A Lark Ascending
Harry Moore
Copyright 2008
Smashwords edition
Dedicated to Laura
and
all children that have been touched by
Cancer or Leukaemia
Also to Gail, her mother who fought for her throughout with tenacity, courage and a mother’s love; for her twin brother Kit who gave everything he could for the love of Laura; for Adam, the baby brother she loved and for Georgina her dear sister.
There is always hope
In life, in death
Love never dies
Foreword by Esther Rantzen
I first met at a charity luncheon on behalf of the Rainbows Children’s Hospice. The hospice was founded by Harry and his wife Gail and provides support and respite to families facing the tragedy of a child’s death. I was deeply inspired by the courage of all those I met there. I felt honoured to accept an invitation to be patron for their latest appeal to build a young adults centre. It was at the luncheon that Harry told me about his book.
Most parents have times of stress when their children are ill. Thousands of parents every year become aware that their child has a life threatening or life limiting disease. Many of these illnesses are rare and virtually untreatable. The families move into a different world; the sort of world they have only read about or seen on TV. Incredibly they cope. They become carers as well as parents.
Harry wrote this deeply moving book as a therapeutic exercise to help him try to understand what had happened to his daughter and family. It is about completion and hope. It is set as an autobiographical novel and is an exploration into the purpose of life as seen through a young girl with leukaemia and her father.
Death is one of the great taboos in life. We are naturally afraid or reluctant to talk about it. The risk of death in children is beyond our comprehension. Children should not die before their parents. It is not the natural order of things, yet some do. This book is a journey, nothing more. It contains no answers save one; that in all things there is hope and that throughout life and death love never die
The Lark
The lark rose from its nest in a flutter and a flurry. It had been disturbed by noises rumbling across the meadow. After ascending a few yards it began to sing. As its song lifted so did the lark rise higher and higher in steps and hops until it commanded a view over its nesting area close to a red brick farmhouse building known as The Children’s Hospice. The hospice is situated in meadowland overlooking the Shardwood Forest close to the University town of Bramford. Locally the area is known as the Backwoods. It is an area of greenery and woodland steeped in the history of England and was one of the forests referred to by Sir Walter Scott in his epoch of English medieval history, ‘Ivanhoe’. At one time it was a place for hunting. The deer still roam and game is abundant but now the forest has been handed over to the local populace as a place for walking, bird watching and other more gentle pursuits.
From a distance the forest interior looks bleak and black. If you walk through it on one of its many winding paths you are aware of a prevailing musty scent of oak, beech and sweet chestnut. However, hundreds of its oak trees were felled during the Second World War to make rifle butts and gun carriage. Their vacated ground is now covered in varieties of fungi and wild flower. Trails of ivy cluster around the twisted roots of the remaining five hundred year old oak trees. Within the bounds of the forest there are also small stretches of deep green meadow, broken fences and ancient hedgerow. Upon these islands of green the sun shines creating pools of light that contrast with the dark forest.
The most attractive way to approach the Hospice and, indeed, the town is to take the road through the forest. It follows an ancient Anglo-Saxon route which meanders according to the lie of the land. As you ascend the rise you can just see the building in the valley below through a tiny window of a clearing in the woodland. The descent opens up a view of the town, its university and environs.
This particular day was a special day in the town.
As the lark reached the plateau of its musical ascent and floated, hovered and sang it overlooked a scene of activity around the hospice. A crocodile formation of children was the centre point of this activity as it wended its way down the small road to the hospice car park. The children were happy. They were singing to the accompaniment of teachers with guitars and older pupils with tambourines. They had the morning off school and they were off to meet a Prince. What could be more exciting on a spring morning?
The blades of the helicopter spun through the air, and, as this big bird approached, the lark fell to the earth in quiet descent to sit with its own children. The helicopter touched the ground and there was the silence of expectation. Eventually the Prince stepped from the machine to cheers and applause.
His latest controversies meant nothing to the crowds of people who were there to greet him. He was met by the Lord Lieutenant of the County, a genial man and kind man, who with his wife took his position seriously and also seriously cared about the people of his community. The Lord Lieutenant escorted the Prince toward the hospice. The Prince had his own agenda and was keen to speak to the children from the local school. Conscious of the timetable that he had carefully worked out with the founders of the hospice the Lord Lieutenant guided the Prince away from the children.
“What! More dignitaries?” uttered the Prince
“No! These people are the founders. No doubt you have been briefed on them your highness.”
The Prince duly met the husband and wife who were the founders. They stood by the actor who was a trustee of their charity and a social friend of the Prince. The Prince recognised him and recalled some social occasion from the past. They smiled together. The founders guided the Prince through the hospice. The place was created to provide care for dying children and to support their families. The founders explained its different services. They walked with an entourage and introduced him to the many people who were involved in the project. Eventually they arrived in a room known as the “special bedroom”. This was the last resting place for the children, a place of cool tranquillity. In this room in a few quiet moments alone with the founders the Prince aired his views on life and death.
“I believe there must be something after death. There must be some purpose in our lives. I really believe that”
He went on.
“It must have been tremendously hard work for you both to create this place.”
“Yes, but we had a lot of supporters’” replied the husband.
“What was the inspiration behind it? How did it all start?”
The husband became quiet. He glanced around the room, at the bed, the pictures on the wall and a cluster of children’s toys neatly stacked in a corner.
“I suppose it started with a game of soldiers,” he said.
