The walk home from school took Andrew up Long Row to Green Street where he lived with his mother and Aunt Molly. Two doors down from Andrew's house was an old nailer's cottage. Tourists sometimes stopped to look into its dusty windows and see the old tools and furnishings of the eighteenth-century nail maker's shop. It had little historical interest to tourists, what with the famous mill in the same town, but once in a while someone other than the schoolchildren who'd learned of it in school stopped by.
Today, as Andrew trudged up the cobbled road, he saw an unfamiliar old man and a boy about his own age staring into the cottage window. They had the look of tourists with cameras slung around their necks, small clean backpacks and hiking boots that still looked new, stiff and uncomfortable. When they heard Andrew's footsteps, they turned.
The boy was pretty, Andrew thought, almost like a girl. His dark hair was cut scraggily so that it fell over his eyes and ears in a fashionable way. His eyes were large, round and luminous on his pale face. He didn't smile. The man had small eyes, very light in colour, almost like pale aquamarine quartz, and large fuzzy eyebrows just like Andrew's granddad. He was tall and thin, with a long flat nose and around very thin lips, the skin wrinkled in vertical ravines, reminding Andrew of a cartoon skull.
"Do you live around here, son?" The man spoke as the boy turned his stare back into the cottage. He had an accent. German or Danish. Andrew wasn't good at telling one accent from another unless it was American, Spanish or French.
Andrew frowned at the man and continued walking. It didn't occur to Andrew to walk past his house that day and turn onto another street, but later he would think about how different things would have been if he had. He walked right up to the door, eyes still on the tourists, turned the doorknob, and went in.
"That must be Andy. Guess what your Aunt Molly made?" The air was full of the aroma of butter, flour and currants.
"You made scones, Auntie, I could smell them outside." Andrew set down his book bag and took off his blazer and cap.
"Go up and change your clothes, Andy, then come down and have one before they cool down."
There wasn't much better than warm Molly scones and a cup of cocoa. He hurried upstairs and changed into a sweatshirt and jeans. As he put his school shoes on the chair by the window, he looked down at the nailer's cottage. The old man had stepped away from the building into the street and was staring right up at Andrew's window. At Andrew. He thought of the scones, the hot cocoa, of his aunt waiting downstairs, but somehow he found the stranger's curious stare compelling. Then the man smiled. His teeth were very straight, large and white. Like Chiclets, Andrew thought, like dice without the dots.
"What's taking you, Andy? The scones are cooling!"
His aunt was at his door, her greying yellow apron smeared with the by-products of baking. He spun around, startled.
"Oh, Auntie, I didn't hear you coming up the stairs."
"What's out there so interesting you reckon it's worth more than a warm scone or two?" She came up beside him and looked out the window. Andrew looked as well. Nothing. No one was there, the street was deserted.
"I saw some tourists looking in the cottage and the old one tried to talk to me."
"You didn't speak with him, did you? You know what your mum says. One doesn't speak to strangers, look what happened to Wally Burdock and Gwen Shafford. They talked to strangers and both of them ended up d-e-a-d, dead."
Well, Andrew thought, that wasn't quite true. Wally, who was seventeen and in trouble with local thugs all the time, was beaten with a bat until he had terrible brain damage and his folks let the hospital take him off life support, then he died. And Gwen was raped by her stepbrother and went crazy. She was in some asylum or hospital somewhere. Still, he knew what his mum meant. She'd stopped to talk with a stranger once and the next tiling she knew after three weeks of romance, bingo, bango, no more stranger. Andrew was the result of that fiasco.
"I know. I know. I gave a good frown and came right in." He sniffed at the air. "I must have smelled them scones anyway, cause nothing ever stops me from coming in when you're baking."
His aunt grinned. "Well, then, let's have one, and I'll make you a cup of cocoa. It's getting cold outside."
Andrew followed her down the narrow stairs to the tiny kitchen. He sat down to wait. Aunt Molly had her set ways of doing things, and there would be no impatient grabbing or rushing her. She busied herself with canisters, spoons and a pan of milk.
"Tell me what you did today."
"Maths. We worked on problems. Lucky for me they're really easy."
"They are; well then, give me one and see if I can do it. It's been thirty years since I did any maths, but I'm still pretty smart for an old lady."
"You're not old, Auntie. Mum is older than you and she's still young. She says so all the time." His mouth watered at the smell of the cocoa stirred in the hot milk. His aunt set the cup before him, then went to the counter for a scone. He watched as she broke open the dusty cream-coloured mass and steam rolled out into the warm kitchen.
"Give me a problem, then, Andy. See if I can do it." She sat across from him, eager for his usual reaction to her scones.
A bit annoyed at having to speak when he wanted to eat, he licked his lips and stared at his scone. "All right, Auntie. If a train travels at 50 mph, and it took the train four hours and ten minutes to get from London to Newcastle, what is the distance from London to Newcastle?"
