Short Lived

  ‘Why won’t he come back?’

  Lolly screamed that at me, you know. Last week, just as kind old Mr Woods from next-door brought us flowers. Oh, God, Michael – it was awful... I’m certain the poor man heard my heart shear in two as she cried and screamed, wanting to know where you were, because Daddy must be somewhere, so where were you?

  And I couldn’t answer her, our own daughter. Right when she needed me to wave my magic wand and happily-ever-after us back together... I couldn’t even move. I dropped Mr Woods’ beautiful flowers on the doormat and just cried. I can’t do all this without you, Michael; I can’t live without you...

  I don’t know how to make it better, and that’s what mothers are supposed to do! And I can’t. It’s like midnight has come and suddenly I’m not all-powerful anymore – the spell has broken with my heart. I just feel so alone. The world is pitching back and forth; I can’t slow it down to think, to stop it from whisking Laura away from me...

  Midnight’s come alright, Michael. The clocks all stopped when you were taken away from us. But that’s reality, isn’t it? Sometimes little girls get lost; sometimes a rabbit-hole breaks your neck.

  And sometimes princes fall from ivory towers.

  *

  That damned phone again – why was it always ringing, just out of reach until the last second? Morris had been busy in the kitchen, cutting the stems of the roses for Lily’s vase and waiting for his tea to cool. Red roses, not white. Lil had always joked that white roses made her feel like painting them, just like Alice – paint them full of passion and love, until they turned red as jam.

  Thinking of Alice reminded him of the surprise he’d gotten a couple of days ago, in the garden – and at eighty-three, Morris reflected, surprises were harder to come by. He’d gone out to enjoy the sunshine, inspect the flowers – spring was coming, borne in by smatters of early cherry-blossom drifting over the back hedge like fine confetti... Lily’s favourite time of year.

  The gardens of the street were unusual for a set of shabby-grand detached houses. The fences between each one reached just below shoulder level, mimicking the traditional layout of terraced houses – Lil had always joked that the architect must have been relatively new at his trade, confusing designs in his eagerness. It gave a nice, open effect though, almost as if you could hop from garden to garden and the lives inhabited there. The only downside was that it also gave Mrs Gunney far too much opportunity to busy-body. Morris had been wondering what was keeping her so occupied over these last couple of weeks; he had a suspicion that it was ghoulishly intruding upon grief-stricken Mrs Winsor...

  And that was when he had heard it.

  ‘Lily!’

  A sharp, desperate shout from next-door. Morris’ heart had shuddered to his mouth – had time stopped for a second? If he looked up, would he find Lily on the porch step, waiting to call him for tea, back from Wonderland?

  And then the cry came again, and Morris had realised his mistake with a visceral, plunging sensation.

  ‘Lolly!’

  He hadn’t really registered their presence when he’d stepped outside; but, as he finally looked up and over the fence, he saw the freshly-widowed young woman from next door, half-kneeling on a scruffy blanket, surrounded by colouring books. And, upon following her wretched gaze, Morris had glimpsed a tiny figure sprinting in through the back door, a mass of blonde curls and woolly jumper, trailing a love-battered brown bear in one hand as she disappeared in a whirl of evident emotion.

  Something had told Morris that it was not just the whimsical mood of a six-year old that whipped the little girl at lightning speed back inside the house.

  Alice Winsor had watched her child run from her with a frantic, hopeless slumping of the shoulders, wrapping her arms around herself as if to keep her emotions from spilling out into the wilderness of the garden. Then she had looked up suddenly, aware of being observed.

  She had forced a smile and, remembering it now, Morris’ conscience cracked; he recognised that smile – it was the same one he had worn every day for the last however-many years since he lost Lily.

  Now, with Lil fresh on his mind yet again, he recounted the episode to Jonathon across the miles, through that damned useless machine – and his resolve to try and offer at least some comfort to the poor young woman next-door strengthened with every word.

  ‘She apologised – apologised – for their shouting interrupting me. Me. Poor young woman’s got enough on her plate without worrying what I think. Lord, she looked so upset. How do you tell your little ‘un that her Daddy’s never coming back?’