The Prince looked at him inquisitively.
The wife smiled at her husband and then began to tell the Prince of how they researched the need for a children’s hospice and how they ran the campaign to raise the money and build it. As his wife talked the husband’s mind wandered. He looked out the window and saw the lark begin to rise in song again. He saw the field and the forest and thought of a time some years back when a father was walking across the meadow with his daughter and son. Twins. They were happy, having enjoyed a walk across the fields to the stream down by the mill, and were looking forward to tea.
“Let’s play soldiers before tea Daddy’” cried the little boy. The little girl agreed.
“Good idea,” said their father. “We will.”
So it began.
A Game Of Soldiers
The children and their father dashed up to the little boy’s bedroom where the soldiers were already laid out on the single bed under the window.
The little boy played with a Scots soldier. The little girl held a Red Indian on horseback. The soldiers became real people with names and personalities. Their father encouraged their make believe game. He played with them using an old soldier with a bent gun he had kept from his own childhood. Unimaginatively, he called it ‘Bent Gun’. He also gave names to all the places in their pretend world.
The game went like this.
The Red Indian on horseback had been captured by the Phantom and lay imprisoned on Pillow Hill. The Scots soldier bravely fought his way across Eiderdown Plain toward her assisted by Bent Gun. He knew the way was perilous but his goal was a honourable one, to save a brave Red Indian who was also his dearest friend and his sister.
The guardians of the castle saw him coming and attacked the little Scots soldier with ferocity, but he pursued his task to rescue the brave young warrior who was his friend and soul mate. Relentlessly he pursued his goal. The way up Pillow Hill seemed daunting. The ripples and furrows of the incline hindered his progress but he staggered forward until he could see the place of her imprisonment.
The Red Indian rode a white stallion and had the looks of an Apache Indian in full battle flight. Unfortunately she was now in the grip of an unknown Phantom of Evil who was devious, sharp and deceitful. She had not expected him to attack her, as she was distracted with thoughts of this bewildering and beautiful world in which she found herself; but he did, and did it with such surprise and speed that she gasped and trembled with the surprise of it. She quickly and easily fell into his awesome power where she lay awaiting an uncertain future.
She loved the little Scots soldier. She loved him with all her heart. He was dearer to her than anyone. He was capable of the most daring deeds and when he joined forces with his ally ‘Bent Gun’ they became an unstoppable duo, fighting every opponent and overcoming the most difficult of odds.
As she lay captive in the garrison on Pillow Hill she saw the Scots soldier and his ally relentlessly fighting their way through the gun smoke and hail of arrows. In the background, by Bookcase Mountain, someone, who had just come into view, was directing the course of the battle with a subtlety that disguised the wisdom and fortitude of her position. The children’s mother could see the whole picture and probable course of events. She smiled as she implored Bent Gun and the Scots soldier to take the safest course through the battlefield. She could see the hazards ahead.
Eventually, and with many scars, the two ascended Pillow Hill to meet the brave young captive. When they arrived they found that the Red Indian on horseback had managed to fight off the unknown phantom, but was afraid that he might return before she could be rescued. She therefore implored her allies to hasten her escape. As they tumbled down Pillow Hill on the way to freedom, life and joy they looked anxiously over their shoulders to see if the Phantom was following.
He was nowhere in sight.
However, standing by the door, their mother called to them. "Watch out! I can’t see him, but I’m sure he’s following you"
They hurried their descent and collapsed in a heap of relief and excitement at the bottom of Eiderdown Plain close to Bedside Fall.
Their Mother said it was time for tea. They left the toy soldiers at the bottom of the bed and walked to the door. Something made them pause. When they looked back they could see the threatening orifice of the little golden brass cannon of the Phantom. It was pointing towards them and it was loaded.
A Bubble Bursts
The first blast started with a muffled overture. Within a second it broke into a screaming roar like a thousand wild and piercing gales whistling through the forests of the world on a stormy night. It was an explosion of steam, the like of which humankind had neither seen nor heard before. Not seen in such a confined space. It was the explosion that had been expected and feared but had not really been prepared for. The panic button had been pressed twenty seconds earlier, not enough for mental preparation let alone real preventative action. The pressure was so great it lifted the upper plate of the reactor. The upper plate weighed 1,000 tonnes. It floated like a shuttlecock. Fragments from the core of the explosion scattered everywhere. They illuminated the way for the second great bang. This came only two or three seconds later when the hydrogen exploded.
According to observers outside Unit 4, burning lumps of material shot into the air above the reactor. Some of them fell back down again starting fires throughout the building. The graphite blocks of the reactor vomited out into the main hall and spread themselves in abundance. The emergency cooling system collapsed. The damage to the roof caused an inflow of air. The air ignited the hot graphite and the biggest graphite fire of the world began.
This was the worst ever nuclear disaster. It was twenty-four minutes past one o’clock in the morning. Most people in the neighbouring towns and villages were asleep, or at least indoors. They had no idea of the inheritance coming to them, or indeed, to those hundreds of miles away.
The heat came through the walls and it seemed as if the whole place would melt. Pieces of flaming metal continued to soar into the air and crash through the roof. Those near the reactor stood little chance. If the heat did not get them then the immediate radiation burned their skins and brains to oblivion.
