Chapter 3
Ashden woke from a fitful sleep with the covers kicked off and his body growing colder by the second. He rescued the doona and curled into a ball, squeezing his hands into fists, trying to feel the strength in his body. It wasn’t there. He ran his fingers down his throat feeling the smallest hint of an Adam’s apple and dreaded the sound his voice would make when he opened his mouth. How he hated this weakening. If only he could be done with puberty once and for all. He slid his hand through his hair, sighing, Not long now. Soon he’d just let it happen. Stay put long enough for it to run its course and spit him out on the other side as a man. All the backwards and forwardsing was doing his head in. And all this mad toy collecting? He needed a break. Just a break. In all honesty, even he’d find it hard not to tease a kid like him if he didn’t know the truth. A teenage boy obsessed with stuffed animals? He groaned.
Ashden’s breathing came easier when he saw the cheery faces of his troupe watching him from their position on top of the wardrobe. His special one clung to the edge of his pillow, staring dotingly up with round, unblinking eyes.
“Good morning,” he said in his breaking voice. There was no audible reply but Ashden smiled. He pushed himself onto his elbows. The girl with the red hair! He’d almost forgotten.
He clamped his eyes shut. There was her small cream face and haze of toffee hair and it sent a warmth of familiarity through him, although he couldn’t for the life of him remember having seen her before. With her thin frame and glowing hair she could have some breed of pixie, hardly a girl you would forget.
But how had she seen him? No one ever saw him come and go through the gateway. A tiny thrill spiralled to life in his chest. Could she be like me? Should I find out? he wondered.
Ashden sat up in bed, letting his unfocused gaze rest on his walls, wondering how long it would be till his mother painted them over pink or teal or amethyst. With half a smile he closed his eyes again and yawned but it wasn’t long before his jaw clenched. He shifted the stack of books on his bedside table to the left revealing a small silver framed photograph. A barely there man holding the up stretched hand of a little boy on the horizon of an empty field. It sharpened his vision and his head cleared. Neatly, he shifted the stack back and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
He had had enough of keeping secrets. Since Mr Johnson disappeared there was no-one he trusted to tell. His mother could only cope with basic information nowadays and any discussion beyond food, clothing and shelter, or on a good day, colour schemes, was met with a blank stare and the ritual suggestion of a cup of tea. Someone to share his adventure with was what he needed. A thirteen year old girl wasn’t exactly the partner he had in mind. Besides, hadn’t he determined to give it all away? For a while? There was no question his mother needed his undivided attention if she was a chance at improving. Anyway, today he had his last round of Seeking to do and then tomorrow, maybe, he would arrange a test to prove either way if she was or wasn’t one like him. “Just out of interest,” he said to his bedside companion.
The incident yesterday in the playground provided the perfect cover for his absence from school today and Ashden busied himself with preparations. He took a fold of money from his drawer and put it in the bottom of his backpack. With a fair amount of head shaking, he also added a few strands of ribbon and a couple of flannelette squares. “Toughen up, princess,” he said to himself, adding a drink bottle and the lamb roast sandwiches he had prepared the night before. He also grabbed a map, a bus timetable and a list of addresses. Before leaving, he took a cup of tea into his mother who was still in bed.
“Good morning Mum, here’s your cuppa. Looks like a nice day outside. I’m going now, so you take care. How about some painting today, if you feel up to it?” He kissed her cheek while she mouthed what could have been goodbye; the morning ritual complete. Suddenly she turned to him wide eyed.
“It’s Elanora! I know it ...Tell her... I’m sorry.” Her head fell back on the pillow, her eyes glued to the ceiling.
“Sorry for what, Mum? Who’s Elanora?” he whispered.
There was a long pause until his mother finally closed her lids. He sighed and adjusted her blanket. “It’s all right, things will be better soon.”
Ashden waited behind the magnolia tree until the last of the students had scuffed past on their way to school, then closed the gate and headed for the bus stop. He walked with his head down, assuming the position that would attract the least attention.
The mini bus arrived with a belch and he climbed aboard. Old Reg Woodburn, a volunteer at Carford Hospital, was already seated and beckoned a reluctant Ashden to join him. Reg had been working the day Ashden’s mother and father rushed him in with the glass eye of a teddy bear stuck up his nose when he was two. His father had been hysterical. Reg had had to take him by the arm and walk laps of the grounds to calm him. All the while the father was inconsolable and kept insisting on finding a needle and thread, needle and thread and once that glass eye had been removed from Ashden’s swollen nostril, he set to as quick as lightning sewing it back on before he even thought to give his recovering son a hug. He knew about this because it had become a story Reg Woodburn loved to tell.
Reg offered him a butterscotch.
“Thanks.”
“How’s your mother? She painting?” Reg asked, tucking a sweet behind his thin lips.
“She’s well, Mr Woodburn. I think she’ll start painting soon.” The sticky sweetness of butterscotch reminded him of the week his mother painted the kitchen ten shades of sugar.
“Is she getting out and about much?”
Ashden swallowed. “Well, I think she will soon,” he said, which was easier than saying that she probably never would. Ashden used to be disappointed that his mother never made it out and about until he realised how it saved her the embarrassment of knowing what an A grade target he was.
“I really must pop round to see her. I miss our afternoon cuppa’s.” Reg started rubbing his chin and Ashden knew he was gearing up to tell one of his good old yarns about some odd bod friend or other. “Speaking of cuppas, an old mate of mine, Dick Woodchip, played for the Carford Football Legends back in ’71, wouldn’t play a match if he hadn’t had a triple bag, four sugar and cream tea. But this one day...”
Grateful for the assigned role as listener, Ashden let his vision blur out the window where it was soothed by the passing blend of colours.
The bus eventually lurched to a stop. Reg cut short his story with a crunch of butterscotch. “Here already? Where is it you are going today, anyway?”
“I’ve got an appointment with the eye specialist.” Ashden rolled out his tried and tested response.
Reg squeezed past, case in hand, lolly packet on offer. “One for the road, eh? Hope it goes well, son,” and off he shuffled out the door.
Ashden slid over to the window seat. He was thankful the old man had stopped coming around so often to his house. He didn’t need his help and he didn’t need anyone seeing his mum the way she was. That was one real benefit of quitting this craziness. He could spend every bit of energy on getting his mum better again. He could look after her properly and if she ever did start painting, then he might even get some proper conversation out of her. Maybe. He pulled out his list and added paint pots to the bottom in capital letters.
When his stop finally came, he jumped off with his map unfolded, studying its highlighted sections. His destination was only five blocks away in Wallsend Lane. He picked up his pace and began whistling at his good fortune at having heard about the place so completely by chance before it was too late. Who knew how many souls awaited him in that dead end corner of town.