30
Down by the River (II)

‘Why’d you do it, Jack? I thought you was my friend!’

I can’t tell you how those words stung me. I hadn’t intended to upset the boy. It was the last thing I wanted to do. But my plans had all gone astray. See, I thought we had another ten or twenty miles to go and I intended to prepare him gently for what lay ahead. But when I saw that awful expression on his face, I realized that we were already here – what seemed like a charming village to me was alive with the ghosts of his childhood.

In an instant, I regretted the whole plan. The idea of returning to his childhood home had come to me after the induction – the hypnotic time spent with his father had clearly brought him so much happiness, it seemed obvious to physically bring the lad here. All I wanted was to set him free of the past. It was done with the best of intentions.

‘How . . . how’d you find this place?’ he said, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘How did you know?’

‘I’m so sorry, Pip. I thought it would help you to . . . you know, move on . . .’

‘Yeah, but how?’

‘Ah, it wasn’t so hard. The address of your ma’s school is written in the front of your book. I saw it that first time you came for a lesson.’

‘This was . . . this was Pa’s store,’ he muttered.

‘I feel like an eejit.’

‘But he ain’t here no more. Someone else owns the store. See – all the signs and the paint is different. It don’t look right.’

‘I can’t apologize enough . . .’

‘I feel kinda sick.’

‘Of course you do, you poor fellow. Look, I think we should move on – this place has too many memories. But you haven’t eaten since breakfast so I’m going to pick up a few things and we’ll be on our way in five minutes.’

I stumbled into the store where a bell clanged loudly behind the door. As I selected bread and apples, butter and cheese, chocolate bars and a large bottle of lemonade, I was shaking with self-loathing – we therapists are so self-righteous in our desire to tidy up the past that we sometimes forget the most fundamental tools of all – simple compassion and respect for others. As the lady behind the counter stacked everything in a paper bag, I asked her if she had known the previous owner, but she only glanced suspiciously at my eyes and said, ‘No, sir, I only work here. I don’ know nothing . . .’

When I came out with my bags, the car was empty. I felt a moment’s panic and ran into the empty street. I looked in the direction from which we had entered the village, but there was no one in sight except a heavily pregnant dog lumbering up the hill. I looked the other way, and there they were – Pip wandering into the distance like a dreaming man, with Hannah following anxiously behind. Paper bag in hand, I sprinted after them.

‘That was where old Foxy lived . . .’ Pip was mumbling. ‘And right here, two old ladies used to sit on that porch . . . What was their names, now?’

And then I saw the thing I half dreaded and half expected. It was a lovely old schoolhouse behind a broken picket fence. I say a lovely old schoolhouse, but when I got close I saw that it was in a sad state of repair – broken windows, missing roof tiles, graffiti on the walls and piles of garbage amongst the weeds. Pip had wandered round the back to an abandoned play area, littered with smashed glass and empty bottles. There was a dwelling at the rear of the school, and before I could prevent him, Pip had wrenched open a broken door and found his way into a large classroom.

Hannah came to my side with a look of desperate concern on her face. I peered through a broken window and saw the boy standing in the classroom, his face a mess of grief. I saw a torn map and a tattered Stars and Stripes on the wall behind him, a huge pile of broken desks, more broken bottles on the wooden floor and a small heap of cold black ashes where a lonely intruder had once built a fire. I watched him examining a long mahogany pole with a brass hook on the end, which his mother must have used to open the high classroom windows.

I was about to go in after Pip when he emerged unsteadily through the door. He staggered towards a clump of bushes where, to my dismay, he was violently sick.

I said, ‘Ah, Jesus, Pip, I could kick myself! Come over and have a drink.’

He looked up at me, and the anger had been replaced by a hollow sorrow in his eyes.

‘I’m OK now. Thank you. Thank you both. It was our school, see. And our home . . .’

‘I know it was, fellah. I thought you were ready . . .’

‘I – I apologize for yelling at you, Jack – I know you was trying to help . . .’

I gave the lad a warm hug and a cool drink of lemonade, and then I whispered long, slow affirmative words to him and I knew they went deep. I told him that he was strong. I told him that the past was done and his future lay ahead. I told him that his mama and papa lived on within him and that they would want him to live his life to the full. To live a double life, in fact, for the sibling he had lost. We stood clutching each other, and after a long while he shook his head like a pony, and forced a weak smile onto his face. ‘We was so happy together, Jack. So very happy.’

‘I know, old man. I know you were.’

As Pip and Hannah embraced, I felt an overwhelming wave of tenderness for these exceptional young people.

