Come Away With Me. Sara MacDonald
and childish, and he wished he hadn’t said anything.
I walked the narrow path through the reed beds at the far end of the creek away from the houses. Today the sky was clear blue, cloudless, but the cold bit into me. As I walked, the sun began to reach through my coat and warm me. I felt as light as air, as if I were floating along, as if my feet were not touching the ground; as if I were moving very fast covering the ground without effort.
I stopped at the small bridge where the water tumbled into a small waterfall to join the creek. Long, long ago Jenny and Ruth played Pooh sticks here. Jenny and Ruth? Longago children, happy and carefree. Pictures of them floated across my mind.
What am I doing here? My heart beat so fast it hurt. I tried to think, but my mind would not clear. I went on walking. I walked on down the path and came to the only cottage at this end of the creek. I remembered it. It used to be derelict, now it was a renovated modern house with a double garage. Strange, it looked, on the edge of the woods; out of place, as if someone had dropped it in the wrong spot by mistake.
I stared at it, remembering the crumbling stone walls with heavy clumps of ivy clinging to the cracks, and a roof that had caved in and was covered with moss and flowers that grew in the sills. The ruined house never got any sun and neither did this ugly modern house, which looked dark and unloved despite the yellow paint.
I passed it quickly. The path turned to the right and led through the woods. I climbed up the chiselled steps cut into the tree roots on to a higher path that ran above the creek. The trees grew close here, close and dark, and I felt myself melting into them, gliding over fallen brown pine needles as soft as cotton wool until I was at one with the trees, as if I were tree and shadow.
The creek glittered at a steep angle below me and I heard singing. Clear through the wood someone was singing in a high, childish voice although the words were lost to me. When the singing stopped there was a smattering of clapping, then a pause and someone started to play a recorder. Slowly I made my way towards the sound.
The trees grew thinner by a clearing and beyond it there was a small gate in the middle of a hedge. The sounds were coming from the other side. I moved towards the gate and saw the old manor house, which stood on a steep slope facing the wood and creek. A lawn sloped down to the latch gate and not far from the gate, on an even patch of grass like a small terrace, a semicircle of people were sitting on chairs playing musical instruments.
The terrace had been made to catch the early morning sun. The people were swathed in coats and scarves. They were making a lot of noise and seemed excited. Then I saw they were children. The recorder player stopped and made an awkward bobbing bow, and the others put down their instruments and clapped.
I watched them. I saw something was wrong. Their movements were disjointed. They seemed unable to keep still. Some children got up and ran around in circles, their limbs flaying out at odd angles.
A man with a beard called out, clapped his hands for order. He got the children sitting down again and a tall, lanky boy started to play the violin. He played beautifully. The music was haunting and the children swayed and rocked to the sound. He played for two or three minutes, then his concentration suddenly went and he stopped mid piece and stared straight across into my eyes.
The sudden silence shivered, unbroken. I held his eyes and grief rose up in me like an echo. His fear was mirrored in me. I felt the form of his fleeting, terrifying confusion.
The man with the beard touched his arm. So soft were his words to the boy that I could not hear them. The children rushed from their chairs and surrounded the boy. They threw their arms round him, making small noises of comfort and encouragement. They patted and stroked and keened to him until he jerked back into life.
I turned and ran back into the closeness of the trees. I followed the path of soft pine needles as it wound back down to the water and into sunlight. It felt as if the boy’s eyes followed me into the shadows. What am I doing? What am I doing? Someone tell me.
Adam and Ruth took the path through the woods. This route was quite new and part of a Job Creation scheme. It didn’t lead anywhere but meandered in an arc above the water and came out where the awful yellow house now stood.
Not many people used the new route, they preferred to stay on the open creek path rather than enter the shade of the trees, but it had been a boon for the Manor House, a school for autistic children. The children and teachers could now wander through a little latch gate straight on to the creek.
As they passed the gate Ruth and Adam saw a semicircle of chairs with musical instruments lying abandoned on them, looking poignant and incongruous.
They walked in a circle and came back to the old barn where Adam had been fishing without success. They sat on a bench and finished their sandwiches and apples in the sun. Adam checked his line. Not a bite.
Ruth held her face up to the thin warmth of the sun while Adam took something revolting off his line and put something else on to the hook and cast again. He was humming and Ruth smiled, feeling relaxed.
‘OK,’ she said after a minute or two. ‘I’d better go back to the cottage and garden. Heaven knows when we’ll be down again. I’ll see you later, hon.’
Adam turned and grinned. ‘Don’t bank on fish for supper, will you?’
‘You’ve still got time!’ Ruth felt relieved that he was happy again.
Walking back to the cottage she saw that the best of the day was nearly over. Clouds hovered and the persistent mist was going to roll in again. She could almost feel its damp hand touching her face and coming up through her feet. She hurried to get her plants in.
Adam was fishing just beyond the ivy-clad barn. He had been fishing for a long time as if he were determined to catch something. I watched him from the trees, just inside the wood where the pine needles were dry. Ruth had gone and Adam was alone again. I stared at the back of his head. It was so familiar, the angle at which he held it, the shape of it, the way the hair grew, just like Tom’s. I loved watching him.
There were no walkers on the paths and the sun was sliding in and out of cloud. The warmth of the day would soon slip away.
Adam placed his rod between two sticks and turned. He looked up into the wood where I was sitting and he shivered, pulling a sweater over his head in a swift movement. Then he turned quickly back to his rod, fiddling with the bait on the end of his line. I saw that his shoulders had suddenly become hunched and tense, his movements nervous.
My throat caught. A pulse beat painfully in my head. He knew he was being followed and watched. I was frightening him.
I shivered too. The boy playing the violin had hurled me back from some strange place. His eyes, staring straight into mine, had registered the bewilderment of a life he could not quite grasp; a world where everyday actions become a constant battle with fear.
I recognised, for a bleak and startling instant, the dark and lonely place he inhabited. A place where you can no longer control your thoughts or your actions or judge them. A world where it is impossible to relate to anyone; where the simplest decision is too difficult. In the boy’s eyes I caught a brief reflection of myself and with horror realised I might be going out of my mind.
I was following and scaring the one beloved person left to me. Ruth and Adam had walked past me as I lay among the fir needles while the fragile rays of the sun touched my face. I could have called out, almost touched them, but I did not. I had trembled with wanting to shout, Help me. Help me.
Now I knew there was only one thing I could do. I could not leave Adam frightened. I must reassure him that no one wanted to hurt him, let him know it had only been me following