A Mother's Love: An Exclusive Short Story Page 6

  When she had finished shopping and loaded the bags into the car, she returned to Robert’s shop. He was busy showing Bruno how to use the till. When the old colonel came in to complain about something else, he saw the child at the counter and forgot about his ill humor. He bought a case of claret just so the boy could do the sale. “You’ll make a good salesman one day,” said the colonel with a chuckle.

  “You should come and work here more often,” said Robert, when the old man had left. “Colonel Thackery hasn’t been in such a good mood for years!”

  When Celeste suggested they return home for lunch, Robert offered to take them out for a pizza. “It’s been a while since we’ve eaten out,” he said. Bruno skipped about the shop excitedly. Celeste was lifted by the child’s exuberance and her husband’s spontaneity and she chatted all the way up the street to the pizzeria.

  “Bruno will have a pizza with pepperoni,” said Robert. “What are you going to have, darling?”

  She smiled and blushed at the tender way he said “darling.” “I’ll have a pizza Fiorentina. It’ll be fun to try something new.”

  When Celeste and Bruno returned home in the early afternoon, Huxley was waiting to take his grandson on the combines again. “I’ll varnish the eggs while you’re out,” said Celeste, and she waved them off in Huxley’s Land Rover. Then she went down to her office.

  She sat at the table varnishing the eggs to the sound of a pigeon cooing on her roof. It was loud and rhythmic and made her feel nostalgic for the days before Jack had fallen ill. She remembered picnics by the fields during harvesttime, his wide smile when she picked him up from school, the sound of his laughter resounding across the lawn as he practiced cricket with his father. She didn’t cry. Memories that had given her so much pain before now gave her pleasure, but she didn’t know why.

  She laid the eggs carefully on sticks, then cut ribbon to thread through them. The one Bruno had painted for her was decorated with glitter and sequins and glinted in the sunlight that streamed in through the windows. She sat for a moment wondering what to do next. Then she saw Bruno’s box on the end of the table. Would he mind dreadfully if she opened it and looked inside?

  She thought not. After all, he had shown her the horseshoe and the butterfly. So she pulled the box across the table and lifted the lid. She frowned at the sight of so many funny things. There was a Harry Potter wand of Jack’s, the butterfly, nuts, the grey feather, the leaf, the peacock’s feather, the horseshoe, the dog picture she’d made out of icing. She lifted one thing after another and looked it over.

  As she allowed her mind to wander she heard herself speaking out loud in the way she used to do with Jack, when they played taboo. The wand belongs to a wizard, so that must be Harry Potter. The grey feather has to belong to a pigeon. The pheasant feather to a pheasant, those were easy. The dead butterfly is a butterfly and the leaf, which has been eaten by caterpillars, means caterpillar because he couldn’t put a live creature in a box. The horseshoe for a pony, and nuts . . . hmm, a squirrel, I think. The peacock feather for a peacock and . . . She looked across at the egg. Easter egg. Could that just be an Easter egg? At that moment she felt the blood drain from her head to her toes and she was overcome with dizziness. She stood up slowly and walked over to the quilt. She barely dared breathe because she knew what she was going to find.

  Her heart began to pound as she opened the quilt. She laid it on the floor, and with the pulse throbbing frantically in her temples she looked at the pictures she had sewn into the squares. Jack’s favorite things: a peacock, a pheasant, a squirrel, his pony, a caterpillar, the pigeon from the movie Valiant, a butterfly, Harry Potter, Tarquin, and—with her eyes filled with tears she could barely make it out—the Easter Bunny. The final square lay blank.

  She clutched the quilt to her chest, looking about the room with large, frightened eyes. “Are you here, Jack? If you’re here, let me see you.” She now realized that Bruno’s imaginary friend was the spirit of her son. She didn’t doubt it. How else could he know to collect all these things and not an object more?

  She remained on the floor, with the quilt against her heart, until Bruno found her there. He saw her tearstained face and then took in the open box on the table, and he blushed the color of a tomato. “You’ve been talking to Jack, haven’t you?” she asked, and the desperation in her voice sounded more like anger.

