They never see.
Raindrops tappity-tap on the windowpane, the fat drops falling with a satisfactory splat. The thin drops snake a trail down the glass, collecting others along the way, until they pool on the grubby window ledge outside. No one will look up now; they’re too busy scurrying away to find shelter, huddling under umbrellas, with the collars of their coats turned up to shield against the storms of the day.
A sob, like a tickle, latches in my throat. I want to catch raindrops in my hands. I want to splash in puddles and let the water soak into the hem of my robes. I want ... I want ... I want ...
To leave this place.
The man with the kind eyes and wonky, wire-framed glasses reaches for my hand, and we watch the rain together.
There’s a young man here. He’s sitting by the bedside of the man with kind eyes and murmuring something. I am about to turn away, not wanting to intrude on their conversation, but I catch the word ‘Dad’ and without meaning to, I listen as I nestle into the pillow, my cardigan pulled around me.
–They’re broken again.†The young man sighs. –I don’t know what you do to them.†Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he stretches forward and, ever so carefully, removes the other man’s glasses.
He points something wooden at them.–Reparo.â€
The wire arm melds back into the frame, and I wonder how that’s possible because it was quite bent out of shape before, hanging off the man’s face making him look quite comical - but I didn’t laugh. Then the young man hands back the glasses, smiles, and shuffles his chair towards me.
–Hello.â€
I peep at him through the holes in my cardigan. There’s something in his expression that stops me feeling afraid, and so I sit up on the bed and edge towards him - but not too close - never too close.
He starts to tell me something, and I know my mouth is smiling. I know my eyes are making contact, and this seems to give him heart because his words are less faltering now. I know I’m nodding as if I understand. But nothing he says makes much sense.
He’s met a girl, he says. Well, he’s known her for years, he tells me, but until a month ago he hadn’t thought of her in that way - not really. But now, it’s different. They’ve been seeing each other and he likes her -really likes her.
I don’t answer, and he slumps back in his chair. A silence haunts the room, and I see him trying to think what else to say. For a moment, I wonder if I should speak, but it’s been so long, and I can’t think of any words.
–She’s special, Mum,†he says at last. I look around the room, wondering who his ‘mum’ is. This man in front of me must be in the wrong ward... except....
In his hand is a Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum wrapper. He’s fiddling with it. Folding and unfolding the tiny, shiny rectangle of waxed paper, his eyes imploring.
I like bubble gum.
I used to chew and chew and chew, working the gum until it was soft and then I’d blow and blow and blow until the bubble blocked out the sky. One time, I lay with a boy under a beech tree and we chewed and chewed and chewed, and blew and blew and blew until the bubbles burst onto our faces. That day, the pink gum stuck in my hair, and the only way I could get it out was by cutting my fringe, leaving spiky fronds on my forehead and an ugly gap.
I looked so silly, but he didn’t care.
He took me by the hand and pulled me to my feet. He bowed very low. I curtseyed, my robes swishing the blades of grass, and started to hum our song.
We danced.
And kissed.
He tasted of bubblegum, that kind-eyed boy with wire-framed glasses, of Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum.
He told me he loved me.
–Her name is Hannah,†the young man tells us. The older man stares ahead blankly. Hannah is a lovely name, I think. But I wonder. I wonder why he’s telling us all of this. It seems important to him, but it makes no sense to me.
–I took her to meet Gran, yesterday. They got on, you know. Though Gran started grilling her about her OWLs and why she didn’t take her NEWTs. Then gave her a hard time for working at The Leaky Cauldron.†He pauses and with a sidelong glance at the man on the bed, he gives me a mischievous grin and lowers his voice. –Hannah looked her directly in the eye, smiled, and told her she was the landlady. Any girl who can stand up to Gran has to be all right, don’t you think, Mum?â€
And all the while he’s talking, he flips the Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum wrapper between his finger and thumb. As I watch, another memory of a small boy standing in front of me, with a stiff expression on his face, flits through my mind, but still I say nothing. Someone starts to hum - a long-forgotten tune that brings tears to my eyes. It’s the man with the kind eyes, who fiddles with his glasses, crushing them in his hand until they’re bent out of shape.
Sighing, the young man tucks the tiny wrapper away, folding it into his back pocket.
–I’ll bring Hannah next time,†he mutters. –She wants to meet you both.â€
I’m nodding, but I don’t know why.
Before he leaves, he leans forwards and brushes his lips to my cheek. Then I lie back on the bed, but the pillows aren’t plump now and it’s hard to find a comfortable spot. There’s an ache in my chest, a hollow, a void that will never go. I turn on my side and start to rock.
A thin hand reaches across, fingers furling around mine. I think they belong there.
We stand.
He bows.
I curtsey.
I’m twirling and swirling, caught up in the memory of another time, when leaves on a beech tree were russet red and the pink bubbles blocked out the sky before they popped.
We dance and spin, and spin and dance again. And outside it’s raining. Outside the grey clouds scud across the sky, and everyone is running for shelter, yet I’m laughing.
I twist around, waiting for a shadow to wave to us, but the man with the kind eyes and wonky wire-framed glasses holds me close and starts to croon.
I don’t want to go out. Why would I want to catch raindrops in my hands? Or splash in puddles, getting the hem of my robes wet?
Why would I leave, when everything I need is here, right here? When this room is safe and the world outside is far too big for me.
All the while, the rain falls steadily on our windowpane and a young man looks up from the street. He raises his hand, but we’re dancing, forever dancing, and do not wave back.
The rain is a torrent now, but the young man doesn’t move. He looks up from the street and raises his hand at the shadows in the room. But they’re dancing, forever dancing, and do not wave back.