A/N: I want to give a major shout-out to rooty-boots. She not only gave me the idea for this story, and therefore it is dedicated to her, but in this chapter she helped me enormously with the characterization of both David and especially Edmund. If my Edmund is any good it's really thanks to her. Peter has a touch of how he acted in the LWW movie--I always thought that was a good character choice, and true to the book, because it shows Peter as the would be leader who is very misdirected.
The Problem Child
I've known what I'm going to say. I practiced it for ages in my head, going over the words on the bus, in the never-ending queue at the shops. David has coached me in his letters. Now it comes down to it, and I have to say the words. My planned speech leaves me as I look at the four of them, watching me so expectantly. I wonder if they know what's coming. Surely they must.
"Well, children," I begin, and then I have to clear my throat because my voice has gone shaky. I have to keep my voice even, stay strong. That is what mothers do, even when their hearts are breaking. "I'm afraid that we'll have to evacuate you to the country." In the end, there is nothing more to say than that.
Peter says nothing. He only nods, and rests his hand on the back of Susan's chair. Susan murmurs in a quiet, almost-broken voice that is an echo of my own, "I'll help you pack." Lucy springs from her chair and hurls herself into my lap, crying already. "Oh, Mummy!" While I soothe her, I watch Edmund. He is still for a moment, then he gets up from the table with his book and goes to sit in his father's chair in the living room. He makes no sign that he has even heard what I said.
"Ed!" Peter begins, but I lay a hand on his arm and shake my head. I watch him sitting there, more like his father than he knows. David never says anything when he's upset. He withdraws into himself, hiding behind his paper or puffing a cloud of smoke, and nothing can draw him out until he's ready. Though Edmund is sullen, almost disrespectful, I won't scold him.
Peter, ever careful about behavior, protests. "But Mum—"
I shake his head and say quietly. "Leave him be, Peter." I kiss the crown of Lucy's sweet blonde head and pass her off to Peter. He is instantly distracted as I hoped, and comforts his sister in favor of schooling his brother. Susan leans over to help, stroking Lucy's back. As I get up and go into the living room, I can hear Peter murmuring "Don't worry, Lu. It won't be so bad. We'll all be together." His voice has been getting deeper lately, starting to change, but just now he still sounds like a little boy.
Edmund is reading with a scowl on his face; I crouch by his chair quietly, touching his sleeve. "Edmund? There's still a piece of chocolate cake left, if you want it." Knowing this was the night when I would make the announcement, I scraped together the rations and managed to eke out a cake.
"I'm not hungry," he answers, drawing his legs up and curling away from me.
"Are you sure?" I twist my apron a bit. I want to hug him, but the food is the most affection he'd accept.
He looks up from the book with a sigh, rolling his eyes. "Mum, please. I'm reading."
I nod rapidly, trying not to let tears sting my eyes. I tell myself it's just his way. I rise and reach out a hand to brush his hair back off his forehead, but I draw it back at the last moment, curling my fingers into a fist and digging my nails into my palm. He does not raise his eyes, and so I go into the kitchen to wash up, wishing David was here. He would know what to say to him.
I make my way through the pots, scrubbing vigorously so that they shine like mirrors. Usually this gives me a glow of satisfaction to know that I can keep my home so nice, but tonight I only feel empty. After all, who am I keeping my house so nice for? My husband is away fighting and my children are going away for their protection. What's the point of clean pots if your house is blown to smithereens? I grab the next pot and scrub harder still to get out the bitterness rising up in me. I don't know much about this Adolf Hitler, but I hate him for tearing my family apart. When I was a child I saw a cousin's pictures of a trip to Germany and it looked so quaint, like a fairy tale, people in front of fanciful houses wearing lederhosen. I never imagined it would be a war machine of a country, that those dimpled, smiling people could bear so much malice towards me, when I have never seen them. I can't imagine that a little housewife like me is so different from their own mothers and wives, so I don't understand why they don't have any compassion. Why they lay the impossible choice before me: keep my children close and watch them die or send them away to be safe and break my heart.
My train of thought is interrupted by a series of yells from the living room. Lucy is crying, and Susan's voice is sharp with remonstrance. Then she cries out in pain, and Peter rages. There is only one silent child, and I know he is the source of all the trouble.
By the time I turn off the taps and head into the living room, Edmund is already stomping up the stairs. "Edmund!" I cry in surprise. "What's happened?"
"Nothing!" he yells impudently.
"Ed!" Peter bellows.