After the explosion of flaming granite came the smoke. It rose slowly at first. It lingered above the reactor. The sun’s rays filtered through it casting fragments of distorted light on the shattered dome like an obscene rainbow. The roaring of the central reactor started again and a great fireball made its way upward through the lingering smoke. Everyone who saw it and lived said it was spectacular and awesome. The fire fighters who came to put out this great torch were overcome by the spectacle. They stood and gaped as the radiation penetrated their inadequate respirators and clothing and filtered into their blood streams and bones. As they gasped in awe and for breath they gasped their last. They would, within hours, as they were shrouded in the wards of bewildered hospitals, become posthumous heroes of the Soviet Union. The Scientists stood by in white gowns and masks recording the details of the explosion.
A cloud slowly began to rise from this doomed building like some terrible balloon full of light and flame. It slowly began to drift away from the dome. It hung momentarily in mid air. Early morning children in the nearby fields stopped helping parents bring in the crops to watch this great spectacle. They stood and gaped at this beautiful white cloud as it drifted over them, unaware of its sinister and threatening nature. As it left their sight they saw in the distance the still-burning dome. They were to see it burn for many days and were to see many more clouds rise and float away.
The cloud floated gracefully toward the setting sun. It drifted slowly and aimlessly, scattering its dust over the lands of Northern Ukraine and Belarus before it finally settled in the lakes, mountains and streams of Southern Sweden.
Chapter 1 Breathing
The lack of daylight through the kitchen window suggested approaching rain. It had been a terrible summer. It was already August and so far they had only had weather fit enough for three barbecues in the garden.
The twins sat at the kitchen table and played. Their mother and father stood by the sink under the window and discussed holiday arrangements. He had just come home from work, his tie half undone and jacket thrown over the back of one of the pine kitchen chairs as if he had made an attempt to change but lost interest partway through the process. The twins’ mother was keen to go to Sweden for a week. In fact she had already booked it. Their father was still undecided, but she knew he was easily persuaded by a fait accompli.
Their main holiday was planned for September with his parents. They planned to take them to Germany. Mum decided they needed a few days on their own. She knew that if he went on his main holiday after a long stint of hard work he would be restless and unsettled for a number of days. By the time he had settled down it would be time to return. True to her style she had booked the holiday first then told him afterwards that they were going to Sweden.
When they looked back, Mum and Dad always said that it started in Sweden. They were convinced of it, but others said it was coincidence and that they should not look into these things too deeply.
Laura was never quite sure what they meant. She did not see life as a journey. It was a state of being and on the dim edge of the world there was a future. In her mind was also a reflection of her fore-life. It was blurred but warm.
Fading into the darkness of her memory were her misty feelings of that time. Although her Mum’s body had been comfortable she had felt compressed and confined for - she didn’t know how long - (she could not measure time in the womb). She had left it early she was told afterwards. It should have been the twenty-third day of the month but she had appeared on the seventh day at seven o’clock.
It was a deep dark place in which to grow, a time when she was aware of senses and sounds and, in particular, her own body and its rapid change in shape and feeling. Her journey through the womb was graceful yet perplexing. Its momentum was relentless.
She knew she was not alone. Apart from the deep pulse and throbs of life around her there was another one like her nearby.
She knew that part of her pain was due to her brother Kit who was waiting in the same space. Of course, she knew it was her brother, because his body felt like it was the other half of hers. Yet, she could not reach or touch him. She could hear and feel the vibrations of his coming into life, the pulsation of heart and the rhythms of his soul. His sustenance came from the same tissues, the same liquid and the same food given by the keeper of this dark warm world of theirs. In fact, not only could she feel his presence, she could hear his breathing and movements. Sometimes she heard his pain and cries of anguish about where he was and where he was going. She felt his fear of the future like he felt and understood hers. Sometimes he called to her in the silent language that was to be forever theirs.
As they grew Kit began to feel the bodily pressure of his sister who appeared to lie so close to him that he could feel her kicking and moving and pushing him out of his own little piece of their world. When she did not kick he became anxious. Then he would move his body toward her to reassure her that he was here, sharing their space. They would touch, the touch of fluid and impulse that spun through their growing forms. Some day they would understand the meaning of this liquid half world, he thought, as only embryos can think, and then they would probably want to keep it to themselves and perhaps return to it in the perpetuity of the great life.
Laura became anxious. The pain on her head increased. She blamed Kit for pushing her in a continual upward direction She could feel her head begin to contract and distort in shape. Kit was also anxious. He felt that his body had grown as much as it could do. If this was the case it was time to move on to another place. He did not want to, but it was an urge of nature so strong that he was only a passenger to its desire.
For Laura, perhaps the greatest pain came closer to her birth day as her brother’s growth forced her into the ever smaller cavity that pressed upon and around her little head moulding it into the shape of a pear. Increasingly the place became uncomfortable and she felt that things must change. She felt a screaming in her head. She felt Kit kicking and kicking. They span round. They felt volcanic vibrations and heard the cries of SHE who carried them. This time the cries were sustained and filled with wanting and urgency. SHE was frightened. Was this the end of their life or the beginning of a new one? Her last memory of this place was of noise and movement and pain. Oh yes! Pain and even more pain! The heaving, stretching, pulling and twisting she felt going on around her were confusing and painful. Her mind screamed and cried yet made no sound. There was no one to hear the silent sound of her silent screams.
Suddenly the pain ended and she catapulted into a sea of blaring lights and strange shapes. She did not expect the light, such light that she never imagined existed; such light that she could not even open her eyes to see it, only feel it penetrating her eyelids and piercing her brain. She entered the light of the world; a light that she never knew existed.
