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Authors: Marian Babson

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BOOK: Whiskers & Smoke
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I
t was hot … so hot. I tossed and turned, trying to find a cool spot on the bed, but the sheet grew hot as soon as I had rested on it for a moment and the spot I had deserted did not cool down fast enough to keep up with my restless churning. There was no escape anywhere. How would I get through the endless hours until morning?
It grew hotter still … my nostrils twitched suddenly. Was that smoke? Even as I asked myself the question, the room blurred at the edges, as though the smoke were already encroaching.
I struggled out of bed. Had we turned the television set off properly? Had the children overheated the refrigerator while playing with the ice-making gadget? Or were the woods behind the house alight?
The room was filled with smoke now. It had to be coming from inside the house. I could just make out the pale oblong of the doorway. I struggled towards it.
“Mummy … Mummy …
” The voices were frightened and far away.
“Mummy …”
“I'm coming …
” I seemed to struggle without making any progress. The smoke thickened by the second. The doorway was almost obscured. I was disorientated … lost … I could not reach the children …
“Mummy … Mummy …
” And then they were there in the room with me, pressing against me, clinging to me. I realized with horror that I could see them so clearly because the doorway had burst into flames behind them. We could not get out that way.
We could not get out at all. We were trapped.
“Rosemary …
” The warm familiar voice called to me.
“Rosemary
…
over here …”
John was standing outside the window.
“Oh, my darling!”
I rushed to him, herding the children before me.
“My darling, you're here!”
“Where else would I be when you needed me?”
His loving eyes met mine. We pantomimed a kiss to each other; the children were still between us, preventing physical contact.
“Now …
” John was immediately practical.
“Pass the children out to me and I'll lower them to the ground … Tessa first …

“All right …
” I picked Tessa up and swung her over the window sill.
“Be careful of her arm …

“Her arm?”
He frowned down at the plaster cast.
“What's the matter with it?”
“It's broken …”
Something was wrong. The smoke was curling through the window, swirling around John, beginning to obscure his outline.
“When did that happen?”
He was still frowning.
“Soon after …
” My voice faltered. I did not want to finish the sentence. But his eyes held mine with frowning, loving concern.
“When … ?”
he insisted.
“Soon after … you died …”
He was shrouded in smoke now. I could scarcely see him. He was fading away.
“No! No!”
I could not let him go. I swept Timothy and Tessa aside, reaching out towards him.
“They told me you were dead
—
but it was a lie. Some terrible mistake. You're here now. You're with us again. You're alive!”
“No, Rosemary …
” He spoke sadly, softly. I could scarcely hear him. I could scarcely see him. He was dissolving into the smoke.
“No, Rosemary, I'm dead.”
In the distance, there was a dull hollow thud, like a coffin lid falling.
 
I awoke trying to scream.
For a terrible moment, I thought I
had
screamed. Had I wakened the children? I caught my breath and listened.
Silence.
The ache in my throat was evidence of the force with which the scream had tried to tear loose. Somewhere in my mind, I was still screaming.
I took a deep breath and a sob escaped me. I swallowed hard. That would never do. Not yet.
I crept from the room and down the hallway, the terrors of the nightmare still gripping me. I looked for flickers of
flame. I sniffed for smoke. I would not let myself think of John.
I stood outside Timothy's room, and then Tessa's, for a long time. They were sleeping peacefully although every once in a while a whimper escaped one of them. I wondered what sort of dreams they were having.
Downstairs, the television set was silent—and safe. No sparks, no smoke. In the kitchen, the refrigerator hummed comfortably, an occasional tinkle of shifting ice telling that it was renewing itself for the coming day. The woods outside were dark and cool, rustling in the predawn wind that had sprung up.
Upstairs again, I checked on the children once more. Still sleeping, still undisturbed. I must not disturb them now.
I went into the bathroom. If they woke, they must hear only the familiar soothing sound of running water.
And yet the dream had not been entirely bad. For those brief moments, John had been there. Loving and supportive, when I needed him …
“Where
else would
I
be
?”
I turned on the shower and, standing beside it, sobbed myself into exhaustion.
 
When I awoke the second time, the sun was shining. I heard the children stirring downstairs. The children … there
was
a reason to get up, and go on …
For a moment I closed my eyes, fighting off the phantoms of the night. It was morning. Pixie Toller was coming round with something called the Welcome Wagon. Tonight we were invited to the cookout at Camp Mohigonquin.
There were two focal points of the day. It was more than some days had …
I shut off my mind, got up and dressed. Tessa, still in her nightie, looked up as I entered the kitchen.
“Errol isn't here,” she worried. “He didn't come home last night.”
“That's all right.” I wasn't surprised. “He'll be along later. Why don't you run upstairs and get dressed now? We have a new friend coming to see us soon. You want to look nice, don't you?”

