45
Sunday, 4 September 1966
Her mum had stuck up Michael’s map of the world on his bedroom wall, just as in their old house, so he wouldn’t miss his old room. But it made Michael think of it and so he missed it more. He could look out of the window and see his new swing; the present for no reason since he’d had his birthday and it was too early for Christmas. Michael was scared of swinging. He didn’t like it being outside his window.
There was no map on the wall now. Mary looked for the marks from the tape that had held it up, but couldn’t find it amongst all the scuffs and bumps on the wallpaper. Perhaps the map and Michael were made up and had never been there at all.
Her dad was cutting the grass. He had slung the swing over the top bar, making it too high for Michael. Even when it was in its proper place it was too high for him. Her dad was mowing stripes on the lawn. When he faced the house Mary waved, but he did not see her.
Michael’s fluffy sheepskin rug had gone. So had his toys and clothes. Mary stood where his bed had been in what was now thin air. The map was a waste because Michael couldn’t read.
She was not going to have to change her name when she went to secondary school. She had made her dad cross when she asked. He said to say she was an only child. ‘An only child.’ She practised the phrase to herself.
She would be going on the bus on her own. Michael didn’t know she would do this. He would have been frightened to be on a bus all by himself. She leant on his bedroom windowsill and looked out beyond the swing to her secret mosaic by the bushes. Her dad was pushing the mower too close to it. She prayed he wouldn’t find it. She prayed to Michael’s Angel.
An only child. There was only her. She did not have to share with Michael or anyone. No one at the new school would know she had once had a brother. No one would like him better than her.
Mary went out of Michael’s room and shut the door. In her own bedroom she dragged out the duffel bag from its new hiding place in the bottom of the wardrobe.
The Angel’s hands got larger every time she saw them. She laid them out on the carpet, the curving fingers pointing downwards. Slowly she scraped them along the floor. The fingers made a track on the carpet. When she did it the marks were the same. She could have angel hands. Like Michael. She waved one of the hands in the air.
‘Whoooh!’ She floated it in front of Michael’s face, making him fall backwards. ‘Scaredy cat!’ She laid the hand down on the floor palms up. Her voice caught her by surprise. She tried again.
‘Give me your marbles.’
No.
‘Now.’
I’ll swap some with you.
‘You don’t have anything to swap.’
You can have my nature collection instead… I have the marbles to swap. What have you got?
Mary scrabbled under her bed and found the sweet jar. She slithered backwards and banged her head on the iron bedstead; it really hurt. ‘I have these.’
That’s not fair.
Now that he was dead Michael heard everything she said and everything she thought. That was one of the bad things. Mary unscrewed the lid and sniffed inside. The marbles didn’t smell of Michael. The glass was hard and cold like the Angel’s hands. ‘One, two, three, four, five.’ That was enough. She grabbed two more and grouped them together. She became a snake to scare Michael. ‘Sssssssss!’ She returned the jar to its secret place.
The hands were praying. She had not left them like that. She opened them out again and looked about her. Her satchel was on her table from when she got home. She unbuckled it and tipped out the contents: her pencil case and the book she had borrowed from the school library – Charlotte’s Web, a story about spiders. Michael didn’t like spiders. At last her Trees of Britain collection. She put it in front of the hands.
‘I’ll swap you these. I collected all of them, which is fifty. You can swap for your marbles.’ She gathered up the marbles and tipped them into the hollow of the Angel’s right hand, keeping the album in her own hand.
There’s only seven marbles.
‘You can’t count.’
I can, up to twenty. That’s seven for fifty cards. Is that fair?
‘It’s fair,’ Mary whispered. Voices in the hall. Her dad must have finished doing the grass. ‘Michael, do as you’re told,’ she added in her mum’s voice. It wasn’t how her mum talked any more.
The little girl dropped the Brooke Bond tea album and the marbles into the duffel bag and lifted up the cold hands. She dipped her arm into the bag and placed them on top of the album. She tied the drawstring tight and secreted the bag in the wardrobe.
‘Come and get your tea,’ her dad shouted up the stairs.
Mary, I’m glad you didn’t run away after all.
Mary was on the landing. There was no one there. There was only her. Only.