Silver, p.18
Silver, page 18
I look at Finch’s face, his hope-filled expression. I pat my pockets, feel the soft give of parsley. And then I nod.
‘It’s so beautiful here. Stunning,’ Stella is saying as I get out.
Finch passes me a box. ‘Too heavy?’
I shake my head.
‘It’s a lovely walk – just along that track there.’
We follow Stella along a path skirting woodland. The trees hunker close. I fear this place, even in the daylight.
Doodles is moaning, something about wanting to watch Harriet the Spy and everything being too heavy. ‘You can hold my special piece, then,’ says Stella, and she cheers up at once. Carries the cardboard tube carefully against her shoulder like it’s a precious thing.
Finch’s elbow nudges mine as we carry the boxes. A white turret gleams ahead, in among the trees and valleys. It looks like the tower in Doodles’s fairy-tale books.
‘Built by a Victorian eccentric,’ Stella says. ‘Tucked away and abandoned until it was restored by a Lottery grant. And now it’s going to be an exhibition centre for artists. A workshop space. I might even get to teach here someday.’ Her eyes are bright and swimmy as she leads us round the side of the building. ‘There’s the clock tower, and at the back’s an observatory, although that’s all locked up, it’s not fully restored yet. And in here …’
She ta-daaas, and lets us in.
‘Well, this is it.’ Stella sweeps her arms. ‘This is where I’m having my exhibition.’
‘Wow, Mum. It’s amazing!’ Finch puts an arm round her shoulder and squeezes.
‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it?’ Stella is saying. ‘Didn’t even know this place existed until someone at work –’
‘What’s in those rooms? Are we allowed inside?’ Doodles is running in and out of corridors, with Pepper at her side.
‘Careful – there are other exhibitions. Mine’s not the only one. But I’m the only one who gets to do a launch,’ Stella says. Her voice seems full.
‘There’s loads of other rooms, and pillars, and signs, and labels saying –’ Doodles scrunches her face – ‘Breathe and Out of This World and Sexploits. What’s sexploits, Mum?’
Stella and Finch look at each other. ‘Perhaps I’d better check out the rooms first, before letting you loose in them,’ Stella says.
Doodles pulls at her arm. ‘There’s a shooting thing in one of them. Can I have a go on it? Pleeeease?’
‘I’m not sure …’
‘It says you’re allowed.’
Doodles drags us to the exhibit named Out of This World.
‘Hmmmm,’ says Finch. ‘I think your stuff’s better, Mum.’
It is a small chamber, empty but for many plastic balls and a synthetic smell. A large clear tube is angled at a small black hole.
‘See? You can shoot the balls in!’ Doodles pushes a red ball into the tube. ‘Turn the machine on for me, Finch.’
‘Say please,’ says Stella.
Finch presses a pad and there is a sucking, rushing sound as the ball shoots up through the tube into the air, bouncing off the back wall.
‘Missed, Dood. It’s supposed to go into the hole.’ Finch turns to Stella. ‘So, what’s this piece meant to mean, Mum?’
Stella scrunches up her face. ‘I think it’s about, um, aiming at a void that signifies precisely the non-being of what it represents.’
‘Mum! You’re just reading that off the card.’
Stella laughs. ‘Come on – let me show you the rest of the building.’
She ushers us up a spiral staircase, and onto the top floor. It opens out into a viewing area, a covered rooftop garden. ‘They’re letting me have this space too, just for the launch. I thought we could just about cram everyone up here, for the toasts and thank-yous.’ Stella pauses. ‘Well, you lot? What do you think?’
Finch is walking around. ‘The old observatory must be up here somewhere.’
Doodles hangs over the railings. A long curved metal plaque shows the directions and distances from here to other locations. ‘That way’s the Black Mountains,’ she reads. ‘And over there’s Birmingham. We’ve been there, haven’t we, Mum?’
I scan the skies, freezing when I think I see something flash, but it is only a plane, stitching its way across the sky.