"Oh, my, that is a tough one. Let me think…" She scratched her head and wrinkled her mouth in concentration. "Do you know the answer?"
Andrew nodded. "Do you?" He bit into the scone. It was almost too good. He swooned.
"Well, 218 miles give or take few miles. Yes?"
"It's got a decimal figure in it, but you're close. That's really good, Auntie."
They heard a key in the lock. "That'll be your mum. We should ask her to solve one of your problems."
Andrew's mother came in with her arms full of groceries. "Come help."
"Mum, my scone's getting cold."
His aunt put her hands on his shoulders. "You stay here, Andy, I'll get them."
He grinned up at his aunt then took a sip of the cocoa. She always made it a bit too rich, just the way he liked it.
While his mum and aunt put away groceries, Andrew thought about the pretty boy and old man he'd seen. He wondered why the man had spoken to him, why the boy seemed so sad. Why would he want to know if Andrew lived nearby? What could he have wanted?
"There was just an accident at the triangle. I heard in Safeway. Young boy crossing with his granddad got hit by a lorry."
Andrew spun around in his chair. "Just now?"
"Just a few minutes ago. Didn't you hear the siren? I was going to go have a look, but I have frozen puddings in my bags. What, you think you know who it might have been?"
"May I go look? Please? I might know him. I might."
His mother looked to his aunt and back to him. His aunt was the lenient one, over-feeding and over-loving him, while his mother was bitter and restrictive. His aunt gave his mum a pleading look. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn't.
"Finish the scone and cocoa, then you and your Aunt Molly can go take a look while I start supper."
"Me? You want me to go with him. Bernadette, I look like I've been in all day cleaning, which I have. Can't he go on his own?"
"It's almost dark."
"Please, Mum, I just want to take a look. I won't stay. Really, I promise."
"You'll wear a coat?"
"Yeah, yeah, I will. Promise."
"Go, then, but don't dawdle."
Andrew grabbed the unfinished scone and ran upstairs to get a jacket. He knew it was the pretty boy. Just knew. It could be any one of the boys he knew, but there was more of a reason for a stranger to be hit. The triangle confused tourists. They often got caught out in the traffic. He hoped that the boy wasn't hurt too badly.
He shouted goodbye to his mum and aunt as he raced out the front door. He ran down Green Street to Bridge Street until he reached the triangle. There were two police cars and a casualty van. The crowd was large and traffic backed up Bridge Street as far as he could see in both directions. Frank Delaney rushed over when he saw Andrew at the edge of the crowd.
"Did you see it happen?" Frank shivered in just a football jersey.
"You mean the accident. No, my mum just told me about it. She heard about it in Safeway. Did you see?"
"No, dammit. I was doing my report for Ol' Noddy Bennett. Who d'you think it was?"
Andrew rose up on his toes as the attendants lifted the stretcher into the van. The body was entirely covered by a sheet. "Dunno. He's dead. Can't see his face." His throat was tight and his eyes burned to cry.
As he surveyed the crowd, Andrew saw the old man with a police officer, his bony hand over his face, hiding his tears, shaking his head. When he took his hand away from his face to get a handkerchief, he turned to look right at Andrew, as if he knew the boy was there. His eyes lingered on him until Andrew felt his stomach clench. Then the old man turned back to the police officer and blew his nose.
"I hate missing all the blood and guts," Frank complained. "Bet it's someone from school. Probably that big baby, Tim Broadbank. His mum won't let him cross the street without holding her hand still. He's a year ahead of us, you know."
"Tim? No. Don't think so. I saw a boy with his granddad an hour ago up by my house. They were standing at the nailer's cottage. The granddad is right over there with the police crying his bloody eyes out. It had to be his grandson."
"D'you know them?" Frank rubbed his hands together.
Andrew shook his head. "Tourists. They had the look."
"Just think. You go on a trip with your granddad and end up going home in a coffin. That's a sodding awful vacation if I ever heard…"
Andrew couldn't take his eyes off the old man. Frank went on talking but he didn't really hear. The old man didn't look at him again, but Andrew watched for his eyes to wash over him again. He shivered.
"… so they stuck these big pins in his eyes."
"Pins?" He turned to see Frank going on. "Hey, Frank, I had better get on. Supper'll be ready and my mum wasn't happy to let me come out here as it is."
"Yeah, well, all right. If I find anything out, I'll tell you Monday. See you."
"Right, see you." He gave the old man one more lingering glance, then walked away. Just as Andrew turned up Green Street thinking of his supper, the old man searched the crowd.
