It was the way she said it. Davy just knew. ‘Did you have . . . someone? A boyfriend?’
‘I was engaged to be married once.’ She went on quickly, ‘It was so long ago, I’ve almost forgotten. And it’s a long time since I heard this song.’
‘Heard it?’ Davy listened. He could just make out the faint sound of music. ‘Hey, I can hear it too.’ He swarmed down the tree to the ground. ‘Whoever it is might have some gas. Let’s go see.’
George ran on ahead of them. They heard voices cry out at his arrival.
It was a travellers’ camp, makeshift and shabby. A small group – two white-haired elderly men, an older woman and a teenage girl – were gathered around a campfire. They seemed friendly enough, encouraging their two dogs and George to sniff and make acquaintance. The music came from a wind-up radio, pulling in the hissing signal of a dance music programme.
Davy hesitated, hidden in the trees. They hadn’t spotted him. His instinct was to hang back out of sight. It was his Brownvale way of keeping to the edges. But he had to act differently now, he told himself. He had to get Miss Flint to her house – and to do that he needed gas for the bike.
‘If you act confident, others believe you are and you’ll believe it too,’ Miss Flint whispered. He looked at her, irritated. ‘Or so I’ve heard,’ she said.
Slowly Davy emerged from his tree cover. Miss Flint followed, unseen, behind him.
The travellers stood when they saw him. One of the men called out, ‘We have no money, friend. We are peaceful people.’
Davy held up his hands to show he meant no harm. ‘I’m alone. No one else, just me.’
At that, they broke into smiles and welcomed him with every indication of pleasure. The teenage girl was named Arden. She introduced the three elderlies with her as Auntie Lou, Cyril and Otto. Otto’s kind eyes twinkled as he shook Davy’s hand. He spoke with a heavy accent of some kind. Both he and the jovial Auntie Lou were cordial. Cyril seemed in a world of his own, apparently conversing with the singer on the radio.
Arden made drinking motions. ‘Too much juice,’ she told Davy. ‘He lost his wife and kids to the flu. Drank so much his brain went spongy.’
Arden was older than Davy, around sixteen, he thought. She had dead black, short-cropped hair, dark slashes of brow and thick lashes. Her pale eyes were big in her thin face. Were they green? Or grey? Davy couldn’t tell in the night. She made him feel shy. He couldn’t find the nerve to look at her directly.
They did have gas they could sell him. Otto climbed into the cabin on the back of their old truck and emerged with an almost full jerrycan. He decanted half into a battered plastic container. Davy was careful to turn away while he pulled the money from his roll of cash. A roll that was getting leaner all the time.
Miss Flint hovered in frowning suspicion while Otto filled the bottle. He poured slowly and didn’t stint them a drop. ‘Now there’s an honest man,’ she said approvingly.
Davy was used to being alone with her, so didn’t think and said, ‘Now you owe me for the motorbike and the gas.’
‘Hmm?’ said Otto.
‘Just talking aloud,’ he had to say.
Miss Flint said, ‘Pay yourself from the briefcase. Take what you want.’
She went and sat by the fire, where Arden and Auntie Lou argued good-naturedly as they tended the potatoes baking in the embers. ‘It did not happen that way,’ Arden was saying. ‘Ma told me that story dozens of times.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘Tell her, Ma!’ she said.
‘Everyone has their own version of the past.’ Miss Flint and Auntie Lou spoke at the same time.
Otto was speaking to him. ‘What’s that?’ said Davy.
‘I was just saying, you are not the only one. All of us here, we talk to ourselves. Some of us talk to the air. Me, I have been so long alive, I must talk to the dead. For no one else knows me or my life so well.’
The potatoes were ready. They invited Davy and George to join them. ‘Auntie Lou,’ said Arden. ‘We could have our Christmas now. Tonight, with Davy.’
‘The boy might be on his way to family,’ she said.
‘No,’ said Davy. He held up the container of petrol, looking at Miss Flint. ‘But I should get going.’
‘A seasonal feast under the stars. Surely we have a little time to spare.’ Miss Flint wasn’t the wistful type, but she looked as if she wouldn’t mind staying.
‘I could stop a while, I guess,’ Davy said.