Images and physical contacts flitted by until she finally descended into the arms of a face and eyes that were to be known to her as Dad. Opposite her in her Dad’s other arm was another whose presence she sensed and was familiar with. It was Kit! So he had arrived here as well. So all was well. At least we are together, she thought. Now we start a new adventure.
She closed her eyes to the new brightness. She was to keep them closed for many days until the light no longer hurt her.
After the trauma of being thrown into the world everything seemed steady, slow and natural. The faces that were her Mum and Dad appeared to be in control of everything she did or did not do. On occasions faint and distant voices within her would ask. Why am I here? Why? Where am I going? But they were not questions that lingered. In the main she was happy to be swept along the stream of living into which she and Kit had leaped.
It was a bright, sunny and cheerful Friday afternoon when they crossed the marshes, water and wide horizon of the Fenlands toward the eastern coast and the still waters of Harwich where their ship lay.
They drove in a state of euphoric optimism. High spirits filled the car. The flat countryside of Huntingdon, Cambridge and then Essex lay mellow in the autumnal sun with the colours that only an English Autumn can display; colours that carried the memories of ancient invaders of this landscape from across the sea. Sprays of orange sunshine falling between billowing white clouds accompanied them. An array of berried hedgerow, woodland, cottage and village pub glanced by the windows of the car as they glided over fields and fens. Every village they drove through seemed to be a holiday destination of its own despite the fact that they were not far from home. The occasional flotilla of geese would fly over their path in formation, crying to each other and to those below that they were on their way to weir and water.
After two hours of cruising through the countryside they slipped into a roadside restaurant for a late lunch. Heads turned to smile at this family’s obvious happiness and preoccupation with itself.
The parents, of course, felt proud for they knew they were not the focus of interest, that it was the children; the twins. The past two years had been full of the experiences of other people’s curiosity. Perhaps it was the fact that they were a boy and girl that attracted such interest in such twins. Without doubt they were an attractive pair, an opinion of many, not only their proud parents. Perhaps it was the novelty of seeing two heads in a traditional Silver Cross pram, of seeing the interaction between two small humans and of their delight in each other and their world. When shopping, the children’s parents would always take two trolleys around the supermarket with one child in each, legs dangling and heads whirling to see the array of shelved colours. The twins would communicate with each other by sound and vision and other shoppers would be amused by their correspondence even though they perhaps felt glad that they themselves did not have such a responsibility to manage.
They arrived at Harwich a little early so decided to spend a few minutes on the beach before boarding the North Sea ferry. The twins stood on the sand throwing pebbles into the sea. Dad showed them the technique of skimming flat stones across the surface of the water, something he had developed as a child on the waters and lakes of Cheshire in Northern England. As he looked at the cold expanse of water chillingly named the North Sea, he realised that these waters and what lay beyond were unknown to him. His business had taken him to most parts of Europe, east and west but never to Scandinavia. As he gazed across the sunlit waters an excitement and anticipation of going to a new land rose within him along with a tinge of unease of what he might expect and hope to encounter.
Mum looked at Dad sympathetically, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, looking out over the North Sea in a contemplative mood.
"Isn't it about time we drove down to the port?" she asked gently.
"Plenty of time," said Dad, casually looking over his shoulder, "there's no point in rushing to queue up. It doesn't make any difference whether you arrive late or early. You still get on the ship at the same time.”
Dad was a much-seasoned traveller and accordingly was relaxed about the procedures and etiquette of travel. Inevitably they ended up rushing to the Ferry Port and arrived just as the last cars were boarding. The Marshall was standing by the entrance to the boarding area to collect tickets. He was not pleased and told them off for being late. Dad complained that the ship was leaving too early but this made little difference to a man whose day was determined by schedules and timetables concerning many hundreds of travellers not just a few late but loquacious individuals. As Dad manoeuvred the car into the line of the last remaining vehicles the twins could see their ship berthed alongside. It looked enormous to Laura; almost like a travelling world, full of light and subdued activity. The sight of it made them excited and everyone realised that the voyage was imminent.
At last they were on board. After they had found their cabins and explored the ship a little, the family made their way onto the deck ready for departure from England. They leaned over, and in the case of the twins, through, the rail, and looked toward the country they were about to leave. The ship slipped away from its berth and glided down the estuary of the harbour. The sun tumbled down onto the western horizon and cast long shadows of the harbour buildings across the eastern waters. Mum and Dad felt like a couple of characters out of Charles Kingsley’s Westward Ho on their way to a great adventure across unknown seas. They watched the houses and buildings on the shoreline drift away from them. The water was calm and the ship moved like a swan through the tranquil waters leaving only a small wake.
"Where is our car, Dad? " piped up Laura, standing by Mum's side, "Why can't we drive all the way to Sweden?"
"Because Sweden and England are separated by the sea," she replied, knowing the next question would be "Why?" and it was, to which she had no immediate or intelligent answer.
After the children's curiosity had been partly and inadequately satisfied they all began to explore the ship further and eventually returned, feeling rather tired, to their cabins. The thought of sleeping on bunk beds delighted the children and they giggled with excitement when they saw them. However before sleep came dinner.
The ship lights skipped along the dark water, hopping over crest and foam. The distant flat plane of the sea carried the stars and early rising moon. They stood as a group in the small bar near the dining room where Mum and Dad had a gin and tonic each and the children iced coca cola and looked out to sea in silence.