  Jonathon’s murmur of agreement was lost in the tumult of Morris’ thoughts.

  ‘They call her Lolly, you know – that little girl, Laura.’ A silly nickname, I know, Alice Winsor had smiled her apologetic smile again. It had vanished in embarrassment when Morris told her how he’d mistaken it for his wife’s name. ‘I think she worried she’d upset me further, reminding me of Lil when she called after the little ‘un.’

  ‘You’re right, Dad, it must be awful – I remember how hard it was to be told about Mum and I was a grown man. But...’

  Morris wasn’t listening.

  Smiling gently, he had wiped the mortified sorrow from Alice’s face, telling her with kindly perfect words – words he knew must have come from Lily, because he had never been so self-assured before – that it was he who was sorry. He knew all too well what it felt like to lose your true love; to stay behind and pick up the shattered pieces of the life you’d built up towards the sky together.

  It must be hard for your little girl – for Laura.

  Her eyes had teared and suddenly it all spilt out of her, tumbling across the garden fence into Morris’ comforting presence: how Little Lolly wouldn’t speak, or play, or smile...

  I suggested the swing – she seemed bored of colouring and I thought... It was stupid. Michael – my husband – built the swing when we first moved in; he got up before dawn, so it’d be ready for Lolly when she woke up. He told her fairies at the bottom of the garden made it for her, so that she would feel like the new house was okay – Michael always did things like that; always created little stories, devised treats and treasure hunts to make her laugh...

  ‘Dad? Are you listening?’

  Morris found that his slippered feet had walked him towards the site of his memories, back to the kitchen sink, the roses and the window overlooking the backyard. Across the fence, away into the hazy sunset dripping shadows across the Winsor’s garden, he could see the towering apple tree that stood sentry against the advancing dusk. A traditional rope swing with a grainy wooden seat hung down from one outstretched bough, swinging a little in the breeze.

  Lily used to tell him that was the tree where Alice listened to her sister reading, daydreaming against the base of its knotted trunk about white rabbits, caterpillars, croquet... She would have loved Michael Winsor’s fairy story.

  But what use were daydreams now, when the tree seemed to have lost its adventure, radiating only sadness?

  ‘Look, I know you like to fix things, Dad; it’s what you’re good at. But people don’t always mend the same way – you really shouldn’t get involved.’

  Jonathon’s adamant tones broke through this time, as strident as a megaphone booming across a quiet afternoon. Morris sighed heavily, turning his attention back to the kitchen and reality.

  ‘I know, son – but your mother –’

  ‘Mum’s not here, Dad. You just have to let them grieve by themselves.’

  Morris felt his jaw tighten involuntarily, remembering Alice’s overwhelming sorrow and the little girl – Laura, Lolly – disappearing into the back porch like a shadow in the night, shoulders shuddering with sobs. He knew exactly how that sort of grief felt. But perhaps Jonathon was right; perhaps he was being an old fool. What good could he possibly do when that poor family’s whole world had been ripped apart by a nightmare?

  Reluctantly, he turned the conve
rsation to something else.

  But as Morris shifted himself away from the sink, his gaze alighted on the roses once more. Maybe he should paint Lily some white roses next week... Paint them full of passion and love...

  Lily. Alice. Lolly.

  Fairies.

  Stories.

  And suddenly he had an idea.

  *

  Dear Michael,

  I’ve tried everything now. Colouring, the park, conspiring with Willoughby Bear to make chocolate button cupcakes... But “everything” is touched by your memory and Lolly... Neither of us can bear this emptiness.

  And then an amazing thing happened.

  Mr Woods from next-door, who brought me the flowers that night – well, he saw us last week, trying to act normally in the garden; stupid idea really, Lolly just got upset and so did I... But then I saw Mr Woods over the fence. I thought I’d upset him too, at first – he had such a strange look on his face. But... did you know he lost his wife? She was called Lily – when I shouted Lolly, he told me he thought it was her. He said they were married for sixty years, Michael. They must have felt they’d be together forever, just like us... Does it hurt more to have all those memories? Or to have the ‘what-ifs’, like I do?

