The Pull of the Stars(45)

Anything come in the post this morning?

My brother shook his head and made a gesture with his hands.

I didn’t follow.

Pointing into the hall, he shook his head again, almost crossly.

Never mind, Tim.

He was scraping back his chair and tugging out the table’s shallow drawer, the one that always stuck.

It doesn’t matter, really.

I couldn’t bear it when Tim had to grab the notebook to make himself understood to me, the nearest thing to a mammy he’d ever had; it made me feel we were thousands of miles apart.

He slid his jagged handwriting over so I could read: Temporary suspension.

Of the post? Oh, of delivery, I see. I suppose they’ve too many off sick at the sorting office. I added ruefully, At the hospital we’d never be allowed a suspension of service, not even for a day. Ours are the gates that can’t close.

I wondered how long it would take me to remember not to ask Tim whether any post had come that day. How many weeks before I stopped missing it? This was how civilization might grind to a halt, one rusted-up cog at a time.

I remarked: I ran into some lads dressed up and going around the houses. I’ve been wracking my brains—what was it the old ones used to sprinkle on us at Halloween to ward off the spells of the little people?

Tim held up the little glass cruet.

Salt! That was it.

I took it from him, reminiscent. I shook a little into my hand and half solemnly touched a pinch to my forehead and another to Tim’s.

He flinched at my touch, but bore it.

I was so glad Tim had had the flu already—the week before me, and just as mildly. Otherwise I’d be watching him every morning, every night. I’d feared losing my brother for years on end, and then he’d been returned to me, changed utterly; I couldn’t endure the idea of having what was left taken now.

The jam-jar candles were guttering in their puddles. Tim rolled a meagre, meticulous cigarette.

Can I’ve one?

He slid it over and started another for himself.

We took our time smoking them. I thought of the lore veterans brought back from the front with their fags: Never be the third to light up from a single match. Was that simply good sense, because of the likelihood of the flare catching a sniper’s eye in the dark if it shone out for more than a second? Or was the rule really about preserving the magic circle of friendship, two chums hunkered over a brief flame?

I remembered the photograph that hung a little askew over Tim’s bureau upstairs, him and his pal Liam with arms slung around each other’s neck; laughing boys showing off their battalion’s smart kit the day they’d first put it on. His uniform with its solitary pip on the shoulder hung in the wardrobe now. His character certificate in the back of a drawer, a printed form with his specifics filled in by hand: The ex-soldier named above has served with the Colours for two years, three hundred and forty-seven days, and his character during this period has been good.

My brother stubbed out his cigarette and went into the pantry.

His shillelagh was leaning against the wall, stains on its thick knob. Tim used the club to cudgel the occasional rat that ventured into our pantry; he’d had no mercy on them ever since the trenches.

He came back with a barmbrack, dark brown and glossy.

Where did you get hold of this?

My question was rhetorical, mock outraged. No doubt it was from the old one up the lane, known for her apple pies.

Shall I be mother?

I cut into the brack’s still faintly warm middle. I set out thick slices on Tim’s plate and on mine, the dried fruits pebbling the pale bread. So fresh it didn’t need toasting or buttering. Bet I get the coin, for riches.

Tim nodded seriously, as if taking my wager.

I bit into it. White wheat flour, not eked out with anything. The tang of fresh tea plumping up each sultana. I mumbled, That’s only gorgeous.

I wondered what it had cost. Still, Tim took care we never ran short before the end of the week.

My brother’s eyes were on the kitchen wall, or something past it. What could he not help but see?

I bit into a hard lump. Oh!

I unwrapped its waxed paper. (Reminded, for a split second, of parcelling up the stillborn Garrett.) It was the ring, its gold paint rubbing off already.

I boasted, very blasé: Married within the year, so.

Tim gave me a slow clap.

You haven’t found a charm in your slice yet?

He shook his head and nibbled on. As if it were a duty, that was how he ate now, with a hint of dread, as if the food might turn to ashes in his mouth.

There was a time I’d have been thrilled by winning the tin ring, would’ve half believed its promise, even.

Enjoy your brack, I told myself.

The second time I bit into a minute packet, I nearly swallowed it. Another charm!

Even before I got the paper off I could tell by the shape. The thimble. I put it on my little finger and held it up, forcing a grin. What do you make of that, then, Tim? Bride and spinster in the one year, according to the brack. Just goes to show it’s all a pack of nonsense.

Thinking that maybe we were indeed the sport of the stars. With their invisible silks, they tugged us this way and that.

One candle was drowning now. Tim snuffed it between finger and thumb, blew, snuffed it again to be sure.

I was suddenly so overcome with tiredness, my head swam.

Good night, Tim.