I have a spooky little tale for you this time. I hope you enjoy it.
So Many Summers
There is a little boy holding a football standing in the corner of the room. He wears the England football strip, although he has training shoes rather than football boots on his feet. Both socks have sagged to his ankles. He hasn’t been naughty, he isn’t facing the wall, he’s simply standing quite still, his head on one side, watching his father.
His father is sitting in a ladder-backed chair across a small table from me. He has tears in his eyes and is oblivious to his child’s presence.
‘I only took my eyes off him for a minute. Just a minute, that’s all.’
‘That’s all it takes,’ I say, never shy of a cliché, especially when apt.
‘We’d just watched the match, England versus Portugal. England lost on penalties. It was a nice day and Paul wanted to go out for a kick-about. He wanted to practise his penalty kick, take his mind off his team being out of the World Cup.
‘Sarah, that’s my wife, Sarah had popped along to Morrisons and I had the baby to look after. Little Hannah. She was fast asleep, bless her, slept all the way through the game. Well, we couldn’t go to the park, not till Sarah got back, but Paul was impatient. He ran out into the street with his football.’ His shoulders heave and he fights to gain control. ‘I heard the horn and the sound of the car skidding and I knew. Even before I heard the thud, I knew. Sarah was only another few minutes. She got home in the middle of it all.’
The scene flashes before his eyes: neighbours gawping; Hannah bawling her head off; the driver, saucer-eyed and too shocked to speak; the paramedics working on Paul, trying to help him. Then his wife, getting out of her car further up the street because that was the nearest she could get to the house with the ambulance blocking the road, her mouth a frightened ‘O’, shock and tears when it dawned on her that it was her child lying crumpled on the ground. She stumbled and almost fell, then instinct drove her feet forward and she ran to Paul, held his hand and stroked his forehead. Finally, the two of them clinging to each other, baby Hannah sandwiched between them, wracked with grief when it was obvious nothing could be done for their son.
I pat his hand and pass him a handkerchief.
‘He was always mad about football, see? This was the first World Cup he was old enough to really follow. He wanted to be just like his hero, David Beckham. He ran out between the cars parked at the kerb. He didn’t look. He chased his ball out into the middle of the road and …’ He buries his face in his hands.
I feel a tugging at my sleeve. The boy has crept closer while I was preoccupied with his father. He’s pulled his socks up and his football is under his arm.
‘Tell Dad I’m okay,’ he says. ‘He shouldn’t be so upset. It was meant to be. I know that now.’
‘I know, lovey,’ I say, smiling at him. ‘I’ll tell him. In a minute.’
He nods and moves back into the corner, eyes fixed on his father.
‘At first, I was numb. Sarah, that’s my wife, Sarah, did I say? She’s devastated.’ He looks at me with haunted eyes. ‘I think she blames me.’
‘Has she said so?’
‘Not in so many words, but she must.’
‘It was an accident.’
‘I know.’ He bunches up the handkerchief and stares at it for a long moment. ‘But you see,’ he says at last, meeting my eyes, ‘if she’d been looking after him, I can’t be sure I wouldn’t have blamed her.’
‘That’s very honest of you. Or are you,’ I ask, ‘using it as an excuse to torture yourself?’ People do that. Keep on picking until they feel the pain all over again. Somehow they feel it is the pain that keeps their lost souls alive.
‘He was angry. At first, you know. He’d throw things, slam doors, break his toys. He tore through the house like a hurricane.’
I nod. I know.
‘Then he just went quiet. It’s like he’s sulking, like he hates me.’
‘Had he ever behaved like that before?’
He opens his hands and shrugs, a hopeless gesture. ‘He was just a kid. He’d had tantrums and arguments, he was mischievous, sometimes naughty … just a normal little kid.’
‘Then why do you assume he’s sulking now?’
‘When he was clattering about the place, I still had a connection to him. Now I feel like I’ve lost him. Really lost him. For good.’
I look at the child. His eyes are fixed on his father and he is shaking his head. ‘I love you, Daddy,’ he mouths, then turns to me. ‘Tell him. Please?’
‘You know, Paul has got to move on from this. And so have you and your wife.’
‘We went on holiday. We had a cottage booked in the Lakes and we still went.’ He stares at his hands. ‘But it wasn’t right without Paul. We missed him more than ever. We came home after two days.’ He looks up at me. ‘I know we’ve got to move on. What I don’t know is how.’
‘Not by focusing on pain and anger. Remember the little things, the things you shared, the things that made you smile.’