Andrew's legs felt leaden as he trudged up his street. He wanted to go to the old man, comfort him. Even as he felt it, he knew it was unreasonable. He didn't know this stranger about who everything seemed suspiciously odd. As he reached his door, he wondered if he had just spoken to the old man, kept them a few minutes more, the boy might not have been killed.
The next morning, Andrew grabbed up the Belper News from the doorstep. He was certain there would be a report of the accident. Not much qualified as news in town. This was frontpage stuff. And there it was.
Visitor Accident
By Rosalie Bishop
A man and his ten-year-old ward, travelling through England, stopped in Belper on their way to Matlock Baths. At approximately 5.00 p.m., they were crossing at the triangle near the Mill Park when a lorry, on its way to Derby, hit the boy who was killed on impact. The two visitors were unfamiliar with the traffic patterns in that area and the boy stepped out in front of the lorry. The driver was not at fault in this tragic accident. The boy's guardian plans to return to his native Turkey within the week. Local families have rallied to give the man a place to stay and meals until his plane departs from Heathrow on Thursday. Anyone interested in giving aid or expressing sympathies can contact Elizabeth Horner at the Methodist Chapel.
Andrew was now more curious than before. Turkey. He'd never much thought about people living there, though he'd heard of it in geography. What he did know was that he loved Turkish delight. The rosy jelly centre with the yummy chocolate all around made him think of the occasional bouts of happiness his mother had, when she bought them a bag of sweets, always with some Turkish delight for Andrew. Did Turkish delight originate in Turkey? Was the jelly part Turkish or the chocolate or both? For once, he couldn't wait for Monday. He'd go straight to the school library after class.
The library was a small room that had once been a supply cabinet and coat room. Books lined every wall and two half-sized bookcases divided the room. Paintings done by the infants covered the wall over the librarian's desk. Andrew loved the smell of the books and the ancient oiled tables where students could read. The library was empty except for Miss Eklund, a woman the kids called the Swede. She was in her fifties, wore her hair clipped short, had funny little hairs on her chin and smelled of men's aftershave. The Swede was actually a wrestler, and Miss Eklund had a stocky build like a man, hence the moniker. She let the girls get away with murder and slapped the back of boys' heads if they spoke.
He had a book on Turkey when Frank appeared around the corner. He grabbed at Andrew's sleeve to see the book. He scanned it then looked over at Miss Eklund who was deep into stamping loan cards.
"Hey, you get in trouble when you got in Friday?"
"Naw. You?"
"Hell, no. Nobody comes home until late at my house. My dad goes straight to the pub from work and my mum… well, she's with her friends a lot. Nick's living with his girlfriend in Sheffield now, so it's just me."
"Did you see anything after I left?"
Frank took the book on Turkey from Andrew's hand. "Hey, did you know that the old guy is from Turkey? I was standing there while this lady was asking him about the kid."
Andrew put the book under his arm. "Yeah? Really? What'd you hear? I read the newspaper but it doesn't say much."
"He was staying at the Hollingshead Hotel. The kid wasn't his grandson, but a friend of the family. He was taking the kid to the baths because he had some kind of illness. Leukaemia or something. Hell, the baths don't do anything and anybody who knows something knows that. It's just a tourist attraction. A joke, really."
"Wow. I saw the kid. He looked sad or sick. Weak like. Maybe he was going to die anyway." Andrew watched Frank's face grow more animated.
"Or maybe the old guy pushed the kid in front of the lorry to make sure he didn't suffer. Hey, that would be sinister, like when…"
Miss Eklund drifted over to the boys. "You two want to make conversation, do it outside. This is a library. We don't converse in the library."
Frank winked at Andrew and fled. Andrew checked the book out to take home.
Frank wasn't in school the next day. Andrew wanted to share his discoveries about Turkey with him, not that it was the kind of thing Frank would have wanted to know. Turkey was right near Russia. It had the Black Sea on one side and the Mediterranean on the other. The country had its own language, called Turkish. He hadn't gone far enough in the book to learn if Turkish delight came from Turkey, though. He also read that they had bad earthquakes there. Maybe Frank would find all the deaths that came from their earthquakes interesting. That was the kind of thing he found fascinating. On his way home, he stopped by Frank's. Mrs Delaney answered the door.
"Is Frank at home?"
Her face screwed up and she leaned over to put her nose about an inch from Andrew's. She stank of brandy. "Well, now, he's supposed to be with you, Mr Andrew Crawford, so I should be asking you just that thing. He told me he was going to meet you on the tarmac and you were both going to the church to see about helping that old man."
"To the church…" Andrew tried to recall which church that might be. "Well, I must've got it wrong, Mrs Delaney. I thought we were meeting here. I'd better get on to the church then, hadn't I?" He smiled sheepishly.
"You two aren't cooking something up together, are you?"
"No, Mrs Delaney. We honestly want to make the man feel better. His kid was about our age and we just thought…"
"How nice. You had better get going, Andrew. It'll be dark soon." She shut the door before he could reply.
