Spring days reminded him of his mother, and no matter the current circumstances, he couldn't be entirely miserable on a day like this. Not with the birds singing, and the earth giving off a smell of dampness, and the sky dotted with clouds that broke open with a sprinkle from time to time that felt as good as laughter.
Wilbur liked playing with the children. He had spent most of his upbringing with elderly people and while they were very nice; they didn't frolic and didn't sing nearly as often as they should have, and the only games they played required dice or cards and had far too many rules.
"Come on, Wil. Come on!" Violet called, opening the circle and holding out a hand to him. He hurried over. Before he grabbed her hand, he glanced first toward where his father sat, on a bench across the green, and waited for a slight nod that would let Wilbur know if he might play or not.
The nod came and Wilbur grinned and joined the children dancing in a circle, singing and chanting. They spun faster and faster. They spun until the feet of the smallest children came free of the ground. They gasped and squealed in excitement until it was too fast and all the children fell into an exhausted, panting heap.
Violet squeezed his hand and smiled into his brown eyes with her pale green ones. Violet was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. Her face was thin and framed by ringlets of chestnut hair so rich in color he imagined they would taste of treacle.
Her cheeks were pink and her smile dainty with small teeth set into a bow formed by delicate pink lips. To grown-ups, he supposed that she might not actually be as pretty as some others, but she was the prettiest to him just the same.
"Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!" Violet sang between pants, her eyes unfocused with dizziness as she gazed up into the sky.
He loved days when he was allowed to play like this–to be part of rather than his usual set apart. He loved to move and feel and use his whole voice rather than sit quietly, only speaking in hushed tones and stealing in and out of dimly lit rooms.
He and his father had been in town for nearly a month now. His father said they were there was a special project. That surprised Wil. Usually, the special projects came in the heat of summer or the coldest parts of winter, not in the Spring when everything felt fresh and new.
He looked again at where his father sat. There was a woman beside him now and they were chatting. Wilbur rubbed his eyes with the back of his fists and looked again. The woman shimmered; he realized she wasn't a woman exactly—she was more like them.
"Come on Wilbur." Violet popped up, stumbled a step or two, still dizzy from the spinning. "Let's play tag."
Wil sat up, then pulled to his knees, then to his feet, still keeping one eye on his father. His father didn't like when he ran off where he couldn't see him. But father was busy and they wouldn't go a long way off. "Better run Vi! Or you're it," he warned.
She took off with her hair streaming behind her, and her pursuer hot on her heels.
XXX
"Where have you been?" A hand gripped his shoulder like a vise.
"Ow, sorry Dad, you were busy. I was only playing." Wilbur winced and tried to free himself.
"You know you're not to run off." He gave his son a shake but freed him.
"Who was that woman you were talking to?" He skipped to keep up with his father, who was striding away across the park.
His father sighed heavily. "Nice woman, but so simple. Too simple. I mean, we all have our jobs to do and if we do them the way we're meant to, everything goes along smoothly. It's her sort, not MY sort, that set things all wrong." He gave a growl of exasperation.
Wilbur guessed he shouldn't press the matter.
"It's not the way of things that's the problem, son. It's when people work against it. When they fight it. You know that, right?"
Wilbur nodded because he knew his father wanted him too, not because he understood, not really.
"I allow that she has her place in the scheme of things, but sometimes our job is as much a mercy as hers." His father turned all the way round now and stopped so the boy could catch up.
"She was Mercy?" Wilbur guessed.
His father nodded. "A lovely thing, except when it goes too soft. Women have the light touch that the world needs, but when it's too soft, it doesn't really fix anything, it just blurs the lines. Delays the inevitable."
Wilbur nodded. His father often spoke in metaphors, usually they were simple visual ones that he could understand. He wasn't certain what "inevitable" meant. Something to do with change. But in the end, everything was change, really.
"I've a surprise for you." His father took his hand, and they began walking once again. "It's special. Mind you, don't waste it."
"I won't, dad. What is it?" He tugged on his father's hand in anticipation.
"Tomorrow your Mother is coming. I'm sure you've suspected that she's been on her way. Tomorrow she arrives." There was a hint of a smile in his father's eyes, a rare and beautiful thing.
"And we're going to see her!" Wilbur loved his mother above all things.
