The Tally Stick

PART I

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ONE

4 April 1978

Katherine was ripped from sleep into darkness and chaos. Wrenched, jolted, shaken, tumbled and pierced, with no sense of front or back, down or up, this way or that. From inside an unfolding explosion, she couldn’t tell where she ended and the world began. In this placeless confusion, before this started and after it stops meant nothing. There was only noise and pain. How long it went on she couldn’t tell.

Until …

Her first shuddering breath. And another. Heavy darkness through which she drifted, barely conscious. What was that sound? Wind? Water? Perhaps that was it, yes—water. Water gushing from the taps into the long, white curve of the bath in the upstairs bathroom at home in Hornton Street. Much louder than that, though, as though she had her ear right up to the tap, or maybe there were many baths all being filled at the same time? She could also hear, inside the roar of the perhaps-water, metallic creaks and groans, as if a train were slowing into the station. She must have fallen asleep on the Tube, on the way home from Saturday shopping with Mother. A train crash, she thought without any emotion. I’m on the Tube, that’s why it’s so dark, and the train has come off the rails. Or maybe someone had set off a bomb. She’d once overheard her parents talking about bombings in the city. Some people had died. The Irish, they were the ones who were blowing things up, although she didn’t know why. Mother had sounded worried. Father told her it wasn’t something they should discuss in front of the children.

Katherine.

Someone was calling her name from far away.

Katherine. Wake up.

She opened her eyes. Closed them. Tried again. Her eyes felt like doll eyes that would roll open only when her head was lifted. A little light was coming from somewhere, milky and cold. Something was squeezing her chest. It hurt when she breathed, sharp stabs that she could see as red flashes even when her eyes were shut. Her neck also hurt, when she turned her head. Everything was painted in oily shadow and her eyes slipped off the shapes pressing around her. All she could tell was that she was in a small space.

Her head suddenly spun and she felt her stomach push up into her throat. Her mouth opened by itself and she felt the vomit gush warm down her front and smelt the acid tang. She felt ashamed and wondered what Father would say.

Katherine.

She thrust a hand in the direction of Maurice’s voice.

Don’t! That hurt.

She felt something soft.

Stop it!

She could see her brother’s face now, although his body was still lost in the dark. He wasn’t far away, as she’d thought, but very close. And Tommy too. He was right there, blinking up at her.

We’ve been in a crash, Maurice said, sobbing.

What?

We’ve been in a crash, he repeated, louder. My leg’s hurt.

What happened?

A car crash.

The car? What happened to the car?

You’re not listening! You’ve got to wake up properly.

Despite everything, Katherine felt angry. Why did Maurice have to talk to her like that? Did he always have to act so superior? Besides, he was the one who was talking too quietly. She could barely hear what he was saying over that constant shushing sound.

The car crashed, she said slowly, unravelling the idea as she spoke.

Yes, while we were asleep. There’s water. You have to help me. My leg’s stuck.

She understood now. They’d crashed in the night. They were all jammed in together, in the back of the car.

Mummy, she said. And then, louder, Daddy.

She tried to shift herself so that she could see past the front seats with their high headrests, but the pain in her chest stabbed and flashed when she moved. She gasped and sank back. All she could see was part of the windscreen. It was cracked in a thousand places, crazed white. The light was coming from outside, leaching through the glass.

Daddy!

Stop shouting, said Maurice angrily. "He won’t wake up. You have to help me."

I can’t see.

She could smell poo mixed with the reek of her vomit and taste blood in her mouth.

The water’s cold. Maurice made a choking sound that scared her.

What was he talking about? How could there be water? They were inside the car. She remembered it had been raining very hard as they drove. Did he mean that rain was coming into the car?

Stop closing your eyes. You have to wake up properly. Look at me, look down here.

Down? Yes, she understood. Maurice wasn’t sitting next to her after all. He and Tommy were down. She was up. Blindly her hands moved over her body. Her seat belt was there, still buckled. It was holding her in place, stopping her from falling. Which must mean … the car was … on its side.

Daddy!

Stop it!

Maurice moved, before he screamed.

What’s the matter?

He whimpered.

Maurice? Mo?

My leg’s stuck. We have to get out. The water’s freezing and I think it’s getting deeper.

She stared into the shadows that had been hiding everything except her brother’s head and shoulders and they transformed into water. It was flowing through the inside of the car. Katherine saw the baby’s bottle, still half full of milk, roll and bob. She recognised a waterlogged pillow, a sodden blanket, a bloated copy of Five Go Off to Camp, which she’d borrowed from the family they’d met in Wellington on their first night. A river. That was the noise she’d been hearing all along. The car had crashed into a river.

Katherine groped for the buckle on her seat belt. The catch clicked open. She felt herself slipping, and then the strap was under her chin. As she turned her head, it scraped painfully across her ear. She slid, legs first, to the door of the car, which was now the floor. The freezing water gripped her and she gasped. It reached to her knees.

Get off me! Maurice tried to push her away.

