Something Somewhere, page 5
‘I like it,’ Malt told her.
‘Thought so,’ said the girl. ‘It’s a pretty decent place. Hey, we might become friends, if you want to? I mean, it’s absolutely fine by me—but none of that touchy-feely stuff, okay? Like hugging. I don’t do that.’
‘Okay,’ said Malt. He thought she was funny, particularly the way she crinkled her eyes before she spoke.
‘Great!’ said the girl. ‘It’s always good to have a new friend, especially one who’s loyal. Are you loyal?’
It was a strange question. Malt hesitated, pushing his foot into the wet grass.
‘I think so,’ he said eventually.
‘Even better! We’re going to get on well. In fact, I think we already are!’
She stopped talking and went into a pose: one hand on her hip, the finger with the bandaid pointing towards her chin.
‘I say,’ she said in an upper-class English accent, ‘I’ve just had a spiffing idea. I might call you Malteser, after the well-known chocolate ball. Is that permissible, or does everyone say it? I shan’t call you Malteser, if everyone else does.’
Malt said that no-one else had ever called him that. ‘Jolly good, old bean,’ she said, and dropped her pose. For no apparent reason, she began to dance. The long grass moved with her as the wind played a symphony through the trees.
‘Malt-eser,’ sang the girl. The sound of her voice was beautiful and utterly original; he’d never heard anything like it. ‘My loyal new friend, Malt-eser.’
At which point Banjo appeared from the undergrowth, ran towards the girl, raised his snout and barked. Malt tried to shush him, but the dog kept barking, before beginning a long, high-pitched howl.
The girl stopped dancing and singing. ‘I say,’ she said in her English accent, ‘I don’t think your pooch likes me.’
‘Sorry,’ Malt told her. ‘He’s not normally like this.’ He held Banjo, made him sit and patted his back. The dog settled, although he continued to watch the girl suspiciously and growl.
‘Anyway,’ said the girl, reverting to her usual voice, ‘I should go. Leave you to see what you can see, find what you can find.’ She laughed but gently, something unstated in her mind. ‘Come back soon, Malteser, and we’ll start being friends, properly. I can show you around, if you like? Check out the lie of the land? We could even head into the Valley.’
‘I’m not allowed to go there,’ Malt told her. ‘My grandmother says the Valley is dangerous.’
‘Anywhere is dangerous,’ said the girl, ‘if you’re not careful.’
‘She said it’s easy to get lost.’
The girl stretched her slender arms up and out. ‘Stick with me,’ she said, ‘and you won’t ever get lost. I know the Valley like the back of my hand. Better than the back of my hand!’
Malt was very uncertain, but he nodded anyway. This time, when the girl grinned, it was lovely, heartfelt.
‘See you, Malteser!’
She waved once, sang his name a few times, then as swiftly as she’d arrived, she was gone, the wind dropping away as her pale dress drifted through the trees and beyond. Only later did Malt realise that he hadn’t found out her name.
The Girl Who Loved Flowers
That night, he had dinner with his grandmother again because his mother had decided to stay in Pembrooke after work. Malt didn’t mind this new arrangement. His grandmother was more relaxed—everything was more relaxed!—when his mother wasn’t there.
She roasted a chicken in the oven, while Malt took care with slicing tomatoes for a salad. ‘And for dessert,’ she said, ‘we’ll have stewed apples with cream.’
They ate at the kitchen table with the window open, so they could enjoy the late sunlight. Malt was hungry. He ate quickly and licked the tangy juice from his fingers. The chicken was especially good, soft beneath its crisp skin, with a slightly peppery taste.
‘Your granddad loved roast chicken,’ his grandmother said.
Malt had been thinking about this new family. It made sense that, since he’d met and got to know his grandmother, he should find out more about his grandfather.
‘Me too,’ he said.
‘What’s that, love?’
‘I love roast chicken.’
She smiled. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘he would’ve been happy to hear that.’
They kept eating. Malt asked, ‘Did he like tomatoes, as well?’
‘Yes, but not with chicken. Never with chicken!’ his grandmother said. ‘He insisted on veggies,’ she added. ‘No salad, not with a roast.’
