The Amazing Mind of Alice Makin (24 page)

She smiles and shakes her head. ‘Now, that really is it.
I've said enough for one day. And in the end we all have to make up our own minds about life anyway. What it is, who we are, where we fit into it all.' She squeezes my hand back. ‘It's those scientists and Indians again, darling. Scientists and Indians, eh?'

T
he bump on my head must have been bigger than I thought. I drift in and out of sleep. Lose track of time. Watch the morning sun winking over the windowsill. The evening moon peeking out from clouds snow-banked high. Most of the bits in between get mixed up. Bits of daydreams and nightmares wander around together. I dream of Bert and the storm and the factory. I know that when I beat the storm, suddenly I wasn't scared of him any more, and I can't help wondering if it was my fault that something happened to him. Was he there at all that night or was it just my good old imagination again? Then I push all the wonderings away. Block them out. Think about Reggie. Where is he? Will we ever get to the bottom of all this?

Slowly my eyes get less heavy. The bump is less sore. The pieces of the story get put together in my mind. But they're almost as painful as the bump.

Mrs Gilbey comes in and out of the little bedroom. Visits to bring me food. Visits to see I'm comfortable. More visits to bring me more food.

Eventually, on one of her trips, I ask about Reggie again.

She folds her arms and frowns. Gets out her darning. Sits on the end of the bed and says, ‘Eat that soup before it gets cold, dear.' She looks at me over the top of her spectacles. ‘If you must know, they've gone.'

‘Gone? Gone where?'

‘Who knows? I was prepared to give that young man the benefit of the doubt. Thought he was just someone who needed a bit of help. But when I told him what had happened to you, well, he started all this nonsense about twins and mind-touching and heavens knows what else he was going on about. Then the next day they were gone. Seems to have spent his young life coming and going, that boy.'

She gives a little shrug.

‘You have to wonder why, don't you?'

‘You mustn't think bad of him, Emma. To him it was all true. Every single bit of it.'

‘And to you?'

‘Me? I know who I am now. That's all that matters.'

‘You are a strange one and no mistake. Deep as the ocean.'

She pulls a face but can't stop the little smile peeping through. She looks at me over the top of her specs.

‘He left you a letter. To be honest, I was tempted not to give it to you, but since he's gone I suppose it doesn't matter much. And before you ask the question, the answer is no. You can't have it yet. I'll give it to you when you're feeling better.'

‘But I am feeling better.'

‘You will be once you've eaten more of my soup.'

I pick up the spoon.

She gets up. Plumps up my pillows again. Kisses me on the forehead. Then she stands back, watching me eat.

‘Finished?'

I show her the bowl. Lick the spoon for good measure.

‘Now can I have the letter?'

She fishes it out of her apron pocket. Puts it on the bedside table.

‘If things get too hard, you know you can always come here – if you want to talk about things, I mean.'

‘I know that, Emma.'

She reaches out. Touches my cheek. ‘One thing's certain, you're growing up fast, young lady. That's one thing I do know for sure.'

When she's gone I pick up the letter. I take a deep breath. Feel nervous. Open it.

Dear Alice,

I hope you get this. We've left Hawkins Street. Going to be away for a few weeks playing detectives. My turn to be Sherlock Holmes.

I don't know what happened in that factory. Mrs Gilbey thinks you just got trapped in some old building in a storm. She thinks what you saw and heard was a lot of scary thunder and lightning. She's right . . . and then again, she's wrong. There's only one person who knows what that storm really was, and that's you. Mind you, I've got a funny feeling it was about
you sorting things out. Sorting yourself out. I reckon the things that happen in real life sometimes are more scary and exciting than those that happen in mind-touching, or maybe they're two halves of the same thing.

I'm still trying to sort things out in my own mind too. Separate out what I know from what I've been guessing about. Sometimes things got a bit mixed up. I think your stepdad was jealous of you. Maybe he didn't actually mean to hurt anyone. It just got out of control. Jealousy is like that. Granddad said it's one of the deadly sins. Well, he said if it wasn't it should be.

Still, as long as you're all right now, that's the important thing.

I'm going to look for our dad now. Granddad's being trying to find any records that are still around. Seems a lot of stuff had been destroyed in the war, so there's not that much to go on. He found out from the hospital records that we were found in the ruins of a big house. You must have been found first. I wasn't found until later so I ended up in a different hospital. That's how how we got separated, I reckon. There were other records from that air raid. Next bit is a bit upsetting. Sorry to have to tell you like this but there's no other way. There was a woman found in the rubble too, but she died . . .

I suddenly feel sick. My heart sinks. Two tears trickle down my cheek. I take a deep breath.

