Edward lies panting under his bed. The muscles in his arms are shaking. But there is no time to rest: he has to stand up, he has to stand up. He has to! He slept badly and, when he did manage to sleep, he had strange, restless dreams. But that is no excuse, of course.
Finally, for once, he has to walk downstairs by himself. On his own legs. And his father will stand at the foot of the stairs, his mouth wide open with surprise. No, no, he won’t be surprised; he’ll just nod and smile at his son.
A man’s job! I had my doubts, but it turns out that you’re made of the right stuff after all. Bravo, Fish.
Edward! Edward! He has become completely used to the stupid name that the stupid child keeps using. But it is not his name. His name is the same as his father’s! Another week to go, or maybe three days, or it could be tomorrow.
*
His father has grey eyes with the sea in them, his cheeks are rough from the wind. Edward would like to look at that face all day long, until he knows every hair, every wrinkle by heart, to make up for all those months when he doesn’t see him.
But there was never enough time.
After just half an hour, the admiral would start to become restless again, picking things up and putting them down. Sitting at his desk. Writing something down. While Edward still had so much to tell him, to ask him, to show him.
Behind him, Joseph would start shuffling his feet and mumbling that it really was time to go now.
“We won’t hold you up any longer, sir. You must have all manner of things to do, of course.”
His father would then mutter back something along the lines of, “Yes, yes,” or, “It’s sad, but true,” and would stand up from his chair. And then the best part would come. But also the worst, because it was always the last part. His father would walk over to him, reach out his hand and take hold of him, just under his chin, and look at him with narrowed eyes, as if searching for something in his son’s face. One time he had even briefly placed his hand on Edward’s head. He can still remember exactly which time, and how big the hand had been, and how heavy. It did not happen again, no matter how much he hoped.
“Well, make sure you do your very best,” the admiral had said. “The next time I want to see you standing.”
“I promise, Father,” he had said in a voice that was as deep and manly as possible. But he was already talking to his father’s back.
“I need to talk to you later, Joseph,” said the back.
Taking one last look, Edward would try to remember as much as possible: the figure standing by the desk, the desk itself, the cases full of insects and butterflies, the masks on the wall, the stuffed animals and, oh, the tiger, the tiger on the floor! There was never enough time. Then Joseph would shut the door and carry him upstairs.
Usually the admiral stayed at home for only a few days. He ate there and slept there and had a dinner party or two. Then the boy would listen so carefully all day, trying to catch something of what was happening downstairs. But not much sound reached all the way to the room in the tower.
While he waited, he would take out all his most interesting books, his neatest essays, his finest maps.
“Ah, lad,” Joseph would say, when he saw that Edward, pale with exhaustion, was doing extra practice, skipping sleep, and constantly looking at the door. “I’ll ask him. But he’s busy – you know that.”
The admiral never came upstairs.
After a few days, he always went back to sea. For a year, sometimes shorter. Usually longer. Much longer, it seems this time. He has already lost count.
But he must not count, he must not think, he must not be so damned sentimental. He has to act. Get on with it! Practise! Why are you just lying there?
Then the door flies open and that stupid child runs in.
“You have to come with me,” she says. “You really have to come with me, Fish. We’ll take the cart, but Lenny can’t come – it’ll be too complicated. I’ll get you down the stairs. I can pull you.”
He has no idea what she is saying. He is not even listening.
“Stop calling me that,” he says. “And go away, I’m busy.” He tightens the straps of the harness.
“Edward, then. But you really have to come with me, Edward. If we go now, we can make it before dark. Listen, I’ve…”
“Are you deaf? I said: I’m busy.” He shuffles back over to the walking bars and starts to pull himself up.
“Fish, you can’t… Edward, you can’t stand. So stop trying.”
He gives her his blackest look and shows her his teeth. She takes a step back but does not go away. He concentrates on his arms again. But she does not give up. She walks over to him and pulls at his shoulder.
“This is important,” she says. “You really have to listen.”
What could be more important than this? It is almost evening again and he does not know how much time he has left. All those days when he did not practise…
“I’ve seen your mother.”
“What?” He crashes to the floor. That girl kneels down beside him. She smells of the wind and of outside; her hair is wet.
“Fish. Edward. Really, I’ve seen your mother. At least I think it was her.”
He does not have a mother. So it can’t be true.
“She had eyes just like yours and—”
“So what?” he sneers. “Eyes? What does that mean? Everyone has eyes.”
“No one has eyes like you, Fish,” she says. “No one at all.”
Now what? His eyes?
“And what kind of eyes are those?”
She takes her shard of mirror out of her pocket and holds it in front of his face.
“Haven’t you ever seen yourself? Take a look. And when you go into the water, they turn gold.”
Edward stares into his own eyes.
And suddenly he remembers what he dreamt about last night.