Doll Page 2

  My father drains his coffee. “You don’t have to go to school, Tilly,” he says. “I’m sure they’d understand.”

  “Best to keep busy,” says Grandma. “What would she do here, anyway?”

  “Tilly?”

  “I want to go.” It’s a kind of whisper.

  “OK. Your choice.” He pauses. “Do you still want to come to the restaurant on Sunday?”

  “Of course she does,” says Grandma.

  “Tilly?”

  “If you want.”

  “Well, I am short-staffed. It would help.”

  “OK then.”

  “Thanks, Tilly.” He stands up. He comes for a kiss, or a touch, but I move away and his arms fall short. “Just one thing,” he says. “It’s not your fault. You do understand that, don’t you Tilly? Nothing that’s happened is your fault.”

  Why does he have to say these things?

  “Of course she understands that,” says Grandma. “Now come on, Tilly. We have to go.”

  She puts her body between my father’s and mine, directs him towards the door.

  “Goodbye then,” he says.

  I watch my father drive away. What strikes me most about him this morning is that he is alive. And that doesn’t seem fair somehow.

  The drive to the school gates is fifteen minutes, but Grandma doesn’t take me to the gates. She pulls the car up four roads short. Looks in all her mirrors.

  “OK?” she says.

  “Yes. Thanks Grandma.”

  I also check the road. Sometimes Mercy’s friend Charlie walks this way. But more often she gets the bus and the bus doesn’t come down this street. I can see no one but a man and his dog. I give my Grandma a peck on her dry cheek.

  “It’ll be all right,” says Grandma. “Don’t worry about a thing. Promise me?”

  I get out and watch while Grandma turns the car and drives away. Until this moment, I have no doubt that I’m going to school. It’s not as if I don’t know the way. I’ve walked the route from here more times than I care to remember. But, as my grandmother’s car disappears from view, so does my certainty. It’s as though, by turning the corner, she has cut me adrift. School doesn’t seem the point any more. Even the word “school” seems to have shifted. I can’t fix on its meaning. I stand bewildered. I seem not to know what to do or where to go.

  And then I hear a voice, soft and low. “I know,” the voice says. And then it whispers: “Come.”

  2

  “Jan, Jan – do you hear me, Jan?”

  He does hear her, though he does not reply. He listens to the soft way she articulates the first letter of his name, making the J into a Y: Yan, Yan. There is a yearning in that letter, a yearning in the way she calls, he thinks, even now. But he shuts it out, shuts her out. Not that he does not love his mother, his English mother. He does.

  He is simply not in the room. Which is to say, his body may be sitting on the bed, his shoes scuffing the floor, but his mind is up at the railway track. He goes there often, both in his head and on foot. There is something in the wind up there, the noise it makes as it crosses the desolate bridge. A high, melancholy, mountain sound. A sound he thinks he recognises, though of course he cannot recognise it, for it is only wind over a bridge. But he goes there to check. This morning he took his pipes. The Antara, panpipes from Bolivia. The strong reeds bound together with wood and string and brightly coloured wool. He hid them under his shirt. Though there is no one up at the bridge to look. Usually.

  Why did he go today? He never goes during school. School is important, he knows that. Was it the bridge, the music, calling him? Or was it that moment when his mother said, as he stood in the hall checking his books: “I think it’s going to be cold. You should take a coat.”? As though he was five not fifteen. Is that why he walked out of the door and turned left, not right? Life pivots, Jan thinks, on such tiny decisions. The moment when you elect, for whatever reason, to choose this road rather than that. Other people might call it chance, or coincidence. But Jan has a sense of a purposeful universe. The railway line has been waiting.

  And so he climbs, without any hurry, street after street, towards the edge of the town and the opening, which runs by the graveyard of St Thomas, out to the field and the railway beyond. It is not a place that invites company. There is no path, except the one that Jan has trod, and the wilderness covers what tracks he makes soon enough. The nettles grow high and undisturbed and, where the mound of the railway begins to rise, brambles stretch like lashes. Jan takes a stick and beats them back, like a latter-day prince clearing a way to a castle. And, today, there is a princess.