Nearby some elderly Americans on a trip across Europe and Scandinavia were discussing the nuclear disaster at Chernobyl.
“It’ll be all right honey!” said the plump man in the check trousers and Hawaiian shirt. “It’ll all be gone by now.”
Mum and Dad looked at each other in silence.
They entered the dining room and met white clothed tables, potted plants and a tinkling grand piano. In the centre was the Scandinavian Smorgasbord, full of colourful invitation. It was romantic and a great thrill for Mum and Dad to consume herring, eel, caviar and a bottle of Chablis to the sound of a piano and the sight of the ship's lights on the water. Mum had overcome her initial trepidation about seasickness and Dad could tell from the sparkle in her eyes that she was happy. Everything was fine until Kit's unstable stomach decided it did not like the motion of the ship and he dejectedly presented the family with breakfast, lunch and dinner. Unfortunately this display must have upset the other passengers as one by one a number of white-faced diners rather sheepishly sloped off in the direction of the toilets.
The children were excited when they went down to their cabin after dinner. They had never slept on board a ship before. The cabin was small. Mum and Dad found it quite claustrophobic. Laura and Kit got undressed with enthusiasm. Laura climbed into her favourite pink pyjamas. This was much better than sleeping in a bedroom in a house. The cabin was done out in a blue decor. The walls were blue. The blankets and the beds were blue. To match the sea Dad said. The beds were actually bunk beds and despite their cries of dismay Mum and Dad decided to put the twins on the bottom bunks because they were afraid they might fall out. As soon as the children's heads touched the pillows they fell asleep. Mum and Dad held each other close that night. They felt the sway of the ship and the ripple of the water, which gently rocked them to sleep. They could not see the sea and the sky as their cabin was in the bowels of the ship but they could imagine the sight they might see could they afford the luxury of a cabin with a view. This was enough for their immediate happiness.
The next day they awoke to the bustle of the ship. Dad got up first and went to find the shower. Although they had a toilet in their cabin there was no shower. He came back to report that the facilities were quite acceptable although there were a lot of unwashed people wandering around looking for the showers. Kit and Laura gradually came to understand the importance of toilet facilities to their Dad, especially in a morning. Eventually and slowly everyone got ready and they went up on deck to look at the North Sea. The sky was a pale blue. The moon and the stars had gone and now the morning sun rested on the bobbing waves. It cast long early morning shadows on the silver surface of the decks of the ship, which had either been washed during the night or suffered from some rainy storm. The children were intrigued by the fact that all they could see was water.
"Where are we going Dad?" said Laura, with a note of concern in her voice.
"We are going to Sweden. Soon this water will come to an end and we will see land. When you see it I want you to shout 'Land Ahoy!' That land will be Sweden".
From then on Laura kept her eyes wide open expecting the land to appear suddenly and without warning. She was not sure whether it would suddenly replace the sea or whether she would see it sailing across the sea until it arrived by the side of her ship. Whichever way it came, it was certain that she needed to keep her eyes peeled otherwise it would come and go. They sailed gracefully through the cold waters of the Skaggerak and although Denmark was supposedly visible they did not see it until they tipped Skagens and sailed into the Kattegat to approach Goteborg. The land of Sweden actually appeared when Laura was asleep and she never forgave it.
They arrived in Goteborg in the evening as the Scandinavian sky turned black. After leaving the ship the Ford Sierra moved cautiously through a small network of industrial buildings then almost without notice began it’s way up a small incline towards the most beautiful span bridge they had seen. Everyone hoped they would pass over this bridge and with great delight they did. The night-lights of Gotenborg shone below them, illuminating the water with an orange tint. They came down on the other side and drove alongside the estuary with the city on their right hand side and the water on their left. The twins, although tired, were excited with being up so late and at the sight of the city lights. Dad continued to peer with intensity through the windscreen until he finally relaxed exclaiming that they were now on the main route to the holiday home. After they left the city and the last set of traffic lights they cruised down a perpetual stream of forest, lake and village under a clear starlit sky.
The children drifted in and out of twilight sleep secure and captured in their car seats. The sound of Clannad playing "Lady Marian" drifted over them from the car stereo as they sped through woodland and village, a sound that was to stay in Laura’s memory. When she heard this music again she thought of deep dark forests and the night sky. It brought back feelings of mysterious anticipation and sleepy excitement along with visions of impenetrable woodland and sleeping towns and villages. They were reflective and nostalgic feelings of contentment.
It was in the very early hours of the morning that they arrived at their destination. Mum had rented a log cabin at a camping site in a forest clearing on the side of a mountain. After finding the keys to the cabin in an envelope hanging outside the closed reception office and identifying which was their cabin everyone soon settled in. Dad made a fire in the hearth with some kindling wood and a couple of logs he had found outside the cabin door. He and Mum then sat on the small porch with a glass of red wine and breathed in the clean crisp Swedish night air. The twins were abed and hopefully sleeping like the other residents on the site. The stars overhead twinkled and sparkled as if demonstrating their satisfaction with all they observed below. It was well past midnight, not the usual time for the first drink of the evening. The Dad relished the first sip of his wine with an “amah! This is the life!” As the last syllables departed his lips he had a sense of foreboding or, rather, despair. It was at this point that he heard the door “click” shut. He looked at Mum and smiled in a sheepish sort of way.
