The Angel of Mons - Chapter six

Six

George could feel the cold on his face and his hands, but his body which was wrapped in layers of blankets remained warm. He turned over and opened his eyes. The light was dull and grey. He felt like he had been asleep for longer than usual.
He tried to lift himself up but felt too lazy, too relaxed. His head was a little thick. He felt confused and dizzy and there was the faintest pain behind his eyes. He smiled a little as he thought about the day before. He thought about the huge meal, which he and Graham had enjoyed. Turkey, ham and pork, fresh vegetables with sage and onion stuffing and he thought of Bulls-eye as he contentedly had stood on a chair while guzzling his giblet meal from a bowl that Graham had uncharacteristically placed on the dining room table. They had worked their way through four bottles of red wine having begun drinking sherry at nine in the morning. “Well it is Christmas,” Graham had reminded him, several times.
George’s cold breath condensed as he exhaled. There was no heater in his room. It was how he liked it. He reached up and pulled the curtain back, the window had frosted on the inside. He could hear the wind, and noticed it was accompanied by another sound that made him think of light sand being tossed against the glass. It was then that George remembered that just before they had gone to bed Graham had staggered back from the kitchen and announced to George that it was snowing.
George looked at his watch, it was seven thirty. There was no sound from the kitchen and so he concluded that Graham must have decided to remain in the warmth of his bed.
With an effort George lifted himself to a sitting position and eventually he stepped out of bed. He put on his dressing gown and the new slippers his brother had given to him the day before and headed down the corridor toward the living room. George noticed it was still quite warm in there. Although the fire had burnt down to a few glowing embers it still radiated some heat. George placed three large pieces of coal on the fire and watched as smoke began to rise from them and small flames popped into life. He held his hands out to warm them as he knelt awkwardly in front of the hearth, his face lit by the warming fire.
Bully whimpered gently from the kitchen and George could hear him scratching lazily at the kitchen door in a bid to be let out.
Ignoring his call for a moment, George limped over to the french windows. He pulled the curtains back with a single sweep and felt a rush of cold air as it rolled down around his feet. He smiled and held his head to one side. He rubbed his hands together and skipped a little on the spot.
A thin light was rising through the cloud illuminating a sea of white waves. Tall drifts of snow surrounded the house and changed the landscape all around. Directly outside the window a wall of snow, four or five feet tall had formed, it looked like an enormous ‘Cornish breaker,’ frozen in time, stopped in its tracks but threatening to come to life at any moment and crash through the living room window.
George went to the kitchen and ignoring Bully, looked out. There were more waves which had completely blocked the drive and the road.
When George took Graham a cup of tea, he could barely contain his excitement.
He let Bully out of the back door and the animal stood still. He sniffed at the snow and turned to look at George who had quickly closed the door and was watching him through the window. Bully shivered but did not move. He stood his head raised and stared back through the window.
George returned to the kitchen and looked out. He was admiring a particularly well shaped wave of snow when his eye was attracted to something leaning against his neighbour’s wall. It was mostly covered in snow, but he could make out chrome handlebars and a black saddle. At first he thought perhaps the bicycle was a gift for one of the children, but he noticed it was old and battered. It had a large wicker basket attached to the front and a big battery-powered lamp bolted on just above the front wheel.
George had moved away from the window and once again began to fill the boiler with coal when he was distracted by voices outside. He stepped across the kitchen and stood for a moment in silence, keeping out of sight, holding his breath in an effort to hear what was being said. He was unable make out the words, but could hear Mr Wilson, and the voice of a woman. He could hear laughter. George lifted the kettle from the hob, walked over to the sink and looked out.
Mr Wilson was standing with his back to him, pulling the buried bicycle clear of its white covering. The children were at the door, all three of them, the boys reaching down and rolling up small handfuls of snow. They were in their pyjamas slippers and dressing gowns. They laughed at their father as he struggled. Standing next to him in a long black cape, holding a large black leather case and wearing the hat of a nurse, was a woman who George assumed to be a midwife.
George’s immediate reaction was one of concern but when he looked on the scene, saw the smiling faces, noticed for the first time how tired Mr Wilson looked he realised that all was well.
George put down the kettle, unlocked the door and called, “Is they’re anything I can do to help Harry?”
Harry leant on the bicycle, he was panting heavily and his breath blew great white clouds of steam up and over the house. He smiled. “A boy, it’s a boy, we thought we would call him Joseph.”
George smiled and clasped his hands together raising them up to his face as if in prayer. “Congratulations,” he said his voice faltering slightly, “and Terri, how is she?”
“Tired, but mother and baby are fine.”