This manages to stop Edmund. He turns and leans over the banister, his face nearly chalk white except for his bright red cheeks. "Shut up, Peter! Just shut up and stay out of it—for once!" Before Peter can reply he runs the rest of the way to his room and slams the door violently.
Peter is fuming, and I have to say I find him quite alarming when he gets like this. He's so big now, almost a man, and with enough anger for one. "That little—" he seethes. But Lucy give s a choked sob against Susan's shoulder, and he turns, his face clearing. He goes over to his sisters and rubs each of their arms. "It's alright. Don't worry." Susan gives him a grateful look.
As I watch them, I can't help but feel bad for Edmund. Yes, he brings a lot of it on himself, but he's always the odd one out. Underneath the spikiness and the gruffness, there is a little boy who needs to be loved and is very scared of that. I know, because he's so much like his father.
Thinking of David reminds me to be a parent, and I turn to the other three. "What happened?"
"Edmund hit Lucy," Susan begins.
"I was trying to cheer him up!" Lucy sniffs. "Why does he have to be so mean?"
Susan hugs her tighter, shushing Lucy as she finishes off. "Then I went to stop him, and he hit me too."
"I don't know where he gets off—" Peter begins, his fists clenching.
"Peter, please," I sigh, and he subsides, still looking thunderous. I kiss Lucy and check her for bruises, and I touch Susan's cheek gratefully. "There's a cake, Susan, on the cake plate in the kitchen. Serve some up for the three of you, won't you?"
"What about you, Mum?" she asks, her eyes anxious.
"I'll have some in a bit. I have to go and talk to Edmund first."
She nods, and shepherds Lucy into the dining room, tugging on Peter's sleeve to make him come. I sigh and look at David's chair. Edmund never acted like this when his father was around. Not this bad, anyway. He's always been given to bad temper, and he can be cranky quite frequently, but lately he seems to be lashing out more than usual. I don't know if it's the war, unhappiness at his father going away, chafing under Peter's leadership—Edmund is inscrutable. But then, David seems that way too. My friends don't understand him and his little rituals. My mother thinks him too high and mighty and too cold, but I see the affection behind his ways. Perhaps then I can find a way to understand the child who is most like him, just as David has an especial fondness for Susan, who is so much like me. I climb the stairs.
Edmund is curled into an angry little ball on the bed, facing the wall. I want to scoop him up and cuddle him because he looks so brittle and breakable, but Edmund has never been one for cuddles, not even when he was a baby. I sigh a bit and perch on his bed, smoothing the sheets a bit with my hand. "Edmund, I need to talk to you," I say softly. I don't want to sound accusing.
He punches the pillow and curls up tighter. "Go away."
At first his words sting, but then I realize that he's been crying. I shake my head. "I can't. You know that."
"Why not? You're sending us away, aren't you?" His voice is sharp and accusatory.
"Is that what this is about?" I answer. "Evacuation?"
"You don't know anything about it." He punched the pillow. "I don't know what a fellow has to do to get a little peace around here."
"You can fool your sisters, Edmund, but you can't fool me," I tell him. My voice is wry, knowing. I'm not usually very smart, but I know my son.
I reach out to rub his back in circles, like I used to when he was a colicky baby. Edmund has always been the most difficult of the children, subject to moodiness and tempers. Peter has always had a willful streak, but he also wants to be good very badly, so he is easily curbed. Edmund does not care much for reputation. Under my hand, I can feel Edmund tremble a little and sigh.
My second son is always something of an enigma. Nobody can understand why he goes suddenly from mischief into thought, why he will gravitate near his brother and sisters only to lash out at them when the turn to include him. His teachers and headmaster send us notes almost weekly, and once, before he went away, David had to go up to the school to resolve an issue. Whenever Violet watches Edmund she has a litany of complaints. Mother always has a row with him, and Mother Pevensie despairs of his manners. No one stops to question why, no one wonders how he's feeling because he works so hard to push everyone away. But he's my boy; he always will be. I think he's lonely because he's misunderstood.
When Susan was born, I did not think it possible to be happier. She was so beautiful, and from the very first moment I laid her next to Peter, she curled into her brother, asking for his protection and his love. It went straight to my heart. David was pleased then too, and he often said that Susan was a pretty baby, which she was.
Peter and Susan were both very good babies, but good baby is a relative term. With every baby, no matter how good, there are nappies to change and messes to clean. Every baby needs to eat and every baby is sick and fusses. Peter and Susan just cried less than other babies, like their brother, and they got into less than other babies, like their sister.
