A Mother's Love: An Exclusive Short Story Read online

  Huxley buckled Bruno into the passenger seat of the Land Rover then set off up the farm tracks to the fields. It was a warm afternoon. The sun was as bright as molten gold, shining radiantly onto the woods and farmland below. Huxley pointed out all the birds that crossed their path, and every time he saw a hare, he exclaimed “Fred Hare” with relish. After a while Bruno was copying him and shouting “Fred Hare” at the top of his lungs, sending the startled animals leaping into the undergrowth.

  At last they saw the cloud of dust in the distance and then, as they approached, the gleaming green metal of the combine, glinting sharply in the sun. A tractor and trailer waited nearby for the combine to put out its arm to unload its grain. Huxley pulled up and climbed out of the vehicle. He lifted Bruno onto the hood and stood hands on hips as the combine rumbled past like a metal dinosaur. “Wow! It’s so cool!” Bruno shouted over the noise. “Can I go on it, Grandpa?”

  Huxley waved at the driver. “When he comes around again,” he replied. The child gave a shiver of excitement.

  They both watched with equal fascination. Huxley, because it was a relatively new machine and he was interested to see how quickly and efficiently it cut the wheat; Bruno because he had never seen one before, except in photographs, and it was bigger and louder than he could ever have imagined. At length it put out its arm and the tractor rattled across the stubble to ride along beside it as it unloaded its wheat.

  “I’m going to drive a tractor one day,” Bruno announced, jumping off the Land Rover.

  “Good, we always need enthusiastic tractor drivers,” said Huxley. “Right, it’ll come round now and you can climb up.”

  When the combine reached them, Huxley took his grandson’s hand and led him across the field. The beast’s roar was deafening, its breath hot and furious, and the child cowered a moment against his grandfather’s legs. “You’ll be all right with Peter,” Huxley shouted above the clamor. He lifted him onto the ladder and Bruno climbed up and into the cabin, where Peter, a rugged, bearded farmer with kind eyes, was ready to help him in.

  Bruno’s excitement at being in a real combine soon superseded his fear and he grinned broadly and waved at his grandfather. Huxley waved back and smiled fondly as the small figure in the cabin disappeared up the field in a cloud of dust. As the combine huffed and puffed through the wheat, Robert’s four-by-four appeared through it, approaching up the track.

  He drew up beside his father’s Land Rover and climbed out. “Mother told me you were here.”

  “He’s having a whale of time in there.”

  Robert shielded his eyes against the sun and watched. “I bet he is.”

  “Celeste came down with a cake.” Huxley nodded pensively. “That mother of yours is a shrewd old bird.”

  “I thought there must be a method to her madness.”

  “Celeste just needed to see beyond herself, that’s all,” said Huxley wisely.

  “I think she’s growing fond of Bruno,” said Robert. “I certainly am.”

  “She needs to keep herself busy. Moping about the house all day will only make her more depressed. A brood of children is what she needs.” Huxley always had a knack of saying what everyone else thought but were too polite or timid to articulate.

  “You’re right, of course, though I wouldn’t dare broach the subject. It’s a painful one.”

  “Life goes on, Robert. One has to accept things and move on. Life is a harsh school of learning, but one mustn’t get stuck in the ruts, but rise to the next challenge. Jack brought us all immense joy and we will never forget him. But we have to accept that he completed his task here on earth and was called home. We’ll all meet again one day, but for now, we have to get on with whatever we have to do down here. Jack taught us valuable lessons, he certainly taught us all a great deal about love, but his death is also a lesson in acceptance. Celeste has to learn to let him go.”

  Robert put his hands in his pockets. “I’m not sure five days with Bruno is necessarily going to crack that one, Dad.” The combine roared past them and Bruno waved excitedly from his glass cabin. Peter waved, too, and Huxley and Robert waved back.

  “I think you’re underestimating the lad,” said Huxley, smiling at the boy. “The innocent joy of a child is infectious—puts the world into perspective. You don’t have to be an old codger like me to notice that.”

  Eventually, the combine drew to a halt once again and Bruno descended the ladder like a monkey. Any fear he might have had initially had vanished and he now felt as powerful as if he had been riding a T-Rex. “That was awesome, Uncle Robert!” he exclaimed, eyes sparkling. “Thank you, Grandpa.”