I'm
dressed,” Timothy pointed out as Tessa darted away.
“Then you'd better sit down and have your breakfast—” I shook cornflakes into the waiting bowls—“before Errol comes along and steals it again.”
We had just finished eating when I heard the sound of a car drawing up outside and then a horn played the opening bars of the
Habañera
.
“That must be Pixie Toller,” I guessed. It sounded like the sort of horn someone called Pixie would have. We went out to greet her.
“Oh,
Mummy!”
Tessa exclaimed.
“Crumbs!” Timothy said.
Even I binked twice.
Pixie Toller couldn't really be eight feet tall but, at first sight, she looked it. And she was carrying a beribboned wicker basket that looked even taller than she did.
“Hello! Hello! Hello—and welcome!” She bounded up the steps and set the basket down before us. Now she seemed to have shrunk to a mere seven feet.
“I just
love
your cute little accent!” she gushed on.
“Even Celia can't talk like that any more—she's been here too long. Do you think you could teach it to me? I would
adore
to pass as English!”
The mind boggled. She was wearing some sort of glittering jumpsuit. From a headband sprouted shimmering antennæ which quivered with every movement of her head. Her dark glasses were rimmed with mirror fragments, reflecting distorted images of ourselves as we stared at her.
Behind her, a shooting brake—station wagon, I must learn to say—was painted in iridescent colours vaguely reminiscent of the psychedelic phase of Flower Childhood and blazoned with the legend WELCOME WAGON in Gothic script.
She bent to make some rearrangement of the flowers spilling out of the wicker basket and, before I could do anything to avert it, Tessa stuck out a tentative forefinger and poked at one shimmering antenna.
“Do you like it?” Pixie Toller straightened with an eager smile and Tessa shrank back. “It's the latest fashion—Harper's Bizarre! That's a joke—” she explained to Tessa's puzzled frown. “It's all right to laugh. You're supposed to.”
For an uncertain moment Tessa was poised between laughter and tears, then the laughter won. I realized, as the peals of merriment rang out, that I had not heard her laugh like that since John died.
I looked at Pixie Toller with gratitude, prepared to forgive her any eccentricity in return for the gift of laughter she had bestowed on my daughter. There was more to Pixie Toller than was apparent on the surface.
Timothy was chuckling. I looked from one child to the other and felt a smile curving my own lips.
“That's better,” Pixie said. “And you haven't even seen what I've brought you yet!” She began pulling parcels out from among the flowers in the basket.
“Hanson's Hardware feels that anyone can always use another egg poacher—” She thrust at me a circular package from which protuded a black handle surmounted by a bow. “I'm not supposed to mention that Old Man Hanson overbought on the item a couple of years ago and hasn't been able to unload them since. But if you need anything else in the hardware line, he has a good stock at reasonable prices.
“A bottle of California white wine and a large cream soda from Cut-Price Liquors—” She plonked them at my feet. “A pound of frozen pork chops from the MiniMarket; three frozen TV dinners from the Supermarket; a quart of chocolate chip ice cream from Daly's Drugstore. The vegetable assortment—zucchini squash, tomatoes, string beans and scallions—is from the Roadside Vegetable Shop; the boxes of blueberries, raspberries and loganberries are from—”
“Stop!” I cried, as the cornucopia emptied at my feet, threatening to engulf me. “What is all this?”
“It's your Welcome Wagon welcome—” Pixie straightened up and beamed at me. “Don't you have it in England?”
“No,” I said faintly. Whatever it was, I certainly had seen nothing like it before. “What's it all about?”
“It's the welcome from your friendly local merchants to newcomers moving into the area,” Pixie explained.
“They all—well, most of them—provide samples of their wares free of charge as an introduction, in the hope that you'll patronize them when you go shopping.
“Oh, it pays off—” she assured me. “They wouldn't do it, otherwise. It's all marked down to goodwill and it works. You may not have it over there, but it's big business here. This time of the year, it's practically a full-time job for me, driving around to all the summer cottages and welcoming visitors. You see, there are a lot of summer lets up in the hills that are just for two or three weeks at a time. You're one of the very few who are going to be here for the whole summer.”
“I hadn't thought of it that way,” I equivocated. I hadn't thought of it at all. I looked down at the pile at my feet. “Shouldn't we get this stuff into the freezer before it defrosts?”
“No hurry,” Pixie said casually. “The insulated bags will keep it for another couple of hours yet. Let me foist upon you the rest of the bounty—” She produced a sheaf of envelopes from the bottom of the basket and began pushing them into my unresisting hands.
“Free tickets to the Edgemarsh Movie Palace—they're running a special Disney Season starting in July. Then—” another envelope—“a free dinner at Gino's Place. It's usually for two, but since there's only one of you and two children who'll order from the childrens' menu, you'll all get a free dinner—”
“But we've already been to Gino's Place,” I protested. “Celia and Patrick took us yesterday.”
“That has nothing to do with it. You're entitled to a
free dinner in your own right. Just give them this voucher as you order.”
“Prr-yee-ow …”
Errol staggered out of the shrubbery at the edge of the lawn, wove his way across it, and lurched up the steps to collapse at my feet. His eyes closed and he lay there unmoving.
“Mummy!” Tessa shrieked. “Mummy—he's dead! He went away where we couldn't see him—and he came back dead!” She burst into tears.
“Mum—” Timothy was shaken, fighting back tears himself. “Mum, he isn't really dead—is he?”
“Dead tired,” Pixie said practically. She prodded Errol with the toe of her sandal. He twitched and, after a long moment, sent out a rough perfunctory purr. “The old reprobate!”
“Dead tired—but happy,” I agreed. How very different from the home life of our own dear Esmond. At some point I was going to have to do some explaining to the children—but I didn't feel up to it right now. I sent Pixie a helpless glance.
BOOK: Whiskers & Smoke
12.43Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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