The midwife turned to George smiled and nodded her head in confirmation.

Graham had said that he had things “things to do,” and thought it inappropriate to visit so soon. But George felt the urge to accept Harry’s offer and at one o’clock sharp as instructed, he stood a little nervously on the step of number six clutching a packet of shortcake.
Harry opened the door, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth a small glass of whiskey in his left hand. He stepped aside and ushered George into the house.
George stood wide-eyed when he saw Terri emerge from the kitchen. She explained that there had been no time to prepare their meal the day before and so she had decided to reschedule the Christmas lunch to Boxing Day. George smiled at her and nodded, and in return she dipped her head slightly and looked up at him coyly – George felt his heart miss a beat.
“So,” said Harry as he reached over to press his cigarette into a nearby ashtray, “how would you like to meet the little fella?”
Terri dried her hands took hold of George’s elbow and guided him gently up the dark corridor and into the front bedroom. A single dull table lamp burned in the corner and George was surprised how cold it was in the room. The cot stood in a corner beside a large dark wardrobe. George paused at the door and smiled at Terri who squeezed his arm just before she released her reassuring grasp. George could hear thin tight breathing and then he heard a cough and a slight grumble. He stopped in his tracks and again, turned to Terri as if he were seeking her permission to go forward and look into the cot. She nodded, smiled and stepped forward with him.
George took a deep breath and sniffed slightly as he looked down at the child. He tried to whisper but no words came out. Terri noticed his eyes glaze over and he quickly wiped his right cheek with the tips of his fingers. He smiled broadly at the baby and looked distant, contented perhaps. Terri once again took George’s elbow and held it gently in her hands.
“He’s waking,” she whispered.
Joseph was lying on his back; he was covered in thick white blankets and rapped tight in a shawl. All that could be seen was his tiny face and perfect little hands. His skin was smooth and his dark eyes sparkled. He cackled and purred and everyone laughed. Then George noticed his little dimpled chin began to quiver and the infant took a deep breath, which was immediately followed by a roar, his hands waving, and his legs kicking under the blanket.
“He’s perfect,” said George looking at Terri while he reached across to shake Harry’s hand.
Joseph screamed again and without hesitation, George reached down, gently pulled back the blankets and lifted the child. Terri frowned and instinctively stepped forward, her hands reaching forward. But George was in control, he expertly lay him across his arm and begun to hum quietly, while swaying from side to side. Harry looked at his wife who bit her lip, he shrugged his shoulder and smiled at her, she nodded. Joseph stopped crying and seemed quite mesmerised by the old mans face.
Suddenly George stopped singing, and jumped a little as if startled, he looked at Terri, “I am so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking of,” he said handing Joseph back to her.
“You seem to have done the trick. Years of experience I dare say.” Said Harry smiling.
George looked down at his feet before saying, “A little perhaps, but so long ago. So long ago.”
When George returned home, Graham was sitting the by the fire reading. George put on his slippers and stared out the window. It had begun to snow hard and the wind was blowing strong, throwing cold against the glass, through the gaps in the doors and through the keyholes.
But inside George felt warm. He had felt young again when he held Joseph. All his aches and pains and the feeling of feebleness seemed to have vanished.
When Graham had asked him about the baby, George had simply said he was ‘bonny.’ Graham had smiled and nodded and returned his attention to his book.
That night George lay in his bed wrapped in layers of woollen blankets. He could hear the wind rushing around the house; he could hear the snow blowing against the window. He kept his arms under cover only allowing the top of his head, his eyes and nose to remain exposed to the cold air. He was warm, and the thought of Joseph’s tiny sleepy eyes made him smile inside. George thought about him sleeping in his tiny cot, safe, with his parents there to look over him, to feed him and keep him warm. He thought of the small dim light that shone above him in his room. For a moment, when the wind had rushed into the distance, George thought he heard the infant cry, but before he could be sure another roar carried the sound away.
George’s body relaxed and his breathing was deep and slow.
Suddenly he became aware of a faint light in the corner of the room. The light grew slowly brighter and began to form like a flame, yellow with gold in the centre; George could feel no warmth from it even though it was just a few feet away. He frowned, he could hear his own heart beating and was no longer aware of the sound of the wind, which cracked and slammed and whipped all around. Then, behind the flame, a figure began to emerge. The figure of a man dressed in a long dark coat. George tried to sit up, but was unable to move. He tried to cry out but could make no sound.
The figure, which appeared with its back to George, began to turn, slowly, until he was facing him across the small room. Their eyes met, and George smiled.
