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It started years ago. He’d only been very young at the time. When the sweep offered him a job, he certainly hadn’t expected much to come from it. Certainly not a whole other life. But when the sweep accompanied him down the lane with the beautiful blossoming pink trees for the first time, it all began.
The little girl had been crying on the balcony of her house. She looked to be around his age. Maybe a little older. Maybe a little younger. He couldn’t really tell. But he could tell she was miserable, for whatever reason. As if something magical had been stripped away from her. A kind of magic he recognised as well.
As I said, he was only young. His voice was small and lacked the power to call up to her without disturbing the rest of the house. But there was something about the girl and he wanted to know her. He wanted to say hello. He wanted to know her name. He wanted to ask if she was alright. But instead, he waved.
She waved back.
She smiled.
He smiled.
Days and nights passed and he waved. Making her day every time. It was months before they spoke. On a day when he walked alone. On a day when he held enough power to raise his voice, but control enough not to shout. He’d barely managed to ask her name before there was a man at the door, shooing him along. But he heard before he went,
“My name is Jane Banks.”
The years went by and he waved daily. Sometimes she was alone and sometimes her brother was there. But no matter what, a man, whom he assumed was their father, kept him moving on before they ever got a chance to chat.
And days and years went by and she started to disappear. Bert told him she’d gone to boarding school, but that didn’t help much. Each week she wasn’t there hurt more and more. And when her brother left for school too, he felt even more hopeless.
But that didn’t mean he could stop working. He continued to pass by, even if there was nobody to greet. But every now and then, when they came home on a holiday, he was always there, with a smile on his face and a song on his lips. And in those days when they were reunited, it was just like it always used to be. But it couldn’t last. And not just because she went to school. No. That pattern of holidays was maddening but not unbearable.
It was when the Great War came and went, whisking away all the young men in London. And the boys mesmerised by the promises of glory and a better life, went along with them too. Poor Jack was dragged along by the crowds and before he knew it, he was sat in a trench in the middle of France with a gun in his hands.
He managed to make it through, even though the scars on his body would serve as eternal reminders. But he didn’t go back. He needed a change of scenery, and so he was away across the pond for a few years, leaving Jane wondering what his fate had been.
She waited every night, but when he didn’t come back, she moved on. And fairly quickly too. They had barely known one another.
Days, weeks, months, years past. He’d lived the high life of the 20s and when the slump hit, he was back to the low life for the 30s. Back on his bike in the streets of London, peddling to the lane with its beautiful pink trees.
The first day back, he had hoped to see her. But she wasn’t there. There was nobody at all at that window. Instead, he saw a man and a woman, two children and one a little younger. She wasn’t there, but he was. He had his fathers face, and even his moustache. This was Michael Banks, the brother to the girl in the window.
Their paths never crossed beyond brief passings on Cherry Tree Lane. They never spoke. There was a very clear divide between us and them when it came to Michael and the workers. He didn’t wave like Jane did, he didn’t smile. He didn’t even look up to him on the ladder when he walked by like others did.
He couldn’t help but wonder what happened to Jane. If Michael had managed it, then it was likely she was married with her own children living somewhere else in the city. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed. But it wasn’t like he could’ve had a chance with her. The very idea was absurd.
So every day, he continued his job. The same spring in his step, the same song on his lips, just as the people expected. Just like people expected to see him there everyday, without even once noticing him. They’d only notice him missing if the lamps were still lit as the sun rose, or if they stood dark as the veil of the night settled it. It was his only purpose.
The years passed and he watched the family. A daily update to see them grow and change. He saw the youngest scampering around as his siblings chased after him. He saw the youngest wear their school uniforms for the first time, ready to join his siblings’ school (a day school rather than a boarding school). He saw Michael proudly show paintings to his family that gradually increased in quality as the years passed. He even saw Mrs Banks dancing with the children one day.
He knew so many stories from so many families along his route. He remembered their names once he knew them, he remembered their accomplishments and the sort of things they’d have in their future. But he couldn’t see the future. Not really. The only sort of future he knew was the obvious. Like when someone grew up, their next step would be to get a job, or that a child would make new friends when they started school. These were general expectations that it was safe to have for just about anyone. Because if what happened next to the Banks family happened to everyone, the world would be a very miserable place indeed.
One morning the house was dark. It was just as sudden as that. Everything had been fine the day before. But then it was dark. He’d almost not extinguished the lamp outside their home, as it seemed to be the only light the house could get. But it was his job. So he did what he was meant to do. He stayed nearby even after his route was over, wanting nothing more than to see if everything was alright. He didn’t see anyone in the windows. Not a single soul. And so when the doctor came, he knew it was serious.
The evening rounds came and went without anything of significance, and the house remained dark.
It was a few days later when he saw the hearse. The family were standing outside as he extinguished the lamp: Michael and the three children. It was the mother who had passed away.
He’d seen this all before. He remembered when his own mother died, though he hadn’t had anyone left when she went. He’d been about their age, maybe a slight bit older. He knew exactly what it felt like. Maybe that’s why he felt so bad for them.
He wanted to talk to them. Tell them that it’s tough right now, but it gets better. Tell them that he knows they’ll pull through. But they wouldn’t want a stranger telling them how to feel. So he did the only thing that might’ve helped.
He waved.
The children saw, children were like that. They were much more observant of such things than adults.
They smiled.
They waved back.
It’s tough. But it gets better.
Time wore on. They were all clearly hurting. But they were also clearly healing. They were starting to smile again and their faces were usually void of tear stains as time went on.
And every day he waved.
And every day they waved back.
He didn’t even know their names, but the day he met them in the park, it felt like they’d known one another for years.