“What’s wrong dear? “ she asked in a nonchalant fashion, expecting him to make a declaration of love or at least express some form of tenderness.
Triggered by the soft night breeze, the front door had slowly closed behind them. Dad had a sinking despondent feeling.
“I think we may have locked ourselves out, and the twins in,” he said, looking apologetically at Mum.
“Oh no! Didn’t you take the latch off before you came out?”
“Well, you know these stupid foreign locks, I thought it was off, but there doesn’t actually seem to be a latch. Why they can’t have the same sort of locks as in the UK beats me! “
“That’s not the point is it? The point is we are locked out. What are you going to do about it?”
Dad decided to try the keys of the other residents who hadn’t arrived which meant opening all the envelopes that hung outside the reception door. “They’re not going to be pleased about that!” said Mum. None fitted. He then tried to break a small window but the glass was so tough it wouldn’t break and as Mum pointed out it was so small that no one could get through it anyway, save a very small animal.
Some teenage boys were sitting on a nearby terrace watching the nocturnal antics of Dad with amusement and delight. Dad noticed they were speaking German.
“Those boys are speaking German. I can speak the lingo so I’ll go and ask if they have any ideas or see if I can borrow their key” he said to Mum who was becoming increasingly concerned about the welfare of the twins, despite the fact that they were securely locked in the cabin and unaware of their imprisonment.
Dad’s German was so good that the boys, who were Swedish, replied in English.
At that point many lights came on throughout the site and it seemed that everyone on the campsite circled their log cabin, poking the woodwork, stretching to see inside, tapping windows and scratching heads in a quest for the solution to family’s predicament. One of the boys showed Dad a window that was very slightly open and said that if someone inside could remove one of the pins used in the mechanism they would be able to get in. The only people inside, of course, were the twins. As they were so young, the window so high and mechanism so complicated everyone fell into dismay. Nevertheless it was agreed to give it a try.
Mum and Dad tapped on the window of Laura’s bedroom first but she wouldn’t wake up. They tried Kit’s and his sleepy little face lifted from the pillow in wonderment at this intrusion. Kit thought it was strange that Mum and Dad were talking to him from outside the cabin. What are they doing there, he thought, but children easily accept the most bizarre situations without question. They implored him to get up and walk through to the living room, which he dutifully did. The only way for Kit to get to the window was to put a chair on the dining table and climb on it. Dad guided him through the motions with a lot of help from everyone else. The Swedish teenagers were now getting quite excited by the adventure and treated it like a round of “It’s a Knockout”, offering encouragement when it was needed and exuding disappointment when there was a setback. Other residents were speculating on the success of the operation.
Eventually little Kit got to the window and in triumph took the pin out. With great speed and agility one of the teenagers clambered through the window and in seconds appeared at the door with a big grin, the key in his right hand and Kit’s hand in his left. Mum and Dad sighed with relief and thanked Kit rapturously for being such a hero and saving the day, or night. Little were they to know that this was only a sequel. Kit would be a hero once again, but this time in a real adventure when he would truly save a day and a life.
The family spent the next morning walking through the surrounding forests, investigating the local plant life, jumping over streams and generally exploring. The pathways of the forest encapsulated them in an aura and aroma of pine and freshwater stream. They followed one stream that tumbled over each dip and curve as it made its way to one of the many lakes. Dad could not resist reaching his hand into the meandering waters as they fell over a small group of rocks and to take a drink. Laura did the same. So did Kit. The water was crisp and sharp and took their breath away like the fire of life consuming itself.
In the afternoon a rowing boat was hired on the nearby lake.
The lakes near the cabin were large and devoid of other vessels. They took a picnic basket with them and spent the whole afternoon gently floating across the series of connecting lakes. They came to the innermost lake. It was bridled with small sandy beaches. The water shone. It was clear. It reflected the small houses and pine trees clung around the banks of the rippling water. It was world within world. Laura became drowsy. The water was magnetically bright and very reflective. It drew her toward it. She leaned over the edge of the boat to look for her own reflection. Instead she saw a myriad of images, of the sky, of clouds, rolling across the plains of a distant land, the smoke rising and of white shapes around a crux of erupting noise and light. She saw billowed clouds of incense and a glaring whiteness that dazzled her. She leaned over the side of the boat and let her fingers run through the water. The images were not there. The boat slowly made its way across the lake.
Eventually the twins became tired and Mum and Dad lay them down in the bottom of the boat, allowing the gentle water to caress the boat and lap them to sleep.
Falling on this glassy place
From fields of fire in distant space
Little child in innocence
Breathing in the air cadenced
Humanity’s incense.
Peaceful waters turn the sky
Upon itself; the mirror flies
To showers of deathly dust
Reflecting souls lie crushed
Unearthly hush.
Quietly singing in the breeze
Of lifting leaves and stirring trees
While she floats and like Shalot
In solitude accepts the plot.
The water was tranquil. A ribbon of deep green surrounded the icy glass. Dad never before felt such solitude and peace. They floated and floated as if an invisible current carried them from shore to shore. It was as if they sailed the universe toward infinity and hope, traversing peace and solitude. It was so quiet even the birds hung in the air in silence and isolation. They had drifted into a different world that was a surreal image of everything to be desired from landscape and geology.
Specks of rain appeared on the water. Strange, thought Dad, it’s not raining. It wasn’t. He knew it must be a dream.