“Peter,” he whispered. The figure smiled at him and held his head to one side. His eyes where clear and his face was so young. Peter reached across the light and touched George on the side of his face gently with the tips of his fingers. George tried to reach up to take his hand but he couldn’t move.
“Peter,” he whispered once more. George smiled and felt his entire body relax completely, he could feel the weight of his head as it nestled into the pillow, he could feel his legs, heavy and free of any pain, warm, tingling. He could feel his arms, rested and outstretched beneath the blankets. He could feel his heart beating, slowly, reassuringly. He could feel his breathing deep and slow.

George lay on his back staring at the ceiling. Graham was clattering around and shouting at the dog in the kitchen. George frowned, he looked into the corner where the light had been. He pulled his right hand out from under the cover and touched his cheek; it was sore, sensitive. His eyes opened wide, as he pressed again. George pulled away the blankets and without stopping to put on his dressing gown or slippers, he hurried into the bathroom. His feet were cold on the dark tiles. Graham had already been in there and the mirror was dripping with condensation. George wiped it clear and laughed quietly. He put his hand over his mouth and stood for a long moment his eyes wide, his smile broad. There, on the side of his face, he could see three red lines running from above his eye, around his cheek and onto his neck. He pressed the red area again and could feel it tingling.
“Bloody chilblain,” said Graham, “you really must get some heat into that room of yours while the weather is like this, it can’t be good for you.”
George simply smiled and nodded and spent much of the day examining the marks in the mirror until eventually they faded.
The snow remained until March with freezing winds blowing across the country. George saw very little of Joseph. Occasionally he would spend a morning staring hopefully out of the kitchen window. He would sometimes see Terri and the children heading off to town to buy their groceries, or walking to school, Joseph would always be rapped up in thick layers of blankets, a blue knitted bonnet tied tightly around his head. Occasionally George was able to coincide their leaving with a visit to the coalbunker or to the bins. And when he did, he would take a quick look into the pram as they passed, smiling at the tiny figure inside, warm and asleep.
The cold played havoc with his leg and sometimes, if he had spent too long in the outside, helping to clear the drive or taking the rubbish to the bins, the pain that followed was almost unbearable. He would try to sit as close to the fire as he could or take long hot baths in an attempt to soak away the chill which seemed to have got into the very centre of his bones.
And then, just when it seemed the terrible freezing temperatures would never abate, a warm wind from the west blew in over night just before Easter and cleared away all the children’s igloos, all the snow men and left rusty toboggans, old hats and scalfes, carrot noses and coal buttons standing forlornly on brown flattened grass.
A week later the bulbs of spring burst through the ground and the nagging pain in George’s leg began to decrease.
George stepped out into the garden followed closely by Bully and looked around the recovering flowerbeds. He stood at the end of the garden and inhaled deep long breaths. It was as if he had just awoken from a long period of hibernation.
He lifted his head toward the thin spring sun and felt it delicately touch his face.
And then he heard a tiny cry. A whimper at first, then building to a cackle and then within moments a full blown scream.
George smiled, and looked across the three strands of wire that separated his garden from the Wilson’s. On the tiny terrace stood the large blue pram. George could see movement in the long looping metal springs, little arms flailing. Suddenly George’s expression changed, he frowned and tilted his head as if he were unsure about something. He took half a step forward and stopped. He raised himself as high as he could on his good leg and strained his neck, moving his head from side to side. Bully stopped his constant sniffing of the new bulbs and looked toward George. The child screamed again and George tried to peer into the Wilson’s house, hoping to see Terri responding to the infants call.
Suddenly George started to run as best he could across the garden. When he reached the fence, he vaulted over it with the athletic coordination of a man many years younger.
As he approached the pram George screamed “Get away, you bastard creature, get away.” Without hesitation, he reached into the pram. At that moment, unseen by George, Terri appeared and the French windows, drying her hands as she ran. She saw George leaning over the pram, shouting and pulling. George straightened up and turned away from the pram, he held a large ginger cat by the scuff of its neck. George was snarling and spitting, his mouth tight his eyes bulging, he stepped toward the house and slammed the animal against the wall. It screamed and George stamped down on it with all the force he could muster. Terri held her hands to her face and froze. She looked back at George who by now was holding Joseph who had stopped crying, and was unhurt.
Terri put the tips of her fingers together in front of her face and she began to cry. “Thank you George,” she said between gasps, “I don’t.”
George looked at her, smiled and gently shook his head. He handed Joseph to his mother and looked at the dead cat. “I am sorry if I was a little heavy handed, I didn’t think.”
Terri bit her lip frowned at George and shook her head. “I am really glad you were here.”
Later that day, George took the cat in a sack and dumped it with builders rubbish on a large fire.