Arden put candle stubs into glass jars and lit them. Davy shinned up nearby trees for her to hand them up and he placed them carefully in the crooks of the branches. They made bright points of light in the darkness.
‘Like stars,’ said Davy.
‘That’s what I call fine,’ said Arden. ‘A whole grove of Christmas trees, not just one.’
No king’s banquet could have bettered that meal of baked potato with slices of sausage sizzled in a cast iron pan. The sausage was German because of Otto. They’d been saving it for Christmas with great anticipation, Otto explaining at length how and where he’d managed to procure it.
‘We come empty-handed to the feast,’ said Miss Flint.
With some shame, Davy remembered how he’d wolfed down his large breakfast that morning. He wished he had it again to share with them. Arden had to help Cyril to eat, cutting up his food and guiding the fork to his mouth. The dogs enjoyed the same meal as the humans, George included.
Davy thought they must be family, the way they interrupted and finished each other’s sentences. But only Auntie Lou and Arden were related. They’d all been neighbours, wherever they came from that was so bad they had to pick up and leave. They’d been on the road for over two years, making stops for Otto to sharpen knives and scissors with his whetstone, which sustained them. He was teaching Arden his trade.
Miss Flint sat among them, unseen and unheard, except by Davy and George. No one else to glance her way, no one to include her. She watched and listened intently, with a kind of hunger, Davy thought. As for him, not used to such fellowship, he stayed largely silent. He felt like an eavesdropper in plain sight, though Auntie Lou and Otto tried to draw him out.
Once they’d finished eating and toasted Christmas with cups of watered-down beer, Otto stood and flung his arms wide to the twinkling trees. ‘I will sing their special song.’ Then he sang in German in his hoarse voice, a song called ‘O Tannenbaum’.
While Otto sang, Miss Flint said to Davy, ‘I can’t remember when I had a nicer evening. Would you do something?’
‘What?’ he whispered.
‘Make them one of your pictures.’
‘I don’t have my brooms.’
‘You don’t need them.’
‘I’ll be right back,’ Davy told Arden.
He ran to the motorbike with George, unlocked the storage compartment of the sidecar and took out his bag, heavy with the weight of Renaissance Angels. On his way back to the campsite, he collected a branch of fir and various twigs. Otto was still singing. His melodious voice rang through the woods.
Davy sat beside Miss Flint and fluttered through the book, deciding which painting to make. ‘That one,’ said Miss Flint. She’d chosen the Tolmeo, Angels Among the Magi.
‘I just did that one yesterday morning,’ he whispered.
‘Then you ought to be good at it,’ said Miss Flint.
Otto finished his song and, prodded by Miss Flint, Davy stood up. His stomach was tight, his ears hot. He’d never swept in front of anyone before. ‘I’d like to make a picture, to say thank you.’
‘You’re an artist,’ Arden said, with some surprise.
Using the fir bough, he quickly smoothed a patch of earth, then got to work with the twigs. Once he had the feel of the ground and set up a rhythm, he forgot all about them being there. Miss Flint kept George sitting beside her. When Davy was done, they all crowded around and exclaimed in admiration.
Otto said, ‘I thought I would have to wait to see angels, but here they are right at m
y feet.’
Though the picture was just as it ought to be, just as he’d done before, Davy wasn’t satisfied. He took a swipe at it with his boot.
There was a burst of protest. Arden grabbed his arm, ‘Hey, don’t! It’s amazing,’ she said.
‘It’s just copying.’ Davy looked at Miss Flint. ‘A true artist makes his own pictures,’ he said.
The radio had been playing quietly in the background. Cyril turned it up and began to dance, holding out his arms as if he had a partner. Davy recognized the song from the first few notes. It was one that Fred Astaire sang in Top Hat.
‘Oh, I love this one!’ Auntie Lou exclaimed. Springing to her feet, she held out her arms to Otto, singing, ‘Heaven, I’m in heaven . . . Come on, Otto! Let’s us old folk show the youngsters how it’s done.’
They began to dance together around the clearing. ‘When we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek,’ sang Otto.
Miss Flint said to Davy, ‘Don’t sit there moping, you gave them pleasure. You’ve got a pretty girl right beside you. Ask her to dance.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know how,’ he whispered.