Why hadn't Frank told him he was going to the church? And which church? He couldn't recall. He walked down to the Catholic church which was closest and looked for someone to help him. A washerwoman told him the old man was staying with a family up by Strutts School. The Methodist chapel was where they were coordinating aid for the Turkish man. He thanked the woman and started off in the direction of Strutts. It occurred to him that his Aunt Molly would be sick with worry if he didn't stop home first. But then he risked being told he couldn't go at all.
It was a long walk down to Strutts. The only way to get there before dark would be to take a bus. He checked for change in his pocket and raced to the bus stop where a bus had just pulled up. It was the number 14 that stopped right across from the Methodist chapel at the bus station. Just his luck.
Though the bus was crowded, he got a seat by the window behind the driver. He watched the people walking determinedly up and down the streets, the cars moving ever so slowly in the traffic of the A6. Another bus crawled along going in the opposite direction. They were across from each other at one point. Andrew stared into the other bus, scanning the faces. He stopped at the old man, the one he had seen by the cottage. He was sitting with his arm around another boy, smiling his dicey smile, and listening to the boy's animated chatter. Andrew felt a flurry of butterflies in his belly before he really looked at the boy, knowing anyway that it was Frank Delaney.
Andrew spun in his seat, hands to the windows, and shouted Frank's name. "Frank, Frank. Oh, no…" The bus driver asked Andrew to quiet down, but Andrew had already gone silent. He kept his eyes on the bus as it ambled on in the other direction. He wasn't certain, but he thought that for a second the old man looked right at him.
He got off at King Street and walked back up towards home. When he told his mum and auntie what was going on, they would understand why he was late. He hoped so. Nothing else had gone right that day.
"It's none of your business what that Frank Delaney does with his life, Andy. If he wants to run off with the Queen, he can, but you have your own life to live."
His mother started on him before dinner and it was now his bedtime. His auntie had listened carefully and said, "What a shame." But when his mum got home, Molly retold Andrew's story with unusual histrionics. She used expressions like "kidnapped" and "paedophile", working his mum into a frantic state.
"And if he was kidnapped, all the better then that you keep away from that boy. Frank finds trouble where there isn't any, isn't that right, Molly?"
Aunt Molly was wringing her hands and nodding. "At least the authorities know who he is and where he's staying. That old man isn't going to get far."
Andrew's mum made moaning noises in her throat. "Let's call the police. It can't hurt. If it's innocent, then we'll just feel like fools, but if Frank was kidnapped, they'll be glad of our call."
As his mum and auntie got on the telephone, Andrew sneaked out the back door. He had to get over to Frank's. The bus had been going in the direction of his house. It could all have been innocent. Couldn't it?
This time, when Mrs Delaney answered the door, a strange man barked from upstairs to get back to him. She looked dishevelled in her bathrobe and her face flushed in the light of the foyer.
"What's it now? You get it wrong again? Were you supposed to meet up at school then?"
"You mean Frank's not here?"
She shuddered at his anxious tone. "No, Frank is not here. What is going on, Andrew Crawford?"
Andrew looked down at his feet. "I think he's gone off with someone. I saw him on the bus with the old man whose ward was killed at the triangle last week. I thought maybe they were coming here."
Though she looked a bit panicked, Mrs Delaney held her robe shut at her throat and said, "Frankie does as he pleases. He's tough enough to take care of himself. I'll worry if he don't come home for days. He's like his brother that way." The man's voice came from upstairs again, more insistent this time. Mrs Delaney lowered her voice to Andrew. "Don't you worry, Andrew Crawford. Frankie's all right. Go home." Then she shut the door on him, again.
He ran home, hoping his mum and auntie were consumed by the police and hadn't noticed he'd gone, but there they were, in the street, a police van pulled up to the house, two coppers talking to them.
"Where the hell did you go, you stupid, stupid boy?" His mother grabbed his arm and yanked him into the house. "You knew you'd scare me to death, didn't you?" She was slapping at him. He kept his arms up as she flailed. "How dare you!"
His Aunt Molly came in with the police officers and shouted for her sister to stop. One of the police officers grabbed at his mum. His Aunt Molly swept him into her arms.
"Mrs, it's no good hitting the boy. Stop. Relax. We'll talk to him."
"Bernadette, go upstairs and wash your face in cold water. I'll talk with Andy and the police. Go on."
His mum ripped herself from the policeman's grasp and growled, foam at the corners of her mouth. "You'll do no such thing. He's my son. I'll deal with him."
The constable shook his head. "Mrs, do as your sister says. You take this into your own hands, you'll be leaving with us."
Andrew tried not to cry, but he couldn't stop himself. He was more afraid than he was sad, but tears came anyway.