Then she put on a deep, comical voice. ‘Feed that muck to the rabbits, Zelda! I’ll have carrots, pumpkin and potatoes, thank you very much, and gravy out of the pan!’ She winked and said, ‘He was very particular about his gravy.’
She stopped talking and Malt could see that his grandmother was somewhere else, thinking of another time.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Dessert can wait. I have something to show you.’
She led Malt down the hallway to her side of the house, where his mother had told him not to go. They passed his grandmother’s bedroom, and a bathroom with beige tiles. Further along was a wooden door with an old-fashioned hoop key sitting in its lock. When she turned the key, it clicked loudly. She opened the door, reached around to switch on a light and ushered Malt inside.
The room, which smelled wildly pungent, was filled with paintings. Some hung crookedly on the walls and others were in stacks, facing away. Several sat patiently on easels, either finished-looking or obviously unfinished, or barely drawn. One was a simple wash of blue-grey—the colour of the ocean on a cloudy day—and nothing else.
Above and behind the paintings, Malt saw shelves laden with tubes, pots, brushes, a jar of pencils, containers of various types of glue, rolled-up paper and other materials, a couple of sketch pads, twisted pieces of wire, empty bottles, other bottles half-filled with muddy liquid, and stacks of plastic trays, all spattered with colour.
He looked more closely at the paintings. Their subjects were a mix of people and places. One of the finished-looking ones showed a young girl lying frontways, on her stomach, in a garden filled with flowers. Their petals were a dazzling blend of orange and yellow, purple and pink, some long and thin, some fatter or flared, others tear-shaped or formed in curls and spirals, like shells. The girl’s legs were bent at the knees, she had her bare feet in the air, and she looked very happy.
Behind the girl-painting, Malt saw a deeply red picture that he realised was a close-up of a bowl of cherries, and another with a jagged set of shapes that looked like burning hills.
‘My studio,’ his grandmother said. She turned to Malt. ‘You draw a lot. You must like it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was the same.’ She ran her hand around the edges of the girl-painting. ‘I used to love making pictures. Give me a blank canvas, a palette of paint—I was happy. Your grandfather was the opposite. He wanted the world exactly as it was. He used to point out the window and say, Why would anyone need a painting when they can see this? But he knew that I thought differently and he didn’t mind. In fact, he used to encourage me. He’d come with me and help me to set up when I went to the markets in Pembrooke, and he was as proud as a peacock if ever I sold anything.’
She chewed her lip, thinking for a moment. ‘After he passed away,’ she said, ‘I struggled to keep going. I’d paint for a little while, then get distracted. These days, I come in here sometimes but not very often, certainly not as much as I used to. There doesn’t seem to be much point anymore.’
She took a painting from one of the easels.
‘Here,’ she said, offering it to Malt. ‘This is him. Your grandfather.’
Malt held the painting. It was surprisingly light. The brushstrokes were delicate, and the paint had dried in microscopic crusts and mounds. The picture showed a man looking up at the sky. He was wearing a checked shirt, and his face was thin and dark, like someone who had lived for a long time beneath the sun.
‘Every morning,’ she told Malt, ‘at the crack of dawn, he’d go outside and sniff the air. He always said that he could tell what the day was going to be like from the temperature of the air and the way it smelled.’
She took the painting and returned it to the easel. ‘I started that years ago,’ she said, ‘but I’ve never been able to finish. It’s the eyes.’
‘I like them,’ Malt told her. He did too. They were large and somehow full of light.
‘Do you? That’s very kind.’ She sighed. ‘To me, they’re not right,’ she said. ‘Eyes are hard to get right.’
Malt could see that not being able to paint his grandfather’s eyes had disappointed her. He pointed to the girl and said, ‘Is that Mum?’
His grandmother nodded. ‘I called that painting The Girl Who Loved Flowers. My plan was to give it to Bonnie for her seventeenth birthday.’
She shook her head. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I didn’t because I couldn’t, and that’s the way the world is. Things don’t always work out how we want.’