Laura drifted and dozed. Her sleepiness had made red spots around the circumference of her eye. Her vision was blurred by the red of oxygen, of energy, and of life. The drops of rain were pure white. She felt them as well as saw them. Their clarity was powerful. It dazzled her. She saw the white spots growing and multiplying, strange small embryos of life like hers in the womb that just grew and grew and grew until they exploded in a glaring blaze of whiteness that blinded her. The red in her vision died and the light bright white was all there was. It must be due to waking up suddenly to the brightness of water, she thought. She awoke from her tranquil afternoon doze and half dream into confusion.
Everyone returned to the cabin that evening rather exhausted. Mum had brought lots of food and wine so that they did not have to worry about eating out or shopping. They dined on homemade Lasagne and salad washed down with a bottle of Cote de Roussillon. Afterwards they sat round the stove breathing the aromatic fumes of ancient pinewood fuelling the flickering flames and recounted the events of the day. After tumbling into their nightclothes the twins went to bed unwashed and fell asleep immediately. On going to bed themselves Mum and Dad looked in to see the children. They looked contented and tired. However, one of Laura's eyes appeared slightly swollen. Mum and Dad assumed it must be from the bites of insects from the lake but mentally noted that they must check it again in the morning.
The next morning the bad weather had arrived so they explored the surrounding area in the car. Laura's eye seemed a little better. The weather stayed dull all day. They travelled a little north to a place called Jonkoping set on the southern shore of the Vattern Lake. The lake was beautiful and so huge that from the south shore they could not see the northern shore, only the horizon. Laura wondered if she was looking at the sea again. Having no real sense of geography the fact that it might be the sea did not perturb her. To her and Kit there was, after all, only one sea and that could appear in any place at any moment. When Dad talked of the North Sea and the Mediterranean Sea he only caused confusion in their minds. The sea was the sea and the land the land. That is all that mattered. Kit was mystified by the size and bleakness of the Vattern Lake. This mystery was further enhanced by a grey rainy mist clinging to the centre of the lake like a spectre.
Later, as they wandered through clinical streets of this small town they found a MacDonald’s restaurant much to the delight of Kit and Laura. This helped make what was a rather bleak day a more colourful one. On their way back to the cabin Dad pulled the car in at an obscure and strange place.
A large wooden house lay off the road. The reason they noticed the house was that from a distance they could see a very large wooden model of a very large pirate protruding from behind its eaves. Dad turned the Sierra off the road and parked outside the house that was set behind a tall fence, broken only by an open gate. Inside the garden were several enormous and grotesque caricatures of animals and characters from a child’s world. Perhaps it was a Swedish fairy story or legend. No other visitors and no caretaker confronted them. Laura did not like this place. The characters were too large and too lonely. After a few minutes they left. Laura kept the images in her head.
On the way back to their cabin Mum noticed that Laura's face was beginning to swell up beneath her left eye. It became quite acute when they eventually arrived back at the cabin so they quickly drove off at great speed down the Varnamo road to the nearest hospital. The hospital was really a medical centre and was absolutely empty apart from a receptionist and a middle aged blonde haired nurse with a pristine clean uniform and pristine clean face. The whole centre looked as if it had been deserted. After a long wait a doctor came to see them. Blonde, young and cool, he had a distracted look as if he had just left a life or death situation. Perhaps he had. He examined Laura thoroughly but could not diagnose the problem. He believed it to be some form of infection that, typically, could have been caused by a bite from an insect. Mum and Dad thought of the time on the lake and the children's sleep in the boat. Could there have been an insect on the bottom of the boat?
They collected their medication and returned to the log cabin after spending a few moments walking around this small town. The next day they packed up and drove back to Gutenberg to meet their ship home to England. The journey back was overcrowded and not as pleasant. Laura was admitted onto the bridge where she was given an eye patch to protect her swollen eye from the cold air. She was quite proud of her eye patch when the family arrived home but Mum and Dad took it off as soon as possible.
The swelling on the eye soon went down, but Laura never seemed to quite recover her energy. She was lethargic. Three weeks later the whole family set off on holiday again, this time with Grandma and Grandad to the Mosel district of Germany and the next stage of their great adventure.
Chapter 2 Gymnopodie
Their journey to Germany included a one-night stop-over in France to allow Grandad to see some First World War sites. The party pampered to his nostalgia knowing he would be so disappointed if he had to miss the opportunity of seeing the places where his father had fought and where his father’s friends had died. The result was a delay in the itinerary and Dad, who was driving, had to hasten the journey in order to find somewhere to stay the night. Nevertheless the hastened journey was tinged with certain sadness. The flat lands of Picardy had a bleakness and sobriety that lent itself to minds indulging in the grey distance of the Great War and it’s lost youth.
Grandma and Grandad had only left the British Isles once before and had never been to Germany so were quite excited about the trip. Grandad was very specific about which sites he wanted to see and many detours were made to accommodate his interest. Dad had driven many times through France and wanted to arrive in Germany as soon as possible. Grandma was totally fascinated by everything she saw and did not complain about the long journey. Laura sat on Mum’s knee in the back and, like Mum, did not enjoy long journeys.
The journey southeast was fascinating to Grandma and Grandad but tiring due to the many diversions to find treasured pieces of First World War history for Grandad. On the rise of a small hill on the main road south they saw the entrance to a British cemetery and stopped. They left the car to walk through a small archway into an unending sea of white crosses in rows that touched a distant horizon. They walked through memorials of young dead in silence and sadness.