  Huxley ruffled his hair. “I’m sure Peter enjoyed having some company. It can get a little lonely up there on one’s own.”

  “Right,” said Robert. “Teatime, I think. Are you hungry?”

  “Not really,” Bruno replied. He climbed into the back of his uncle’s car.

  They drove down the farm tracks towards home. The light was mellowing as the sun made its slow descent. The fields looked as if they had been baked to a soft orange hue. A pheasant ran ahead of the vehicle, not sure which way to turn, seemingly oblivious that it could fly, until it finally leapt for its life into a blackberry bush. As he wasn’t hungry, Robert decided to show his nephew the rest of the estate. He’d been up to the woods with his grandfather and onto the farm that first day, but he hadn’t seen the lake or the family chapel where Jack had been laid to rest alongside other members of his family.

  He drove through an avenue of plane trees. On the right was the lake, full of geese, moorhens, and wild ducks. The water shone like pink glass in the early evening light and midges and mosquitoes hovered above its surface in clusters. Somewhere, far off, a cuckoo hooted.

  The chapel was an old brick-and-flint church, built in the seventeenth century by Robert’s ancestors. It was tradition that every family member was buried there. Robert found it slightly unnerving to know exactly where he’d end up, although it was a comfort to know that he’d be laid to rest beside his son. “Can we go inside?” Bruno asked.

  “If you like,” Robert replied. “Celeste and I got married here, as did your grandparents and parents.”

  “Mummy and Daddy got married here?” Bruno asked.

  “Yes, before they went to live in Australia.”

  Bruno got out and pointed at the graveyard. “Jack’s here,” he said.

  “Yes, Jack’s buried here. His is the grave with all the flowers. We make sure he has flowers all the time.” It was the only plot with any flowers at all. Robert wondered at which point one was supposed to stop.

  They wandered up the path into the chapel. It was cold and smelt of the ages. Bruno didn’t spend much time inside, he was more interested in playing among the gravestones. He seemed to be making a game of leaping over the headstones. While he amused himself, Robert stood beside Jack’s and gazed down at the grass. It was inconceivable to imagine his child’s body lying in the earth. His father had a strong belief in the afterlife. Robert wasn’t sure. Right now he wanted to believe more than anything in the world.

  He felt Bruno’s hand in his. He stared down at the earnest face of his nephew. “Don’t be sad, Uncle Robert,” Bruno said.

  “I miss him, Bruno,” he told him. “He was my boy.”

  Bruno looked as if he was about to say something important but thought better of it. “I’m hungry now, Uncle Robert,” he said instead, and Robert found himself wondering what the child had been about to say and why he had chosen not to.

  They arrived back at the cottage in time for supper. Robert was surprised to find Celeste had let her hair down. It fell in gentle waves over her shoulders, like it had done in the old days when Jack had lifted it like a curtain to whisper into her ear. She smiled. “What have you been doing, Bruno?”

  “I went on a combine. It was awesome!” he exclaimed.

  “You must be hungry.”

  “I’m thirsty,” he said, walking past her to help hims
elf to water from the tap. He now knew where everything was and didn’t feel shy about making himself at home.

  “Hello, darling,” said Robert to his wife. “You look pretty.”

  “Thank you,” she replied. “I’ve baked a lasagne for dinner. I hope you like lasagne,” she said to Bruno.

  The child shrugged. “Sure,” he said noncommittally.

  “Do you want to call your mother?” Robert asked.

  “Okay,” Bruno replied. Robert gave him the telephone.

  While Bruno told his mother about all the exciting things he’d been doing on the farm, Celeste and Robert chatted about their day. Celeste told him about the cake she had made and that she had taken it down to his parents’ to share. He told her about the old colonel, his most demanding customer, who had complained that the bottles he had bought were corked. Then, as they paused, they heard Bruno’s voice change. It went from high and excited to low and anxious. “I haven’t, Mum. I promise . . . no . . . I know . . . yes, and I won’t . . . I promise.” They caught eyes, both silently wondering what he was talking about.

