The
Red Mittens
By
Janet Baldey
Harry liked to walk. He liked to walk in all seasons
and in all weathers but most of all, he liked to walk in winter. During the summer there were too many people,
couples, families, ramblers with hearty faces and heavy boots, all scarring the
silence as they reigned in their children and yelled for their dogs. But, on crisp
winter evenings he could count on having the fields to himself and tonight was
no exception. He looked upwards where
the curve of the moon hung in the January sky. The silence was almost complete
save for the crunch of his feet flattening frozen grass, the sound of his breath
and the screech of an occasional owl.
Harry was a poet and he found that walking helped him
think. During the day, his thoughts mimicked the frenzied movements of trapped
animals but at night, they grew in clarity. Phrases fell into place with the
regularity of a metronome as he plucked words out of the air like a magician
before committing them to memory. He no
longer wrote his poems down. For many years he’d kept a
notebook full of
scribbled verse but one day he’d come home from work to find his wife and daughter
flicking through its pages
His daughter had looked up; her face was rosy from the
fire and her eyes were alight with malice.
‘Yeh! Dad’s a
poet and don’t we know it!’
At that moment, he understood why murders were
committed. He snatched the book out of her hand and threw it into the fire. Then
he left the room and stood shuddering, overwhelmed by the violence of his reaction.
As Harry walked, the cold seared his lungs and he
breathed out a pillar of air that rose slowly into a night sky so clear he felt
he could count every far away star. He turned
his head searching for The Plough and then found the Milky Way, a shower of
sparks stretching into infinity. Suddenly
his foot caught on something and he almost fell, he took a few lurching steps,
pinwheeling his arms before recovering his balance. He turned and looked back, at first, he saw
nothing but the empty path gleaming in the moonlight but then leaves trembled
on a bush and he retraced his steps. He lifted a low branch and peered inside. Thigh
high a pale disc floated, riding the shadows. By squinting, he could just make
out eyes, nose and a mouth and suddenly he felt as if he’d been punched in the
stomach. There was a child hiding in the
bush. For a moment he felt stunned. Then,
he took a deep breath and spoke gently.
‘What are you doing here kid? This time of night, you should be tucked up
warm and cosy in your bed.’
There was no reply.
‘Come on now child. Shall I take you home? Where do you live? Your parents must be that worried’.
‘I’m not a child.’
The voice was soft but clear and looking
closer, he realised that the figure was older than he’d thought. A young girl, perhaps fourteen, but still too
young to be out alone late at night.
‘What’s up lass, what are you doing
here?’
‘I come up here to think’.
His breath almost stopped. After all,
that’s what he did.
‘But why this time of night.’
‘It’s so peaceful.’
They were on the brow of a hill, below
them the land, inhabited by an army of shadows, unfurled into the night.
He was silent; his eyes seeing what she
saw. His knees began to ache and he sat down.
After a while the girl crept out and sat beside him.
‘Where do you live, lass?’
She turned towards the small town and
gestured to an area he knew well. Years ago, it had been a slum but now the
tiny terraced houses cost a small fortune.
‘I don’t live far from there. Come on, we can walk back together’.
His knees popped as he rose and
stretched out a hand towards her. He was relieved when she took it but immediately
sucked in his breath.
‘Your hands are perishing. Don’t you have any gloves?’
She didn’t answer.
She left him just before they reached the outskirts of
the town.
‘I go this way’, she said, taking a
fork in the track. Within a few minutes she’d merged with the dark.
From that time onwards they met often. She was always at the same spot, sitting
besides the track, staring down into the valley. He would sit down beside her and they would
chat. He learned that her name was Mary
and she liked to read. After a while he
began to look forward to seeing her. She
was very easy to talk to although she never said much, in fact she was the
quietest girl he had ever known. Once,
he forgot she was there and started reciting some of his poetry. He had likened the night to a great bird
spreading its ebony wings over the land and when he came too, he found her
staring at him.
After that, they often talked about the
poets. Tennyson and Keats were her favourites. She didn’t seem to know any
modern work.
During the week, he often thought about her. He
thought she was the daughter he’d always wanted. He worried about her; once she’d lifted her arm
and he’d seen a purple mark that he suspected was a bruise. She would tell him
nothing about her background and he wondered if she was happy, surely it wasn’t
normal for a young girl to spend so much time alone.