. . . but there's no record of a man being killed during that air raid. That's something. I don't know where the photo came from or how it got torn. Maybe that's got something to do with
our dad and we won't know until we find him. That's the only way we'll ever get to the bottom of all of this.

The door opens. Mrs Gilbey looks in. Doesn't say anything. I wonder if she thinks I've got Reggie hidden under the bed.

Anyway, it's better if I do the looking; you've got other things to think about now. The new baby and that. Only thing is, it's not going to be easy. Like I said, lots of stuff was destroyed in the war. Lots of records lost. We've got one clue, though. The woman who was killed. Granddad went to the births, deaths and marriages place where they record all that. Her name was Mary Westland. If she was our mum, that must be our name too. Weird that, isn't it. Finding out what your real surname is.

In my mind I see the old biscuit tin factory. The sign hanging over the door ‘Westland Metals'. I read on.

And Granddad said that piece of information should help us to find our dad. It's going to take a bit of a while, I expect, so I don't suppose we'll see each other for some time.

Right, I'd best be off. Granddad keeps shouting that we'll miss our train. Good luck, Alice. Thanks for being my best friend when I needed one. Hope I was yours.

Reggie

I speak to the silence.

‘'Course you were, mate; the best friend ever.'

I sit there staring out of the window for a long time. I feel tired. My brain wants to think about all this. Sort it all
out like a box of jumbled-up biscuits. Put each one in their right pile so that everything is how it should be. But I'm beginning to understand that real life isn't like that. I'm tempted to snuggle back down, go back to sleep, escape. But the stray rays of sunshine creep in over the windowsill. Through the glass I can see a deep-blue sky. A soft breeze ruffles the curtains.

I swing my feet over the side of the bed and get up. I've got a lot to do.

I
try to think about things here in my own small world. I think about school, the new baby boy that Mum had during the week, my play, my friends, how lucky I am. Even though I think of all these things, every time I walk down the passage I remember all the things that have happened and I look up and have to blink away the burning in my eyes.

Mum brought her baby home today. He's lovely. Chubby-faced. A down of dark hair. A blue-and-white bundle of gurgling bubbles. She's going to call him Albert, same name as my step-dad. Everybody says he looks just like him. Face off him, says Mrs Gilbey. Lots of people come to see him. They bring shawls, little boots and things. Why a baby needs boots is beyond me. Norman's mum has knitted him enough things to last until he's forty. Some of them look like they still might fit him then, as well.

Our little, damp, sunless room is sunny with laughter. Squashed with it. Babies do that, I think. I sit there watching them all. Don't know how I feel any more. A mixture, I suppose. Happy but there's a bit of sadness mixed up in it. Amid the chatter and the cups of tea I slip out. They're not going to miss me.

The air-raid shelter is empty. I pull back what's left of the canvas. Go to the little square of earth. Kneel down. Scrape away the top surface of dirt. It's there, in its hiding place, just as it always is. My old biscuit tin with its funny swirly writing and the background I can't see. Just a mix of colours. The one with the lid that won't close because my stepdad trod on it. Seems a long time ago.

I take it from its hiding place and open it. I could have had a new box from the factory. No one would have missed one. But this is the one I want. I take out the exercise book I bought from Woolworth's and the school pencil that I borrowed from school – Sister Vincent wouldn't mind if she knew what I was using it for. There's an old orange box in the corner that Reggie used to keep his comics in. I take it outside. It's a nice day. Sunny. I sit on the box, start thinking of all the things that have happened here. All the times I've sat here writing my stories. Sat here with Reggie.

And I wonder if the things we do stay around somehow. Do words wander the universe? Thoughts ghost the years? I get up. Pack all my things into the biscuit tin. I'm going to take it home now. I know I won't be coming back here, to the old air-raid shelter. I don't need to now. Maybe, as I pass by some days, I'll look across and think of things I did. Things I thought. But somehow, I know things have changed for ever.

I tuck my biscuit tin under my arm. It'll be safe now.

I
t's nearly the summer holidays. We're sitting on the edge of the playground, talking about the year that's gone, the summer holiday that's coming. At least, the others are talking. I'm mostly listening and thinking. Secret thoughts.

Veronica is bubbling away as usual. ‘I think we're going to Seasalter. It's in Kent. My uncle's got a caravan there. It's great. We go looking for cockles at low tide. You have to walk very carefully and slowly, and keep your eyes glued to the sand.'

George looks puzzled.

‘Why?'

She puts one hand to her hip, her ‘I-can-see-I'm-among-fools' gesture. I'm getting to like it, in a funny kind of way.