Chapter Text
Small things make big, big changes.
The thought happens like a bang or a creak or a crash in the night – not what you want to hear, but a thing you got to deal with.
Small things make big, big changes.
Robin knows it.
It’s like this. You’re safe and happy, walking along, minding your own business and then you tread on a leaf. Crackle. Crunch. Then SNAP. That’s the wolf biting off your face. It’s like this. One day, you’ve got a small scratch on your arm and then the next day it goes yellow and sticky and then lines start to show in your skin and then the next day, you’re dead. It’s like this. Sometimes, there’s a spider you don’t see, or a name you don’t hear right; you take one pill and one drink too many or you stop watching for one second too long; you forget your book and go to the room where you had it last and sometimes, you end up on the ground. It’s like this. Sometimes, someone feels one new feeling and then they see bright, bright light and they’re gone forever.
Small things – stones and ripples, and that film Mike and Alison’s niece likes, with the squirrel thing and the acorn.
Small things like: here we are Mia, this is where we live.
Robin looks at the baby in the hat and the blanket and the basket and hears Mary say, looks small, that one, might not live through the night. But Mary is gone gone – and so really, Robin hears cooing like birds and words like stinging nettles and he doesn’t really remember babies being that small when he was passed one to hold when he was alive. Long time ago now though.
Mia. Robin counts the letters – one, two, three. A very little name, just M and I and A. Just – Mike and Alison and I. Mike, Alison, and Mia.
People say he’s not smart but Robin is very smart. He sees the patterns – been around long enough to know where to look. Small things, big changes and nothing he can do.
Small things like broken twigs and sleeping bears, small things like babies and not-exactly-luxury houses.
The others are smiling around him – smiling even when Mike’s mum comes through the door which means they can’t talk properly to Alison, can’t all the questions they want to ask. Smiling, because they aren’t seeing what small, small things can do.
Robin had been counting the days until Christmas, but now, it’s like the Christmas lights have blown and the big dinner has been burnt and the telly has gone silent right before the big, big day. Wouldn’t feel right, counting down now.
(Small things, big changes)
No good saying anything now though, not into the happy noises and the smiley faces. No good making a lot of sad too soon. Might be best to forget it all together before the hurt gets big.
Robin follows the others as they follow The Coopers and he tries to ignore the suspicion that the lights it the house don’t look so bright as they did earlier.
It’s film night, or rather, it should be film night, but Humphrey is stuck on the library floor again. Still, at least he’s facing the bookshelf this time and there’s plenty of entertainment you can get from that, without so much as reading a page. Which obviously, he couldn’t do, even if was attached to his body, given that that he’s a ghost and – Anyway, where was he? Bookshelves! Write your own story – that’s always a good one – just borrow the title and see what you can come up with. Guess the number of pages, another classic – or if you were feeling clever, you could test the brain a bit with how many titles and authors can you remember when you close your eyes.
Must have been nice though, to be watch a film. Sure, Betty had said it needed to be something relaxing but Humphrey didn’t mind that – just nice to sit down for the evening, to stop worrying about the baby or the cracks in the ceiling, to have a nice bit of time with the family. Not that he’s complaining – library floor’s just fine and it’s not like the others will leave him for too long this time round. Baby Mia’s pretty taken by him, especially when he's held up by the hair in front of her to make faces.
Besides, he’s next to a shelf he has seen in a while – and one that’s been added to or changed around since then – thrilling stuff, that. Waverley by Walter Scott – now, what could that be? One of those ‘holiday romance’ novels Kitty was telling him about, maybe, set by the sea? Might involve scuba diving, like that show –
Someone else was in the library, just inside the doorway, breathing heavily. Humphrey strained his eyes to see and there was Alison, head pressed into the doorframe, one hand covering the ear closest to the rest of the house. To announce himself or pretend he’d never been there at all? That was ever recurring dilemma of being an easy to miss head on the floor. Did she want to talk or be left alone? Shame mind reading wasn’t one of his talents. Might have been useful, over the years. Same with predicting the future, but, you can’t have everything.
‘Not wishing to intrude, Alison,’ he settled on, ‘but I am on the floor. Won’t mention er – this – if you don’t want me to – won’t talk if you don’t need me to – just pretend I’m not here, if you want, but not wanting to – well, have any pretences, I thought I should – ’
‘Oh, Humphrey.’ His name sounded like a disappointment in her voice, but he’d forgive her. ‘I’m – it’s film night – we’re watching – I don’t even know what we’re watching but it’s – should I get one of the others to come and collect you – I can do that, let me just –’ She started trying to get herself together but it looked like she was having as much trouble as he did in finding the other parts of herself and then staying whole.
‘Oh no, thank you, no, don’t worry about it. I’m alright here.’
