A Cleansing of Souls (23 page)

“Tom,” said Sheila, at last, “this is from your Uncle Malcolm and myself. If you don’t like it, we can take it back.”

As Tom took the present, a shiver ran through him. It was soft. Was it something to wear? He strengthened himself. It was a time for courage and for fortitude. He could feel himself reddening even before the final wrapper was torn away. But his fear was a fear misplaced. When he saw what was there upon his lap, he smiled with instinctive pleasure. It was a Town scarf. He would go to every game next season. That’s what he needed. He thanked his Aunt and grinned at his Uncle Malcolm who continued grinning long after the moment was passed.

Whilst Sheila was tidying up the wrapping paper, Tom told his parents that he hadn’t been able to find a present for them but he had got them each a card. They said a card was just wonderful for in truth,
he
was their Christmas.

Tom watched them open their cards, his mother and his father, and he saw the look upon their faces as each read the words inside. He had written in each a poem, expressing his love for them simply and beautifully. His mother could not speak lest she cry. His father put his hand upon his son’s shoulder and just looked at him. He had touched them more deeply than he would ever know, for he was still their little boy, the very reason for their lives. His simple words, scrawled down during a night of pain had freed them all. Their love for each other was the love of three good people just trying to keep a hold on life.

The Christmas dinner was massive. Plates were covered with so much food that the task of eating it all seemed at first an impossible one. Gradually, though, the mountains decreased and the plates were cleared. It was all Tom could do to sit up straight afterwards. Uncle Malcolm’s green paper hat had slipped over his left eye and his chair was slowly nudging him beneath the table.
Nothing to do with the whisky of course. Sheila looked at her husband and whispered something to her sister. And they both giggled like schoolgirls.

Malcolm slept all afternoon. He missed the Queen’s speech. and he missed ‘The Guns of Navarone.”

As the evening sketched its darkness upon the town, everybody felt at peace. They all sat together in the lounge waiting for the next program to start on the television. Elaine spoke quietly to George and then turned to Sheila. “I think we should give Tom his present now,” she said.

Sheila turned off the television and woke Malcolm up with a rough shove. George went upstairs, returning moments later with a present that had been wrapped carefully in gold paper. Tom saw now that they were all looking at him. A moment of confusion came over him for he had been far away, thinking of birds, of parks, of libraries and of dark, endless rooms. And there before him stood his father.

“Tom,” he said, “this is for you. It’s from me and your mum.” He passed the present to his son and went to stand beside his wife. In fact, they were all standing now, all except for Tom, standing and staring down upon the young man whom they all loved so much.

The box felt light. Tom slid the wrapping paper off easily and now held a white shoebox before him. At this point, he felt nothing, no emotion. Not yet. He lifted the lid gently from the box and there, resting softly on a bed of cotton wool, was the most beautiful wooden guitar he had ever seen. It was just ten inches long and perfect in every way, precise, elegant, intricate and wonderful. And then it came to him - those evenings of banging in the shed, those furtive glances. This Beautiful Guitar had been carved in wood by the hands of his father. And a tear dropped from his eye and fell upon it.

George and Elaine held each other tight. Sheila held her hands to her cheeks and Malcolm stumbled back unnoticed into his chair.

Tom looked up from the Beautiful Guitar at his mother and father. He wanted to kiss them both, to hold them and to never let them go. But he just sat there with the Beautiful Guitar upon his lap. That for which he had searched for so long, the very receptacle of his dreams, was with him now. He had been presented with his perfect soul, there, straight from his father’s heart.

And the mother, the father and the son clung to one another on that Christmas day that none would ever forget.

Ron, strong and sturdy, sits in a park watching the children play. He watches them on the swings and the slides. He sees them run. He sees them fall and pick themselves up again. He watches the way they move, the young girls. He sits in the park, watching the children play.

And what of that little girl? What of Laura?

Well she never sleeps without waking in the pure blackness with tears in her eyes and fists clenched tight. And this will go on maybe forever.

The years pass now. Come with me. Look.

She has grown and has such eyes, as you never have seen before. And when she smiles you just break. She is so perfect, so entirely perfect.

And when she marries, her husband will wonder that ever such a woman should want him.

She will still wake in the night, trembling in fear but her husband will put his arms about her and he will brush back the sodden hair from her forehead and whisper into her ear such words of love until she falls back once more to sleep. And he will gently kiss her forehead and listen to the beating of her heart in the clear, cool night and allow the tears to fall from his own frightened eyes.

But the words that she hears as she falls to sleep are not the words of her husband, but those written on that old and tattered crossword grid that she keeps with her always, knows by heart, the words that her dad wrote on that final day of his, as the sun filled the hospital room.

You are an angel, pure and clean and untouched, soft and beautiful.’

As the sky darkens and the night creeps in, the snow starts its mischievous transformation into ice. The roads become more hazardous than they already are and the pavements spew sand.

In the small house in Northern Town, Tom stands at the window looking at the sky. His mother and father are asleep in adjoining armchairs facing the window. Malcolm is stretched out on the settee in a drunken stupor
. Sheila is upstairs sorting out the beds.

The moon is full and big and the stars shine brightly. Tom is faced in the blank window by his own reflection and the reflection of his family behind him. All is dark outside. And the glass becomes a mirror, framing the boy and his family. Tom wants to keep the image alive, to protect it, and retain it forever. His eyes begin to moisten a little. He blinks. And when his sight is returned to him, there is Little Norman. He is there, reflected in the window, standing in the middle of the room between the armchairs where his parents lie sleeping.

Tom is frightened. He puts his hand upon the window and touches only glass. He dares not look around lest the vision slip away. Little Norman is smiling at him now, giggling the way he used to. His tiny body shakes as he giggles. And then Tom sees Little Norman begin to cough and to splutter. A strange expression passes across the small boy’s face. And a bag of sweets drops from his chubby hand to the floor. And Tom sees those big eyes close tightly and that beautiful face go red then white. In a moment, the body of Little Norman is on the floor, shaking and writhing and Tom still touches only glass. And then the body is still. And Little Norman is dead.

Tom is about to call out his brother’s name but he cannot speak, is not allowed to speak. And the image in the window begins to fade and distort. Then slowly, very slowly, Little Norman stirs on the floor. He clambers to his feet, sighs and grins at his big brother, the most playful, captivating grin you ever saw.

And then the vision slips away. The room behind Tom holds its reflection but Little Norman is gone now. His body has turned to silver, gleaming in the night.

And Tom watches it glide up to Heaven like a star.

For two hours,
Tom stands alone at the window, looking out upon the night, the beautiful guitar held gently in his hand. He watches over his mum and he watches over his dad. And he is awash with the love that will sustain forever.