They went back to the kitchen for their dessert. The night was very peaceful, no arguments or bursts of music, or television noise. Instead, the sounds of birds roosting, the roof creaking as it cooled and the pitter-patter of footsteps overhead.
‘Those possums,’ his grandmother said, but her tone told him that she didn’t really mind. The window was still open so Malt could watch the rising moon. It was nearly full, a sphere of butter marked with tiny smiles. He showed Banjo and pointed out the constellation that looked like a pot, then he filled the dog’s bowl with fresh water.
Tiny puffs of breeze brought the sweet smell of the cherry blossoms into the house.
His grandmother was teaching him a new card game when they were both startled by the roar of a car outside, then voices. His grandmother muttered something that Malt couldn’t hear, before the door swung open and two people clattered into the room. The first was his mother, flush-cheeked and smiley, winning. The second person was less obvious, but still recognisable.
It was the man called Willo, the soldier who was also Malt’s father.
Run to the Moon
Malt’s grandmother stood at one end of the kitchen, near the sink.
Willo stood within the frame of the doorway.
Malt’s mother stood between the two and beckoned for Malt to join her. He obeyed, sensing straightaway that he was back in no-man’s-land with change in the air, blowing like a wind through this breathless room.
‘Mrs Z,’ said Willo, his voice a low purr.
‘Damien.’
‘Been a long time.’
His grandmother stayed quiet. Malt could see that she was angry, but she was also worried, like whatever had just happened, or was about to happen, was bigger and harder to control than what it seemed.
He sneaked a glance at his father. Willo was surprisingly small. Malt had only one blurry photo from a long time ago, and he’d assumed that his father would now be a big man. He was a secret soldier fighting secret wars, so he’d have to be big, wouldn’t he? He’d have to be tall, and broad across the shoulders, and muscly, and tanned, and powerful. That one, especially. Malt had always seen his dad as powerful.
‘Bet he’s humungous,’ Stevie had said, giving the word some extra zip. ‘Bigger than a Mack truck. Bigger than a skyscraper!’
But Willo was no Mack truck, and he was certainly no skyscraper. He was about the same height as Malt’s mother and reed thin. His arms were as pale and hairless as straws. There was a tattoo of a snake on the left side of his neck, more tattoos on his forearms and a sliver of metal pushed through one eyebrow. His hair fell in long, mousey tangles, and he wore jeans and a black T-shirt with Not My Fault written on the front in red lettering.
Standing there in the doorway, sniffing and scraping at his stomach with his fingers, he looked nothing like the younger man in Malt’s photo.
‘Malt.’ His mother leaned towards him. She smelled bitter, different from her usual soapiness. ‘Remember your manners and say hallo to your father.’
‘Hallo.’ The word was scratchy, unclear.
But Willo had taken out his phone and was swiping the screen. At Malt’s mother’s prompting—‘Willo!’—he lifted his eyes and scanned the wall, the ceiling, the window, the yellow door, until finally he settled on Malt.
‘How’s it going?’ He offered Malt’s mother a loose grin. ‘Good-looking kid. Could only be yours.’
Despite the compliment, his mother stiffened. ‘He’s got your eyes,’ she said.
‘Nah.’ Willo sniffed again, louder. ‘Nah, you’re making that up.’
‘I’m not, Willo.’
‘Yeah, you are. You always did tell a good story.’
‘It’s no story.’
‘Whatever. My point is, he’s definitely your kid, but—’
‘No buts,’ she said. ‘I don’t like that word. Don’t say it.’
Willo shook his head. ‘Eyes are just eyes, Bonnie. Blue, green, brown, grey, bluey-green, browny-grey, take your pick—but that’s it. There’s nothing else. Nothing like same as mine, or same as yours. Everyone has their own eyes.’
Tightness, like the room was about to explode. Malt’s mother had her hand on his shoulder. She was gripping him hard, nearly enough to hurt.
‘He’s got your mouth, too,’ she said to Willo.
‘More stories.’
‘He’s got lots of you,’ she persisted, her voice elevating.
Malt felt breathless, giddy. Eyes, mouth, lots of you . . . why was his father being so . . . uninterested?