She came into the room, sat down on Thomas’s sighing spot. ‘Never thought I’d say this, but I almost envy you being able to get lost in a corner – no offense.’
‘None taken.’
‘It’s just – I’ve got Betty talking in one ear and Fanny in the other, and if not them, then Mia’s screaming and I swear my hands still stink of baby poo no matter how many times I wash them and I just want to drink a cup of coffee or a glass of wine but I can’t because otherwise I might actually kill my child – and then I’ve got to think about opening books and turning on the TV at the right time and not talking to you guys when Betty’s around – and then Mike’s supposed to be dealing with the ceiling and renewing the license for hosting – but I don’t know if he’s – god, someone’s screaming. Is that Mia or is it an argument – is that – is that?’
‘Ignore it,’ Humphrey said. ‘Mike’s up there, Betty’s up there and we can’t kill each other.’
‘But I should –’
‘Pretend you’re a head and hide in the corner – get some rest.’
Alison didn’t even try to argue any further. She tucked her legs up and turned over towards the wall. Humphrey looked back at the books. Where was he?
Waverley, Scuba Diving, Holiday Romance. Enemies to Lovers? Maybe.
Somewhere above, the house creaked, and the wind whistled in through the broken window frame. There were raised voices – an argument, or just general ghost noise. And baby Mia really was crying – woken, surely by the combination of all the other sounds. Humphrey focused on the spines of the bottom shelf.
This house would be a rotten place to grow up, sometimes. He should know.
Pat had finally got in first, before Fanny could start her fussing, or Cap could attempt baby talk, before Robin arrived to mess with the lights, or Kitty wanted to have a ‘girl’s talk’. He was there before Mia saw Alison and wanted feeding, before Betty scooped her up and whisked her away. It was just the two of them and she was all smiles and squidgy cheeks from sleeping and it was time the two of them had a serious chat. No more baby gabble for now – this was far more pressing. It really wouldn’t be that long after all, before she stopped being able to see him or hear him, and besides, it could never be too early to give them the bug.
He sat down on the chair by the cot and looked at Mia, very serious, but gentle too. He had to get this right.
‘Now, Mia, love, are you listening to your Uncle Pat? You are? Good girl – good girl – alright, your Uncle Pat has something very, very important to say to you, and I know, you’re still in nappies and you’re not even crawling, but believe you me, four years will go by in a flash, and then, what do you know, you’ll be old enough to join the Scouts! That’s right! The Scouts! Back in my day, we had to wait until we were eight, but now, now you can join your local Squirrel Drey – isn’t that exciting – and you’ll wear a red uniform until you start Beavers – they wear blue – and then you’ll go to Cubs and Scouts – and then, you’ll get to wear a uniform just like me! Isn’t that good? And you’ll get your activity badges – your fire safety, your camping, your orienteering – and you might even get to do your entertainers badge! You’re already a funny one, aren’t you, aren’t you! Yeah! And you’ll do your hiking and your away days and then you’ll come back and be able to tell Uncle Pat all about it. Now I know these days, the telly might seem more fun or talking to your friends on the phone or using the world wide web, but I promise –’
‘Morning Pat. Hello Mia,’ Alison was there in the room, and her voice was dead dog tired like, as if she’d taken thirty kids on a weekend camping trip, got stuck on the zipwire – twice – cleaned up eight and a half rounds of vomit, and then broken up three fights over who got apple juice and who got the bitty orange. ‘You’re as bad as Betty and Mike, trying to plan her life out. Come on, little one, let’s focus on learning how to stay asleep, yeah?’
‘It’s just best to be prepared, Alison,’ Pat said. ‘Just wanted to give her a little taster of the Scouts – because you will take her, won’t you? You will sign her up?’
Alison stopped, one hand still reached towards Mia. Something – well, a lot of things actually – seemed to flash across her face, before it settled into a I can’t be doing with this expression. ‘And what if she doesn’t want to do that?’
‘Ay?’
‘What if – what if she only wants to do – ballet? Ot cheerleading? Or circus skills?’
‘Well, I – Circus skills?’
‘My school had it. They got someone in to teach, like, spinning plates and stat – but yeah, circus skills. What if she only wants to do, I don’t know, swimming?’
‘Well, I mean there is a swimming b-’
‘What if she only wants to do archery? What if she wants to become a professional archer? What then?’
Pat winced, but before he could come up with any reply, Betty came bustling in, bypassing Alison, walking straight through Pat, to scoop up Mia. ‘How’s Grandma’s baby girl doing? Is she good? She good? What’s Mummy been saying to you, hmm?’
