Jay, Lizzie and the Tale of the Stairs

  Chapter 14

  Poetry and a Home Visit.

  I had another flashback on Monday evening.

  I’m usually out playing football down the playing fields when the weather is good. And the weather was good. A bright sun stayed up late and a busy breeze kicked anything loose and light along our pavement and wobbled the aerials on the roofs of houses. The breeze also gave sounds and smells a gentle lift to our house. I could hear the shouts of footballers from the park and I could smell the kebab shop on the high street. No-one phoned or called to ask me out and the meeting with Donkers and his mate was still on my mind. I’ve got to admit, Donkers terrified me. I was lucky to get away with just a lump on the back of my head. What if he’d decided to really teach me a lesson? I thought of all the smirking faces as I walked quickly away from the wall of the Art block. What if they’d seen me beg for mercy? The imaginary scene gave me a rush of embarrassment so I quickly shut the door on them. But I did feel lonely, like all the world was against me. Dad had gone off to hospital again to see Mum and even Mr and Mrs Sweet next door had gone on holiday. At this moment I’d have given anything to have sat on a sandy beach in the warm sun watching the calm blue ocean.

  I wasn’t though. I was stuck here, at home, with no real friends, family or anybody I could really talk to anymore.

  Suddenly, I felt really sad.

  That’s when I smelled something familiar.

  It came drifting sweetly over the rooftops like a wisp of memory and didn’t so much fall away but circle once around me and then move on, over the garden fences and silent, parked cars to wherever it had come from.

  It was the smell of Albert’s pipe.

  It made me smile and walk around our small patio in search of it. But it had gone and I’d thought it strange that nobody I knew smoked a pipe. In fact, I’d never smelt one before until I’d met Lizzie’s Dad. The sudden smell of tobacco made me think that maybe Albert was somehow nearby. So I looked around the rest of the garden. I even poked about the house and my bedroom. When I found nothing I felt relieved but at the same time disappointed. I didn’t think about it too much. I closed the back door, sat on the couch in the front room and turned on the television. Stupid to imagine the smell of a pipe could travel decades.

  Then the vision came again.

  The setting sun was still bright and strong and streaming in through our front room window. I had closed my eyelids to see the red bits on the back of them because that happens when the sun shines on your face.

  I was in the small room once more, sat on the bed and staring at the small window high up on the wall. The tree was still there but now it was daylight and I could see a clear blue sky with crumbs of white cloud moving slowly across it. I could also hear birds singing outside. I felt a sudden urge to escape. To get away. I sat up and looked to my left, towards the small door.

  I saw that it was open.

  For a moment I didn’t move. I couldn’t believe that there was a chance of escape. Slowly I got off my hard bed and onto my hands and knees and cautiously moved towards it. I moved as if it might close at any moment. It didn’t. So I softly popped my head out.

  I saw what seemed to be a large kitchen. I also saw a stone floor with a wooden table and chairs and old wooden work surfaces. There were two windows in the room with small wilted plants on them and other old bits and bobs. There was the smell of stale cooking hanging in the air. And there was a door. An open door. As I looked I could see a breeze move the bushes outside.

  And I could hear voices!

  Why I felt scared, I don’t know. But I felt the urge to dart back into my small hole and stay frightened on my familiar bed.

  But I didn’t. Slowly, stiffly, I got to my feet. My back ached but I gently stretched myself and moved to one of the cold, stone walls. I flattened myself against it. Listened again. The voices were unfamiliar. Foreign. They were talking together in low conversation. Every now and then there was an explosion of laughter. There was more than one voice and one was a woman. I needed to see the faces of the voices I didn’t understand. I needed to see their expressions, expressions which might give me a clue to any decisions they might be making.

  I moved towards the door.

  I could just about feel the cool breeze on my face when the talking outside stopped. They were replaced by footsteps, drawing nearer. Suddenly I was terrified and again I felt the urge to run. Escape. Get away.

  I frantically looked around.

  But I was too late. A face had appeared at the door, the face of a young woman. She seemed friendly and she had shoulder length dark hair and wore some sort of headscarf. She had seen me, smiled at me. Although I didn’t hear anything I saw her red lips say ‘hello.’