"Look what you've done, Bernadette. Andrew's in tears. Go upstairs. Go, now."
His mother stomped upstairs, but he knew she wouldn't wash her face or anything else. She'd stew in her rage until she couldn't stand it any longer and come hit him again. His auntie tried to stop it, but she didn't have any place else to live, so she turned away when she failed. Andrew felt sorry for her, thankful that at least she tried.
One of the police officers sat down beside Andrew and asked him a hundred questions. Or so it seemed. It was past his bedtime and he was beginning to fall asleep. When the man decided he had enough information, he told Andrew they were going to go by the Delaneys' house. Then the constable asked if Andrew felt safe enough to stay in his house. That they had somewhere else he could stay.
"It'll be all right. She gets upset easily. But she always cools down. Besides, I have my auntie." Aunt Molly grinned from across the room.
"Okay, then. But you call us if things get heated again. Don't be afraid." The police officer looked to Aunt Molly then back to Andrew. "We'll let you know what our investigation turns up."
"Yes, please," Andrew managed. His eyelids sagging, body limp.
Last thing he heard was his auntie opening the blanket chest to get him an extra bit of warmth.
When Andrew woke, he knew half the day had gone. Though it was grey out, he could tell by the angle of the light in his room. His mum was off at work, surely, and his auntie was probably cleaning someone's house, since it was Wednesday. He dressed in his school clothes and went down to the kitchen. His auntie was sitting at the table having lunch.
"Ah, well, look who finally got himself up. Did you sleep all right?"
"Yes, Aunt Molly. I don't remember going up to bed, though. Is Mum all right?"
"One of those nice policemen carried you up. You fell asleep before they reached the door, and I knew I'd never get you up those stairs alone."
"Is Mum okay?"
"What do you care? She beats you terribly and wails into the night about how awful you are to make her worry. She doesn't deserve you, Andy. She was too young to have a child alone in the first place. It should have been me. I'm a better mum to you than she is." She stopped, looking away from Andrew. "I'm sorry. I know you love your mum. Sometimes, I can't help myself. The truth slips out. Forgive me."
"I love you too, Aunt Molly. Don't be mad at Mum. She's unhappy."
His auntie smirked at him. "She and all the rest of us miserable old women."
"You're not old."
She looked Andrew over. "You think you can go to school now?"
He looked at the clock over the sink. It was nearly noon. "Four more classes after midday. Yeah. I'm okay, now. Are you cleaning today?"
Aunt Molly set a sack on the table. "Here's a sandwich, then. There's a note inside, but I'll telephone the school and let them know you're on your way. And yes, not a day goes by I don't have a house to clean. I got a cancellation today, that's all."
"Thanks, Auntie. You're the best!"
"Oh!" Andrew stopped at the door as his auntie spoke. "Your friend Frank is fine. You'll see him in school, I'd wager."
"Thanks!" Andrew closed the door too hard, but he hardly heard it. He ran to school, anxious to learn what had happened to Frank.
He caught up with Frank on his way to class. When he saw Andrew, his friend frowned.
"What? You mad at me?"
"You pissed off my mum, you stupid idiot. She told me to get lost after school cause she was entertaining her friends; so I told her I was meeting you at the church. She just guessed we was going to visit that old guy. You really ruined it for me. When the police showed up, she got even angrier. Don't you get it? Can't you be cool?"
Andrew was speechless. Wouldn't Frank have done the same for him if he'd seen Andrew on the bus with the old man? Wouldn't Frank have suspected something was up with the old man being friendly to another boy right after his ward died?
Frank walked off. Nothing bad had happened to Frank, and that was good, but couldn't he see that Andrew's concern was heartfelt and real? Couldn't he understand that? He hadn't meant to make Mrs Delaney angry. Andrew did his best not to cry. He hung his head and shoulders as he went to class.
He was listless the rest of his day in school. He questioned everything from the moment he saw the old man at the nailer's cottage with his ward. Were all the strange things he saw and felt just his imagination? Didn't it seem odd that the old man stayed around Belper after the accident? That he seemed happy and chatty on the bus with Frank? It was creepy. Very creepy.
All the way home, Andrew kept his head down, watching his feet as he went. When he got there, his mother was remote, ashamed of her behaviour, but unable or refusing to apologize and make it up to Andrew. His auntie was quiet, on edge that she'd set off her sister. He felt very alone.
Up in his room, after he did his homework, Andrew sat in his window staring down at the nailer's cottage. Growing up, he often sat there, wondering what the street looked like 200 years before when the nailer was busy making his nails and the smoke from his furnace curled upwards, meeting the clouds. Were mothers and their sons walking by telling their boys about how their fathers worked in the building trade, and needed the nails? How the nailer had no competition, therefore had a grand house up on the hill near the Lutheran church? Did the sons grow up wanting to be a nailer and have grand houses?