‘You seem a bit on edge.’ Finch has come to stand next to me. He nudges me. ‘I thought this was your kind of thing. Imagine the stargazing out here.’
‘I think I have seen all that I need to.’ I turn to go back downstairs.
Stella calls us. ‘Look, I’ve got loads to sort out. Are you sure you’re both OK to unload those boxes, start on the white emulsion? It’s probably going to take a month or so to get it all prepped. Feel free to undrape anything in the exhibition space. I want other artists’ work to be on display too.’ She takes Doodles’s hand and hurries back to the car, leaving Finch and me alone.
Once back downstairs, within the walls, I feel safe again. I remember Miss Sassy’s blog and rest my gaze on Finch’s lips before dragging it up again.
He points to the boxes. ‘We’d better get a move on. I’m on another early shift tonight.’
‘OK,’ I say brightly.
Finch touches his mouth, frowning.
We move the rest of Stella’s boxes to the end of the main room. I check that I still have what I need in my pocket.
‘Shall we start with taking off these sheets?’ Finch suggests.
I pull drapes from silent forms and figures. Then I start unpacking Stella’s pieces, revealing twisted sculptures, smooth curved wooden forms, seed pods and giant fruits.
‘Pretty amazing, aren’t they?’ He is standing behind me. ‘I like this one.’ He is staring at the portrait from when he was Doodles’s age.
‘It’s you,’ I tell him.
‘That’s my Buzz Lumen badge, and my first Venture Camp badge, and, oh –’
‘What is it?’
He’s stroking something small and oval, imprinted with a name and number.
‘My first dog’s name tag from when she was a puppy. Foxy. She used to climb on my bed in the mornings, scratch at the door to come in. It was our secret.’
I stroke it too. Feel cold nose and hot licks and ticklish whiskers.
Finch smiles. ‘She was lovely.’
We tug the sheet from the last sculpture in the room. It is a reclining couple, arms and legs entwined, mouths pressed. Their stone eyes are closed. If they were living, their breath would be fragrant with mint and parsley. I know without touching that they are made of marble, but something about the way they melt into each other makes them seem so very soft. Their naked skin may be hard and cold, but they have folded into each other’s very essence.
I touch their skin, run my hand down their smooth stone limbs. Finch watches, and his colour deepens. I reach into my pocket, push the parsley between my lips while he isn’t looking.
‘It is beautiful,’ I say. I turn towards him.
Finch takes a step back. ‘Why are your teeth all green?’
The door swings and Stella breezes back in with the dog. Stares. ‘What are you two up to? Listen, it’s the strangest thing, but the car’s completely working again. Everything’s back – all the electrics. I’m going to take Doodles home now. Are you OK with me leaving Pepper?’
‘Oh yes,’ we both say. I swallow the parsley, cringing, wishing this moment could end.
When Stella has left, Finch speaks first. ‘Shall we –’
‘Paint?’
‘Yes.’
He passes me a tin of white emulsion and a paintbrush.
‘Silver, are you awake?’ Doodles’s voice, low.
She is standing in my bedroom doorway. Quickly I morph. I am thankful that I am getting much better at this. It requires less energy than before.
‘You should be in bed, Doodles. Do you want me to tuck you in again?’
‘In a minute. There’s something important I need to do first. Will you help me?’
‘You have school in the morning.’ I just want to stare at the night and sigh.
‘It’s for school, though. Miss Jackson said we had to.’
‘Come in, then.’
She explains that she needs to make recordings for her Bright Star project and I lift her to lean out of the window. ‘Not too close to the edge.’
‘I’m not,’ she says. She smells of strawberry toothpaste. Her braided hair makes her eyes huge. ‘Are you happy, Silver? You look all frowny. And you’ve got paint on your nose.’
I smile at her and pull her onto my knee. ‘Yes, I believe I am happy.’ All the time, I am listening for the sound of Finch’s bike. His footsteps on the gravel. His scent of night and leather.
‘So –’ Doodles passes me something that crackles – ‘what we need to do is, we both look through the ’noculars, and then we fill today’s diagram in, and then we compare results and write a conclusion.’