  Perhaps that’s why he understands though; he didn’t try to advise me, or boost me up, like everyone else. He just nodded and listened – and then, the next day, he brought Lolly a book.

  Alice in Wonderland. It’s beautiful, Michael – you’d have loved it. Mr Woods said it belonged to his wife, that she read it to their children when they were Lolly’s age. He handed it to Laura, very solemn, but almost twinkling at her with kindness... He told her his wife, whose name was a bit like hers, had always wanted more children to read her book. His wife liked to make up stories, play games... When he talked about her, so full of love and pride – well, she reminded me of you, Michael. I think you two would have gotten along. And this book... All these pictures of such a vibrant, incredible world, where anything can happen – some of it bad, but most of it so full of life: the one thing we lost, when we lost you...

  Lolly can’t stop staring at it.

  She thinks that’s where you’ve gone, Michael.

  To Wonderland.

  She says you’re there; fighting the Jabberwocks that frighten her at night, playing croquet with the Queen and Mr Woods’ wife, eating jam tarts and bread and butter and oysters and lollipops that look like roses... And she keeps asking if she can see Mr Woods again soon, because he knows about Wonderland too, this magical place that you’ve gone to. She says she needs to ask him a question...

  It’s a very important question, Mummy – it’s about Daddy in Wonderland.

  Perhaps I should be worried, scared... I used to think that book was mad. But she’s talking to me again, Michael – telling me all your adventures in Wonderland.

  And, when I listen, everything suddenly doesn’t hurt as much.

  *

  The phone rang, the usual drill – and Morris Woods ignored it. He even contemplated removing his hearing aid to better avoid the temptation of answering it.

  He did feel a little guilty; Morris knew it would be Jonathon, checking in, checking up – he was pleased that his children cared enough to keep checking. Morris had never truly realised, before these days without Lily, how infinitely, fantastically important his children really were.

  And now there was another child in his mind, becoming just as valuable.

  Laura – Lolly.

  She was the reason he was ignoring the phone now; her – and her mother. She was the reason he had walked an extra mile across town, when he went for a fresh bunch of flowers for Lil’s vase; down to the Front and along the pier, stopping at every sweet shop and taffy stand – gathering supplies.

  She was the reason he had made a list – and the reason he was now sat in front of his worn-out old computer, one hand clutching the mouse for dear life, trying to comprehend the complicated workings of e-bay.

  Morris wasn’t a complete novice. He knew how to order shopping from Sainsbury’s and how to send e-mails. And he was a whizz at playing FreeCell, garnering a game-record he was quite proud of. Before Lil became sick, they would often play Hearts together, inputting silly names from the Alice books for their simulated opponents, themselves always the King and Queen. If the computer played a hand Lil didn’t like, she’d crow ‘off with its head!’ glibly.

  After she passed, Morris found a new game, too afraid of the memories glaring from the screen to go back to Hearts, but too afraid to forget her if he abandoned the computer altogether.

  So he wasn’t completely technophobic... But, admittedly, e-bay was something new. He’d watched Jonathon a couple of times, mainly for the novelty of learning a different computer trick, but never really anticipating he’d need it. Everything he and Lil could ever want they could buy in town, or down at the Front, only a twenty minute walk away...

  Except now his list called for a number of things that he would struggle to find even in the quirky old haberdashery and wool-shop off the main street – although he had been surprised at how easily the few charity shops in town had supplied him with a good number of hats. Tentatively clicking at what looked like the right link, Morris suppressed a smile.

  Sweets, hats, e-bay...

  It was probably a good thing he’d ignored the phone; he would never be able to explain to Jonathon what he was trying to do.

  And all because of that little ‘un next door.

  She had been waiting for him, towards the end of last week – stood in the garden with her mother, Lily’s precious book carefully hugged to her chest and her sidekick bear crooked in the other elbow. Morris had seen them from the window; he’d been heading out to change the bird-water – Lily had been very particular about that when spring arrived, with the nests a-building and the babies a-chirruping. She had been hoping for the arrival of a Dodo one day, Morris knew.

  But he’d barely gathered up his watering can before little Laura was there at the fence, peering over – and talking.