  “No . . . I . . .” But Bruno wasn’t a very good liar. He began to tremble. His small shoulders rose to his ears as if he wished his head could disappear inside them. Then he burst into tears.

  “Bruno . . .” But before she could explain, he grabbed the box and hurried from the room. Celeste scrambled to her feet. She made to run after him, but when she looked into the garden, he had gone.

  10

  Celeste looked everywhere for Bruno, but he was nowhere to be found. She looked in Jack’s bedroom and in his own. She searched the house from top to bottom, calling Bruno’s name, but he didn’t answer. She scoured the garden with Tarquin, but only the pigeons knew which way he’d gone and they weren’t telling.

  Eventually, in despair at having caused him unhappiness, she went down to find Marigold and Huxley. She found Marigold on the terrace with a large box of biscuits and a novel. When she saw her daughter-in-law hurrying down the lawn in tears, she called her husband, who was napping in the sitting room. “My dear girl, what’s happened?”

  “It’s Bruno. He’s run off,” Celeste explained in a thin voice.

  “Run off? Why?”

  “I upset him.”

  “How did you upset him?”

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  Huxley appeared through the French doors. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Bruno’s run off,” said Marigold. “Celeste says she’s upset him.”

  “Well, he was a very happy chap when I dropped him off at the cottage.”

  “But then he found me,” said Celeste, unable to remain still.

  “Do sit down, dear,” said Marigold. “Your fidgeting is making me dizzy. He found you, doing what?”

  “I was looking through his special box.”

  “And that upset him?” Marigold persisted.

  “No, it upset him that I found out he’d been talking to Jack.” Huxley and Marigold were now lost for words. They glanced at each other and Celeste knew they suspected she had gone mad. “Every object in the box corresponds with a square on the quilt I was making Jack. The peacock feather, his pony, Harry Potter, the butterfly. Each one. How could he have known if he hadn’t been talking to Jack?”

  “Well, I can’t imagine,” said Marigold.

  “And he’s run off, has he?” said Huxley, impatient now to get back to the problem of Bruno’s disappearance. “I think you’d better call Robert,” he said.

  “I’ll call him,” volunteered Marigold, pushing herself up. “Why don’t you look around our garden, Celeste; and Huxley, you go up to the farm. He can’t have gone far. He’s only got little legs.”

  “I’m so worried.” Celeste began to bite her nails. “He was crying.”

  Huxley patted her on the back. “We’ll find him,” he said, and his voice was so reassuring Celeste was certain that they would.

  Robert arrived in a cloud of dust. He pulled up outside his parents’ house and hurried round to the terrace where his mother and Celeste were now anxiously waiting. Celeste threw herself into his arms. “I’ve scared him away,” she sobbed. “Oh, Robert, I’ve scared him away when I only meant to ask him about Jack.”

  “What’s going on?” he asked, confused.

  Celeste pulled away and dried her eyes. She knew she had to pull herself together in order to find Bruno. She told him about Bruno’s box and the quilt. “All the time we thought he was talking to an imaginary friend, he was talking to Jack.” Robert looked skeptical. “He sees him,” she insisted. “No doubt about it. He sees Jack.” At that moment her father-in-law strode around the corner.

  “No luck at the farm,”
he said, shaking his head.

  “No luck in the garden either,” Celeste informed him. “And I took Tarquin to sniff him out.”

  “He’s good at that,” said Marigold drily.

  “Now we mustn’t panic,” said Robert. “He’s hurt because he clearly thought you were cross with him, Celeste.”

  “Why would I be cross?”

  “Because you sometimes sound cross when you’re upset, darling,” he told her, not unkindly.

  Celeste dropped her shoulders in defeat. “You’re right. I did sound like I was cross. I didn’t mean to. Now he’s gone and it’s all my fault. He doesn’t realize how fond I am of him.”

  Robert rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You say the box is full of Jack’s things.”

  “Yes,” Celeste answered eagerly.

  “He didn’t want you to have it?”

  “No, he took it with him.”