‘Same old Bonnie,’ said Willo. ‘Sees what she wants to see, not what’s there.’ He rechecked his phone and wandered into the kitchen, Malt thinking that he moved like those stray cats in the city, low to the ground and soft-boned.
‘Got any food, Mrs Z? I’m starving.’
‘Cupboard’s bare, Damien.’ His grandmother’s voice was ice. ‘Sponge off someone else.’
Willo laughed. It was a strange sound, as thin as steam.
‘Suits me,’ he said, turning. ‘Nothing changes, does it? I was never welcome here. You and old what’s-his-name made that pretty clear.’
He pocketed his phone and sidled out of the room, tapping his fingers on the furniture as he did so. A moment later, they heard the car start.
Malt’s mother gritted her teeth. She glared at his grandmother, then lifted her hand and said to Malt, ‘Go to bed, sweetie. I’ll see you in the morning.’
He stood very still. His mother kissed her index finger, touched it on his head and went outside. Malt heard voices—his father’s drawl, his mother’s higher pitch—before a door slammed and the car roared away.
He left his grandmother and went to his bedroom. His skin was hot and damp, and his stomach felt out of sorts on the inside. He thought that he might vomit, so he unlatched the window and leaned out to gulp the breeze and the smell of the orchard—but his stomach continued to ripple and heave.
The door creaked.
‘Malt?’ His grandmother’s voice was roughened by concern. ‘Are you okay?’
He turned away from the window. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I know, love,’ she said. ‘It’s just . . . two people trying to work things out. That can be tricky sometimes, but . . .’
The words fell away. For Malt, everything felt wrong, like there was a new sickness in the world. When his grandmother asked if he wanted another game of cards, he told her no, he’d rather go to sleep. She said that was a good idea and left the room, quietly closing the door.
Malt felt cold air on the back of his neck. The opened window, he realised. The orchard, the sky, the dark, unending land . . . he didn’t want to be there, inside the farmhouse. He wanted other places, the cave by the ocean, that lake where he and his mother had stayed for three months in a caravan, anywhere but here.
It was like watching someone else. He saw the boy turn and lift himself onto the windowsill. Ease out, drop softly to the ground. One step across the grass, another. Begin to jog, work into a run.
To the moon, thought the boy, I can run to the moon. Run like Buck the sled dog, onto the ice, into the night.
Cherry trees rushed past. The fence was a simple hurdle, then came that familiar spread of low, spongy land.
The boy spread his arms wide like wings. Perhaps, he thought, I can fly like the white owl. I can fly high and find my own private darkness.
The gullies drew the boy to the woodland and the Valley. He could feel that dark, forbidden place tugging at his chest, daring him to crash through the hard edge. In there, he thought, I can be lost.
I want to be lost.
Malt ran, rose and began to fly—
‘Not yet,’ she said.
It was the girl in the pale dress. She glowed like the moon, but brighter and more beautiful.
‘Not yet,’ she repeated.
He sank to his knees and lay on a bed of wild grass, his breath coming in ragged bursts, tears pricking at his eyes. Beneath his shuddering body, he could smell dust and rot, and what felt like the long, difficult history of the earth.
Quiet, now. And slowness. Stars winking friendship. A warm breeze, newly sprung, caressing his skin.
‘Breathe, Malteser,’ she whispered. ‘Breathe.’
He did so and it calmed him. Moments later, he rubbed his eyes and looked up, but the girl wasn’t there. He wondered about that, how easily she appeared and disappeared. Then he stood, brushed dirt from his clothes and turned back to the farmhouse, still a dark shape in the distance.
Go Your Own Way
That night, Malt lay awake for a long time. He did this whenever he wanted to stop the sadness. He would lie perfectly straight and still in the darkness, and will his mind into remembering better times.
Times when his mum hadn’t been trying to work things out with other people.
When she’d talked to him kindly and listened to him no matter what, and they’d been happy together, not worried about anyone else interfering.
The best time had been at the lake, with the caravan. This had been a happy place, because for a while at least, she hadn’t needed anyone or anything else.