Was one of those boys the great-great-granddad to his own father, whom he'd never met? What did his father do now? Was he a builder, a sales clerk, or a doctor? His mother told Andrew little about him. Aunt Molly, well, she had told him all he knew now.
"Don't you dare tell your mum I've told you about him. She'd have a fit. You still want to know?"
"Yes, Auntie. Please." He was about six, or maybe he'd been five.
"Well, his name was William, but your mum called him Will. She didn't know when she met him that he was married, but he turned out to be the husband of a very wealthy woman on Jersey. Her parents were very very rich and they all lived in a palace of a house. Of course, Will told your mum he was miserable, no one in his wife's family respected him and expected that he continue the family business, which had him on the road five days a week. He'd once loved his wife a lot, but she wouldn't have children because it would ruin her figure. She was evidently very vain.
"Your mum was far prettier ten years ago than she is now, and Will fell deeply and quickly in love with her. I believe that. Your mum was cautious, only then because she knew he travelled a lot and she wanted someone closer. He did what he could to stay close to Belper for almost a month, but then his wife's family got suspicious and he disappeared. He wrote to me once. I was married to your Uncle Phillip, then. He asked me to tell Bernadette that he would never forget her. That she'd made him happier than he'd ever known, but he was married. He explained his entire situation to me, but I thought it best that it all remain a mystery. I told your mum I thought he was probably married and a cad and to leave it at that. A month later, she realized that you were on your way.
"She was extremely hurt by Will abandoning her. When your Uncle Phillip died suddenly and left me with huge debts, your mum and I found we needed each other too much to dwell on any one betrayal or loss. We agreed that you would be the one thing that made up for it all. And you have. One day, when you're all grown up, we'll see if we can find your father."
Andrew thought about that every time his mother beat him.
It was with his father that she was truly angry. But he could never say that. That would betray his auntie's confidence. And that confidence had given him all there was of his father. It was too precious to let go.
The next day, it rained. The class stayed inside instead of going out to the playground. Frank did not attempt to talk to Andrew, nor did he acknowledge Andrew when he tried to speak with him. One of the girls who fancied Andrew, thrilled by the fact that there was no one to take Andrew away, flirted with him, completely embarrassing him. Andrew's fleeting attempts at attracting attention, praying someone would save him, went unseen. When she told him she'd like to be his girlfriend, he mumbled something about his mother not allowing him to have girlfriends and bolted.
At the bottom of Green Street he saw the tall, thin figure of a man, his face covered by an umbrella, standing across from his home. Andrew knew it was the old man even before he turned to look at him. He continued to walk up the street, then stopped a few feet away, suddenly taken by a thought.
Perhaps this was his granddad. He had found out that his son had sired a child and was looking for Andrew everywhere. Maybe, the boy with him had been his brother! What if his father had fled his unhappy marriage and moved to Turkey? And that was why the old man was friendly with Frank? To find out if he was the lost child he'd been looking for! Why hadn't he thought of this before?
The old man stepped close to Andrew. "Do you live around here?"
"Yes, there." Andrew pointed across the way. "You asked me that before, but then I didn't know it was you."
"You know who I am, then?" The stranger smiled, pleased.
"My father's father?" Andrew's heart was beating so fast, soaring with desperate hope.
"Yes!" The old man put his hand over his mouth. "My grandson! It is you!"
"Granddad?"
"Yes! It is I. What do they call you… ?" He looked away a moment, which to Andrew felt like an eternity. "Andy, isn't it?"
"Yes, Granddad. Andy."
"I've come to take you home." The old man's face held such warmth and benevolence. Andrew was about to burst with joy.
"To my father?"
He nodded. "To your father. He will be so pleased to see you. The whole family will."
"I have a whole family? Oh, Granddad. Really?"
"Yes, I'll tell you all about them. But the aeroplane leaves from Heathrow tomorrow. We will have to leave now if we are going to make it. I have a hotel room near Paddington."
"But Mum. Auntie Molly." The lights were on in the kitchen and he knew his auntie was busy with supper.
"They've had you for ten years. It's time your father gets to know you, yes?"
The flicker of fear, the moment of hesitation melted into decision. He would go where a real family awaited him. The unknown, for which his mum and auntie had long prepared him to meet with trepidation and reluctance, was suddenly a welcome place.
"Yes, all right. But my clothes? I've got my school blazer and—"
"There is a suitcase full of clothes for you in the hotel. Have you ever been to London before?"
"Granddad, I've never even been in a taxi!"
"Then a taxi we shall take to Derby. Then a first-class coach on the train just for you."
"I'll need a passport. Won't I need papers or something? On television, when they—"
"Yes! Yes, my son. You'll have all of that. I have taken care of everything." The old man squeezed Andrew's shoulder, grinning down at Andrew. "Everything."