‘I was just thinking aloud,’ Alison shrugged, arms dropped to her sides. ‘Wondering what Mia might want to do when she’s older and if she’d want to do swimming or archery or – ’
‘Archery? No, no, no. Too dangerous! This little one has the face for the stage! You’ll have to put her in Stage Coach – or the panto – or dance! Like Nancy does! Or maybe, she might surprise us and want to do wood carving with Grandad – or, how about if she joins me in the kitchen sometime? Learn to cook all my classics! One of you has to, baby – see, your daddy and aunties didn’t want to and I’ve got so many things I need to pass down, hey? Will it be you or your cousins, hmm? Now, is Grandma’s baby girl ready for a nappy change? She is? She is?’
Betty swept towards the bathroom, Alison hurrying after her, stopping, briefly, to share one sour, despairing look with Pat. I think it’s a mother-in-law thing, he wanted to tell her, because he was remembering now, about Belinda. Don’t him wrong, Carol’s Ma was a lovely woman, but if there was a pie, then her fingers were in it – and also in the chips and the peas and the gravy and the pudding. Quite literally, sometimes, at Sunday lunches.
She hadn’t lived in, but she’d been round every day and Pat had thought it was nice, actually, when he’d had to go back to the bank, because at least Carol wasn’t on her own all day, so she could take a little snooze if she needed it, keep the house is tiptop condition, maybe read a book. Still, he’d come home and Carol would say, she’s driving me mad, or, she just won’t stop sticking her nose in, and maybe Pat was a bit slow to get it, because he could see how Belinda might know best on bottle vs. breast, and nap time routines and whether baby needed a hat or not, but then he’d come home to find the kitchen rearranged, and all his radio bits boxed up, because of the small parts and because Belinda had read that radio waves could hurt babies.
Carol had given him a long, hard stare and Pat had tried to say something to the point, honestly, he had, but he’d ended up talking about the golden rule he always told his Scouts: keep your hands to yourself unless someone needs help. It covered it all – no physical fighting, no stealing, no touching each other’s stuff, no putting itching powder or frogs in anyone’s sleeping bags. It was a bit of genius, he’d told Belinda, hoping she’d get it and then the next day, he came home to find his drawers rearranged.
Maybe it was because he was out all day – and some evenings too, for the Scouts – that in it stopped bothering him pretty quickly. Sure, he might never know where anything was, but that became the norm – always a bit of fun trying to work out where your shoe polish might be or where the frying pan he liked to cook bacon in was kept. Besides, she had good intentions, he’d reckoned, and who was he to fault her for that?
Carol had seemed to stop minding too, for a while, but then the bank had offered him the new position in Reading, told him, we need your experience down there and it’s more money for in your pocket and won’t that be good, with a young one, and, but the way, if you don’t go, your role here will change and you’ll no longer be paid enough to run the car. Pat was all set to just find a new job, because the bank was just how he made ends meet, and he’d rather have stayed in Huddersfield, rather had stayed close to home with family round the corner and his old Scout hut down the road, didn’t feel any need to climb the career ladder if it meant leaving things behind.
To his surprise though, Carol had been all for the move. She’d said, Patrick Butcher, you can’t turn such a good thing down, not on your nelly and not on my watch! She’d started looking at properties in Reading, started doing a big sort out of the house so it would be easier to pack, started telling friends they were going to be moving soon. Belinda got wind of it and had burst into tears over the Sunday roast, telling them that they were taking her baby, her little Daley away from her and how could they ever be so cruel and Carol had snapped, he’s not yours, he’s mine! He’s ours, he’s our baby, mother! Belinda’s eyes had filled with tears at that and her shoulders had drooped. I know, she’d almost whispered, but he’s my only grandson and you’re my only daughter and – I love you both so much and I need to see you. I can’t help it., darling. Pat had been sure Carol would melt, was convinced she had even, when she’d given Belinda a big hug, and said I know, Ma, I know, and thank you, really, for everything, but when Belinda had gone out, Carol had started packing like putting your worldly goods in boxes was an Olympic sport.
She’d wanted to get away, away from her mother, pure and simple, away from the interference and noise and, as she later told him, from the endless picking and poking and pinching at everything she did. Pat folded his hands together, glanced towards the bathroom, where Alison was saying, let me just – if I could – no – okay – and it was like an unexpected elbow in the ribs.
He and Carol only had one Belinda to contend with and even then, Carol had needed to run. Alison had Betty and eight ghosts on top of that. This ain’t lookin’ good, y’all, a voice drawled in his head, jus’ how we gonna dodge the bullet this time? The bullet – what could they do? How could they help more – or not, as the case may be – or – should they really – maybe, it was time to –
The clock struck seven and Pat rose, because it was seven in the morning and it was time for the weekly planning meeting, time to think about Food Club, Charades, the ‘sponsored’ silence they were doing to get extra choices at Film Night – no time for letting his mind wander, no time for worrying, not yet.