"We are. At least you are." He clapped his son on the shoulder. "I'll pay my respects but… as much as I respect your mother…" He didn't finish.
Wilbur didn't understand the sadness his father carried concerning his mother. He understood in his vague child's way that his parents hadn't been able to marry and couldn't stay together. It wasn't a lack of love, his mother had told him once. They were fundamentally incompatible. They got in each other's way. Husbands and wives were meant to help one another, but they were always out of step.
Wilbur wished his parents could be together, as any boy did, but he would not let that detail spoil one second of the precious time he had with his mother. His father's sadness was his own problem. Wilbur was entirely compatible with his mother. He didn't find her frivolous, or too generous and blousy, like some people did.
There wasn't a single trait of his mother's that he identified as less than perfect, saving the fact that her job kept her away so much of the time. She was always moving, constantly. He traveled with his father, to be sure, but never very far. There was always plenty to keep them busy anywhere they went.
"When do I see her? Where?" Wil hopped from foot to foot with anticipation.
His father watched his antics and gave a wistful half smile. "Few people are ever that happy to see me," he thought aloud. He wasn't unwelcome everywhere. Some people were even relieved when he arrived, but very rarely were they happy.
"First thing in the morning, we're to meet her in the Queen's garden, of all places." His father gave a rueful chuckle. "You're to have three days with her, then she'll bring you back to me."
Wilbur took his father's hand in both of his small ones. "Dad, couldn't you? I mean, at least for a little while. The three of us?" His voice was small and hopeful.
"I'll pay my respects when I drop you off, but no, son. I've my job to do and I don't think your mother and you could truly enjoy each other with me hanging about."
Wilbur nodded.
"Your old dad has something big coming up. I need to meet with my boss and some of my colleagues. The sort of thing your mother hates. No, you two go have your lark." He ruffled the boy's short brown hair.
"Ok Dad." Wil gave him a genuine warm smile, but his father knew the smile wasn't really for him, it was for the boy's mother. Still, he had played his part. Wilbur wouldn't be here at all if he and his mother hadn't… had their moment. There was something to be said for that.
XXX
They left very early in the morning, while it was still dark. Wil and his father walked right past the Queen's guards. His dad tipped his hat to them, but they hadn't so much as glanced at him. Wilbur had waved, but his father had reminded him.
"They can't see you. They're not allowed to."
Wilbur nodded. It was confusing to him. The rules made little sense. There was no consistency. Sometimes people could see them, and other times they couldn't. Sometimes he could play with the children and other times his father made him stay away. Sometimes father made him sit for hours or even days in a sick room and only then could he take the hand of a potential playmate and lead them away.
But today was not a day to ask questions or seek answers. Today was a day to forget everything confusing, sad, or confounding.
Wilbur could see signs of his mother before they reached the garden. The pinkening of the sky, the joyous tone of the birdsong, and the buds fit to bursting made his heart race.
"Mum, mum, mum." He couldn't keep from singing. He wished he could whistle. He wished he could touch something brown and make it turn green. He wished he were more like her and less like his father. Wil knew he shouldn't think that way, but he did think it. Every year, he thought it harder and harder.
Then there she was, as large as life itself in the middle of the garden, in a shaft of morning sunlight. He forgot his father and ran to her, and she caught him up, even though he was really too big for that anymore. She caught him up and lifted him off his feet the way the spinning circle of children had lifted the little ones.
"Mum!"
"My Wilbur!" She set him down and kissed his forehead. Happiness bubbled through him like a laughing brook.
He wasn't certain he knew what being drunk felt like, but he thought maybe it felt like this—a sort of fizzy bliss. A liquid warm happiness. A sort of slippery feeling inside when things that mattered most days suddenly didn't matter at all.
It stayed with him, as he held his mother's hand while she talked with his father.
There was more color in his father's cheeks than usual, and he rocked on his heels, with his hands jammed in his pockets. He seemed younger and less sure of himself.
Wilbur wasn't sure if he liked this version of his father better than the usual version or not. It was unsettling. His father always told him that in their line of work, one needed a steady hand and nerves of steel. Around their mother, neither of them was steady. There was something about her that turned everything heels over head. Made everyone dizzy and put a silly grin on their faces.
Wilbur couldn't take it anymore. He let her hand go and began tearing around the garden. He looked behind him and could see his footprints in the grass. Everywhere he stepped, the grass was greener and taller. It happened sometimes, depending on his mood.
