***Chapter 3***
***Secrets***
When the snow falls crisp and new and the world is hushed, confidences are whispered and broken hearts mended.
The small boy has no dreams or wishes of Xmas. His mother told him there was no Father Christmas to bring presents and so there were none nor Xmas tree with coloured Xmas lights though they shine brightly enough in the window of the house opposite where two little half-Asian boys spill into the foggy, slushy street with bike, pedal car and fist fight. He watches from his bedroom window as their mother comes to the door, quilted dressing gown that reaches down to her ankles, unbrushed salt-and-pepper hair tousled over her shoulders, waving a ladle that must have been dipped in gravy, for brown dots splatter patches of grey snow as she shouts something he can't hear and the boys grab their Xmas presents and scurry inside.
Their Daddy owned the shop on the corner of their long, curving street and people grumbled to each other Sayeed should make up his bloody mind whether he was English or Asian, what with celebrating Christian festivals and opening on days Christian folk wouldn't dream of doing business and it was his wife wore the trousers and pound to a penny his family had ostracized him for marrying an Englishwoman. Though they never told Sayeed any of this as they shopped there on Sundays and Holy Days.
But Steve liked plump, jolly Sayeed. He envied the two boys having a father. He thought he remembered having one too once but he couldn't be sure. He thought he remembered a tall man who lifted him on his shoulders and took him down to the Farmer's Field where all the local kids went with mums and dads to feed the ponies, but what became of him, if he ever was, he didn't know. People and things disappeared: Sayeed and the long, curving street; the house they lived in before and his red zip-up anorak; the black cat who snoozed on the backyard wall and the old lady who always carried a duck's head brolly. And one day his mother was just gone too.
He didn't cry for his mother in the orphanage. He heard them say he was a strange little boy and very stoic and he thought stoic meant stick and he must be growing up to be a stickman so he practised walking like one, arms outstretched, taking giant strides, bumping into Miss Pat, who scooped him up laughing. He smiled shyly back. Miss Pat was nice. Maybe she wouldn't disappear for a looong time. But he hoped and hoped and hoped the horse hadn't gone!
Now if you believe, and some of you may, that a toy has always been a toy and nothing more, then you have never been four years old.
*****
The small boy bottom-shuffles down the high sweeping stairs, butterflies of excitement fluttering in his stomach. The bottom step, the beat of his heart , the gap of the half-open door! His head barely reaches the brass knob as he pushes it open. By day the playroom is a hive of activity, but now all is deserted, paint easels, games, boxes and chairs stashed against the walls, only the smell of chalks, paints and pine disinfectant giving any hint that it has ever been used at all.
He giggles breathlessly at the strange whiteness of the moonlight filtering through the slats of the closed blinds, hears the patter of his bare feet, ice-cold on the uncarpeted floor. An uneasy draught filters through the unpeopled room, an uneasy silence touches each and every corner of the night, a thrill of daring carries him in its spell.
He slows his step, holding out his empty palm."Hey, Freddie," he says gently. "Hey, boy" and in his imagination, the rocking horse neighs and rears. "
Easy. Easy, boy. Nobody's gonna hurt you. Carrots, see? I bringed you carrots."
Biting his lip in concentration, he comes closer to the snorting horse that digs the ground with its hoof - a field now, dark and moonlit and deep in the breath of winter, silhouettes on a pure white landscape like the picture of galloping horses that graces Matron's office.
"Easy, boy," he whispers again, quite sure he can hear the rocking horse crunching the imaginary carrots. In his mind's eye, the horse lowers its dappled grey head for him to climb on to its back. He giggles again.
"Good boy, Freddie."
He stands on tiptoe to catch hold of the reins, clinging grimly on, one foot aground, one foot flailing to reach the stirrup, hopping, skipping, jumping in vain, tears of frustration springing to his eyes as he bangs his heel on the rocking horse's side and tumbles down.
A flood of light bursts into the room. Voices raised in subdued alarm.
"Steven, it's very naughty to get of bed, sweetheart. How the **** did he get down here without anyone noticing?"
"Jesus, anything could have happened to the poor little mite! Who's Night Duty?"
He couldn't understand why they made so much fuss. Lots of times he had crept silently downstairs after Mum put him to bed – often way too early: sometimes the sun would still be blazing down from the late afternoon sky and other kids, even younger than he, would still be out playing, for they had moved to the new house when the September days were still warm though a slight breeze chilled the air.
He knew why she put him to bed so early. He always heard the clink of the bottle.
Sometimes, afraid of the gathering darkness, he would totter down and inevitably find her drunk and fast asleep. He would try to snuggle next to her then but she pushed him away even in her sleep. And so he would sit alone, knees drawn up to his chin, staring wide-eyed at the TV screen, simply waiting for her to wake and yell or slap him.
*****
"Yell and slap you?"
Steve keeps his head down, busy grooming Lady. "Any attention was better than none at all."
"Oh, Steve!" I jump down off the stable door and lay my hand on his shoulder.
"Hey, girl." He laughs, cupping my face and wiping away my tears of sympathy with the pads of his thumbs. "It's okay now."
He kisses me tenderly and holds me tight as snowflakes fall, feather soft, silently, silently, all around this magic new world