Everyone was relieved to find a suitable looking cafe just south of Cambrai for a break in the journey. Grandad remembered his schoolboy French and held a full discussion with some men at the bar in an attempt to find a decent hotel in the area. It was decided to push on toward Mezieres and the border with Luxembourg. After Coffee for adults and Cokes for twins they drove on.
They found the small provincial town of Mezieres in Picardy slightly off the main road nestling amongst the woods. It looked a promising sort of town, warm, inviting and comforting. It was the sort of town that welcomed travellers as if it was solely created to cater for such people. The car was parked and everyone stumbled out with stiff legs and aching backs. Coats were distributed, bags sought and pockets checked for money. The party of six then set off to find a hotel. Darkness was descending. Concerns ranged between finding somewhere economical to being happy that it was clean and comfortable.
They chose a small and friendly family hotel overlooking the railway station and main road. It was filled with Dutch and Scandinavian guests. As Mum and Dad unpacked some things in the small bedroom they noticed that Kit had a high temperature and fever. He was stripped, doused in tepid water and kept cool, but not cold. It was decided to let the fever run its course.
Laura felt the day was never going to end and only wanted to be in her own bed. She felt tired and her head felt hot. Whilst Mum and Dad got changed she momentarily slept. However the excitement of the occasion and the proximity of Grandma and Grandad overtook her need to sleep and she tumbled off the bed to visit Grandma’s room. The bedrooms faced each other across the corridor so the children could move backwards and forwards between parent and grandparent.
They took a short walk to a small restaurant that Dad liked the look of. Dad had been to France many times and it was taken for granted that he knew the cuisine and could guide Grandma and Grandad through it. Although he knew it, he was always troubled by it, having spent his younger days amongst the Paris restaurants and bistros under the guidance of an expert leaving him uncertain of his own navigation through the menu. Sitting round a window table covered with a white cloth they enjoyed a quiet meal of local fish for the women and children and something with Beef for the men. Grandad’s eyes frequently strayed to the view through the window of the street and its bustle. His eyes sparkled and he was pleased he had had an opportunity to speak French in France and was proud of his accomplishment. The French are a proud people, he said to Dad. They drank the wine and beer with much enthusiasm and clatter of conversation and felt better for it when they walked back to the hotel.
Kit’s temperature kept peaked through the night, subsiding a little in the early hours of the morning. As they sat in the breakfast room watching, through lace curtains, the comings and goings of the little Picardian town, Kit seemed to be in brighter spirits. As usual the twins pulled their faces at French coffee but made an attempt at the croissant, butter and jam. Grandad managed to get some rather weak tea and wondered about a boiled egg. The twins were always very good at table. The previous evening they had sat quietly throughout the meal and Kit had endured his high temperature in relative silence apart from the odd trip to the toilet. Grandma and Grandad were not used to children being out so late but Mum and Dad took them everywhere it was possible for two children to go. This morning Kit was feeling excited, having slept in a new bed. To awake and find Grandma and Grandad still here was an additional joy. The twins had dashed into their grandparent’s bedroom as soon as Mum had allowed, just like they did when they stayed at Grandma’s house. Mum joked that Grandma was a little tiddly at dinner the night before and told Laura of some of the funny things she had said and how she fell over, but Grandma was always falling. This made Laura laugh her deep throaty laugh, a laugh that was so infectious it made Dad laugh with her.
Outside, autumn prevailed. The morning air was thick with it, in the smell and dampness as well as the colour and mustiness. The sky was copper. The French were about their business and school very early leaving the streets hushed and quiet when the travellers greeted it. Opposite the Hotel the old Railway Station dominated the view from the hotel windows. In front of the station was a spinney of trees, mainly horse chestnut. Most of the leaves had turned to gold or brown. There was a steady and graceful shower of these leaves floating to the ground to form a carpet of bronze. This carpet was pinpricked with shiny brown horse chestnuts.
Dad and Grandad took the twins into the Spinney to collect the horse chestnuts or “conkers” as they knew them, whilst Grandma and Mum did some window-shopping in the town. Laura particularly enjoyed collecting the horse chestnuts even though she knew that she was unlikely to play “conkers” with them when they got back home to England. It was not her sort of game. Nevertheless it was good to collect them and see who could find the biggest, or even the smallest, conker.
The trees continued to shed their golden brown mantle in spiralling traces that made the leaves flutter and glide gently onto the soft bed that swished beneath the feet of the children as they gathered the fruit of the giants towering above them. The noise of the morning traffic, as it made it’s way to various places in town, left them behind and could no longer be heard. Laura was back in the countryside, the countryside she loved so dearly. Here beneath the horse chestnuts she felt joy and pleasure. Amidst autumn’s decay of summer’s crown she picked the fruits that would give birth to spring’s emerging life. The mould of decay that marred some of the fruit she found deep beneath the leaves tarnished her pleasure. She continued under Dad’s watchful eye to gather until the little pockets in her little red coat were bursting.
As Dad watched her he realised how fragile was this thing called child. How dependant it was upon him for care and comfort, yet how independent of him for it’s own life. He was there in the making and in the direction but he could not steer its ultimate course; only smooth and advise the way.
He knelt beside her and helped count the fruit of her morning’s exercise. The little brown spheres lay softly in her small hand, glistening like newly polished shoes. Each was it’s own little world. Some would spring to life after winter had covered them. Others would crack, open, and begin to grow, but finding no sustenance, die.