"That's your mother in you." His father had told him.
He was full of his mother today. He slowed down and poked at the fat buds of a rosebush, making popping noises as he did so. One by one they burst open their velvet petals of rich color and heavenly scent. Pop, pop! Their frilly golden centers shone like bursts of fireworks in the night.
He treasured the gift of making things bloom. He liked daisies and irises just fine, but roses were his particular favorite. The thorns didn't put him off the way they did some people. For color, fragrance, pomp and circumstance, you couldn't beat roses. There were so many kinds: formal red ones, blousy pink ones, striped roses, white roses, and yellow ones that smelled like sunshine itself.
"Wilbur," his mother called, her voice so soft and warm it was almost like a breeze.
"Coming!" He rounded a corner and surprised a cat. It saw him, but rather than running, it bowed its back, fluffed its tail and hissed. No angry kitty could steal his joy. He just laughed and tugged its tail as he passed. The poor creature passed out from fright. He hadn't meant to scare it. Silly cat.
He stopped and frowned at the limp body lying on the flags. "Mum?"
"What is it, my love?"
"Look." He pointed.
"Oh dear. That IS unfortunate." Her eyes were sad.
They learned just how unfortunate it was when four tiny kittens emerged from the hedge and mewed miserably at their unmoving mother.
"Can we wake her up?" Wilbur asked.
His mother bit her bottom lip. "Well…we're not supposed to."
"But her kittens."
He didn't understand why he could make roses bloom, but he was a disaster when it came to animals. This wasn't the first time he'd frightened one half to death.
"Well…maybe, since the mother is asleep, you could put the kittens to sleep too," his mother said gently. "We can set them over there, where they won't be in anyone's way."
"It's too pretty a day for them to sleep. They should be awake and playing in the garden," he argued.
"I'll get the little ones and you pick up their mommy." She reached out and lifted the kittens to her bosom one at a time. They couldn't keep themselves from purring.
He picked up the limp body of the mother cat and followed. They stopped in front of a shed door.
"Here, Wil, lay her down and then I'll give you the kittens. You give them a kiss and set them to sleep beside their mum." Her voice was gentle, but he detected worry around her eyes.
He did as he was told. First the grey tabby kitten, then the black, then the orange, then the piebald. Each one fell limp as he kissed their tiny heads. He lay them in a row in front of the garden shed.
"Come along, Wil, we've lots to do." His mother offered her hand.
He looked back at the row of cats, who should have been playing in the garden, chasing butterflies and each other. He wished they would wake up.
He and his mother went walking through a cemetery, stopping at each grave to wake the daffodils and hyacinth. They talked and laughed and raced snails across the gravestones. He forgot about the kittens; it was so perfect a day.
XXX
They spent three glorious days together before his mother had to be on her way to London. Wilbur had never seen London, but his father knew it well. He had been stationed there during the war. London had nearly wrecked his nerves, he said.
That worried Wilbur, because his father seemed nearly not to have any nerves. Maybe London was why. Maybe that's where his nerves had stayed.
It was shortly after London that his father met his mother. His father's explanation was that London had weakened him, and in his weakened state he let his heart rule his head. He'd thrown caution to the wind. Didn't care what made sense or no sense. He let himself be a fool.
Dad was bitter about London, but not about being a fool. He guessed he had the right to, as much as any fellow who'd seen what he'd seen during the war.
When Wil got home, his father had the steely, determined look he got when a big project came up. He was all business then, and Wil guessed there would be a lot of sitting about in dimly lit rooms and not very much playing in parks.
Over breakfast, Father told him that while he'd been away with his mother, his Aunt Pestilence had come and had brought his cousin Scarlet. His father said he needed Wil's help.
"You've made friends with some of the children, haven't you?" he asked.
Wilbur nodded. "As much as I ever do," he allowed. They never stayed anywhere long enough for Wil to have real friends–the sort you share secrets with. But he was friendly with the kids here. They let him play their games.
"Your Aunt is going to teach you a new game." Father was talking in a strange, lilting tone. It wasn't like him. It was as if he was trying to convince his son to do something that perhaps wasn't quite nice.
"What kind of game?" Wilbur asked suspiciously.