At the beginning, when Susan was still tiny, everything was fine. She slept a lot, and Peter was a quiet one year old, crawling around the living room floor contentedly and napping peacefully. He was a cheerful baby too, and fascinated with his little sister. Our new house was small, but it fit all four of us comfortably. Mother would come round to visit and warned me "Things seem easy now, but they're bound to get harder," but Mother was a very dour person and I didn't believe her. Besides which, I remembered when Harold was a baby. He whinged almost constantly from birth until age two. My private belief was that my children were perfect, certainly better than Harold, and therefore I would encounter none of my mother's problems.
Then Susan started crawling. The two of them would go in exactly the opposite direction, and it was all I could do to find them, let alone keep up with them. I feared the stairs and everything in the kitchen, and once I had baby proofed one thing they would get into something else.
With the children everywhere and me chasing after them trying to keep them safe and clean up their messes, I hardly had time for my regular housework. Dust started to collect a bit on the bookshelves. David's shirts were hurriedly pressed, not perfectly ironed as they used to be, and more often than not it was sheer luck that I had dinner ready in time. Sometimes though I had to improvise with biscuits for dessert or leftovers or something store bought, because often I didn't have time to make anything, or the cake burnt.
Mother Pevensie came unexpectedly for tea one day, and I had a mad dash to find something to give her. The last drop of milk went into her tea; I drank mine black. Susan hauled herself up on her unsteady legs by leaning on my knee and some tea splashed on my skirt, which admittedly was already a little stained. Peter toddled around and explored everything at eye level, and I had to interrupt the conversation more than once to stop him from getting into a mess.
Mother Pevensie swiped a finger over the coffee table and looked at the vestiges of dirt with distaste. "Goodness, Helen. It looks as though you could use a little help."
I bristled, but I knew better than to appear cross with my mother in law. "I'm fine," I insisted stiffly, lifting Susan into my lap and wiping her face with a napkin. She was still cutting teeth and drooling from it.
"I wouldn't want my David to be uncomfortable," she persisted, still in her polished, polite tones.
"He's not," I returned a bit emphatically. I couldn't help it; her proprietary air over my husband grated on me, perhaps even more than her blatant misgivings about my abilities. Mother Pevensie raised her brows in doubt.
When she left, I cried for an hour. I was so worn out I didn't know what to do. I finally had to admit that I needed a bit of help, just enough to get me back on track, though I certainly wasn't going to take it from Mother Pevensie. In the end I enlisted Violet's help. She watched her son Harry, who was Peter's age, and my two while I cleaned the house top to bottom and made a lovely dessert. The next day after a few quick chores, I went round to hers to watch the babies while she cleaned. It was a perfect arrangement, and I felt quite the ingenious housewife.
Then one morning, Violet telephoned. "I'm sorry, Helen, but I can't come today." She sniffled, and I prayed something bad hadn't happened. Sometimes her husband drank and… "Harry and I both have colds. I think it's that everything's getting colder now," she continued, and I was grateful she interrupted my alarming train of thought. "Anyway, I thought it best to keep away until we're over it. I don't want you or the children getting sick." I looked over at Susan and Peter playing on the carpet. Sure enough, Susan coughed.
They both seemed to get sick at exactly the same time, and everything collapsed. The house quickly returned to a state of disorder as all my energy went into caring for two sick babies. No one gets as violently ill as small children. I would have been thoroughly disgusted if I weren't so alarmed and concerned for them. After 24 hours I feared they had the flu, so I bundled them into the pram and took them to the doctor. He confirmed that it might be a mild case, but there wasn't any real danger so long as I kept their temperatures down and made sure they drank enough.
That was a relief, but it did little to lessen the work. The house was still a state when we got home. Peter was so miserable he was whinging and whimpering, which he almost never did, and Susan could not stop crying. I managed to get them both into the bath, but even that was an ordeal. Peter was listless, his cheeks flushed as he cried pitifully, and Susan screamed with pain when I tried to put her in the water. Her temperature was so high the water must have felt freezing to her. I washed them carefully, my heart breaking for them. I was exhausted, but who else was there to take care of them?
I wrapped them both in big warm towels and dried them each one at a time, chattering softly and singing to them, the sort of nonsense mothers say to their children to make them feel better. It was all piggys and nursery rhymes and soft words, until finally they were quiet and I drew weak smiles from them both. I cuddled them close and kissed their damp heads. "Poor babies," I said gently. "We'll have you better soon." Peter whimpered and Susan cuddled close to me, winding her chubby little arm around my neck and laying her head on my shoulder.