  “Then he’s taking it to Jack.”

  Celeste looked bewildered. “But how can he?”

  “The chapel. I took him there yesterday. Now I think about it, he did say a funny thing when we arrived. He said, ‘Jack’s here.’ I thought he meant Jack’s grave. What if he actually meant Jack, the boy?”

  Celeste’s fingers hovered about her lips. “Then we must go to the chapel immediately.”

  “I’m coming with you,” said Marigold, but Huxley held her back.

  “No, old girl. I think they should go alone.”

  Marigold was disappointed. “Oh, all right,” she conceded, looking to her son for a hint of encouragement, but none came. She watched them walk around to the front of the house and disappear.

  “This is all most irregular,” said Huxley, not sure what to make of it.

  “It’s wonderful,” sniffed Marigold. “All the time we’ve been thinking Jack’s gone, he’s been with us, trying to let us know he’s still present. I think I need a little fortification. Would you mind, darling?”

  “You sit down and I’ll go and pour us both a glass of wine. I do hope they find him. Georgia will be very cross with us if she turns up to fetch him tomorrow to find that we’ve mislaid him.”

  The sun was now beginning to set and the birds were roosting noisily in the pine trees that circled the graveyard. As Robert switched off the car engine, they saw Bruno’s small figure huddled beside Jack’s grave. The child turned to see who it was; then, seeing his aunt and uncle getting out of the car, he turned away sheepishly. Celeste was sure he had made himself even smaller. “Bruno!” she cried, hurrying across the grass. “Darling, I’m not cross. Not at all. Please don’t think I am.” When she reached him he was hovering over his box, like a beggar over a sentimental treasure. He’d laid all the contents on the ground by the headstone and was now staring at them tearfully. Robert caught up with his wife. When he saw the objects so carefully displayed, he felt a lump lodge in his throat. Usually so adept with words, he now didn’t know what to say.

  Celeste crouched down and put her arm around the child. “I’m not cross. In fact, I’m very happy. You’ve made me very happy, Bruno, and I never thought I’d ever be happy again.”

  Bruno wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Mum told me to keep it secret,” he said.

  “Your gift?”

  “She says people will think I’m weird.”

  “We don’t think you’re weird, do we, darling?”

  “No, we certainly don’t,” Robert croaked.

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a beautiful thing to see spirits, Bruno. I only wish that I had your gift.” With her heart thumping wildly behind her rib cage, she gently probed into the boy’s magical world. “What’s he like, Bruno?” she whispered. “Is he happy?”

  “He’s happy all right, and really funny,” he replied, cheering up.

  “What does he look like?”

  “He’s grown his hair a little because he says you always cut it.”

  Celeste stared up at Robert in astonishment. “He’s right. I always did.” She laughed. “I hated it when it fell into his eyes.”

  “He has a T-shirt with a dragon on it.”

  Now Celeste began to tremble with excitement. “Red and grey? Is that the one?”

  “Yes. And he has a pair of really cool sneakers.”

  “Oh, Bruno, you’re right. He does.”

  The child turned and looked at Celeste with the eyes of a wise old man. “He’s not dead, Aunt Celeste. People don’t die and they don’t get buried. It’s a lie. He wants you to know that he’s okay. That’s all they ever want to tell us, that they’re okay. Jack’s not sick anymore.” He grinned and his eyes were those of an eight-year-old boy again. “I’ve been playing with him.”

  “All the time?” Robert asked.

  “Pretty much. He’s been sending me out to find things for you.”

  Then Robert asked the question his wife was too afraid to ask. “Is he here now?”

  Bruno stood up. He turned to face the pine tree which stood between the graveyard and the sun. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, he is.” Celeste and Robert followed Bruno’s line of vision. Celeste’s heart was so full of hope she thought it might burst. Robert’s eyes were so misty he wasn’t sure he’d see anything at all, physical or metaphysical. But then they both saw it. Only for a moment. A bright beam of sunlight shone through the branches, and there, in the golden light, was the silhouette of a little boy. They couldn’t see him clearly but they sensed he was smiling; and they felt a love stronger and deeper than anything they had yet experienced.

