bear in tartan pyjamas, rolled off the rear window ledge and on to the car seat. Algy picked him up and put him back.
“Jock must be sick too, Mummy. He’s rolling about like anything back here.”
“Perhaps he’ll feel better when we’ve looked at the house,” Patricia Timberlane said. She raised what was left of her eyebrows at her friend Venice, who was sitting in the front with her. “I know I shall,” she said.
She climbed out and opened the rear door, helping her son to the ground. He was tall for a boy of seven, but the sickness had left him thin and lifeless. His cheeks were sallow, his skin rough. With nursing him and being ill herself, she felt as bad as he looked. But she smiled encouragingly, and said, “I suppose Jock wouldn’t like to look round the new house?”
“I just told you, Mum, he’s sick. Gosh, when you’re sick, you don’t want to do a thing except die, like the way Frank did. So if it’s all the same to you, he’ll hang around in the car.”
“As you wish.” It still hurt to be reminded of the death of her older boy Frank after many months of the sickness.
Venice came to her rescue.
“Wouldn’t you like to play outside, Algy, while Mummy and I look over the house? There’s an exciting-looking garden here. Only don’t fall in the Thames, or you’ll get awfully wet.”
Mayburn was a quiet house, set on the river not too far from the suburb of London where the Timberlanes lived. It had stood empty for six weeks, and the estate agent who gave Patricia the keys assured her that now was the time to buy, since the bottom had fallen out of the property market. This was her second visit to the property; on the first occasion, she had come with her husband, but this time she wanted someone slightly more receptive to see it. Arthur was all very well, but he had these money troubles.
The attraction of the house was that it was small, yet had a fairly long strip of ground behind, which led down to the river and a little landing stage. The place would suit them both; Arthur was a keen gardener, she loved the river. It had been so lovely, earlier in the summer, when both she and Algy were feeling a little better, to bundle up in warm clothes and sail on one of the pleasure steamers from Westminster Pier, up or down the river, watching the city slide past. On the river, the feebleness of convalescence had taken on almost a spiritual quality.
She unlocked the front door and moved in, with Venice behind her. Algy trotted off round the back of the house.
“Of course, it looks a bit ghastly at present,” Patricia said, as they walked through the echoing rooms. “The last owners were nuts on white paint — so colourless! But when it’s redecorated, it’ll be a different proposition. I thought we might knock this wall down — nobody wants a breakfast-room nowadays — and then there would be this lovely view down to the river. Oh, I can’t tell you how glad I’ll be to get out of Twickenham. It’s a bit of London that gets worse every year.”
“Arthur still seems to like it,” Venice said, observing her friend closely as Patricia peered out of a window.
“Arthur’s… well, I know that we’re closer to the factory than we should be here. Oh, of course times are difficult, Venice, and this beastly radiation sickness has left everyone a little depressed, but why doesn’t Arthur buck up a bit? It may sound awful, but he bores me so much nowadays. He’s got this new young partner now, Keith Barratt, to cheer him up…”
“Oh, I know you’re sweet on Keith,” Venice said, smiling.
Patricia turned to her friend. She had been beautiful before her illness and before Frank died; now that her vivacity had fled, it was noticeable that most of her beauty had resided in that quality.
“Does it show? I’ve never said a thing to a soul. Venny, you’ve been married longer than me. Are you still in love with Edgar?”
“I’m not the demonstrative type that you are. Yes, I love Edgar. I love him for many things. He’s a nice man — kind, intelligent, doesn’t snore. I also love him because he goes away a lot, and that eases the relationship. Which reminds me, he’ll be back from his medical conference in Australia this evening. We mustn’t be too long here. I must get back and do something for dinner.”
“You do change the subject, don’t you?”
Through the kitchen window, they had a glimpse of Algy running in long grass, on a pursuit no one else would ever know about. He ran behind a lilac tree and studied the fence which divided this garden from the next. The strangeness of the place excited him; he had spent too long in the familiar enclosure of his bedroom. The fence was broken at one point, but he made no attempt to get into the next garden, though he thought to himself how enjoyable it would be if all the fences fell down in every garden and you could go where you liked. He ran a stick experimentally along the fence, liked the result, and did it again. A small girl of about his own age appeared on the other side of the gap.
“You’ll knock it down better by pushing it,” she said.
“I don’t want to knock it down.”
“What are you doing, then?”
“You see, my Daddy’s going to buy this house.”
“What a mouldy shame! Then I sha’n’t be able to creep into the garden and play any more. I bet your mouldy old father will mend the fence.”
Leaping to his father’s defence, Algy said, “He won’t, because he can’t mend fences. He’s not a handyman at all. He’s completely useless.” Catching a clearer glimpse of her through the bushes, he said, “Gosh, you’re bald, what’s your name?”
“My name is Martha Jennifer Broughton, and my hair will all grow on again by the time I’m a big girl.”
He edged closer to the fence, dropping the stick to stare at her. She wore a jumper and a pleated skirt, both red, and her face was open and friendly; but the dome of her head was utterly naked.
“Gosh, you aren’t half bald!”
“Doctor MacMichael says my hair will grow again, and my dad says he’s the best doctor in the world.”
Algy was put on his mettle by small girls who claimed to be authorities on medical matters.
“I know that. We have Doctor MacMichael too. He had to come to see me every day because I’ve been at
Death’s Door.”
The girl came closer to her side of the fence.
“Did you actually see Death’s Door?”
“Jolly nearly. It was very boring on the whole. It uses up your resources.”
“Did Dr. MacMichael say that?”
“Yes. Often. That’s what happened to my brother Frank. His resources got used up. He went right through
Death’s Door.” They laughed together. In a mood for confidences, Martha said, “Aren’t Doctor MacMichael’s hands cold?”