AT THE EDGE OF A LONG LONE LAND
2nd Instalment (a Short Story...)
If Charlie Smythe’s return home had caused something of a stir, Da’s return brought a whirlwind of whispers. I remember him arriving with a loud knock on the back door. On a night when the cold air came crawling through the cracks, icing over the windows and steaming our breaths as we lay in bed, there was a knock that became a bang, worming its way through my dreams and waking me up. I heard Mum hurrying down the backstairs. I crawled out of the bed I shared with my brothers, pausing to look that they were still sleeping. Wrapping a blanket around myself, I made me way to the window where I breathed a hole across the icy swirls on the glass and watched a shadow in the darkness slowly take form.
I knew him in an instant, of course, standing in the soft light of a silent moon that fell across the doorway at a slant. He stood locked in the shadows as the steam of his breath wreathed about his face while he shifted his weight from foot to foot. He appeared nervous, anxious, even as he stood silently shivering beneath the muffler and hat pulled low over his face. As I watched, he looked up and the light reflected off his strange, unmoving face, and I stepped back lest he should see me. I saw two black eyes—two holes lost in the darkness of the night—just as suddenly disappear as he turned his face away.
And then Mum was at the door, crying out and throwing her arms around him, and just as quickly pulling away—as though recoiling at the touch of him—a hand going to her mouth as she bit back a scream. Da’ pushed his way around her and she closed the door behind him with the silence of a whispered sigh.
I made me way to the edge of the stairs—mindful of the third riser and the insistent creak it gave underfoot—where I huddled in the cold and darkness, listening to the sound of Da’s voice as it rose out of the kitchen in a slur of words difficult for me to understand. Mum kept asking him to repeat himself. I noticed how his tone changed—and wondered that Mum didn’t—thinking he must be getting frustrated trying to make himself be understood. The tiny kettle on the stove whistled, and his voice faltered, as if the whistle were a reminder of where he was. I heard Mum say that it didn’t matter, not now that he was back.
But Da' didn’t sound convinced.
“I wish it t’were true, Tilly,” he said at last. “But I’ve seen the look on peoples’ faces. I’ve see how they try to hide when they see me. I can see it on yer own face—even now. Ye can’t hide that kind of shock, not when ye turn away from yer own man. It’s in the eyes; it’s always in the eyes.”
“I’ll never turn my face away from ye Jack.”
“No? I wish that were true.”
“Why don’t ye believe me, Jack?”
“Because of what I am under the mask.”
“Then show me,” Mum said softly. “I din’t marry ye ‘cause ye cut a dashing figure in yer uniform—even though ye did—I married ye for what was in yer heart. I married ye for the man ye were, and the man ye still are; I married ye ‘cause I loved ye Jack, an’ I still do. What do ye think’s happened to change that?”
There was a moment of silence, and I felt certain he’d removed the mask.
“This,” he said.
I thought about creeping forward and maybe pushing the swinging doors open an inch, but held back, fearful of what I might see and sensing the intimacy of the moment was the only thing that mattered.
“In sickness and in health, Jack,” Mum said in a voice that seemed to echo with tears. “I meant every word of it; for better or worse,” she added.
I could hear her push her chair aside; I could easily imagine her standing in front of him, reaching out and holding him, because she had a habit of holding you whenever you hurt yourself, and I wondered what lay beneath the mask.
There was a long moment of silence, and finally I heard Da’s tear stained voice saying, “Ah, Tilly, I can’t even kiss yer hands.”
“Yer with me, Jack,” Mum said. “That’s all that matters. We’ll take everything one day at a time.”
Da’ sat in the dark shadows of the pub as we came down for breakfast the next morning. I’d been unable to sleep; quick to tell the boys that Da’ was home. Robbie ran down the stairs as fast as he could, calling out to Mum that I was lying. David and I were quick to follow. Mum came out of the kitchen—the smell of fresh pasties filling the room with the swish of the swinging doors—and stood in silence, slowly wiping her hands. She looked at me with a sullen expression, and I wondered what the matter was.
“Tell them, Mum,” I said. “Last night. Tell them. I heard him.”
“Is he back, Mummy?” David asked, and she nodded slowly.
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked, afraid of what she’d say. “Is he all right?”
“Did he lose an arm and a leg, like Charlie?” Robbie asked, the excitement of having Da’ back clouded by the confusion of knowing there was something wrong.
“No,” I said quickly. “He’s not hurt like that.”
“He isn’t?” David asked. “But that’s not what the letter said. It said he was hurt. Ye told us he was hurt,” he added, looking up at Mum. “Ye sat us all down and told us,” he reminded her. “Remember?”
“Why don’t ye leave off bothering yer Mum and ask me yerself? She has work to do.”
“Da’?” Robbie cried out, and ran toward the sound of Da’s voice coming out of the shadows like something hollow and muffled. David turned, running to him, and I watched Mum wiping tears from her eyes as she ran into the kitchen.
“Why Da’, what’s happened to your face?” Robbie asked, stopping short, and then I turned to look myself.
Da’ fell on bended knees, pulling my brothers into his large arms. I could see his stooped shoulders shaking as he wrestled with a sob, and I watched Robbie pull away, touching the ivory mask that was Da’s face. Da’ had let his red hair grow, and it rested against his large shoulders, covering the mask for the moment.
He took a deep breath and seemed to gather up his strength as he sat in the chair with an effort. He turned toward me and I could see two glistening eyes staring out at me from behind the dark shadows of the mask. I turned away.
“Why do ye have a cane?” David asked, pointing at the stick hanging on the back of Da’s chair.
“I’ve lost part of my foot,” Da’ said, distracted.
“What part?” Robbie asked, looking down at it. “Which one?”
“Does it matter what part, or which one?”
“All that matters is that yer home,” I said slowly. “Isn’t that right, boys?”
“Ye won’t leave us again, will ye Da’?” Robbie asked, and Da shook his head, pulling the two of them onto his knee. He looked at me again, and once again I turned away.
“Don’t ye have a hug for yer dear old Da’?” he called to me, and I found myself saying I had pasties and the post to see to; if I didn’t do it, it wouldn’t get done.
“Jackie!” he called out after me, but I pretended not to hear him as I went into the kitchen, letting the swinging doors flap behind me and thinking I was shutting out the world.
Mum looked at me as if I were an intruder, and wiped her tears as she stood staring out of the window above the sink; she was a woman lost within the depths of her own sorrow.
Intense. I like how much is left to the imagination.