"One of the sort you like, with chasing and laughing and all that." There was a hint of disgust in his tone.
Wilbur knew he was nearly too old for those games, but the playground needed kids his age and size to lift the little ones up off the ground. He wasn't too old yet, not just yet.
"What does she need me for?" He had a queer prickly feeling in his stomach.
"A game is only good if you pass it around," his father explained. "You're going to teach it to the kids… so they can pass it around."
Wilbur liked games, and he enjoyed learning new ones, but he didn't like the way his father said "pass it around".
Father was distracted for the next few weeks. He seemed always to be meeting with someone, and sometimes voices were raised. Wilbur tried to coax his cousin Scarlet out to play, but she said she wasn't allowed to unless her mother said, and her mother wouldn't say.
Wil tried staying in and playing quiet games with her, but Springtime was such a lovely time. He wanted to be outside, making flowers bloom, and seeing signs of his mum everyplace he went.
He wanted to be playing ball and stick, and "Piggie in the Middle" and "Kitty Katty Catch You" with the other children.
It wasn't his fault if his auntie made poor Scarlet hang about inside, as if she was afraid she'd catch something.
Violet had been absent from the playground for three days; when she came back, she looked peaky. She said her mum had made her drink something awful called Spring Tonic, and it made her so ill she couldn't eat for days and had spent lots of time in the loo.
Wilbur felt sorry for her. He didn't dare tell her about how his mum celebrated Spring with him. He was afraid it would make her feel bad. He wondered if he told her about the kittens would that make her feel worse or better. He knew he would feel worse, so he said nothing and just told her he was glad she was back and how his cousin Scarlet was no fun at all.
Then came the day when auntie was ready to teach him the new game.
"But it's just duck, duck, goose," he said, disappointed when the rules were explained. They all knew that game, they played it since nursery school.
"This is a special version," Aunt Pesty told him. "It's called 'Don't be the Gooseberry.'"
This was how it was played. All the children sat in a circle and the "Gooseberry" went round and tapped them on the head, saying "Mulberry, Mulberry, Mulberry," until he came to the one he'd chosen, and he'd tap that child saying "Gooseberry!". Then the Gooseberry would have to chase the tapper around the circle and kiss them before he sat down and took the tapper's place.
Wilbur didn't think it was any better a game for having a new name. He wasn't sure how he felt about the kissing. It would be nice to kiss Violet on her pink cheek, but he wouldn't want to be kissed by any of the other girls. Cousin Scarlet was going to come to the playground to play with him. She was slow, so slow that Wil had to stop several times to let her catch up.
"You'd better not be the Gooseberry, you'll never catch anyone. Everyone would catch you in a second," he warned.
"I don't care if they do catch me," she said wearily. "I don't like playing outside. It makes my eyes hurt and my skin burn. I'd rather read or play paper dollies inside."
"Well, I like the playground best, and don't you go ruin it for me. These are my friends, and I don't want them to hate me because of my stupid cousin."
He wasn't usually surly, but he was feeling off today. He was hot, inspite of the cool spring air. His collar felt tight, and his head ached, and now he was supposed to teach the kids a stupid game because his aunt wanted to see how fast it would spread.
Wil's mood changed when he saw Violet. He waved, and she came right over, running as fast as any of the boys could and likely faster than his cousin Scarlet could on her best day.
Scarlet scowled at him when he said as much. "I can move fast when I want to," she told him hotly.
He introduced the girls and Violet thrust out her hand to Scarlet, who took it, but then shocked them by leaning in and kissing Violet on the cheek.
"Well, hello to you too!" Violet said, pulling a face, but only letting Wil see it. "She's…different." Violet whispered to Wil as they walked towards the playground.
"She's not fun like you, Vi, but she's my cousin and I had to bring her. And she wants to teach us all a game."
"What kind of game?" Violet was immediately interested.
"It's called Gooseberry. It's a chase game," he said, his cheeks reddening thinking about the kiss.
"I like chase games," Violet reminded him.
"It's like duck, duck, goose, but instead of tagging the goose, you kiss them!" He spat the words out.
"Kissing game, ew," she giggled, wrinkling her nose, but smiling as she did so.
"ON the cheek, and you only pick someone you WANT to kiss." He amended the rules as he went along.
"But what if they don't want you to kiss them?"