I look at what she has placed in my hand.
‘What is this, Doodles?’
‘It’s my Bright Star measurer, silly.’
My stomach twists. ‘Can we do this tomorrow instead?’
‘No. Miss Jackson says that to win the competition I must do this every day. Here.’ She passes me her book and a torch, and I see the notes she has already made as she leans against the window ledge, puts the binoculars to her gaze.
On each day, a carefully drawn circle. At first I think it is the phases of the moon, but that cannot be. I turn back to the beginning of the book. Day 1, she has printed, in careful writing with a newly sharpened pencil. Below it, a circle; at its centre another circle, very small. Around it she has coloured in neatly, blacking in the surrounding space.
‘The first day’s sighting was tiny. Miss said it was very difficult to see with the naked eye,’ she says. She is leaning over my shoulder now, shining the torch on her work. ‘But each night it’s getting bigger and bigger.’ She turns the page. ‘There’s my writing on stars. I got a Gold Learner sticker for that one. There’s stars in everyone, did you know?’
A bright burn comes, searing the sky. Doodles gasps. ‘Quick, quick, Silver!’
‘What do you see?’ I hold her tight.
‘Pass me my star measurer. Hold my arm steady, Silver.’
I do, and she breathes heavy as she gazes. I dare not look. I dare not see.
After, she bends down over her book. Draws a new circle and colours in around the edge, holds it up and smiles. Inside the outer circle, the one that represents the star measurer, there is now only a tiny sliver of a gap. Charybdis has returned.
‘See?’ She beams. ‘Much, much closer.’
Is Charybdis getting closer? Can I believe what I saw in Doodles’s measurer?
These frets and fears – they are remnants of my old life, that is all. All the lies and mistrust. No wonder that seeing Bright Star unsettled me. But surely I am safe now that I am no longer Shielding. And I have everything in this new life that I want.
I turn to look at Finch, painting beside me. He is quiet, only the slosh and sweep of the paintbrush. He has his earbuds in. His furrow is deeper than ever.
I poke him. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ he says. He lies.
Something buzzes and it is his phone.
He continues to sweep the walls. A paint drip falls and he does not wipe it away.
‘Are you going to look at it?’
Humans, I know, cannot resist checking messages.
‘I did it. I did what you said.’ His voice is flat.
‘What? What did you do?’
He does not answer. He snaps his earbuds out. Takes out his phone.
Something is wrong. His back stiffens. His brush falls.
‘Finch?’
‘I asked Mum.’ His voice is dull. ‘She had his email address all along.’ He hands me his phone without a word. On the screen, an email is opened. It is from Davy Matthews. His father.
Hey kiddo
You sound great, it all sounds great. And your kid sister’s how old?? Wow. Just wow. Can’t believe how much time’s passed. It’s been how long? I’m pretty busy over here, with the twin girls – five years old, can you believe it???? and my teaching job. You must come visit some time, you’d love it here, kiddo.
Hey, I’m sending you a little something through the post – Lorna Jay’s idea. Lorna Jay’s the twins’ mom, you’d love her, everybody does, especially me!!!!
And just you keep watching those moons, son, that’s the spirit. Forgot we used to do that – it’s all princesses and unicorns now!!!
Your loving Dad
I pass it back to him. ‘It is a bit –’
‘Short.’
‘Yes.’ I consider. ‘He sounds a bit –’
‘Of a wanker.’
‘Yes.’
His voice is forced. He shields, I realise. He tries to pretend he does not care.
‘And all of those exclamation marks,’ I point out. ‘It is like laughing at your own joke.’
He does not reply.
‘F. Scott Fitzgerald,’ I explain.
His voice is thickened. ‘He’s just like Mum said he was. A total arse. Self-centred, a –’
‘Narcissist?’
‘Yes, that too.’
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘I’m deleting them.’
I look over his shoulder.
‘All of them?’ His finger hovers over the delete button on his unsent folder. ‘Are you certain?’
