Page 17 of Clara's Secret Garden
Memories are crowding in of the last time I let Bertie downlike this...
*****
It happened over a year ago now, when I was living awayfrom home during the week, training to be a dance teacher. But even now, myinsides turn over when I think about that day.
It was a Friday. And the ironic thing was, I should havebeen home from college and back in Sunnybrook by the time Bertie had hisaccident. But I’d allowed myself to be persuaded to join a group from my coursefor lunch at the local pub.
That’s where I was when I received the phone call from Loisto tell me that Bertie had been rushed to hospital after a fall. I wasn’t toworry, she said. She and Irene were there with him and were waiting for theresults of some tests doctors were carrying out.
Telling me not to worry was futile, of course.
The mention of tests had chilled me to the bone, and I drovehome in a state of barely controlled panic, terrified at the thought of what Imight find when I got to the hospital.
From what I could gather, Lois had arranged to pick Bertieand Luke up from school, and she’d told Jen she would take them to the park onthe way home so they could burn off some energy on the climbing frames. ButLois had been visiting a friend in London and her train back was delayed, soshe’d had to phone Irene and tell her to collect the boys from school instead.
Irene had picked them up, but then instead of bothering towalk over to the park, she’d just taken them to the playing field next to theschool and waited in the car. With no climbing frames to play on, the boys hadobviously been searching for something to do – and they’d wandered over to aset of floodlights, used when football matches were played there on winterevenings. They’d found a maintenance ladder that ran all the way up the side ofthe metal structure and of course they’d decided it had to be climbed.
I’ve since been to the site of those floodlights and myheart was in my mouth as I stared up the ladder. It led all the way to a littlerailed platform at the very top, at least a dizzying twenty feet above the ground.
Bertie had gone first. He hadn’t climbed very far before he somehowlost his balance and fell off the ladder, and thankfully, his injuries – apartfrom a broken arm – turned out to be fairly superficial. But I felt sick withhorror as I gazed up at that tiny platform so far above the ground.
How had Irene not noticed what the boys were up to? Shewas probably busy on her phone.
What if Bertie had managed to climb all the way to thetop before he fell off?
News of Bertie’s accident flew around the neighbourhood, andone neighbour in particular – Pru Collinson from over the road, who liked tokeep an eye on everyone’s business – remarked to me that maybe Irene wasn’t thebest parent for a young child to have.
Her comment stung but it only confirmed what I was thinkinganyway.
I already knew what I had to do.
My dance teacher training days were over.
*****
Rory pulls up in Sunnybrook High Street and I jump out,scanning the village green for Bertie and Luke. Rory joins me and we startwalking across the grass, but apart from a couple of dogs chasing balls withtheir owners, and a couple sitting on the bench by the duck pond, there’s noone else in sight.
‘Oh, hell, where on earth have they got to?’ I stand in themiddle of the green, staring around me. ‘Maybe we passed them on our way here? Ormaybe they’re somewhere else altogether.’ I dig my hands in my hair with ananguished groan. ‘Oh, Bertie. Whereareyou?’
‘Over there.’
‘Where?’ I swing round to where Rory’s pointing. And sureenough, next to the bus stop on this side of the high street, two small boys –one in a distinctive red cap – are perched on the low wall, seemingly inearnest discussion with three women there.
Relief and anger rise up in equal measure as I march overthere with Rory. ‘Ooh, wait till I get hold of him!’ They still haven’t noticedwe’re onto them.
‘What does that board say?’ murmurs Rory.
‘Which board? Oh, yes.’ I spot it a second later, propped upagainst the wall next to them.
As we get closer, Bertie leaps off the wall and one of the group– an older woman with spiky silver hair – seems to be rooting through herpurse. She hands Bertie some money and the three women look at each other andlaugh. Then the boys are joining in.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ I mutter to Rory.
‘No idea. But they’re having a proper little party there.’
A second before Bertie finally spots us, his smile morphinginto a picture of guilt, I manage to read the words on their makeshift sign.
Corjet Cake