I said, ‘Well, I’ll say it one last time – I’m sorry for the pain I caused. I thought we had a few miles before we got here. I intended it all to be different. I’m an eejit so I am, and that’s all there is to it. Anyway, let’s walk now, Pip. There’s nothing for you here.’

We set off up the little lane into the countryside beyond. I glanced back one last time and I sensed that a fragment of the boy’s heart was left hanging on the broken fence of his mother’s school.

Up ahead, Pip and Hannah were holding hands and I followed behind, carrying the paper bag, like the foolish fellow I was. We continued in this awkward fashion for some twenty minutes, and then I called out, ‘Pip! Pip, is there somewhere we could sit to eat and talk a while?’

They waited for me to catch up, and I was relieved to see that a little brightness had returned to Pip’s face.

‘Up this way, Jack. It’s been a long time, but you don’t never forget the places you used to go. Come on – there’s some things I wanna show you.’

He slipped an arm round my shoulder, and I felt absolved.

With the trauma behind us, I began to notice our surroundings. The countryside was exceptionally lovely, with grassy hillocks and fruit trees. Something about it reminded me of the countryside around Kerry, where I had spent so many happy days.

In the sunshine, Pip seemed re-animated. I watched as he and Hannah found sticks and wandered amongst the trees. I marvelled at how resilient young people can be. Their natural residency is in the present moment. Their instinct is to release the past and their fears for the future. When we are young, the days go on for ever and the sky is always blue. Who needs the crashing burden of reality?

We walked a long way in the mint-clear air, and there was something about the place that lifted a fellow’s spirits. I watched the barefoot girl run up a hilltop with Pip at her side – she moved so lightly she could have been flying. I struggled to keep up, and by the time I reached the top they were already racing down the other side, with the wild flowers and long grass whipping at their legs, as birds rose from their hiding places and zigzagged around them.

The river was winding and blue. White waves bubbled over gleaming boulders and long fish dreamed in deep secret pools. It was a happy, wild place, with not another soul in sight, and the thought came to me that it was as different as anywhere could be from Dead River. I searched for somewhere to eat; there was only one natural spot – Pip and I pulled off our shoes and the three of us dangled our bare toes in the cool water by the stone bridge.

I took the bottle of lemonade and propped it carefully amongst the rocks in the shallows. Pip washed his face vigorously with handfuls of clear water. Then we ate together, the three of us, with dragonflies darting around, and it was almost as if the river moved on our behalf – winding, babbling and whispering – so that we could remain still; utterly suspended in time.

Hannah lay on her back and soaked up the sunshine as Pip rose to his feet. He seemed fully restored now, wandering about in a childlike daze. I watched him head under the arch of the bridge, gazing at the large stones around him. Speaking quietly so as not to rouse Hannah, he said, ‘Jack, this may sound crazy, but can you recall what I said when you hyp’tized me?’

I said, ‘Yes, I think I remember, Pip . . . One of the stones was special. You called it the blue-grey stone.’

‘The blue-grey stone . . .? Yeah, I kinda remember – except all the stones are blue-grey, Jack. There’s hundreds of them – we can’t pull them all out!’

‘Well, there was a lot of counting . . .’

Pip looked sad. I said, ‘Listen, Pip . . . dear old Pip, trance is a magical thing, but it’s not real life exactly. When I hypnotized you, you were imagining what you’d like to happen . . . like a lovely dream, old fellow! It wasn’t real. This is only a stone bridge. There’s nothing hidden here . . .’

The boy seemed downcast. I think it was dawning on him that the world is even tougher than he imagined, and that’s not a nice thing to see on a young man’s face, especially one who had been betrayed so many times. Worst of all, it was almost as though his own father had let him down.

I got up and began to gather my belongings. For better or worse, it was time to head back to Dead River.

And that was when Hannah opened her eyes. I’d thought she was asleep, but of course she’d heard every word. She’s not much of a speaker, young Hannah, but she’s one hell of a listener. She came over to where I was standing and started rummaging through my jacket pockets. I couldn’t figure out what she was after, but at last that crazy girl found what she was looking for – my notebook and cartridge pen.

She crouched on the ground and began doing that writing thing – with the pen in her fist and the other elbow raised to hide her work. I thought we’d have to wait all night, but she had learned to write a little faster.

At last she stood up and handed me the notebook, and as a teacher I felt proud – I mean, I’d have preferred a little punctuation, and a few capital letters wouldn’t go amiss, but her handwriting had come on leaps and bounds. There were no spelling mistakes either, even on the long words. To cap it all, the girl had come up with a simple rhyme, as neat as you please.

I stared at what she had written, that funny girl, and it was like a little song, so it was, or a poem . . .