The Toymakers(81)

Emil was already grappling the tow rope of the dirigible that had been floating above. Holding it firmly, he took a step off the shelving and heaved down, to land clumsily at the bottom of the aisle. By the time he had picked himself up, the man at the counter was demanding the return of his money (and a payment in recompense for the distress his sons had shown on Christmas morning). Emil lumbered in that direction, his chest heaving.

The first rule of storekeeping was not ‘the customer is king’. The real first rule was ‘don’t assault the clientele’. It was a rule Emil ignored as he forced his way through the crowd. By the time he reached the counter, Cathy was patiently counting coins back into the customer’s outstretched hand.

‘Has something happened?’ Emil asked, still straining for breath.

‘You’re the toymaker, are you?’

‘I am.’

‘Then it’s you to blame, is it, for toys that won’t play? Shame on you, sir. They were only boys. They wanted nothing more than a game. And all this, while our boys are still fighting out there …’

The man would brook no further questions. The crowd parted to allow him through, unwittingly closing ranks as Emil sought to follow. By the time they fanned out back into the aisles, the customer was gone. Emil stared after him, searching for footprints in the confetti snow.

He turned to see Cathy packing the soldiers away. ‘Let me see them.’

Cathy stood in silence as he wound the soldiers up, deployed them, and watched them broker their peace.

‘It’s him,’ said Emil, unable to speak his brother’s name.

Cathy touched him on the arm. ‘You don’t know that.’

‘Oh, but I do. He waltzed in and made his declaration and now he’s done this … He’s done it to spite me. And all because I …’ Emil hesitated before saying the words, but Cathy heard them all the same: because I wasn’t there. ‘It’s sabotage. That’s what it is. Well, we’ve had saboteurs before. We’ll see about—’

He was on the verge of striding through the counter and into the warren of stores and antechambers above, when Cathy said, ‘Emil, let me go to him.’

Emil was about to say no when a trio of boys tumbled out of the aisles, with boxes of the Long War in their arms.

‘Sir,’ announced the first. ‘It’s these ones too.’

‘We were playing in the glade, but these wouldn’t work. We’d thought they were broken, until that man …’

Emil fell to one knee and took the new soldiers in his hands. ‘What use is a soldier if he won’t do battle?’

He opened the mechanism of the first soldier, as if he might find the answer inside – and, while he was ferreting within, Cathy slipped into the shadows behind the counter. Moments later, past the register and up the spiralling stair, she was standing in front of Kaspar, the patchwork rabbits having proliferated around his feet. Martha crouched among them, feeding scraps of fabric to one of the tiny kits.

‘Martha, might I speak to your father?’

‘Oh yes, Mama.’

‘Alone.’

Martha scooped a selection of rabbits into her arms and, with a vengeful glare, tramped out of the room.

‘Kaspar, tell me it truthfully. Have you … tinkered’ – she could find no better word for it – ‘with the soldiers on the shopfloor?’

Kaspar’s lips parted in a smile.

‘Kaspar?’

‘It’s you who told me, Cathy. That I had to do it, that it had to come from me. Well, my love, this is how. You understand, don’t you? Why it has to be this way? Because … they weren’t going to listen. They all look at me like I’m an intruder. Well, this is my home. And Cathy, all I want is to come back …’

‘Kaspar, here you are. Here.’

‘Emil was never going to listen. He’s wanted to win the Long War ever since we were boys. Well, now there’ll be no winner. Now it can end – and this Emporium, this place we have, it can live again …’

At that moment, the workshop door flew open. Patchwork rabbits scattered for the shelter of shelves and upturned crates.

Emil stood in the doorway, his cheeks bunched and red. ‘What did you do?’ he breathed. ‘Tell me what you did!’

Kaspar lifted a consolatory hand. ‘Let me show you, little brother.’

A toy soldier was lying inert on the floor by Kaspar’s feet. The cavity in its back was still open, so Kaspar tinkered within. What adjustments he was making, Emil did not know. Yet, when he set the soldier down, suddenly it wouldn’t march. Emil wound it up, but instead of sallying forth, it folded its legs and took a seat. Then, with sinking inevitability, the key stopped turning.

‘It’s supposed to march. They form a unit, so boys can play battles against each other.’

‘Oh yes,’ sighed Kaspar, ‘and win a few square feet of carpet for every ten soldiers lost.’ His eyes darkened. ‘I told you, little brother. The Emporium isn’t to sell toy soldiers any more. We are, none of us, butchers. So why must we raise our children that way?’

Emil snatched the recalcitrant soldier in his fist. Three years his brother had been gone. And if, in those years, Kaspar had seen and done things of which Emil might never know, well, that did not make Emil’s own years worthless. He had Nina. The Long War was a triumph. He was to be a father, a real father … And the Emporium did not belong to Kaspar. It belonged to them all, to their families, and, ‘Damn it, Kaspar! What do you want from me?’