A Blue Sky Existence

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

The Figure in the Photograph

‘Oh, mustn’t forget to drop off that cheque at the undertaker’s,’ murmured Susan-Jane as she entered the blackened kitchen, loudly enough to remove Charlie from his stupor. He was looking at the seaside holiday photo again.

     The four Pounces had been given clearance to move back into their house while refurbishments were made. Most of the roof needed replacing, as the thatch had caught fire quickly. The wallpaper in each room had to be stripped away and discarded. The entire cottage was dried during their time in the crypt of St. John’s-at-Ashford, the fire having been thoroughly quenched. However, there was still the matter of sweeping up the layers of ash that had painted every surface.

     Gwen and Mary had been sent to the upstairs landing with a dustpan and brush to share, but only after the stairs had been reinforced with steel poles, without which they would have disintegrated at the first footstep.

     Susan-Jane had offered to do the rest of the cottage, on the condition that she wouldn’t have to go into the charred skeleton of the study, protected from the elements by a sheet of blue tarpaulin. She hadn’t meant to make her son feel obliged to do it instead, but Charlie had nonetheless picked up a broom and slowly made his way to the back of the house.

     Surprisingly, he hadn’t felt as uneasy about going into the study as expected, and set to work sweeping the ash clusters into a small heap, trying to keep his mind as blank as possible. His stoicism wasn’t held for long, however, as a question suddenly entered his head: how much of his father’s body did they actually manage to find? Had parts of him turned to powder amongst the ashes at his feet at that very moment?

     Needless to say, the broom had clattered to the floor as Charlie rushed to the downstairs bathroom to be sick. The next day, he’d returned with a dustpan, brushed the ash pile into it, and closed the door behind him in under forty seconds.

     Now, having spent three days resting in his bed, in the largely intact loft, Charlie felt like he could think more clearly. He was less fraught now that the funeral was over, as well as his bizarre episode with the young woman. It was becoming increasingly acceptable to think that his father wouldn’t have wanted to see him grieving for the rest of his life.

     Although he still craved moments of solitude, Charlie also felt the urge to get out and walk somewhere, to run an errand and integrate with the familiar community of Southside again.

     This is why, when his mother mentioned the cheque, he carefully slotted the seaside photo deep into his jeans pocket, and pulled the envelope across the kitchen counter towards him.

     ‘Don’t worry about it, Ma. I’ll do it now.’

     But she’d already left the room. Charlie hadn’t had an actual conversation with her since the afternoon of the fire. He felt ashamed, but also couldn’t bring himself to complain that he was being starved of attention. After all, unexpectedly going from wife to widow in the space of a single hour sounded to Charlie like one of the worst things to cope with. He couldn’t rush his mother’s healing process, no matter how long it might take. Besides, he was going to be seventeen in a few months - he could take care of himself more than his younger sisters, which was probably why their mother was making more of an effort to engage with them than with Charlie himself.

     He slid off his plastic chair, several of which had been bought to replace all the wooden ones that had shriveled into burnt twigs. He grabbed his keys and left the cottage. As he wandered down the road that eventually led to the undertaker’s, Charlie passed a mother, often seen behind the counter at the post office, and her baby, out for a stroll in its pram. She acknowledged him with a polite but genuine smile. The world was still turning.