‘These are what you were reading, weren’t they? That day when you first came?’
I bow my head. ‘I am sorry. It was private. I shouldn’t have.’
He jabs his finger. The folder is gone.
‘I can get it back for you,’ I say. ‘I am good with computers.’
‘No.’ His voice is hard. ‘It’s better this way.’
I think about his wall, his photographs. ‘But he was a good father, back then?’
He nods. ‘I thought so. He was fun. He taught me things. Then I find it’s all a lie.’
I think of Charybdis. ‘I understand.’
There is a pause, and then: ‘This came as well.’ His voice breaks. He pulls out a padded envelope from inside his jacket.
‘When?’
‘A few days ago. I didn’t dare open it.’
‘Why don’t you open it now?’ I say.
He does so, flitting glances at me. He fears, I think. He hopes.
‘What has he sent you?’
‘I’m not sure … Oh.’ His voice is flat.
He holds it up. It is a NASA T-shirt, far too small for him, a child’s size. I know not to speak.
There’s a toy monkey too, dressed as an astronaut. Across its suit, words: I Need My SPACE.
‘Well,’ I say.
‘Well.’
‘There is only one thing to do with these.’ I take the T-shirt.
He stares.
‘Follow me.’
I lead him past the installations until we are at the right one. And then he sees what I mean to do.
‘Will you do it, or shall I?’
‘You do it.’
‘I am a very good aimer,’ I warn him.
We are at Out of This World. I hold the toy up to the shooting tube. ‘Goodbye, space monkey,’ I say.
Finch smiles, a little.
‘Ready?’
He nods. I take the monkey and stuff it into the tube, aim it at the black hole in the centre of the exhibit. Then I turn on the air-suction machine. Instantly, the toy shoots up the tube, a fast blur, until it gets stuck at the top. We see its face grinning merrily, before there is another pull, and the force of air fires it out, over the blank space and neatly through the hole at the centre.
‘Good aim,’ Finch says. He takes the shooting tube. ‘I’ll do the next one.’
I watch him cram the NASA T-shirt into the opening. He hits the suction pad, watches it being sucked up the tube.
It is a perfect shot, and the T-shirt, like the monkey, disappears.
I turn, and he is smiling properly this time.
‘Better?’
‘Much better. Thank you.’
He takes my hand and squeezes it.
For the rest of the afternoon my skin remembers Finch’s hand gripping mine.
The envelope lands on the doormat after breakfast the next day. A Polish stamp. A dog paw-print sticker. I cannot help but scan its contents even though it is not addressed to me.
Dear Stella
I just wanted to write you this note to say that I’m so sorry for letting you down over Pepper at Christmas. I know it has taken a while to contact you but I’ve had such a strange few months and I’ve been unwell, some sort of breakdown. My therapist says that it would be good to write you this, a form of closure.
I guess I just wasn’t ready to be so far from home and my loved ones. It’s all a bit blurry. I can’t really remember much about that time, only that I felt taken over as if I was a passenger in my own life. I had such strange dreams. I wasn’t really myself, but I’m fine now. Magdalena (my girlfriend) has been wonderful 🙂
I hope that you found someone else and that I didn’t leave you in too much of ‘the lurch’, as you would say in English. I enjoyed our few chats, even if it was just on Zoom. I did love Pepper! Even in the few hours we had together, I could tell she is such a character.
Anyway, say hello to your family, and I’m glad your art’s going so well. I read about your success online.
Šciskam
Sylwia
Xxx
P.S. Give Pepper a kiss from me!
I hold the note as if it is hot. It hurts to read this, to touch this page of pain and exhaustion. I have harmed Sylwia by inhabiting her. She still feels the effects, even though she has her loved ones to help her.
I cannot let Stella see this. She will know that I am an imposter. And everything is going so well. Everyone is happy. This note will only cause distress. To morph Sylwia is not harming her in any way. I did the right thing by uninhabiting her. I let her go. I made sure she was safe.
I stare at the letter for a while before sparking it to cinders.
‘He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.’