  Then a male voice, stern and sharp. Commanding. Questioning. The girl’s smile vanished and she looked over one slender shoulder to see a man walking quickly towards us. The man didn’t smile. He had short fair hair, was stocky and strong. He wore worn boots that clumped on the flagstones outside. He had a thick piece of wood in his hand. And another man came behind him, looking similarly angry.

  The fear was choking me. I looked left and right then at the small door in the wall. The woman came nearer and held me by the shoulders and shook her head. ‘No, no’, I saw her say. Then the small man with the piece of wood shoved her aside and stood squarely in front of me.

  He was shouting.

  He was angry.

  I looked from his face to the heavy wood in his hands.

  Then back again.

  I jumped awake and I must have shouted as I heard a voice. For a few seconds I had to think hard about where I was and who I was. Then reality flowed in like sweet syrup and I sat up. The TV was still on and some game show host was interviewing a contestant and there was clapping and people laughing. I found the remote control and turned it off.

  In the silence I thought about what had just occurred. I knew that I hadn’t been dreaming. I was looking through the eyes of someone else. I understood that now. But it had been horrible. I was sticky on my brow and when I put my hand up it came away wet from sweat. My back was damp and under my armpits. I hadn’t sweated like this since I last played football. I realised that I was shaking a little and got up to get a drink of juice from the fridge. My legs were unsteady like I had run ten miles. And I felt panicked and anxious.

  What was going on? Who was this person I was crawling into when I was asleep? Whoever it was I wish I didn’t. The experience was a pretty horrific one. I felt what that person had been feeling. Saw what he saw (assuming it was a he). Had smelt what he smelt.

  I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  I felt a little better when Dad got home but Dad dragged in sadness and worry. Mum wasn’t well. A relapse it’s called, and she had been agitated and stressed. Dad said she had felt like life wasn’t worth it and she was going to give it up. He made himself a limp ham sandwich but he didn’t really feel like eating. He left half of it.

  I left him watching TV and wandered out into the cold of the evening. It was dark now and the roofs of houses and trees were quiet shadows. The odd car moved smoothly, slowly by on the road outside of our house and in the distance a car alarm repeated its electronic cry for help over and over and over. When it stopped the silence was total but then the whine of an ambulance or police car or whatever replaced that. It seemed that whenever I came out to our garden during the evening there would be sirens of some sort. Human life was full of drama it seemed, and the busy streets beyond our little back garden made me think about Mum and the horrible D Word again.

  I thought of Mum lying alone in hospital, sad, angry at how life was treating her.

  Then I thought of Lizzie’s Dad and how life was treating him.

  It seemed to me that being an adult was full of pain and worry. The siren had passed on in the middle distance and had faded away and I wondered who it was going to help. Was it the police responding to the car alarm earlier or was it an ambulance, called to the aid of an inj
ury? Someone old like the old man I’d seen in the hospital? Someone like Dad? Someone young like me? Would the ambulance, if it was an ambulance, be too late? Would it be unable to help like on the hospital programmes I sometimes watched on TV?

  The D Word was always lurking, could pounce on anybody, anytime, at any minute. No-one was safe.

  Not even my Mum.

  And I’d always thought my Mum was always going to be there. Indestructible. Like super-heroes or God.

  She wasn’t. Neither was Dad and nor was I. In fact, nor would Kyle, Beth or Mr Butler. It seemed unbelievable but it was true. Even for Lizzie’s family the D Word prowled like an eager substitute on the touchline, waiting for its part, wanting to get on with it.

  That’s when I felt a flood of fondness for the Raynors. They had chosen me to help them. Because I could. And if it meant bringing back someone who was close to them, someone that they missed and loved, then I would do everything I could to help.

  I knew how they felt. I was losing someone I loved too.

  Mum was out there somewhere in the night thinking of giving up the struggle. Like the assemblies at school said, life was precious.

  A slip and it was gone.

  I wanted to help someone keep it.

  I only wish someone could help me.

