When Jacob entered the computer room, he felt strangely shy. It was a room he had visited many times before. He had even been shown how to use the computer – the ‘Earth’ computer. But today the place had lost all its old familiarity. He felt as if he had never been there before.
Yesterday had been the most fantastic day of Jacob’s life. He had become part of something that all his Earthly knowledge would have rejected as totally impossible. It wasn’t a dream – he knew that for certain – but it felt dreamlike.
Steven was working on his ordinary, Earth computer, creating a program for a purely human client, when Jacob came in. He half turned, absently gestured to the camp stool beside the desk where the Brick was lodged, and motioned to his son to sit down.
It was a large room with a long window under the eaves of the house. The ceiling sloped steeply. The floor of polished wood was partly covered with two large rugs. On the wall to the right of the door was a little old iron fireplace that housed a two-bar electric fire. The desk that held the Brick was against the wall to the left of the door. The Earth computer stood on a long, cluttered table beneath the window. And, in between, the remaining wall space was filled with shelves from floor to ceiling.
‘I won’t be a minute,’ said Steven. ‘Just let me finish this bit. I know we have things to talk about. Let’s take our time and talk.’
Jacob sat in uncomfortable silence for a while. He looked at the Brick from time to time, seeing it with different eyes now that he knew more of its history. It did not look like any other computer he had ever seen. The brick shape gave it a heavy appearance, as if it were made of real brick, and certainly not of any sort of plastic. Its buttons were colourful and looked stuck on rather than embedded. Its screen, which he had seen before, was furled up out of sight. It had no recognizable monitor. Jacob had never been allowed to touch this instrument. For a second or two he felt tempted to let his fingers slide a little lever at the base of it, or maybe just gently push the scarlet button.
‘No!’ said his father, without even turning his head. ‘That could be dangerous!’
Jacob blushed and drew back. Steven remained hunched over and busy for a few more minutes. The window had no curtains. The sun was slanting in on him.
Jacob saw him ease back on his chair and stretch out his arms. It was only then that he ventured to speak.
‘I tried to talk to Mum today,’ he said in a very strained voice, glad somehow that he was saying this to the back of his father’s head.
‘I imagine you talk to your mother most days,’ said Steven, tightening up, ready for what might follow. He swivelled round in his chair to face his son.
‘I wanted to ask her how much she knew,’ said Jacob. It was not necessary to be more specific. Each knew what the other meant.
‘And?’ said his father.
‘I couldn’t,’ said Jacob. ‘Whenever I was on the brink of saying something I was held back.’
Steven let out a sigh. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘That has to do with the fencing.’
Jacob waited to hear what his father would say next. He refused to be led on to asking any more questions. He still resented the thirteen years of silence. For thirteen years one of the most important facts of his life had been withheld from him. So, he thought sullenly, tell me, or don’t tell me. It’s up to you.
‘You see,’ his father continued, after an almost painful pause, ‘there are certain subjects that are fenced about. Neither you nor anybody on Earth is permitted to probe into them too far.’
Jacob thought fast. Before his father could construct any more ‘fences’, he blurted out the words, ‘Why did you marry my mother? How did you meet her?’
Steven was startled by the questions, but he managed a smile, a mischievous smile. ‘I found her standing barefoot outside in the snow,’ he said. ‘She was striking matches in an effort to keep herself warm.’
Jacob looked angry. ‘Why talk such rubbish?’ he snapped. ‘I ask you a sensible question and you try to make out she’s the Little Match Girl. Uncle Mark is her brother. My grandmother was still alive when I was born. Mum was never alone or neglected.’
‘She was not neglected,’ said Steven, ‘but she was often alone. She was alone at the concert hall where I first met her. She looked lost. She told me later that she had been trying to be like everybody else but couldn’t quite manage it!’
He put one hand on his son’s shoulder and gave him a look that was serious and penetrating.
‘I was speaking in metaphor, Javayl,’ he said. ‘There are waif-souls in this universe. Your mother is one such. And I – I have great love for the waif-soul. Do you understand?’
‘And is my soul a waif?’ said Jacob, knowing only too well what loneliness was.
‘Who knows?’ said his father, unwilling to discuss it further. ‘Who really knows anything?’
He turned abruptly to the computer and typed in a few more lines before turning to face his son again. He had decided to tell Jacob another story, a true one.
‘The tale I told you has a basis in reality. Your mother did once stand outside the window one snowy January afternoon when dark had just fallen and the house was lit up but the curtains were open. She had taken off her shoes and was standing out there in just a party dress. She was eight years old at the time. She wanted to see what it felt like to be the Little Match Girl. So she stood there, striking matches till she was caught.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Jacob.
‘She told me, or at least I think she told me.’
‘Didn’t she catch pneumonia?’
‘No,’ said Steven with a smile. ‘I think she caught a spanking and was sent to bed!’
Jacob decided that there was no point in pursuing the question any further, but he did say resentfully, ‘You are wrong about the so-called “fencing”.’
‘What do you mean by “wrong”?’ said Steven haughtily. ‘You know nothing about it.’
Jacob stood up to leave.
‘I failed to question my mother,’ he said, ‘because I couldn’t bear to hurt her. That failure had nothing at all to do with you or any power of Ormingat.’