"Then you had better run fast." Wil poked her in the side and ran, laughing away.
Wil was an outsider, but Violet was not, and she had no trouble calling together the older children. She emphasized that only the big children could play Wil's cousin's new game.
Scarlet smiled to herself as Violet explained the rules and about the kissing. Some of the boys groaned, and the girls twisted their braids around their fingers. The Hardcastle twins ran off to play jump rope, but the other stayed.
Wil scratched at the back of his neck. He felt so hot. Suddenly, the idea of running in circles, even if it meant a chance to kiss Violet on the cheek, didn't seem so desirable.
"I'm going first!" Violet announced. "To show you how it's done!"
The children made a wide circle and got on their knees. Violet skipped around the circle tapping heads and singing "Mulberry, mulberry, mulberry, mulberry…" She went around two full times before finally patting Wil on the head and shouting "Gooseberry!"
She took off like a shot with a girlish giggle. Wil got to his feet, but he didn't feel well. He managed a fast walk, but Violet easily took his place in the circle before he was anywhere near her. She looked at him, puzzled.
He felt cold, and things looked blurry. He just wanted to get his turn over and get back to a place on the ground, so everything could stop spinning, and spinning, and spinning.
"Mulberry, mulberry, mulberry mulberry—" He staggered slowly forward.
"Look at him! He's all red!" one boy shouted.
"Gooseberry!" a girl called out. "Don't touch me!"
"Get away!" cried another.
Wil was confused. The children were no longer in a circle. They seemed to be moving in all directions chanting "Gooseberry, Gooseberry, Wilbur's a Gooseberry."
He tried to stop but kept going forward, forward, forward until, face first, he hit the ground.
XXX
"Just rest, my boy. You did a fine job." His father was leaning over his bed, smiling in a way that seemed out of place for the father of a sick child.
"Dad?" He hadn't done a fine job. He hadn't even completed a round of the game.
"Cousin Scarlet?"
"Don't you worry lad, she's right as rain."
Wil's head hurt, and he felt too dizzy to sit upright. The room was dim. "Are we here for a job?" He forced the words out.
"No. Not yet. Not yet, my lad."
Aunt Pesty came to the bed with a bowl of broth and a glass of cool water.
"Your cousin is out playing with the children. Your friend Violet has been so kind, introducing her to the others."
Wil smiled. Smiled at Violet's kindness, not Scarlet's good luck in making a friend.
The next afternoon, he was feeling better. His father opened the widow a few inches to let in the air, keeping the shade drawn against the light. Wil could hear children playing outside.
"Mulberry, mulberry, Mulberry…" and laughter.
His Aunt and Father exchanged a look he could not read. "They'll be singing it in London before you know you," Aunty said.
"They'll be singing it without me. Let my brothers have their turn. London in Summer," His father sneered. "Wild horses couldn't drag me there."
It was several more days until Wil was better. He couldn't play outside, but he could sit at the window and watch the others. The numbers had thinned. There seemed to be only half as many children as there used to be.
"Look! It's Gooseberry!" one boy cried, seeing Wil's face in the Window. "Gooseberry, Gooseberry, don't touch me!' He threw a rock and ran away.
The rock missed the window, but Wil felt as if he'd been struck. Why were the children angry with him? And where was Violet?
It was cousin Scarlet who announced that Violet was ill. She said it almost with a sense of triumph.
"What do you say we pay Violet a visit?" Father asked, smiling warmly at Wilbur.
Wil felt a tingle go through him, a flush. Not the pleasant kind like when he'd seen his mother, more like the kind when he'd first fallen ill
Wil had sat with his father at many sickbeds. Mostly the bedsides of grown-ups, but sometimes children. Sickrooms were uncomfortable places, quiet but with an unpleasant urgency, and shadows, so very many shadows.
Wil didn't like the shadows, but he liked the golden light when it finally came. It always did come, though he didn't know how his father knew when it would.
Will would ask, "Will it be much longer?" and his father would put a hand on his thigh, a sign to be patient.
Sometimes the ill person seemed to improve, and Wil would be sure that they could leave, but his father would shake his head solemnly. Sure enough, in a little while, the golden light would come. His father would rise, and lay his hand on the person's shoulder, or take their wrist.