  I had Mr Butler for History again the next day. In his classroom I was sheepish and conscious of my new status as a geek. I sat myself away from the front. It was where I normally sat, in a kind of middle area, next to Tom Payne. This was a compromise for me. I wasn't a geek or teachers’ pet, sat near the front. And I wasn't trying to hide my antics and to keep up my street-cred by sitting at the back. Mr Butler didn’t seem to notice or mind.

  We quickly recapped on what we had learned about the start of the First World War, or Great War as it was also called. It was still difficult to understand as some of the class were getting the two world wars mixed up. Still, empires, monarchies and alliances were all mentioned and then we settled to learning about the simple day to day life of ordinary soldiers fighting in the trenches against the Germans in France. This time Mr Butler showed us some large black and white photographs of the haunted faces of men staring sadly at the camera smoking what may have been their final cigarette; of dead soldiers trampled like dropped food into mud; of rotting horses lying on their sides; of more men digging out a big gun in more mud; of trees blown to bits, what was left of them sticking out of mud like twiglets; and lines of grubby soldiers leaning against the wall of a dug-out holding their rifles tightly, either sheltering from shells, or squeezing every last drop out of life in a few moments of quiet memory.

  Before the order.

  Before the order to go ‘over-the-top’.

  Then we watched more DVD clips but this time in colour. Apparently they had been ‘coloured in’ by modern technology. It made a big difference although the action and drama played out on the screen still moved faster than real life. Mr Butler said it was because of the old cameras and film they were using to do the recording. The class was silent and interested as they watched.

  After this Mr Butler talked about the people the soldiers left at home, the families and friends, brothers and sisters, mums and dads. He showed some slides of black and white family photographs. To us they all looked older than old and a lot of us giggled and made some jokes. Mr Butler didn’t mind though. He had a good sense of humour and he laughed along with us.

  Secretly I was fascinated.

  The photos showed men dressed in suits, often thin, holding cigarettes. They showed women, stout, sometimes pretty, with hair long or tied up into a large ball on their heads. The women wore long grey skirts with white blouses, boys wore caps with matching tunics and knee length shorts. There wasn’t much smiling. I guess there wasn’t much to smile about. Mr Butler talked about the letters families received from ‘the front.’ How the men found it hard to explain what was happening to them in France. How many of them went mad because of the shelling and what they had seen. Many just couldn’t adjust to normal life.

  When the war finished, that is.

  Then Mr Butler passed around a poem. He read it while we followed. I kept it. Here it is.

  “Jack fell as he’d have wished,” the Mother said,

  And folded up the letter that she’d read.

  “The colonel writes so nicely.” Something broke

  In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.

  She half looked up. “We mothers are so proud

  Of our dead soldiers.” Then her face was bowed.

  Quietly the Brother Officer went out.

  He’d told the poor old dear some gallant lies

  That she would nourish all her days, no doubt.

  For a while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes

  Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,

  Because he’d been so brave, her glorious boy.

  He thought how “Jack,” cold footed, useless swine,

  Had panicked down the trench that night the mine

  Went up at Wicked Corner; how he’d tried

  To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,

  Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care

  Except that lonely woman with white hair.

  I didn’t get it at first but when Mr Butler explained the poem I felt a gush of sympathy and sadness for the old lady. I found myself imagining Mum as the ‘woman with white hair,’ sitting lonely, holding the folded letter.

  I imagined myself as the dead soldier. Her ‘glorious boy’.

  I read the poem at home at teatime as I waited, and hoped, that Elizabeth Raynor would visit me again.

  Lizzie didn’t come.

  Dr Meen did.

  I was home alone when the doorbell rang. I could see a ghostly figure in a coat and hat through the glass of the front door. It made me cautious when I opened it. I peered through the crack. Dr Meen touched the brim of his hat in greeting.

  “Good evening, young man,” he said with a cobbled-together smile, “and how are you today?”

  “Well, thanks.” I’ve got to say I was a bit surprised. Doctor’s didn’t turn up unexpectedly. Did they?

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as the doctor cleared his throat.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he said. Slowly.

  I felt stupid. “Oh, sorry. Yeah. Come in.”

  I opened the door and the doctor entered our hallway. He stood looking around.

  “Mmmm. Pleasant. Pleasant.”