Andrew grinned back. "Is my family rich then, Granddad?"
"We are an old and wealthy family, my son."
"Yes, Auntie told me. You don't mind if she told me, do you? She's kept the secret from Mum all these years."
"Of course not. When you write to your mother and aunt, once you are settled, it will no longer be a secret. You can relax and be free."
Suddenly, Andrew realized that it was no longer raining and a taxi waited at the bottom of the street. It was dark, the streets glistened, his life was ahead of him and he was going to his father's home!
Of course, there was no father waiting, though there was a rich family on a huge estate in Turkey. Granddad told Andrew once he was on the aeroplane, strapped into a seat in first class 33,000 feet up in the air, that he would one day help him find his father. For now though, there was an ancient and revered family waiting just for him in a home far grander than anything he could imagine, where he would never feel lonely again.
Andrew realized then, too late, that the words his mum and auntie had bantered about that evening two days ago, "kidnapped" and "paedophile" now related to him. He told Granddad this, but the old man denied it. Andrew had been chosen. He was special. No one would ever touch him in that way; he was a sacred vessel. Everything the old man said was full of vagaries and obfuscations. Andrew couldn't get a straight answer. The long limousine ride lulled Andrew into a series of naps, each time waking him into the nightmare. They finally slowed as they came to a towering wall of pale bricks covered with climbing vines. Two men without shirts on and fabric wrapped around their heads pulled on the iron gate in the wall until it was open wide enough for the limousine.
When Andrew saw the great mansion, he still hoped that his father really was inside and that Granddad had just been playing around with him. Within were many other boys and girls, some near his age, some younger and older. They spoke many languages and dressed in white, from neck to toes. They wandered about freely, but they all seemed sad like the boy who'd died on the triangle, their eyes empty.
Granddad sat on the chair beside the large bed that would be Andrew's. Andrew changed into a white shirt and trousers and white sandals. Granddad watched, but was not curious. His stare was benign. Disinterested.
Andrew shivered, though the room was warm. "Why did you choose me? You had Frank Delaney."
"Yes, the boy who came to me. Frank was his name?" Granddad looked out the window to the bleak, rust and grey sunset, musing. "Frank. A hard boy. Old in his soul. He lacked the most important attribute. The essence for which we travel the world. The pure emanation. It was you all the while, Andrew. The moment I saw you, I knew."
Andrew felt emboldened by pride in having been chosen. No one had really noticed Andrew before, at least not to pick him out from all the others. And never before Frank Delaney. Perhaps this gave him power. He could survive this!
"What happened to him? The boy you were with. Did you kill him?"
Granddad laughed dryly. "Oh, no. Why would I have done that? He was a great loss." The old man got up and went to the window. "No, I didn't kill him, but I was at fault in a way. I was to bring him here in full essence, but I was too hungry. I took from him and could not stop myself. He was exhausted from my feeding, not watching where he was going. I was deeply upset by his passing. My tears were real. Once he was gone, there was nothing for me to do but wait for you."
"Do you even know if I have a father somewhere?" Andrew was scared, angry, and hopeful all at once.
"Oh, yes. I'd know it if you had lost him. Boys like you, growing up with over-protective single mothers, absent fathers, sometimes grow into angry, hard young men. Just as Frank will, though his father is in the house. Then it is too late. These boys meet the 'old man', as they inevitably call him, and hate him. Not you, young Andrew. You have kept the hope, a rich part of the essence. You will be prized." The granddad walked to him and placed his hands on his shoulders. "But you must retain your essence until you meet the mistress, so I will leave you. I've said too much already."
"I don't understand any of this. Don't go. Please. I don't want to be alone in here." He began to cry.
"I don't dare stay, young Andrew. I'd be too tempted. You are my penance, my find to make up for the losses I was so foolishly unable to protect from myself." The old man saw the fear in Andrew, his confusion. "You are not a prisoner, son. Look around. Meet some of the others." He went to the door. "Are you hungry?"
Andrew nodded, though he was more afraid than hungry. His stomach was a tight fist in his belly.
"There is more food than you can dream of downstairs. Go find the dining-room. Make friends. See all the toys and books and games available around the grounds. One day soon, you will wonder why you ever thought to leave." He waited a moment. "You are thinking you'd like to leave, aren't you?"
Again, Andrew nodded. There were no other thoughts in his head.
"And you're thinking of your mother, your aunt. What will become of them without you?"
Andrew looked away, his eyes aching, his face wet with tears.
"Soon you will not care. Find comfort in the knowledge that you will have no cares, and that you will be treasured far more than you ever were in that dingy mill town of yours."