  Talking to him.

  ‘Mr Woods?’

  He had smiled at her, approaching the fence softly, as if she were a little wild animal that would easily startle. Lolly had looked back over her shoulder, seeking her mother and Alice Winsor nodded encouragingly, absently stroking those blonde, haystack curls. You could see the strong resemblance between them already, Morris reflected.

  ‘I wanted to say thank you – for the book. It’s lovely.’

  ‘You’re welcome, flower. Lily would have been pleased you like it so much.’

  Again, Lolly had glanced at her mother, uncertain; the bear slid into a tight stranglehold. Alice Winsor had smiled at her, then at Morris, wanting him to understand.

  ‘It’s okay, Laura, you can ask Mr Woods.’ The young woman cleared her throat. ‘She has a question she’d like to ask you – about... Wonderland.’

  ‘Is that where Mrs Woods is?’ The words blurted out of Lolly’s mouth, her big eyes solemn and earnest. Morris found himself smiling sadly.

  ‘Well, I think so, flower.’

  ‘My Daddy’s there too.’ Laura had paused and Morris remained silent; he could tell something was coming, something big – something her mother didn’t know either, waiting anxiously with him for the revelation. ‘Mr Woods... Do they have lollipops in Wonderland? Real lollies – like me?’

  The mouse hovered over the item he wanted, the cursor trembling a little as Morris tried to collect himself, his memories, his emotions. He hadn’t known how to answer the little thing, nor her mother; her question was so unutterably heart-breaking. Words had failed him – he wondered if they might have even failed Lily, had she been there; that poor little girl missed her father so much more than answers and words could ever possibly set right.

  But later, he had realised.

  Perhaps the time for words had passed – Morris had always been better at action anyway: doing, being, living...

/>   So he had made his list, started gathering his tools, fired up the computer – even ignored the phone. He would call Jonathon back later; would spend all night mastering e-bay if he had to.

  Because right now, old fool or not, Morris had hearts to mend.

  And once again, Lily and her book had shown him the way.

  *

  Darling Michael –

  It’s a miracle. I didn’t think those could happen anymore, not without you – because how could miracles exist in the same world that took you away? But this morning... well, there’s no other way to describe it.

  I’d barely slept, again – although not from Lolly’s screams and cries in the night anymore. She hasn’t had nightmares since Mr Woods gave her his wife’s book, since she learnt about Wonderland. He’s helped us so much, Michael, in his quiet, unassuming way – Lolly talks endlessly now, about him and his wife, about all Alice’s adventures... Even about you. I was scared she would never speak again; she’s still not quite the same. Few smiles light her up like they used to. But then, I guess no smiles light me up either.

  And I can’t forget her question, the one she asked Mr Woods last week – whether people could go to Wonderland, whether there were “Lollies” there. He knew what she meant, Michael, as much as I did. And I knew she missed you, how could she not? You’re her hero, her Daddy... But she wants you back, enough to follow you to Wonderland, although she has no idea what that really means. I think, for Laura, it’s all a story that will end happily when she wakes up.

  I woke up the day you died – I guess that’s why I don’t sleep anymore.

  God, Michael, I’ve worried so much about how to explain to her that she can’t go to Wonderland too, that you’re not part of a story... That our lives are here now, while you’re...

  But then – this morning, in the kitchen, stirring Lolly’s porridge, I pulled up the blinds and glanced out absently. And it was like you were there, I don’t know how... But it’s exactly the sort of thing you would do, just for Laura, exploding her dreams into glorious technicolour – telling her, telling us both, that it will all be okay.

  The garden was Wonderland, Michael. I know how crazy that sounds, but it was. There were patchwork rugs in the middle of the lawn, covered with numberless roses and jam tarts, glistening jelly in the morning light. Different hats – top hats, sun hats, caps, trilbies – studded the bushes, the bench, the trees. There were croquet hoops and balls and mallets, and sticking up out of the ground everywhere were bunches of those huge, sugar-striped lollipops and candy-canes you can get by the beach, gathered up with colourful ribbons and clumped together everywhere, a tea-party of sweets.