I got Peter dressed, and he sat listlessly on the floor, winding his arm around my leg and sucking on his thumb. David usually remonstrated him for this, pulling his thumb out of his mouth and telling him big boys don't suck their thumbs. He had almost broken Peter of the habit, but Peter was feeling so miserable he sought solace in whatever he could. From time to time he coughed around his thumb.
Susan was limp and listless, and her color was off. When I finished dressing her, I lifted her in my arms and she moaned and sighed pitifully. I knew I couldn't put her down—I would just have to try to cook one handed. David would be home in just a bit and I had to invent something quick and serviceable for his dinner. Peter followed Susan and I into the kitchen, still looking pale and whimpering about his throat. He sat with his bear on the floor and watched us dolefully. As I fished in the ice box, I thought ruefully about the days when I was first married, when I planned a week's worth of meals with such pride, declaring my husband would never eat leftovers. Now I would have given anything for something I could just shove in the oven to warm up.
I fished out the mince I had managed to buy while out with the children at the doctor and set it on the counter, pondering it and dinner while rubbing Susan's back. She looked too, and then moaned fretfully "Mama…" I took one look at her and I knew what was coming. I got her away from the meat in time, but we didn't make it to the sink. She was sick all over herself and me and the floor.
As soon as Peter saw her sister get sick, he started to cry, strangled sobs which made him cry more because he hurt his throat. I prayed he wouldn't get sick and rushed Susan upstairs to the bath again. He followed slowly, lumbering up the stairs on his little two year old legs and crying forlornly, "Mummy…Mummy it hurts." Susan was still crying, and I tried to soothe them both.
I got Susan cleaned up and managed to spot clean my clothes, but I still smelled a bit of sick and needed a shower. However, I remembered there was a mess on the floor and I shepherded the children back downstairs to clean up. By this time I certainly wasn't hungry, nor was I really in the mood to cook. All I fancied was a hot shower and a lie down.
After I was done cleaning, Susan lifted her arms to be picked up again. I needed to work fast if I was going to have anything even half ready by the time David came home, but I couldn't resist her, sick and sad as she was. I rocked her a bit, singing softly, and Peter stood and wrapped his arms around my leg. A quick glance at the clock told me David would be home in less than half an hour, and I glanced helplessly at the meat on the counter. I sighed, wondering if I could cajole him into getting fish and chips supper. Maybe if I hid the meat so he didn't complain of the waste of money… Then I heard the key in the lock.
"Daddy's home!" I said with false brightness. In truth I was so relieved I could have cried. I could get him to sit with the children and have a shower, and we could see about fish and chips or some take away.
"Hello, dear," David said, coming into the kitchen as he loosened his tie. "I'm exhausted." He stretched out his hand, expecting the drink I usually fixed for him. When I stood there biting my lip and cuddling Susan, he seemed to wake up a bit and take in his surroundings. "What's all this then?"
"The children are sick," I explained softly.
He frowned and hmphed. Then he took off his jacket and headed to the living room. From the kitchen doorway I could see him settling himself in the chair and looking about. "Helen, where's the paper?" he called.
"I didn't have time to buy it. I had to take the children to the doctor."
"Hmpf," he said again. "Well, I'll get it myself after dinner." He sounded quite put out about this. "Is it nearly ready? I'm starved."
I hoisted Susan on my hip and said as bravely as I could. "There isn't any. Perhaps you could get some fish and chips?"
"No dinner?" David rose indignantly to face me. "What do you mean?"
"I didn't have time to make any!" I protested.
"Well, what else were you doing all day?" he demanded. "Honestly—a man slaves all day, the least he can expect is a hot meal when he comes home. I was poring over documents for the old man, and now there's nothing to eat? What am I supposed to do about that?"
Normally I would have cowed and apologized and offered to cook him something, but I was so tired and strained that I snapped right back. "I told you, David—the children were sick! I've been taking care of them all day."
"And what about me, hm? I thought a man's home was supposed to be his castle, not a playpen!"
As David raised his voice, Susan started to whimper, and I turned to shush her. Peter was watching with large eyes, still pressed against my leg. David took one look at me with the children and made a noise of disgust. "Right. I suppose I'll just have to get my own dinner then." He stalked back into the hall and grabbed his jacket and stuffed his hat on his head.
"Where are you going?" I asked querulously, following him.
"Out. To my mother's where a man knows he's appreciated," he answered, wrenching the door open. He slammed it viciously behind him.
I stared at the door for a long time, willing myself not to cry. I had two hungry children and an angry husband who was no help at all. I was nearly shaking with hurt and anger, but I stuffed it back inside and made some tinned soup and peas for the children. I didn't eat anything myself. I wasn't hungry.