  Or at least a figure. Standing right at the edge of the bridge. His bridge. He is so astonished he almost drops the pipes, but they are suspended around his neck on a black plait of Bolivian wool. Perhaps he has imagined the figure? He does imagine things. He’s aware of that. But this figure moves; it swings around to look down the track. A girl. He knows, at once, what she’s doing. She’s trying to guess when the next train will come.

  He knows this because he has stood where she stands now. The bridge is over a river. It’s narrow. Four tracks pass here. There is very little space between the outer tracks and the low wall of the bridge. If you were to run alongside the wall when a train was passing, and they pass at over a hundred miles an hour, you would not, Jan thinks, survive. Unless that is, the train was using one of the centre tracks, and you couldn’t know that until the engine was almost upon you. And even then the wind might knock you to the ground. Jan has listened to this wind too. The displaced air of a train coming. It whines like a circular saw. Unless it’s one of the twelve-coach passenger trains, which has a softer, plusher sound.

  The girl is already too close. She is almost on the bridge. She’s a small thing, slight, with cropped dark hair. One would barely have to puff, he thinks, to blow her over. He could almost do it from where he’s standing, in the lee of the elderflower tree, twenty metres away.

  Her head is averted now. He cannot see her face, but he knows she’s calculating. Can I do it? Can I cross the bridge in safety? The thoughts he thought, when he also stood there, poised. Only he walked away. You’d have to be prepared to die to run by the wall. You’d have not to mind which way it fell out. Left or right. And he’d wanted to live.

  You see, he has already died once. When he was a baby. His was a difficult birth in a difficult country. Chile. They looked at the scrap of him and put him on a life-support machine. An hour later someone decided to blow up one of Pinochet’s power stations. The cot died then, but the scrap of life didn’t. It breathed for itself until the spare generator kicked in. You might not be lucky twice, Jan thinks. Which is why he doesn’t run the bridge.

  There’s a low rumble further down the track. Jan listens, quick and intent. It is, he thinks, the sound of the train that forks off before it gets to this bridge, about half a mile away. He recognises the drone. But the girl can’t know that. She’ll wait for it to pass, thinking, as he did once, that if you wait for a train, there can’t be another one immediately. So you’ll be safe. You’ll have the two or three minutes you need. That’s a fine calculation in itself – how many minutes will it take you to run the seventy-metre bridge? If a world-class athlete can do a hundred metres in under ten seconds then…

  She’s running. He cannot believe his eyes; the girl is running. What if he’s wrong about the train and the fork? What if the train is coming right here, right now? A sound explodes out of his mouth. He thinks it’s “Stop!” But it would be madness to stop now, she must keep going, she must run faster than she’s ever run in her life, just in case. He can still hear the rumble, it’s gone on too long, the train must be past the fork and the girl is still running, running like in a dream where no matter how fast you run, you never move forward at all.

  And then – she’s arrived. She’s at the other side. And there is no train. No rumble even. The train has gone the other way.

  She’s a good distance from him now, a dark
silhouette against the sky, and yet he feels her flash of triumph, sees it in the defiant stamp of her body. Yes, I did it. I ran the bridge. Then her head drops, she’s holding something. It’s a doll. A small doll, no bigger than her hand. How can he know that when he’s so far away? And yet he does know.

  Jan leans from his bed, in the bedroom of his very English house, and opens a drawer. He extracts a tiny painted box, lifts the lid. There are seven Worry People in this box: three men, three women, one child. They are made of matchwood, their bodies bound with brightly coloured cotton and vibrant scraps of cloth: blue, purple, pink, red. All except one, and it is this doll – Violeta – that Jan lifts out and puts in the palm of his hand. This doll is made of wire, the cotton bindings a dull yellow, the skirt the colour of baked mud. Its face is orange paper and, though it has black eyes and a black nose, it has no mouth. Its hair is black and sparkling, as though it were made of sand and tarmac. Its wire arms are uneven, one outstretched towards him, the other a rusted stub. The doll is only half a thumb high. He closes his hand around it. Oh yes, he knows. He holds the doll for a moment, then puts it back in the box with the others and returns the box to his bedside drawer.

