He didn’t see Mr Turner for the rest of the day and went straight home from school. In through the door, slammed shut, coat off on the rack, shoes off and bag down just at the foot the stairs, then into the kitchen and on with the kettle. It was a ritual now. He’d come back home from school and make his mum a cup of tea and take it to her in bed. Grabbing a few rich tea biscuits on a blue and white spotted plate, he jumped up the stairs, two at a time, the teacup wobbling on its saucer, and along the narrow corridor to his mum’s room.
“Hi, Mum, teatime!” he said as he went in.
“Hello Alfie, my darly, how was school?” she said.
“Fine thanks… and how’s the world’s sleeping champion, today?”
She laughed generously. He asked the same question every day. Alfie moved to sit on the side of the bed and reached out to hold his mother’s hand. As he softly cupped her hand in his, a lump caught in his throat. Her hands were always so cold now and her skin had become like thin crepe paper. She was propped up with cushions behind her back and had a fluffy, pink-spotted dressing gown draped over her shoulders.
He looked up into his mother’s eyes. She had been such a handsome woman, he’d looked at so many old photographs of her over the past few months, snapshots of her on walks, bicycling, all of them together on family holidays, so bright and vital, her large, flashing smile and beautiful, auburn hair, and her mischievous, brown eyes captured in a snapshot, sparkling at others around a dinner table. The photographs helped him remember how she used to be. Now those bright eyes were dimmer and surrounded by dark shadows, the radiant nut-brown skin of years ago now pale, and she looked so small, shrinking in front of his eyes. There were some things that hadn’t changed; she was still so very kind and always interested in how everyone else was doing, and her hair was proudly defiant, still bushy and strong. She smiled, and looked back at him carefully, her eyes tracing around his face. Then, with some effort, raised her hand and stroked his hair away from across his forehead.
“What did I do to deserve such a wonderful boy?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Mum,” said Alfie, pushing her hand down gently. “So, what did you do today?” he asked.
“Well, I went to the shops, then wrote a letter to the Times and then put up some shelves.”
Alfie knew none of this was true, of course. It was part of the game. She could barely walk, and her illness meant that some days she couldn’t even find the right words to speak, but today seemed to be a good day.
He laughed and said, “Busy day again, then…” Then added, “How many boats?”
“Eight today,” she said. “That little red fishing boat was bouncing about in the swell, it was like watching a yo-yo… and you would have loved the oystercatchers, they were mesmerising, swirling and dipping along the coast like a shape-changing black and white cloud. They landed on the rocks just below the house, peeping away to each other.”
Alfie smiled back and said, “We will get you better, Mum, you’ll see.”
He looked over his shoulder towards the window. The view from her bedroom was breathtaking. Overlooking the back of the house, a long, wide strip of lush, green grass led down to the top of a tall cliff edge, with the sea below. The grass slope was mostly spotted with prickly blobs of gorse, covered in canary-yellow flowers, and a scattered host of wind-bent hawthorn trees. The hawthorn trees were covered in tight clusters of white blossom, heralding the very start of summer. A hawk hovered above the grass, Gwalchmai, the hawk of May, its head keeping perfectly still, its wings and tail moving quickly, adjusting in the wind to keep it steady as it scanned for prey. Further towards the cliff, in a wide, sheltered dip, a tall craggy standing stone stood to the right of a spray of cherry trees. The old stone was glowing yellow, a combination of its covering of round patches of lichen and the light of the low late afternoon sun.
At the end of the slope, the cliff fell away sharply. It was the height of a double-decker bus, with a narrow strip of rocky shore beneath, and the sea beyond, a deep dark blue. White foam streaks drifted on its surface, and further offshore, the sea birds circled a buoy that marked a safe sea channel for the fishing boats, as they chugged out to sea or headed back home with their catch. The sea channel was about two miles wide. On the other side, high, rounded hills, green and purple heather-topped, rose up from the sea. Even further beyond them, in farthest sight, the hazy outline of the mountains of Snowdonia and the summit of Cader Idris, Arthur’s seat, could just be seen.
Turning back from the window, he smiled and said, “I’ve got some homework for tomorrow, Mum, so I’d better get started. Dad’ll be up soon with some soup.” But she had already closed her eyes and had lain back on the pillows, as if asleep. He gently let go of her hand, got up and left the room. She was running out of time. If they didn’t find a cure soon… he couldn’t bear to think.