He is waiting by the fence, his hair shimmering in the dawning sunlight. His face is clean, his clothes are pressed, and he's wearing one of his father's ties, though it is rather big on him. He scuffs and unscuffs his shoe, and Mary puts a hand on his shoulder. "Steady, Remus. She'll be here. Mrs. Bartley phoned this morning."
"But I can't wait!" he whines, jittering impatiently. "I haven't someone to play with all year, an' now she's back an' I want to see her!"
It is early June and the grass is showing of it. It's dry and prone to crackling beneath the weight of shoes; the sky has been unmoving and dry for weeks. The creeks are shriveling up and wasting away, much like the crops and all the other things that depend so heavily on the English rain. The dust rises in a cloud on the dirt road and Mary smiles.
"Mum, is 'at them? Oh, is it?"
"Patience, dove, and yes. That'd be them, I believe."
"Mum, what if she forgets that we was married last holiday?"
"Were. Were married. And she likely won't forget, dear. She's a bright girl."
His hands flew to the strap of barbed wire in front of him and he began wringing his hands on it, squirming with anticipation. Mary just smiles, as she often does when with her excitable, precocious son. He is six now, and growing upwards and outwards as quickly as a weed. She chuckles, though, when he comes to her and asks for help buttoning his trousers; his baby belly is still pudgy and protruding, and she oftentimes gives it a poke for good measure and warm giggles from the boy.
No sooner is the Renault slowed to a crawl in Mrs. Bartley's driveway when a little girl in a purple dress pours out of the doors, running to the fence, her shoulder-length hair bouncing and flapping behind her.
Remus begins to crawl under the fence, but his mother tightens her grip on his shoulder and he stands straighter. He can hardly keep from hopping the fence in excitement.
Her hands hit the gaps in the wire with a twang, shaking the whole fence line. She smiles breathlessly at him. "Remus! Y'here!"
"Where else would I be, dummy? Ow!"
Mary releases her talon-like grip from his shoulder. "Play nice, you two. And don't get those clothes dirty. Come in and change, if you must."
He rolls his eyes at his mother as she walks back toward their cottage, and he turns to his playmate. "Missed you."
"I missed y'too."
They stood on the drying grass, not saying much, just staring. The swallows sang merrily overhead and the wind stood still, the head swelling around them. He wipes the back of his hand across his forehead and Sadie laughs.
"Why don'cha loosen up 'at tie?"
"I dunno how."
She reaches through the fence and her hands find his tie. She scoots the knot down and Remus exhales, relieved. "Thanks! That feels 'lot better."
She is still, her hands on fiddling with his tie. "Can we play now? I missed the creek. And the swing."
Before he can spit out an answer, she is crawling under the gate, the brown-red dirt dusting her tights. He helps her up and she dusts off her knees. She flashes him a grin, her front tooth missing, and takes off running. "Last one 'ere's a rottin' egg!"
A smile splatters itself on his face and he sprints after her. He pants as he runs, his chest heaving. She shows no signs of slowing. They nearly tumble into the almost bone-dry creek, splashing what little water is there all over their clothes.
"Oh, no!" he shouts, looking down at his pants. "Mum said not to get dirty!"
"Oh, thas' okay," says Sadie flippantly. "Jus' take off your trousers."
Remus stares at this very bold, very strange girl. "But..but you're a..a girl."
"I know!" she shouts. "Here, I'll take mine off, too."
She reaches down and takes off her tights, throwing them onto the bank. She looks at Remus. "Your turn next."
He swallows the lump forming in his throat and takes off his pants, and they are both standing in the bed of a creek in their underwear. A shiver crawls up his spine from the cold water.
"See? 'S'not bad. An' now our bottoms can dry."
He is nervous at first, playing in his underthings around a girl, but he quickly loses his fear to the current of joy washing over him at seeing this girl, his very strange friend again. They splash about and squish the oozing mud between their toes and fingers, careful not to spread it elsewhere. Before they realize it, the sun is beginning to set.
"Oi, Remus, hurry! The sun, the sun!"
She scrambles up the bank and puts on her tights clumsily. She offers a hand to help him up the side, dancing impatiently as he puts his pants and trainers on. "Don't tie 'em, just hurry! The swing is over there, we musn't miss this! I've waited all year f'it!"
They are dashing to the swing, falling over laces and lost shoes. She throws herself into the swing and he stumbles behind her, ready to push the swing as they'd done the entire summer before. He hears her sigh softly as the swing picks up a steady rhythm and the sun begins to fall beneath the horizon. "Don't y'just love the sunset, Remus?"
"I guess."
"What d'you mean, 'you guess'?"
"I like the moon better."
She brushes her hair over her shoulders, her fingers gripping the rope tightly. "I do, too, I 'spose. But the sunset. 'S just...magical."
Remus wonders if he should tell her now about his father; that sometimes, he has a wand that he uses to clean up an especially big mess or fix a leak in the roof. He wonders if he should tell her that Pop can move things with that wand, can lift heavy objects and light feathers alike, and can change the cat into a couch cushion. He wonders if he should tell her he can do the same thing sometimes.
"Remus! Supper's on, c'mon then!"
He pulls the swing to a stop. "Guess I had better take off."
"Me, too. Gram's prob'ly dyin' to see me." She hops off of the swing and turns around to Remus. "Oh, I almost forgot."
"What?"
"You've done and well had y'birthday."
"Yeah," he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Back in March."
"How could I go an' forget y'birthday? I'm a right terrible wife."
He looks up to smile at this, but she's pressing her lips against his. "Happy birthday, Remus."
She runs to her house as he stands by a slow-moving swing, his hands on his lips. She had remembered.