Hopscotch

A Mirror, Mirror Fanfiction

~1998~

Catherine Guthrie Tiegan stepped into her daughter's empty bedroom, put the dry-cleaned Hampton Shelly blazer on the hook on the back of the door (so strange to think this might be the last year she did this every week), and strode – a trifle absently – over to the window.

It was a bright autumn day. Beyond the balcony and the lawn, just where the pavement's path winded into little stone steps leading directly to the road, she could see her children playing. It wasn't a busy street, and Catherine encouraged them to be independent; still, she felt a pang of worry any time she heard approaching traffic. Even when it was only the Mr. Whippy truck blaring 'Greensleeves'.

She quelled – or at least reined in – her parental anxiety by focusing on what they were doing, which game they were playing.

Hopscotch, as it turned out.

Catherine smiled.

Nicholas would be nineteen this winter, only a year off from legal adulthood here in New Zealand, but his methods for seeking entertainment remained endearingly innocent. He still liked marbles and hide-and-seek. His face still lit up involuntarily if he saw a hula hoop or a pair of rollerblades.

It was almost comical – even from a distance – seeing the perfect lines of his exquisite handwriting applied to the childish blocks and numbers of hopscotch drawn out in cheap chalk.

Catherine never was sure if her adopted son's prolonged innocence was the result of his being from the past – children in 1919 would be a bit less worldly than their contemporaries in some ways (their world was a smaller place, a great deal of technology still in its infancy, and values were different then as well) – or because he was sick and isolated in early childhood. She hoped his imprisonment under first the Bolsheviks and later Sir Ivor hadn't had too much hand in shaping his eccentricities, hadn't arrested his development in some way. As both a mother and a teacher, that option struck her as utterly tragic.

Still, almost paradoxically, she was grateful he retained so much of the behaviour of a child half his age despite his physical and emotional maturity. She'd always wanted a big family with at least three children – adopting Nicholas had finally given her that. Further, she suspected spending so much time with him kept Jo innocent longer. At seventeen, her daughter could be getting into trouble; it was a tricky age for a girl. Instead, she was playing Hoppy in front of the house. That was something to be thankful for.

Catherine watched as, after tossing a flat stone, Jo hopped from the third square to land with both her feet straddling the double fifth and fourth. She turned her head – Catherine couldn't really hear it, but it appeared Royce, watching from his spot sitting on the grass tinkering with some spread out bits of circuitry, had accused Jo of cheating. From how he motioned at the stone, she guessed he was saying Jo nudged it with the side of her sneaker.

Jo placed her hands on her hips, bunching up the hem of her jumper, tilted her head, said something, and then stuck out her tongue. After this cocky display, however, she did pick up the stone and go back to the first square at a sort of double-footed kangaroo hop.

Nicholas was laughing; Royce'd returned to whatever model he was trying to build.

There was something idyllic about watching her children – her own beloved children – bicker without malice, clearly still happy as the day was long, that made Catherine keep on lingering, observing them almost wistfully. It made her ache, vaguely made her long for something it was impossible to put a name to, but in a good way. There were other things she needed to get round to today – a whole pile of essays needing red-ticking waited on her desk in the lounge downstairs – yet she allowed herself the treat of remaining at the window just a little while longer.

Jo tossed the stone again, more forcefully than last time, and it skidded past the last single square, onto the chalk line between the last double-set of squares. She hopped on one foot, landed on two, then, at the last moment, lost her balance. Nick lurched, arms out, and caught her. She clung to him long enough to make Catherine doubt the fall had been entirely accidental. Poor coordination was not something Jo usually suffered from.

Sure enough, a moment later, they were kissing. And probably would have been at it a good deal longer if Royce hadn't suddenly flown a tiny buzzing aeroplane within inches of their faces, making them break apart.

This was still a little strange for her, seeing her two oldest romantically involved, though Catherine supposed she ought to be more than used to it by now. She'd known when Nicholas first moved in with them Jo liked him. She'd known since that first night Jo told her parents he was the displaced last tsar of Russia with nowhere else to go. Neither Jo nor Nicholas had bothered to disguise the fact they had very obvious mutual crushes on each other. She and Andrew might not have been crazy about the notion, but they knew perfectly well they were dating. All the same, as the last three years or so had gone by, and Nick had felt more and more like one of her own, more and more as if she'd always had three kids rather than only two, it could be uncomfortable from time to time to be abruptly reminded he and Jo didn't consider themselves – on any level whatsoever – siblings. It made sense, of course – Nick had four sisters growing up already; he wouldn't view Jo the way he'd viewed them. It was different with Royce, since he never had a brother before.

Outside, Jo was batting away Royce's toy aeroplane like it was a wasp and scowling. She bent over for the stone, where it still remained on chalk line, and apparently began threatening to take her brother's aircraft down with it.

Undeterred, Royce kept making it do circles and barrel rolls around the back of her head while she stamped her feet in aggravation.

Chuckling, Catherine found her eyes drifting to Nick, who was watching Royce and Jo squabble over the aeroplane with an amused smirk.

When had he grown up?

For all his carefree enjoyment of childish games and his natural sweetness, he looked every inch an adult when you saw him from certain angles. When he stood a certain way – as he was doing now.

He'd always been tall, but he'd lost some of that adolescent lankiness which accompanied his height this year.

From the window, it wasn't really visible, but Catherine knew Nicholas was starting to grow a soul patch. This wasn't so much a deliberate fashion choice, she didn't think, as it was a result of his aggravation with learning to shave. He kept cutting himself there, right under the lip above the chin, by accident, and although the bleeding incurred wasn't life-threatening, always eventually clotting if he applied pressure for long enough, it was still copious and increasingly an inconvenience.

The first time she'd discovered the cloth he used to blot the tiny wound in the washing basket, she'd been alarmed. He'd been healthy for so long following their doctor's recommendations and getting regular injections, had so few accidents, there'd been a day or two she'd all but forgotten about his being a haemophiliac. She wondered how on earth the poor kid would have managed a cutthroat razor if he'd remained in 1919. She wondered, too, if – a few years from now – he wouldn't bother to try and look clean-shaven at all, if he'd give up and wear a beard like his father had.

A sudden flash of low sunlight reflecting off the side of the house made Catherine blink, and when she opened her eyes again, the hopscotch court was abandoned, leaving the road free and clear for any late arvo vehicles wishing to come this way. Even Royce with his buzzing aeroplane was gone, leaving only a dent in the grass where he'd been a moment ago.

Her hand moved towards the window latch but fell back down to her side when she heard the front door open downstairs and her children's merry voices talking over one another in the foyer.

Must be nearing dinnertime, if they were coming in voluntarily and Royce and Jo had declared a truce. Andrew had said something about making meatloaf tonight. And those essays still needed red-ticking...

She left Jo's room and shut the door gently behind her.