Once when he was wandering around the
Wednesday market, he came across a stall selling woollen goods. He remembered how icy her hands had been
that freezing night and on impulse, bought a pair of red mittens as a
present. He thought afterwards that when
he gave them to her, it was the only time he saw her smile.
One evening, just as spring was melting
into summer, she stopped just before they went their separate ways. All evening he’d sensed something was wrong.
She’d been even quieter than normal and had sat, her thin fingers ripping a
bare circle in the grass. When they left, she had accompanied him reluctantly. Then,
suddenly she grabbed his arm with fingers that bit into his flesh. Her eyes were enormous in her pale face.
‘Can I come home with you?’
Her words shocked him. He looked down at her and imagined his
wife’s reaction if he arrived home with this waif in tow. Martha’s face would first grow slack with disbelief,
then tighten as she thought the worst. Perhaps, a long time ago he had loved his
wife but they’d not shared the same bed for many years. Recently, as she sat, her legs wide open to
receive that heat of the fire, he’d caught the white flash of her
knickers. Far from provoking desire, the
sight had sickened him. Even so, she was
his wife and she ran the house.
He made a brief, negative movement of
his head as he stared at her. Her pallor
deepened but without a word, she turned and walked away.
He never saw her again. As the evenings lightened and the stars receded,
he followed the same path night after night, looking for her and every failure
saddened him.
One evening with a full moon sailing
overhead and the trees bowing to a silky breeze, he followed the familiar track
up the hill. Blind to the beauty of
the summer evening, he became aware of a noise like the snap of a shuffled pack
of cards. There was a line of flapping yellow
plastic forming a rough circle around the spot they used to meet. A man, his
shape pasted against the sky stood sentry nearby. As he grew nearer, Harry, recognised
him. It was the local bobby; he’d known
him for years ever since they were boys at school.
A sick feeling gathered in the pit of Harry’s
stomach.
‘What’s all this then?’, he said.
The constable stared suspiciously, then
his expression lightened.
‘Harry! What are you doing here? Shouldn’t
really say but seeing it’s you…someone’s dog dug up some bones and they reckon
they’re human. Squad’s coming up tomorrow.
Till then, I’m on guard.’
He laughed self-consciously.
Harry’s legs shook all the way home. Something
told him they were Mary’s bones. He’d known all along that it wasn’t safe for a
young girl to roam around at night. He should have been firmer with her. His hands made fists inside his pockets and
he groaned.
He barely slept that night. His body
tossed and turned in its narrow bed and around about dawn, a horrifying thought
crawled into his mind. What if someone
had seen him with her? Night after
night he wandered the hills alone. He’d
have no alibi and innocent people got charged with crimes all the time. Even if
he wasn’t convicted, his wife would never let him hear the last of it. He felt
a flare of self-disgust as he realised he’d stopped worrying about the girl.
For weeks afterwards he lived on the
edge of fear. Every time the doorbell rang his body tensed. His appetite
dwindled and his cheekbones jutted. Even his daughter who rarely acknowledged
his existence, noticed.
“What’s wrong with Dad. He looks weird,”
he overheard her asking his wife.
Time passed and nothing happened. After
a while the story disappeared from the papers, replaced by reports of the usual
petty crimes played out against the background of a small town. Months later, Harry plucked up enough courage
to ask his constable friend about the bones and was told that the case was closed.
“Them bones were human alright, but
they were about 150 years old.”
Harry felt weak with relief, shaking
his head he thought about all the time he’d wasted worrying about nothing. Mary was alive and well. Probably she had found a boyfriend and had
forgotten all about poetry. Despite everything,
he felt a slight frisson of jealousy.
Gradually, Mary became a memory until
one chilly morning not long after another year had started. Harry, woke, swung
his legs out of bed and sat rubbing the grit out of his eyes. As his vision
cleared, a splash of scarlet swam into view. His body jerked and he stared in
disbelief. Lying on the carpet just by
his feet was a pair of red woollen mittens. Breaking out in gooseflesh that had
nothing to do with the cold, he turned to the calendar for confirmation he didn’t
need. Today, was exactly a year since
his last meeting with Mary.
When the first numbing shock had worn
off, he realised he had been right all along. It hadn’t been safe for Mary to
wander alone at night, not even 150 years ago.
Copyright Janet
Baldey