  I didn’t realise how tall the doctor actually was. He was well over six foot tall and his hat nearly touched our dusty hallway light lampshade. He was skinny too. His legs seemed to just stick out of the bottom of the coat like two poles in trousers. He also smelled of cheap aftershave.

  But something wasn’t right. I knew that he was a polite man and really old-fashioned. But what was he doing here? And the way he stood and was taking everything in. It was like he was looking, searching for something.

  Was he checking that Dad was in?

  Why? What was he planning to do?

  These thoughts were stupid. It’s that girl and these dreams. But I’d thought I’d check.

  “Dad’s out at the moment.”

  Dr Meen jumped a little as I spoke. It was as if he’d only just realised I was there.

  “Oh. I see,” he said, smiling again, “but it’s you that I’ve come to speak to.”

  “Me?” I was surprised. It showed.

  “Yes. You. Just a little chat. Shouldn’t take long.”

  Suddenly a change. Dr Meen was insisting that we talk. He didn’t ask politely. He left me no choice but to agree.

  Dr Meen led the way into the kitchen. Seemed to know where it was. He shrugged off his coat and took off his hat. He gave them to me.

  “Do you mind?”

  “No.”

  I stood there not really knowing why he’d given them to me or what I should do with them. I decided to put them on the ki
tchen table.

  “Let’s sit and talk shall we?” Dr Meen gestured to one of the chairs placed round the kitchen table.

  So we sat and talked and Dr Meen sat crossed-legged opposite me.

  “These dreams, Jay,” he said brushing the leg of one trouser, “I’m a little, shall we say, concerned.” He looked at me. “Have there been any developments?”

  I thought about this. Something wasn’t quite right here. Something inside me was sounding alarm bells. Was it my special powers at work? It would have been a relief to tell someone everything, to ‘get it all off of my chest.’ But something was telling me to stop short, look around and take care.

  So I shook my head. “No. No, everything’s fine.”

  It seemed like it was an answer that Dr Meen didn’t want to hear.

  “Remember, Jay, I was present when you were born.” He looked at me and dark brown eyes fastened onto mine steadily. “I probably know you better than you know yourself.”

  I looked away.

  “Now then, these dreams. Are you positive nothing’s changed?”

  “No, Doctor. Nothing’s changed. Everything’s fine.”

  He looked at me long and hard. Seemed to look at me for evidence of lies. Then he nodded and got to his feet.

  “May I see where these dreams occur?”

  “My bedroom, you mean?”

  “If that’s where you dream, then yes.” Then he caught my look of doubt. “Oh, and there’s no need to worry, young man. I’m not in the habit of making advances towards young boys. If you don’t mind I’ll take a look on my own.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply. He just went. I followed.

  From the upstairs landing I saw Dr Meen look quickly around the room then focus directly on the spot where Lizzie’s 1946 stairway would be. I watched as he walked over to it, watched as he knelt down and softly touch the carpet, watched as he got to his feet and studied the ceiling, as he placed his hands flat against the wall.

  As he closed his eyes and listened.

  I didn’t want to see anymore. I came downstairs.

  Just as Dad came in.

  “Hello, Jay.”

  He came in and closed the door behind him, plonking his work bag on the floor.

  “Everything OK?”

  “Dad, Dr Meen is…”

  “…Just taking a little peek at Jay’s bedroom, Mr Webber.”

  The doctor was coming down the stairs, was halfway down. How I didn’t hear him I don’t know. “You know, dreams are fascinating, proof that our brain never really shuts down and, furthermore, proof of the existence of another form of reality.”

  Dad was surprised and confused. I was too.

  I stood aside to let Dr Meen go by into the kitchen to collect his coat and hat. Dad looked at me and frowned. I shrugged.

  The doctor already had his hat on and was buttoning up his coat when he came back up the hallway.

  “Well, our little chat was most interesting, Jay. Most interesting.” He looked from me to Dad. He smiled. “I’ll bid you good day then gentlemen. Nice to see you again, Mr Webber. I’ll be in touch.”

  With that he tapped the brim of his hat in goodbye and we stood aside to let him out. He closed the front door softly behind him.

  Dad looked at me again. “Well that’s was nice of him wasn’t it. Right! What are we having for tea?”