He went down towards the common room, got his Scoutmaster bounce in his step, got his radio voice ready, put the customer service smile on his face. It would all come good, he reassured himself, wouldn’t it.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake!’
There was no response to her first protestation, so Fanny repeated it, slightly louder. Still, there came no reply, and she decided it would be foolish to exclaim for a third time, on the off chance that she had been heard and was simply being ignored. Such would have been a rather undignified state of affairs. Nevertheless, the point still stood. According to the schedule, it was her turn to watch the television – she had been rather enjoying Rosemary and Thyme of late and it was due to be on, very shortly – but Alison was nowhere in sight or earshot and the screen was still displaying yet another of those Christmas cooking shows, instructing her on how to make a Christmas Ice Cream Sandwich Cake.
This was becoming a rather common occurrence. Pages left unturned, television slots missed, music remaining silent – small mercies, but not in line with the order of things. Alison was busy, of course, with the child, but had Fanny not reminded her that she had other responsibilities too, besides serving as a feeding station, a source of heat, and washwoman for baby Mia? There was the house to consider, guests to receive, Christenings to organise, and ceilings to be fixed – not to mention Christmas! No wrapping and hardly any present shopping had been done – Fanny knew exactly where to check. One could simply not let standards slip for it was steep and slippery hill towards indolence and disorder, on that was hard to reclimb.
It was why, she’d remined Alison, that grand houses such of these required servants, maids, butlers, gardeners; it was why one hired a wet nurse when one welcomed a child. Alison had looked her straight in the eye, with all that insolence in her face, an expression that Fanny disapproved of and admired. Right, yeah, real helpful, Fanny, she’d said, unfortunately, it’s no longer the nineteenth century and people would like, actually stop talking to me if I said I had servants. And, in case you’d forgotten, we couldn’t afford to anyway and we wouldn’t want to get into any more debt, would we? Fanny may have only given her a curt nod in response, but she hoped that Alison had interpreted it as approval and understanding of the statement.
The problem, however, of the television remained. The woman on the screen with her red hair and American voice was still showing her how to spread mint ice cream onto wafers, while also promising her that next, she’d be making a sweet Ambrosia Salad, the perfect way to get the kids eating fruit on Christmas Day. Rosemary and Thyme had started on other channel and Fanny was missing it.
She could, of course, have gone to find Julian and ask for his assistance but she liked to limit the number of times she did that in a week, for the sake of her own dignity. Besides, after the trouble of the night before, she hardly wanted to involve him in anything. Honestly, they had only been helping and to be accused of causing further trouble for Alison – it was utterly ridiculous – and Julian ought to have known better. He ought to have remembered the cameras, being of that era.
Fanny glided through the wall and into the corridor. Distantly, she heard The Captain’s voice, arguing with Thomas, surely, about the merits of something or other. Distantly, she heard the sound of the food processor – an invention that the cooks of her kitchens would have celebrated – Betty, she supposed, in the kitchen. Down the corridor, she heard a gabble of baby sounds, followed by laughter – Michael, Alison, and Mia, together. She could see it, mother and father sat on the floor with baby, involved, able to pick her up whenever they wished, able to play, to laugh, to smile, to tickle and rub noses, to sing or read to. She could see it, her own child at that age, little Georgie, whipped from her arms by the fierce nurse her mother had selected for her. She could see it, visiting Georgie in his nursery as if she was a guest in his wing of the house. She could see it, her mother, her maid, her father, her aunt, criticising whenever she put a crease in her dress or got mud on the hem. She could see it, afternoons in the garden with Georgie before he was sent off to school and never quite returned to her again.
Oh, that wasn’t to say Fanny hadn’t been naturally nurturing. She had let the baby be taken quite out of her hands after all and she had not liked to hear him cry in the night. As for George, he barely spoke of their child before he reached the age of seven and developed a healthy interest in soldiers, guns, and the great outdoors. It wasn’t that she was without tenderness – oh no, but, it was not easy, to play with or care for the child. Not when all around her, she was being told not to corrupt him with feminine weakness, not when the state of her collars, the placement of her hair, and the dignity of her pose might be compromised. It was easier to love Dante, because no one concerned themselves over how much attention she gave to her lap dog, how many feminine words she spoke into his ear, how many turns about the garden she claimed her needed. In another time, perhaps – perhaps this house might not have been so lonely.
Times had changed though, as Fanny was endlessly reminded, and times would continue to change. For now though, Alison was where she needed to be, and she did not require Fanny’s input or interruptions. She sat back down in the television room, contemplating the screen. It was still on the cooking channel but the programme had changed, and now, there was a woman visiting the Isle of Wight to catch lobsters for the starter of her three course menu. This, Fanny supposed, she could watch. This, she supposed, she could get used to.