Tin Man(10)

His mother got out of the car and buttoned up her coat. She said, Don’t forget to look around you when you get to the top. Take it all in as if you were going to paint it. You may never see snow like this again. See how it changes the landscape. See how it changes you.

I will, said Michael, and he marched on ahead, full of purpose. Ellis looked at his mother and smiled.

They dragged the toboggan through snowdrifts and up steep edges and flowing inclines to the windmill, and to the view of the ermine hills and farmland around. And they could see Dora in the distance. Wrapped in a red coat and thick scarf, she was leaning against the engine, warming herself, a plume of smoke curling from the corner of her red lips. Michael raised his arm. I don’t think she can see me, he said. She can see you, said Ellis, positioning the toboggan at the edge of the slope. Michael waved again. Eventually, Dora waved back. Come on, let’s go, said Ellis. One last look around, said Michael.

Ellis sat at the front and gripped the rope hard, his feet resting on the runners. He felt Michael clamber on behind him. Felt his hands reach around his waist. Ready? he said. Ready, Michael said. And they nudged the toboggan forward until it pulled away over the side, and they were thrown back by gathering speed and unexpected troughs, hidden beneath the drifts. He could feel Michael tight around his waist, his scream in his ear, as they bounced down the hill, trees an indecipherable blur, racing past those coming up, and then all of a sudden, there was no traction, there was only air and flight, and them, and they were peeled away from one another, and from rope and wood, and they fell to earth, winded and dazed, tumbling in a flurry of snow and sky and laughter, and they only slowed when the land flattened out, when it brought them back together again and held them still.

Shortly after his fourteenth birthday, Ellis came home from school and saw his mother sitting quietly in front of her painting. The scene reminded him of being in church, watching the kneeling in front of devotional panels, prayers hoping to be heard. He didn’t disturb her, he remembered, because her demeanour and intensity frightened him. He went upstairs to his room and put the image behind him as best he could.

In the days that followed, however, he couldn’t help but watch her. Shopping trips had her pausing for breath along streets she used to race down. Dinners once devoured with delight were picked at, refrigerated, later binned. And one Saturday when his father was at the boxing club and he was doing his homework upstairs, he heard the crash of plates and ran down to the kitchen. His mother was still on the floor when he got to her, and before he could brush up the broken china, she reached for his hand and said something strange, said, You’ll stay on at school till you’re eighteen, won’t you? And you’ll do your art? Ellis? Look at me. You’ll— – Yes, he said. Yes.

That night in his room, he searched for signs of something wrong in his sketchbooks old and new. The drawings he’d made of his mother a year ago compared to the ones of now were proof on the page because he knew her face so well. Her eyes were sunken and the light they emitted was dusk not dawn. She was thinner too, sharp around her temples, her nose more pronounced. Really, though, it was about her touch and gaze, because when either fell on him, neither wanted to let him go.

The next day, he got up early and went straight to Mabel’s. She was cleaning the front window and was surprised to see him so early and she said, Michael’s still in his room, and he said, I think Mum’s ill. She stopped what she was doing and drove him back home. Dora opened the door and Mabel said, He knows.

His father went on nights, which surprised no one. He escaped his wife’s night-time fears and left her in the care of her son. Mabel instructed him in basic cooking and housekeeping, and she concocted a menu for him that included leftovers and an ever-changing stew. After school, Michael came back with him and they built fires for Dora and kept her warm and entertained with stories.

Michael said, Listen to this, Dora – Mrs Copsey stormed into the shop yesterday and said (and he imitated her), What in God’s name is that next to the cauliflower, Mrs Wright? It’s okra. Mrs Khan asked me to get some, said Mabel. But they have their own shops down past the Co-op, said Mrs Copsey. But Mrs Khan likes to shop with me, said Mabel. That may be so, said Mrs Copsey. But put out rubbish, Mrs Wright, and you’ll attract flies.

She didn’t! said his mother.

She did, said Michael. And then she said – These people just don’t know how to be English, Mrs Wright. But they’re not English, said Mabel, and you said the same about the Welsh twenty years ago. Good day to you, Mrs Copsey. Careful of the flies!

And Michael reached for Dora’s hand and they laughed and Ellis remembered how grateful he was that Michael’s care was instinctive and natural because he could never be that way with her. He was constantly on the lookout for the last goodbye.

Her illness advanced rapidly, and between pillows of morphine, brief moments of consciousness would arise where the two of them would always be waiting for her with an idea – I was thinking about colour and light, said Michael. And I was thinking maybe that’s all we are, Dora. Colour and light.

Or with a distraction –

Look, Dora. Ellis has drawn me, and Michael held up the sketchbook. Dora reached over and held her son’s hand and told him how clever he was to draw so well. Never stop, will you? she said. Promise me.

I promise.

Make him promise, Michael.

I will, Dora.