Cathy looked down. By some miracle, both her hands were free. The music still played, but it was distant now, a solemn song at the back of her head – and of the music box, she could see no sign.
‘Where is it?’ Cathy cried. She leapt to her feet. In her panic she did not see that her arm was adult again. Something in her frenzy had brought it back. She whirled around, spied the music box sitting on the bed and snatched it up. The crank handle had been turning of its own accord. She seized it, stopped it from moving. The mice resisted, determined to dance on, but she held it fast and watched, with relief, as the old bedroom fragmented around her. The last thing she saw was Lizzy’s plaintive face, calling out. ‘Come back, Cathy. Cathy, come back. Don’t you want to play?’
The music stopped. Cathy cast the music box down and, when she looked up, she was in the gloom of the Emporium again. Kaspar whimpered in his sleep, words without form – though their meaning was clear. In his dreams he was three hundred miles away, trapped in a foxhole in the French earth.
She slid back into bed beside him. Now, at least, she knew where Kaspar was whenever he went away. He was twenty years away, in a world without Cathy and Martha, a world without death, a world in which the only wars were waged across the Emporium carpets – back when he and Emil were brothers-in-arms, and if he wanted to stay there, thought Cathy, and live those moments again–well, who was she to say otherwise?
As she lay down, Kaspar called out. He cried for his mama, and somehow his sleeping fingers found the music box where it had landed. Cathy heard that haunting melody again and wished him well on his way.
Stay away from him, Martha, her mother had said. Give him his peace. Lord knows, he’s earned it. Well, what about her? What had she earned across all those years? Three Christmases without a father. Three birthdays. One thousand nights of going to bed and folding her hands and saying her prayers. Sometimes she had dreamed about him. She’d written little notes, tied them to the leg of a pipe-cleaner bird and hoped it might somehow flutter all the way to France. All that had to count for something, or what was everything for?
Martha strained with the bamboo cane in her hand; she strained too hard, and it snapped. No matter – she would just start again. She had resolved that she was going to finish his gift today, and nothing was going to stop her. Accordingly, the Wendy House floor – for it was this that she had designated her workshop – was itself a battlefield, littered with the carcasses of her past attempts. This morning her frustration was mounting. She did not want to give up.
The principle was simple, but only as far as every Emporium toy seemed simple on the surface. A steam train, built from a frame of bamboo, would hurtle along until it crashed headlong into a wall. The resultant explosion would crumple the bamboo in such a particular fashion that, when it sprang back into being, it would now be a locomotive headed in the other direction. In that way, the train could bounce back and forth between two workshop walls all day long. Imagine the games that could be played! Martha thought – but then, upon seeing the wreckage spilled around her, her heart sank. Ambition, Papa Jack had said, was only the first step to producing a perfect toy. After that, you had to have art.
It was, she reluctantly decided, time to get help.
Her mother would not be any use. Papa Jack would be sleeping, so Uncle Emil it would have to be. She found him in his own workshop, whittling yet more toy soldiers out of a great trunk one of the Emporium’s foresters had delivered at summer’s end. His favourite toy, the Imperial Kapitan, was watching over him as always it did.
‘It doesn’t work,’ she said, depositing the tangle of canes and cotton twine at his feet. ‘I know what it’s meant to do, so why won’t it … do it?’
Emil, who had been too engrossed in his own work, looked up. This was a sentiment he had known all of his life. He set down his lathe, moved aside the paints and pots of varnish, and considered the concoction Martha had brought.
‘Let me see,’ he began, and sat cross-legged beside her. He lifted the mess, rearranged the canes and joists until it took the form of a locomotive again. She had planned a miraculous design, but it was little wonder she had not made it work. A thing like this took a lifetime’s nuance – yet he found himself inordinately proud that she had envisaged it. She was, without doubt, an Emporium girl.
‘It’s for my papa,’ said Martha as Emil continued to fiddle.
‘I see.’
‘To make him better.’
Emil remained silent, working out a particularly knotty joint.
‘What do you think is wrong with my papa, Uncle Emil?’
Emil whispered, ‘I don’t think I could ever understand.’
‘I thought a toy would help. It’s what Papa Jack says. A toy can’t save a life, but it can save a soul. Well, my papa’s alive, but …’
‘There,’ Emil said, thankful to be bringing the conversation to an end. He set the toy down and now, when Martha looked, it seemed sleeker and more crisply defined than ever. The key in its back would set it running. Martha turned it and watched it fly. Soon, it was hurtling toward the naked wall, its whistle (Martha had not thought of a whistle; it must have been Emil’s addition) trilling all the way. She rose to the tips of her toes in anticipation. The train bore down on the wall, there came an almighty crash – and the next thing she knew, the canes had concertinaed, parts fanning out and twisting around. An instant later, the threads binding it all together grew taut, contained the explosion, and the flying parts collapsed back into place. Now, just as she had hoped, the locomotive had reassembled itself, facing in the other direction. It came screaming towards her. She threw her arms around Emil and gushed out her thanks.
As Emil watched her leave, he felt that strange longing again, the one that had been plaguing him ever since Cathy brought Kaspar home. How he hungered to go up there and hold his brother’s hand! How he hungered to show him the Long War, to settle down with Kaspar and make mindless battle across carpets, floors and aisles. And yet – something always stopped him, something always held him back. Whatever it was, it would not permit him to sit at Kaspar’s side, so he sank back to his workbench, picked up his lathe, and continued his work. Sometimes, it was the only thing that could bring him peace of mind.
With the locomotive cradled in her arms, Martha burst through the bedroom door.
Inside, it smelt of the bedpan and sour milk. Her papa was upright in bed, buttressed by pillows on every side. In his lap, a papery hand, ridged with veins, was turning the handle of the music box; occasionally, as the mice danced, his lips twitched with a smile. Sirius was lying across his feet, guarding his shrunken legs. He eyed her warily, judging if he ought to let her near.
She had decided that she would be strident. And so, ignoring the smell, ignoring the growling of the dog, she strode to the edge of the bed and held up the train. ‘Papa, it’s for you!’
Kaspar remained as he was, mindlessly turning the crank, but Martha would not be deterred. She set the train down and watched with mounting glee as it exploded against one wall, reassembled itself, and then exploded against another. She watched the volleys three times, cheering with every collision, before she turned back to her father. And still Kaspar remained, lost in the melody and whatever cherished landscapes the box was creating.
He wasn’t even in the room, Martha realised. Wherever he was, it was not here.