Some would open their eyes and shrink back into their bed. Will didn't know why. The light was warm and peaceful and smelled like ripe peaches. It smelled ever so much better than a sick room.
The sick person's family never liked the light. They would put their heads in the hands and cry "no, no, no."
But the ill person would sigh with the prettiest smile on their face, and rise over the bed.
It didn't matter how many sick beds Wilbur had sat beside. He didn't like seeing Violet this way. Her face was quite red and there were beads of sweat were on her forehead. She was restless and Wil knew how she felt. She was sick with the same thing he'd had.
He and his father sat for several hours. Violet tossed about in a restless half sleep. Sometimes she opened her eyes and talked to things that weren't there.
Her mother bathed her head and body with cool cloths and the minister came and said prayers, but Violet didn't get better.
Her face was thinner than ever and her chestnut hair was thready and drab against her pillow.
"It's awful," Wil told his father.
His father studied his son's face. "Talk to her," he said.
"But.." Wil motioned to the girl, whose glassy eyes were only half open and focused on nothing.
"Go on," his dad encouraged.
Usually his father insisted on a silent vigil. Wil didn't understand why today was different, but he moved towards the bed.
"Violet?" he whispered. "Vi?"
Her tongue poked out a bit between her chapped lips, and slowly her eyes opened. They were still unfocused, but it was clear she heard him.
"Violet, it's me." He put his hand over hers. She had been so strong even though she was thin, but he could tell there was no strength in her now.
"Mulberry," she said, and smiled. "My Mulberry."
"More like Gooseberry." He gave a little laugh.
She shook her head and winced in pain. "They told me Wil. I'll miss you so." She looked sad.
"I'm not going anywhere, Vi. I'm here."
"They told me you were gone," she whimpered.
"But see Violet, I'm here." He put a hand to his chest. "Right here, right as rain. I was sick, but I'm well now. You'll get well too," he promised.
A tear rolled down her cheek. "Mulberry, Mulberry, Gooseberry." Her voice was barely audible. "Aren't you going to chase me?"
He gave a little smile. He was shy with his father there, but he looked over and his father was dozing, paying no attention whatsoever.
Wil bent closer, till he could hear her weak breath. He would kiss her cheek, flushed as it was.
"Aren't you going to kiss me, and be my Mulberry?" Her voice was tinier now.
Wil drew closer, and he smelled peaches. From the corner of the room came the golden light. "Look Violet, it's here!"
"Aren't you going to?" Her voice was a whimper.
"Of course." He pressed his lips to her hot, dry cheek.
"My Mulberry…" with those words, the breath was gone from her. She didn't draw another.
The golden light spread till it filled the room. Will stood in the midst of it, watching it shimmer around him Violet as she rose into the air.
"Violet!" he marveled. She looked well again. He knew she would get better.
"Don't be a Gooseberry!" Her voice and laugh were strong again. "Be my Mulberry!" She was rising higher and higher.
Wil grinned and reached for her, but the golden light was fading now and she was fading with it. It grew smaller and tighter and smaller and tighter until it winked out and was gone.
"Violet!" he called, but she had gone where she could no longer hear him..
"She's well now, son." His father stood beside him with his hand on his shoulder. "You made her well."
Wil shook his head. "But I–"
"She's well and strong and in a place–"
"That smells like peaches," Wil finished.
His father nodded. "There's more work to be done."
"More children to make well?" Wil asked.
His father did an unexpected thing. He pulled Wil to him and embraced him. "Ah, Wilbur." He hugged him tight. "My son. And your mother's son, too."
"Mulberry," Wil corrected him.
HIs father loosened his embrace and looked into the boy's face. "What?"
"I'm Mulberry. And I can make the roses bloom, and animals fall asleep, and help people into the light." He spoke with no specific emotion, as if he was trying to make sense of it all.
"We do help people, father?" he checked.
HIs father nodded. "They don't always understand… at first."
Will looked around the dimly lit room that smelled of sick, and medicines and shut up air.
"Wil?" His father tried to read his son's expression.
"Mulberry." Will corrected again. "I'd rather be a Mulberry than a Gooseberry."
"Lad." His father looked both sad and proud.
He and his father visited several of the children from the playground. One by one, they sent them to the place that shimmered like Summer and smelled like peaches.
When they returned home, Aunt Pesty and Cousin Scarlet had moved on.
XXX