  They decided to play taboo, a game in which you had to describe things without saying certain key words. Bruno was extremely good at it, as Jack had been, and soon the three of them were laughing. Robert and Celeste exchanged looks every now and then, both remembering with fondness the times they had played with their son. Robert was surprised to find that the moat of grief which his wife had allowed to cut them off from each other was gradually subsiding. Celeste was slowly becoming herself again.

  That night, Celeste bathed Bruno and helped him into his pajamas. Then she read another story which he had chosen from the shelf in Jack’s bedroom. They sat on the bed, snuggled up, while Robert watched from the doorway, glass of wine in hand, a misty-eyed look on his face. Then Bruno shifted down the bed, holding his bear against his chest. He said good night. Celeste bent down and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. Robert kissed him on the temple and pressed the covers around his face. “Sleep well,” he said. “Don’t let Brodie keep you awake too long, will you?”

  “Brodie doesn’t keep me awake,” he replied. “Brodie likes to sleep.”

  “Well, don’t you keep Brodie awake, then. He needs his rest in order to play tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” said Bruno. “Good night.”

  It was later that night, when they went to bed, that Celeste told him about the spools of thread. “I felt him, Robert,” she told him. “It was as if he was in the room with me, just that I couldn’t see him.”

  Robert didn’t want to undermine her faith. “It’s a nice thought, Celeste,” he said.

  “But I don’t think it was just a thought. He was there. I know he was.”

  Robert made his own leap of faith and drew her into his arms. To his surprise, she didn’t object. She lay against him with her head in the crook of his neck.

  “Jack would want you to be happy,” he murmured. “He wouldn’t want either of us to be sad. He’d hate to think of us spending the rest of our lives pining for him.”

  “I know. If only I could be sure that he’s okay where he is, then I could . . . well, I could let him go.”

  “Perhaps the spools of thread were his way of reassuring you of just that.”

  “I’d like to think so,” she said.

  “So would I.” He kissed her forehead and felt her relax against him. They hadn’t lain like that in a very long time.

  9

  The fourth day of Bruno’s stay, Celeste found him playing in Jack’s bedroom again. He was jumping about the place with one of Jack’s wands, shouting “Reducio!” at an invisible enemy. She remained at the door a moment, watching him. He had such exuberance. It emanated from him like a fizzy light that tickled her, too, and made her feel happy. The thought of him leaving the following day made her feel surprisingly sad. “Good morning, Harry Potter,” she said. He spun around guiltily and she wondered why he always looked so sheepish when she interrupted his games. “What would you like to do today, young man?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “Stupefy!” He waved the wand at her.

  She put her hands up and laughed. “I’m sorry, I’m just a boring old muggle. I’m not sure what any of those spells mean.”

  “I can show you the book, if you like,” he suggested earnestly.

  “Why don’t you show me over breakfast? What does Harry Potter eat first thing in the morning?”

  Bruno didn’t know what the young wizard ate for breakfast, but he was very certain about what he wanted to eat. “Pancakes!” he exclaimed, then, remembering his manners, he added: “Please.”

  Robert joined them in the kitchen and Celeste made him coffee. “Would you like eggs and bacon today?” she asked.

  He couldn’t remember the last time she had cooked him a full English breakfast. “If it’s not too much bother,” he replied. “I see you’re making pancakes for Voldemort.”

  “I’m not Voldemort!” Bruno cried, giggling. “I’m Harry Potter!”

  “Really? Are you sure you’re not just a muggle pretending to be Harry Potter?” said Robert, narrowing his eyes and looking him up and down suspiciously.

  Bruno giggled again. “I’m not pretending. I am Harry Potter!”

  They ate heartily and Bruno showed his uncle and aunt Jack’s Harry Potter book, explaining the magic with enthusiasm. Robert caught his wife’s eye as his nephew struggled to articulate the meaning of a Horcrux. Celeste’s gaze lingered on his longer than normal, and in her eyes there was a tenderness he hadn’t seen in a long time. He smiled and she returned it with a small curling of the lips. He felt a rush of affection for her, as if she had finally put down her drawbridge and let him cross. United at last, in an unspoken understanding that Jack didn’t belong to her alone, but to him also, and that she was allowing him an equal stake in ownership, an equal stake in loss.