Granddad left. Andrew found himself at the balcony with dry heaves, no food in his gut. He cried, wept until he ached all over. Then he crawled on to the bed and stared up at the canopy of gilded silk. He longed for the smells of home. The wet stone, moss, the musty cellar, a crackling fire of hickory and oak, and Aunt Molly's scones. Here, the dry air smelled of dust and peat, cinnamon and sage.
It was dark when the door opened and an old woman entered. She went to the bedside and sat down, stroking Andrew's hair. In the darkness, he whispered, "Mum?"
"I will be your mother, your father, your God, my son. And you will be my greatest joy. Lie still, remember all that has been your life, and feel the joy and pleasure that innocence brings. I will not cause you pain, or touch you. In turn, your fear will pass, your cares and longings will lessen."
Andrew tried to sit up. Her hand went softly to his chest. "No, Andrew. Trust me. This will be like a dream. Lie still."
He obeyed. The woman had a quality even more compelling than the granddad. Her eyes shone in the dark, the same pale blue, her pupils sharp pinpoints floating in the centre. She smelled of cedar wood and orange blossoms, though it was more like distant smoke from a smouldering fire than emanating from her. She put her hands over him, as if warming them on the heat that rose from him. He closed his eyes and the dream came.
Nightmares, really. First, he saw his mother, young and naive, silly and carefree. She went to the pub to drink ale with her girlfriends, until a tall, handsome man came in and broke up the girls. He cornered Bernadette and filled her full of flattery. She kissed the man she hardly knew and let him paw her right there in the pub. His hand went under her skirt and she was wet with desire.
The man walked her to his car and proceeded to take her. They were like two naked organisms, undulating and folding into and out of each other. After he was done with her, he told her he loved her. She didn't believe him. She didn't dare. They kissed passionately, he promised he would call on her, and then he dropped her at her parents' flat.
The next night, she found another man, and the next night another. None of them ever called for her, and none of them was around when she found herself pregnant. So, she began sleeping with her sister's husband Phillip, who had always fancied her more than the plain Molly. She claimed Phillip was the father. He killed himself rather than face the shame, and Molly. Poor Molly.
Phillip had mortgaged the house to the limit, had gambling debts and expense accounts for presents to the lovely young Bernadette that were begging payment. Molly lost the house, destitute, on the dole, but when her sister came crawling for help with the brat, Molly swallowed her pride and went to live with Bernadette in their parents' house. In the end, Molly thought, the baby boy could not have been Phillip's. The timing was off by almost three months. Phillip had just been another one of Bernadette's fools.
Then there was poor Aunt Molly; stealing from the people she cleaned house for, taking a ring here, a watch there. Nothing they could prove Molly had taken, things they could have easily misplaced. In the dream, Andrew saw her standing at her wardrobe, a box of booty in her arms, thinking of the life she'd have when she hocked it all and bought herself a flat of her own. Her antipathies for her bitter sister were evident in her wish that all that was Bernadette's turn to dross. That Andrew was more her child than Bernadette's and one day she would tell Andrew the truth. That his mother was a whore, not a secretary at Babington Hospital. She laughed then, deeply, loudly, without remorse.
The nightmare ended. The woman swooned, sated, as he awoke. He looked up to her. She had an aura of light around her that twinkled and pulsed. She sat down on the chair beside the bed and wept. Andrew sat up. In his mind, he thought to go to her, comfort her. She sobbed on. But he could not seem to muster the concern to move. He watched her until she went quiet.
"What happened to you? Why do I feel like this?"
She seemed to wake from a reverie, and then fixed him with her bright eyes. "He did not tell you?"
"The granddad? No, he just talked about essence and treasures. Was it me made you cry?"
The old woman rose up, took a few steps away. She thought a moment about what she might say, then said nothing. She opened the door.
"Please," Andrew said flatly.
"Oh, what's the harm." She returned to the bed. "You will know as soon as you talk with the other children." She sat down, leaned against the bedpost. "My son, do you see some of the uglier truths of your life now? Do you feel the sorrow in that truth?" She waited but Andrew remained impassive, silent. "I have lifted the veil of ignorance you have relied on all of your ten years. Do you not feel different for the weight of your innocence now gone into me?"
Andrew looked within. It was as dark and wet as the night the granddad had taken him, but there was no glistening.
"You are unlucky in that you are mine. I will always weep at your loss and the sweetness of my fullness. It confuses. In time, you will no longer be confused. You will just be." She laughed dryly, as the granddad had. "And to think that some of the silly human race rather reveres that state… being. They call it 'enlightenment' and spend a lifetime seeking to attain it." She rose again, chuckling, went to the door and smiled a smile like dice without dots. "Until tomorrow."
When the door shut behind her, Andrew looked at his hands, felt his face. They were the same as always. He had not changed, really. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would look and see if they had a library with any books on Turkey. He hadn't finished the one he'd left behind. Somewhere.