‘If I don’t feel pain, I just feel numb.’
‘That’s because it's so long since you tried feeling happy. This is all part of the healing process.’
‘Is it?’ He looks utterly miserable. ‘Feeling like this? Losing my family?’
‘You haven’t lost your wife, or your daughter. They both need you.’
‘I can’t reach her. Sarah. She seems so far away.’
‘There’s a distance between you?’
‘A chasm.’
‘Then it’s of your own making. Build a bridge. You can choose to build a bridge.’
‘It’s not that easy.’
‘I didn’t say it would be easy. Do you still love each other?’
He nods. ‘I love her more than ever. Sarah and Hannah … they’re my life.’
‘Well, then.’
‘But I’m not sure she feels the same way about me.’
‘If you try to put things right and you don’t succeed, well, at least you tried. If you don’t even try …’ I leave that hanging.
He rubs his eyes. ‘Can you help me to reach Paul? I’d love to hear him banging around the place, just one more time.’
‘Paul’s here.’
‘What?’ He looks at me, a mixture of hope and disbelief, then his eyes search the room. The little boy waves with both hands, his football at his feet, cheeky grin splashed across his face. ‘Where?’
‘Just there.’ I point.
He follows my direction, stares into the corner of the room at the faded wallpaper and tired old carpet. ‘Can he see me?’
‘Yes, he can see you. He’s waving.’
‘Paul?’ He waves back. ‘Can he hear me?’ he asks.
‘Yes, he can hear you.’
‘Paul, I’m sorry. I never meant for … I love you.’
‘He knows that. He loves you, too, very much.’
‘Come back home, son. Come back and stay.’
‘He can’t. He needs to move on.’
‘Move on?’
‘He can’t stay here. He doesn’t belong.’
‘Will I see him again?’
‘In time. We all go when it’s our time, when it’s meant to be. Just like Paul.’
‘How could it possibly be his time? He’s so young.’
‘It’s different for us all, but sooner or later we’re all called home. We all have just so many summers.’
‘But it isn’t fair.’
‘Paul understands. He’s come to terms with what happened. He’s at peace.’
Paul picks up his football, smiles and waves a last goodbye.
‘Is he still here?’
‘He’s leaving now.’
‘Don’t go. Paul! Don’t go, please, son …’
As Paul fades away, he throws his football towards his father. It bounces a couple of times then rolls, comes to rest at his feet.
‘Paul?’
But Paul has gone.
Simon Hunter picks up the football. He looks at it, turning it around in his hands, then looks at me. ‘How?’ he asks.
‘Sometimes they can do something like that. Leave a gift, a keepsake.’
‘So he’s not angry?’
I shake my head. ‘He never was. He was frightened at first. He was scared you would be angry with him, then that you’d forget him. That’s why he acted like he did.’
‘I’d never—’
‘He knows that now. He’s moved on. He’s at peace.’
Paul’s father wipes tears from his eyes. He nurses the football. He looks up again. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely,’ I say firmly. ‘Paul will see you again when the time is right, but he’ll be fine until then.’ I put my hand next to his on the table top. ‘You should try to be, too. You and Sarah. For Hannah’s sake.’
‘I’ll give her this. I’ll tell her.’ He stands up. ‘Do you think we can make it right?’
‘I know you’ll try. That’s all you can do for now.’
‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’ He fumbles his wallet out of his pocket. ‘What do I owe you?’
I shake my head. ‘Nothing. There’s no charge.’
‘Oh, but surely—’
‘Thank you for the offer, but I have everything I need.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
‘Go home to your wife. You have a little girl who needs you both. Make things right.’
He nods, smiles. ‘I'll try, I really will.’
‘Good luck.’
He leaves and doesn’t look back.
I hope he can build that bridge and reach his wife. I hope they can find the love they had before fate turned their settled little life upside down.
The living are a funny lot. All logic and reason until they need me. Then, those whose hearts believe find their feet following a path to my door. They almost always offer money, too, like it’s the only acceptable conclusion to our meeting. It’s been a long time since I had any need of money, of the things that money can buy.
There will come a time when I, too, will have to move on, to follow Paul and all the others and find my own peace and rest. But not yet. For now I’ll wait and talk to those who call.
A woman died from heart disease this morning. She hadn’t spoken to her daughter in twenty years, some silly row over something or nothing. She’s in the next room, waiting. And her daughter’s feet are about to find the path that will bring her here to me.
‘So Many Summers’ is in the collection, The Writing on the Wall.
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