  Robert left for work and Celeste wondered what she was going to do with Bruno. She could take him into Alresford, shopping. Perhaps he’d like to see where his uncle worked. But Bruno had his own idea. “I’d like to paint an egg,” he said.

  “An egg?” Celeste asked. “What sort of egg?”

  “An egg, like the one Uncle Robert had for breakfast.”

  “Oh, a hen’s egg. What a good idea. I haven’t painted eggs in years. I’ll have paints and varnish in my office. We could do it in there. I’ll paint one, too, and we can thread them through with ribbon. They’re so pretty. You can make one for your mother.”

  “It’s for my box,” said Bruno firmly.

  “Oh, all right.” Celeste was now more than a little curious about his box. It was full of the strangest things. A peacock feather, a pheasant feather, a butterfly, a horseshoe, a grey feather, the top of the cake, nuts, and now an egg—and those were just the things she knew about. He’d spent most of his time on the farm, collecting things. She wondered what else he had found. She wondered why he wanted all those funny objects. They couldn’t possibly be for his mother. So what was he going to do with them?

  She took some eggs from the fridge and made holes in the ends to blow out the yolks. When she was left with the shells, she washed them clean, then set off with Tarquin and Bruno to her office at the bottom of the garden.

  It was another sunny day. A few feathery clouds floated across the sky and a glider wheeled on the warm thermals like a silent gull. The low rumble of a tractor could be heard in Huxley and Marigold’s garden as the gardener cut the grass into tidy green stripes. She wandered down the lawn with Bruno, who held his box close to his chest, as if it contained treasures he was afraid of losing. As they passed the borders she noticed how unkempt they were and wondered why she had allowed them to overgrow. She had taken pride in her garden once and it had given her pleasure to see the fruits of her labors in springtime. Now the shrubs had all grown into each other, leaving no space for anything else. It had once been a celebration of color; now it was mostly green.

  Fat bees buzzed about the few fl
owers that thrived and Bruno stopped to watch them. “They’re big and furry,” he said. Then he opened his eyes wide and grinned, struck with an idea. “Can I teach one to crawl up my arm?”

  Celeste was astonished. That was something Jack had always done. She didn’t know other children played with bees, too. “You might get stung,” she warned, although Jack never had. “Come on, let’s go and paint an egg. I’d stay clear of the bees if I were you.”

  She unlocked the door and Bruno went in and put his box down on the table. Celeste cleared the fabrics away so they had space. Then she opened a drawer and pulled out pots of paint and brushes. She hadn’t used them in years. Once she had loved to paint, but then her business got busy and she no longer had the time. Every spare moment was filled with sewing. As they set about painting their eggs, she realized just how much she had missed it.

  Bruno’s egg was multicolored. His face was serious with concentration as he painted stripes and dots with a steady hand. Celeste painted hers with flowers, gluing little sequins onto their centers so that they sparkled. She hummed contentedly as she worked. It made her feel good to be creating again. “That’s pretty,” said Bruno as he finished his.

  “So is yours,” she replied.

  “It’s an Easter egg,” he told her proudly.

  “Oh, that’s nice,” she said, wondering why he had thought of Easter in the middle of summer. “It’s lovely, Bruno. You’re very creative. Now, let’s put it down carefully so it doesn’t smudge. It would be a shame to spoil it. Do you want to do another one?”

  He nodded and picked up a second egg. “This one will be for you,” he said. He didn’t dwell on his words. It seemed very natural to him that he should want to paint his aunt an egg, but Celeste treasured his words as if they were rare and precious gems, and her eyes misted.

  “Thank you, Bruno,” she said softly. “That’s very sweet.”

  They spent a good hour painting eggs; then, while they dried, Celeste drove Bruno into Alresford to see where his uncle worked. Robert was surprised to see them and showed his young nephew around his shop while Celeste popped into the supermarket to get supplies. Instead of buying the usual things, she wandered around looking for inspiration for more exciting dishes. She noticed a glossy cookery book on sale and popped it into her trolley. She’d cook something different for supper tonight.