  In the eye of his mind, he watches the way the girl touches her doll, observes again how she closes the doll against her chest. That’s when she realises, he thinks. She has to run again. There is no way back, unless she wants to swim the river.

  She begins at once. Her hand still on her heart. Starts to cross for a second time. But she isn’t running now, she’s jogging. Barely that, she’s ambling. It’s the confidence; she doesn’t have to hurry. The doll has absorbed her fear. Is that why she doesn’t react to the noise down the track? It’s loud enough. Not a drone this time but the circular-saw noise. Surely she can hear it? The whine of the Intercity. The whoosh of pushed air and, coming closer, the scream of speeding metal? There is no alarm at all on her face. And she’s looking right at him now, gliding across the bridge towards the oncoming train. Her face a moon of content. He wants to go on to the bridge and shake her. Hurry her up.

  Time is passing so slowly and still the train comes. She must be able to see it now, though he has his back to it. Hurry up. Run. Run! The train is not air now but thundering steel, bawling and sparking down the track. And then it’s past him and she’s still on the bridge. Against the wall on the inside track, where the train is coming. There’s a moment, a long, eight-coach moment, when he can see nothing but moving metal. And then, like an arrow, the train’s gone.

  But the girl remains. She’s at the edge of the bridge. Bending down, picking a flower. And now he really does want to shake her. Now he wants to pick her up and punch her in the face, even though she’s small and he doesn’t know her. How dare she! How could she put him through that! He moves out from the shadow of the elderflower tree (although he’s not given to interventions) and walks towards her. She stands up. But not, he thinks, because she hears him, but because she’s finished looking at the flower. Her skin is creamy pale though there’s a flush in her cheeks, he notices as he comes closer, and her eyes, which are so dark they look almost black, have a wild brightness in them.

  For a moment she doesn’t seem to register him. And then, quick and defensive, she moves her body square to his, glares up at him. And something in him wants to laugh, she looks so ridiculous, a fierce little sprite who’s nevertheless run the bridge. But he doesn’t laugh, partly because of the intensity of her gaze, which makes him feel the intruder, and partly because of the doll. Around its neck are large ungainly stitches, black, like you use to sew up a wound.

  She feels his eyes, snatches the doll from his sight.

  “What’s it to you?” she yells, the spots in her cheeks burning.

  And then she’s off, tumbling down the mound, flailing through the brambled undergrowth, and on, into the field beyond. As though he’s after her. Which, of course, he is not.

  He watches her for as long as she stays in view. Her body fighting, jagged and twisting, even when the terrain gets easier. He is ashamed to have sent her on this desperate flight.

  But he knows what he saw.

  “Jan, Jan.” His mother is coming. Her footfalls are on the stairs.

  But he certainly cannot answer his mother now. He must reach the end of his thought. He needs to say aloud the thing that he has not been saying aloud. The thing that is worrying him although, as the girl said, it’s nothing to do with him. But it is to do with him. Why else would the blood beat so hard in his breast?

  “Jan!” His mother comes into the room. “Didn’t you hear me?”

  He heard her.

  “Jan, oh Jan.” She sits down beside him on the bed. “Jan, they rang me at work. They said you didn’t go in today. Why is that, Jan?”

  He doesn’t know. He knows only he had to be at the bridge.

  “You understand how important your education is, don’t you, Jan? You can do nothing, be nothing, without it. Tell me you understand?”

  He understands.

  “Jan, why don’t you speak to me?”

  Jan has nothing to say on the subject of education.

  “Jan, please speak to me.”

  “The doll,” Jan says aloud, “I think it’s evil.”

  3

  Gerda.

  This is the name of the doll. It came to me on the bridge, when I was running. Running like I was the wind and the trains were paper.

  “Trust me. Trust me, trust me, trust me.” The noise of the wind and the wheels and the wings at my feet. Did she whisper the name to me herself? Or was it my mother’s voice I heard? I don’t know. But the name is right. The name of the child in the Snow Queen. How I loved that story. Had my mother read it over and over again. In those long-ago, happy-ever-after days. How the little girl scoured the world for Kai, the boy with ice in his heart, and how she found him, and held him, and how her tears melted that ice.