Only when they were finally asleep did I sink down on the couch and let myself cry. I played over the whole scene in my head. David never yelled at me. I tried to be the best wife I could so that he would never have any cause for complaint. I did feel a sense of injustice that the one time I didn't have things ready, the one time I needed his help he had a strop and stormed out. The worst part was that he was seeking solace at his mother's, who was surely at this minute feeding him a rich dessert and 'tsking' about modern women. But I wasn't a modern woman. I wanted to be a good wife and a good mother, only the worst trick about doing that job well is making it look easy so no one, least of all David, would know how hard I worked. Going to his mother's—I felt betrayed, and I curled up on the couch and sobbed it out.
Hours later—or an hour later, I don't know how long it was—I heard the key in the lock. I sniffed and sat up, wiping my nose and eyes. David came in quietly and stood in the doorway with his hands behind his back.
"Did you go to your mother's?" I asked stiffly, though there was still a note of sad self pity in my voice.
"No. Just the pub down the road." That at least was some comfort. I nodded.
"Helen…" I looked up as he approached me. He held out a parcel wrapped in newspaper. "I got some chips with vinegar, just as you like them. And…" Blushing a bit, he withdrew a bunch of flowers.
As soon as I saw them I sprang from the couch and wrapped my arms around his neck. "Oh, David!" I cried, hiding my face in his neck as I felt more tears come. "I'm so sorry. I wanted to have dinner ready but the children are so ill."
He hugged me as best he could with two full hands. "It's alright, Helen dear. I'm…I'm sorry too. Now eat your chips, before they go cold."
I withdrew, sniffing gratefully, and took my dinner from him. We took it into the kitchen and he even put the flowers in water for me, then sat with me while I ate. He put his hand on my knee solicitously, and I thought they were the best chips I had ever tasted. Afterwards, we sat on the sofa together for a bit, and he held my hand and asked after the babies. I told him about my day, resting my head on his shoulder as I talked. He put his arm around me and patted my shoulder, and when I was done talking, he lifted my chin and kissed me.
"You have had a day," he said. "Let's go upstairs."
I curled my fingers around his shirt. "But it sounds as if you've had one too. Don't you want to talk?"
He shook his head. "Come on, dear. We'll go to bed." We stood together, and when I saw the look in his eyes I understood that he wasn't truly tired. He kissed me again, and I blushed. He never kissed me properly outside the bedroom anymore.
We went round together and shut the lights, and he half guided me upstairs. I fell into bed and his arms, warm with our comfortable passion and blissfully relaxing. I drifted off to sleep still in his arms, half confused by the change of mood that evening.
And so I have Edmund, who is right now in a temper covering a great hurt. I want to comfort him, but I've learned I can force nothing on Edmund; he has to come round to things his way. I stroke his hair still, to let him know I'm there and that I'm not going away. "Do you want to talk about it?" I ask.
"There's nothing to talk about, is there?" His voice breaks and sounds bitter at the same time. "I don't have anything to say."
"I do. Will you listen?" He is silent, an assent. Edmund is the cleverest of all my children, and I'm not very clever really. I marvel that I can read him, but then he is so like his father. "The bombs come every night. You know it. One night we may not get to the shelter in time. Something, anything could happen to you. And if it did, your father would never forgive me. I could never forgive myself." I cup his cheek and turn him to look at me. "If you think that I won't miss you, then you're wrong. I'll miss you every minute. But I'll know that you're safe, that you're alive. You have to be safe. That's more important than me missing you right now."
He scrubs his eye with a clenched fist. "Well, why don't you come too? If we're going to your friend's house, why don't you come too? Why do we have to go on our own?"
More than anything I want to go too. I want to stay with my children. The longest I've ever been apart from Edmund is when I went to the hospital to have Lucy. Other than that I've been with him every day of his life. "It's just not possible," I manage to say. "I have to stay here. I need to watch out for your grandparents—Granny Scrubb is too stubborn to go anywhere, and Grandma says her nerves won't survive a move. And I might have to get a job."
"Well, then you need me to stay too. I can get a job. Let the others go," Edmund says with a frown. I try to stroke his hair, but he pushes my hand away.
It is all I can do not to burst out crying. I can only shake my head and take my son in my arms. He stiffens, but after a moment he buries his head in my neck and rests his hands heavily on my back. I can feel his hot tears on my neck, and I rock him, kissing his temple.
The moment does not last long enough. Eventually his hard shell comes back, just as the morning after that fight David was brisk as usual. But I have seen what is underneath, and I won't forget that momentary tenderness and trust in either of them. I will always know that underneath, they are good.