  Celeste moved her hand and slipped it into Robert’s. He closed his fingers around hers and held her tightly.

  Epilogue

  “Make sure you haven’t forgotten anything,” Georgia shouted to Bruno as he ran back into the house to check his bedroom one last time. “You’ve got Brodie, haven’t you?” She smiled at Celeste. “That would be disastrous if he were to leave his bear behind.”

  “I’ve packed everything,” Celeste reassured her. “If he’s left anything behind, Robert can drive it over. You’re not so far away now.”

  “I know. Isn’t it lovely?” Georgia sighed, enjoying the sun on the terrace and the lemonade her son and Celeste had made that morning. “I’m so happy to be back in the UK. You can’t imagine how much I’ve missed it.” She put her hand on Celeste’s arm. “You’ve been amazing. I can’t thank you enough for having him.”

  “I’ve loved it. He’s a very special boy, you should be very proud of him. He couldn’t have been more polite and well mannered.”

  “I worried it might be the wrong thing to ask you . . .” Her voice trailed off awkwardly.

  “Because of Jack?” Celeste asked. “No, it was absolutely the right thing to do. Bruno has made me realize how empty my life is without children. Perhaps we’ll be blessed with more.”

  Georgia looked surprised and relieved. “Gosh! Well, that would be nice.”

  “I’ve put his suitcase in your car,” said Robert, appearing round the corner.

  “Thank you, Robert. Ah, Mother!” Georgia exclaimed as her parents wandered up through the garden.

  Huxley took off his panama and gave his daughter a big hug. “How’s the house?”

  “Perfect!” she gushed. “Just perfect.”

  “Bruno’s been a delight,” said Marigold. “I’m afraid we’re going to miss him dreadfully.”

  “You can have him back anytime.” Georgia laughed. “But you’ll have to have the girls, too, or they’ll be jealous.”

  “I’d love to have them all,” Marigold exclaimed. “We’ll all be fighting over Bruno, though.”

  “You’ll ruin the boy with all your clucking,” said Huxley. “How on earth is the poor chap going to grow into a man with all you women mollycoddling him?”

  “He’ll make a fine man,” said Celeste with a smile. “No doubt about that.”

  Bruno ran out onto the terrace again. He put his arms around Tarquin and pressed his face into his fur. Then he said good-bye to his gra
ndparents and uncle.

  “You’ll come back soon, I hope,” said Robert. “I could do with your help in the shop.”

  Bruno laughed. “Yes, please,” he said.

  “And I have something special for you,” said Celeste, lifting a large shopping bag off the floor.

  “Wow! What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s the quilt. I finished it last night and I would like you to have it.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Celeste.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” she said, and winked at him.

  They waved the car off until it had disappeared down the track and all that remained was settling dust. “I’m going to start working again,” said Celeste to Robert as they walked back into the garden.

  “I think that’s a very good idea,” he replied, pleased.

  “Me, too. I really enjoyed sewing the last square. I’d forgotten how much pleasure sewing gave me.”

  “So, what did you embroider on it?”

  She smiled. “The sun,” she replied.

  He smiled back. “The sun. I think that’s very appropriate.”

  “So do I. For more than one reason. The sun is happy. The sun is light.” She slipped her hand into his. “Light is eternal and so is Jack.”

  Turn the page to read an extended excerpt from Santa Montefiore’s

  The Woman from Paris

  When Lord Frampton dies in a skiing accident, a beautiful young woman named Phaedra appears at his funeral, claiming to be his illegitimate daughter. Lord Frampton has left the priceless Frampton suite of sapphires to this interloper, confirming her claim and outraging his three adult sons and widow. Eventually, however, Phaedra’s sweet nature thaws these frosty relationships. She becomes the daughter that Antoinette Frampton never had and a wise and compassionate granddaughter to the formidable Dowager Lady Frampton. But an attraction grows between Phaedra and the eldest son, David. It seems an impossible love, blocked by their blood connection—and by the fury of one family member who is determined to expose Phaedra as a fraud.