  And I do trust Gerda. Know that I would follow her to the ends of the earth. Knew it from the moment she uttered that first word: “Come.” Was I waiting for her to speak? It didn’t surprise me. I’ve always believed that love can stretch between worlds. That the dead can speak. That the past stands close enough to whisper in your ear.

  “We’re Weavers,” said my mother. “Judith and Tilly Weaver. Weaver by name and weaver by nature. Matilda Weaver. It’s your name but also who and what you are. We Weavers are the weft and the warp, we web things together.”

  My father argued with her about that. “You’re only a Weaver by marriage,” he said. “You were born a Barker.” That’s how he crushed her. With small things.

  “A name isn’t a small thing,” said Inti. Inti was the molten-eyed Ecuadorian who had the stall next to my mother at the market. “There’s one tribe,” he said, “that never reveal their names to strangers. They believe if a stranger knows your name, he can tramp on your soul.”

  And so the day passes in thinking, wandering, wondering, being close. I am content, happy even. I remember how, when I was a small child, I was afraid of the dark. Each night, in order to sleep, I constructed in my imagination fifteen concentric courtyards, each with high stone walls and only one door. And then I walked myself through each one of those doors, locking it behind me. In the innermost courtyard, the fifteenth, was a small square of grass. I bolted the final door, lay down on the grass and slept. Gerda makes me feel as I did in that courtyard. Safe.

  So it is a shock to find myself, at dusk, at the glass entrance of the shopping mall. How did we arrive here? Why have we stopped? This is not my place. It belongs to those who thrive in artificial light. It is Mercy’s place. Charlie’s place.

  And there they are, the electronic doors swishing open for them. They are coming towards me. Mercedes Van Day and Charlotte Ferguson. Mercy half a step in front. She is captivatingly beautiful. I thought so when she was my friend and I still think so. She’s one of those people from whom you cannot take your eyes. Her skin is flawless, translucent even, as if, beneath the sur
face, where others have boiling pimples, she has radiant light. I’ve never seen such skin, even on an adult. Her blonde hair swings, impeccably cut, about her face and her eyes are like a cat’s, at once quick and stealthy. They promise you things. Her body is both slim and curved and she has that ability to turn a collar, or hitch a hem so that she looks stylish, individual even in her school uniform. Charlie is larger and darker and drawn to Mercy, as I was, like a moth to a flame.

  There is a spring in Mercy’s step. She has made a new purchase. At her side is one of those shining paper carriers with the string handles they give you in designer shops. She will have gone with Charlie for a post-school coffee, and been unable to resist – what? A belt? A skimpy top? A pair of shoes? She smiles and talks and walks towards me.

  I’ve tried to walk like that, so the sea of people in front of you parts when you move. I’ve tried to cut my hair so it falls, as hers does, like a kiss against her cheek.

  “You are who you are,” said my mother, one foot on the accelerator of her Yamaha Virago 750. “Why try to be someone else?”

  “Be yourself,” my mother said, providing me with a non-regulation school jumper. “Why not?”

  And of course, I’ve wanted to be as fearless as my mother, as devil-may-care, but not as much as I’ve wanted to be Mercedes Van Day.

  They are almost upon me, Mercy and Charlie, but their heads are so close in conversation, they will not see me. I have time to melt away. I choose the bus shelter. I need to be calm, to compose my thinking.

  “Inti,” says Gerda. “Concentrate on Inti.”

  Inti, my mother’s friend, the gap-toothed South American. Inti, the market man who sold amber and lapis lazuli and opals.

  Mercy and Charlie are coming towards the bus stop.

  And also panpipes. Inti, who took me on his lap when my mother was busy and told me the names of the Siku, the Latin pipes. Whispered Antara and Malta. Showed me how to fill the bamboo reeds with tiny green seeds. “You have to tune pipes,” Inti said, “in winter. When the pipes are cold, they play too low.”