‘I’ll coach you, talk you through the steps. Don’t be a bumpkin,’ she said. ‘Go on. Ask the girl nicely, Would you care to dance?’
‘Would you care to dance?’ Davy mumbled.
‘Sure,’ said Arden.
Miss Flint stood beside him. ‘The gentleman always leads. Right arm around your lady’s back. Left hand holding hers. This is a foxtrot. Your right foot steps forward first, then your left. Slow slow, step, quick quick, that’s the rhythm. Ready? Here we go.’
She danced next to him and he copied her. After a couple of early stumbles, he caught the rhythm. His hands were clammy as he held Arden at a careful distance.
‘Good grief, she won’t break. Hold her closer,’ said Miss Flint.
‘Stop bossing me!’
‘What?’ said Arden.
‘Sorry. Talking to myself again,’ said Davy.
‘You’re doing fine.’ She smiled. ‘You’re quite the Fred Astaire.’
Davy, busy concentrating on his feet, said, ‘I’ve seen him dance. At the movies.’
‘Flying Down to Rio. That’s Auntie Lou’s favourite.’
‘Top Hat.’ Miss Flint and Davy said it together.
‘No contest,’ Davy added.
Arden looked at him curiously. Davy realized Miss Flint had stopped dancing beside him. Now he was dancing on his own.
The song finished and, as another began, they switched partners. Davy went with Auntie Lou and Arden danced with Otto. Miss Flint watched them with a look of such aching regret that Davy truly wished he hadn’t seen it.
Then Cyril did something unexpected. He bowed to an imagined lady with old-fashioned courtesy and it happened that he bowed in front of Miss Flint. He held out his hand. ‘Would you care to dance, my dear?’ he said to the air.
‘Thank you, I’d love to,’ Miss Flint replied.
He made a circle of his arms and she slipped inside them. Then Cyril began to dance with his imaginary partner and Miss Flint began to dance with Cyril. She was graceful and elegant, turning and gliding, and she almost, very nearly, looked happy.
Two songs later, Davy found himself yawning. Auntie Lou said, ‘That’s enough for me.’ Otto gave up too. Davy’s eyes were so gritty he couldn’t keep them open. Auntie Lou made him comfortable with a blanket on the ground and George came to curl up beside him.
The last thing Davy saw before slipping off sleep was Miss Flint and Cyril and Arden. The three of them, dancing together in the night-time woods, with stars twinkling among the branches of the trees.
When Davy woke, it was the darker side of dawn. George’s warm little body curled into his side. Arden was rolled in a sleeping bag by the cold fire. One hand rested on Renaissance Angels, which was laid beside her. She must have been looking at it after Davy fell asleep.
Miss Flint. Where was she? A sudden fear shot Davy to his feet. In the rush, George got scrambled up from his sleep on to all fours, much to his surprise and annoyance.
No. Miss Flint was there. She hadn’t disappeared while Davy slept. She lay a little way off, beneath the trees. Davy went over. Her eyes were closed. A flutter of night moths danced around her. She was some years younger than she had been last night, unrecognizable as the old woman he’d met two days before. He stared down at her. She was so peaceful, so still.
He stayed there, just watching her. Trying to memorize her every feature. She seemed paler to him as well as younger. Was it his imagination or was she less substantial than she’d been? Davy wondered what stuff she was made of. The moths seemed intent upon the air surrounding her, he could hear the soft flower-beat of their wings. He had a fancy they were weaving her into the dawnlight.
A whisper of a smile curved her lips, like she might be dreaming. Did the nearly dead sleep? Could they dream in the in-between? If so, what was she dreaming of? The sea? And he wondered if being dead was like a never-ending dream.
Davy sat on a fallen tree, taking the ripped book page from his pocket. In the greyish light, he examined it again. The warrior, his hound and the pale body they guarded. The woods in the painting were very like the woods around him. The difference was, they were alert, they were vigilant. They would never fall asleep and leave the soul of their charge unattended.
George, who after a stretch had gone to water a tree and sniff around, came over to Davy. ‘We have to do better,’ Davy told him.
There was no sign of the three elders or their two dogs, just Arden by the fire. Davy presumed they were sleeping in the cabin on the back of the truck.
Pre-dawn was his usual time to rise. Back in Brownvale, it was when he made his angel pictures. He found the twigs he’d used last night and, silently, so as not to wake Arden or Miss Flint, he smoothed a circle of earth. He wrote Merry Christmas. Thank you. He took George’s front paw, pressed a pawprint and wrote George. Beside his own handprint he wrote Davy.
‘And me. Lizzie.’ Miss Flint’s whisper startled him. She was standing, watching him. He wrote Lizzie, thought for a moment, and drew some some wings.
He looked at Otto’s old truck with its nearly bald tyres. He remembered how Auntie Lou’s hand had hesitated before she cut the sausage, the whole thing, into generous pieces. It had probably been meant to last them some time. Davy took the roll of money from his pocket, removed the rubber band and laid the little stack below their names, weighting it down with a stone.
He crouched beside Arden, meaning to ease Renaissance Angels from under her hand. He paused.
The book had filled his life since he was nine, when the Home going bust had thrown him out into the world. Going to the library to study the paintings on its pages, committing details to memory, planning which painting he’d make, and where, had given purpose to his days. But the book and Brownvale and everyone there – Parson Fall, Mr Timm, Miss Shasta – it was all beginning to seem like a dream. And it felt to Davy that somehow, in some way, his real life had begun when he drove out of town with Miss Flint.
He didn’t need the book any more. All its paintings were stored inside him. And it was time he tried to make his own pictures. He stood up.
‘Are you certain?’ said Miss Flint.
Davy nodded.
They crept away with George as Christmas Eve began to dawn.
He screwed the fuel cap back on, stowed the empty bottle in the sidecar’s storage compartment, and checked the sky. ‘West is that way,’ he said, pointing.
Miss Flint had been pacing while he filled the tank, becoming more and more animated. He could almost see her winding up.
She said, ‘In the last two days, I’ve hitchhiked, I’ve stolen turkeys and set them free. I took a police car without permission, bought a motorbike from a petty crook, and I – the woman formerly known as Miss Elizabeth Flint – last night, I danced in the moonlight in the woods.’ She seized him by the arms, urgently. ‘I’ve lived mor
e being dead these few days than I have my last seventy years of being alive. You’re thirteen and you understood right away. This thing that’s happening to me – the what, the how – we can’t know. They don’t matter. You’re right. It’s the why. This.’ She flung her arms wide. ‘All of this, Davy, this is the why.’
He could tell there was more to come. He waited.
‘His name is Robert Craig,’ she said. ‘He works, at least he worked, in a bank. I heard he married and had a daughter. It’s not far out of our way.’
Davy was shaking his head even as she spoke. ‘There’s no time. I have to get you to the house. We still have a way to go.’
‘I’ve been given the most extraordinary gift,’ Miss Flint said. ‘I don’t deserve it, but I know what I have to do. And I can’t do it without you and George.’
‘He might not live there anymore. He could be dead – you are,’ said Davy. ‘What if we go looking for him and you get stuck somewhere as a ghost forever? It could happen. You don’t know, we just don’t know.’
Miss Flint was quiet for a moment, the blaze of certainty fading from her face. Then she said, ‘Of course, Mr David. I’m sure you’re right. Let’s just get to where we have to be as soon as possible.’
He should have known. She’d let him win the argument too easily. He should have stopped to buy a map instead of following her directions without question. The warrior in the forest would never have fallen for such a trick. Davy could just see him shaking his head in disbelief.
Cruising the motorbike slowly so they could count the numbers on the houses, he glanced at Miss Flint in the sidecar. Raising his voice over the noise of the engine, he said, ‘If this all goes wrong, it won’t be my fault, so don’t even think about haunting me.’
‘I heard you the first twenty times,’ she said. ‘I make no apology, so don’t expect one.’
There were two long rows of houses joined together, running along both sides of the street. Its pavements were surprisingly busy, with house doors opening and shutting. Adults ushered children along, calling for the laggers to catch up. The whole street, it seemed, was on the move, all headed for the same place, the corner building at the end of the block ahead. Neighbours greeted one another, exchanging a word or a wave. The loose chop of their bike caused heads to turn.