Tommy’s elbows and shoulders jammed into her and he groaned, the first sound she’d heard him make.

Tommy? Are you hurt?

He didn’t speak. He was standing up and was mostly out of the water.

It’s going to be all right, said Katherine, in their mother’s voice. Maurice, you have to try to pull your leg free.

I told you, I can’t. It’s stuck.

She reached beneath the water and with one hand felt along her brother’s leg. The water was to her shoulder by the time she found his shoe. Her fingers were already going numb.

Don’t! he yelled, into her ear.

I need to feel.

It hurts.

She tried to ignore him. There; that was Maurice’s running shoe. And, that; a metal part of the seat—the track thing that let the seat slide backward and forward. Her hands fumbled for understanding of how her brother’s leg was trapped.

I need to undo your shoelace.

Be careful.

It took a long time. With the shoelace finally untied, she gave a tug. Her brother’s leg came free. Maurice screamed again and hit her across the face with the back of his hand.

Don’t! she said.

He felt cold and clammy as she pulled him from the water. He stood on one leg as the three children pressed together, shivering in the small space of the side-on car.

Now that she was standing, Katherine could see her father. He was a shadow slumped over the wheel, his face turned towards where Mother should be sitting, but for some reason she wasn’t there anymore.

She must’ve already escaped. She’s climbed out and gone to get help. Of course she’s taken baby Emma with her.

Daddy, said Katherine.

Reaching between the seats, she tugged at her father’s shirt. He didn’t move.

It’s all right, this happens in the movies all the time. When someone gets a bang on the head they’re unconscious, just for a little while.

Soon Father would groan and sit up and shake his head. He’d have a headache and an egg on his forehead from hitting the steering wheel. The lump would probably need a bandage, though before that happened he would help them all out of the wrecked car. Then Father would find Mother and Emma. After that he would go and get help.

Stop it, said Maurice. We have to get out. You need to open that door.

Reaching above her, Katherine grabbed the handle and pushed as hard as she could. The door groaned and shifted a few inches.

Help me.

Together, they pushed and the door flopped outwards with a metallic squeal. Maurice and Katherine both raised their hands above their heads, expecting the door to fall back, but it stayed open. Heavy rain fell onto their upturned faces.

Katherine was the first to scramble up. Only when she was balancing on the door did she realise her glasses were gone. Not that they would’ve helped much in the dark and rain, but she had worn them since before she started school.

This much she could see: one headlight, only just out of the water, was still glowing. That was the only light. Below her a white-capped wave was pushing into the roof, holding the car against a large rock. All around her the river was churning and frothing between the rocks. The roar of rushing water that had been loud in the car was now deafening. Mixed with the sound was the rumble of stones being herded along the riverbed. She gripped the metal harder. If she fell, she’d be washed away before she could even cry out. Twisting her head, she looked behind her. There was no hope that way, just darkness. In the opposite direction was the rock the car was leaning against. Beyond that she could just make out what she thought might, perhaps, be trees.

She looked down at her brothers’ upturned faces. There’s a big rock. I think we can climb onto it.

Can you see the road? asked Maurice.

No.

It must be there.

She held out her hand. Give me the blanket.

For once, Maurice didn’t argue with her. The blanket was heavy with water. She wrung it out on the edge of the door as well as she could, even as the rain soaked back into the wool.

Helping Tommy to climb was difficult. He didn’t seem to understand what she wanted him to do. When he was finally out, he sat next to her on the door and stared blankly.

Maurice turned out to be even harder. He breathed in rapid gasps, making sucking sounds every time he shifted his injured leg. Twice he screamed and fell back. When at last he was up too, she pointed into the darkness.

There. Do you see?

What?

We can go over those rocks, there. Come on.

Getting from the car onto the rock turned out to be no more difficult than stepping from a train onto the platform in the Underground. Maurice kept his arm around Katherine’s shoulder. With Tommy following like a puppy they had saved from a sack, the children moved over the rocks in fits and starts, until they were standing on the bank. Shivering uncontrollably, they stared back at the car’s headlight, their clothes clinging to their bodies. Rain plastered their hair across their heads. Their hands hung by their sides, water streaming from their fingertips onto the rocky ground.

Father will wake up soon, Katherine said, quietly. He’ll follow us. And Mother too, she added, feeling guilty that she’d left her out, even for a few seconds. Maurice said nothing. He blinked the water off his eyelashes.

Katherine knew that headlights ran on a battery. If you accidentally left the door ajar, as their mother had done once, the small inside light stayed on and that was enough to drain the battery. Father had warned them about that at the start of the trip. So it stood to reason that the battery would eventually run out, leaving them in complete darkness. She looked behind her. All she could see was the slanting rain and the looming trees.

"We have to get out of the rain," she said.

Maurice didn’t reply. He had slumped to the ground, his chin sagging on his chest.

Maurice.

He glared up at her. What?

We have to find somewhere out of the rain, or I think we’re going to die.

-

TWO

14 November 2010

Suzanne stood with her two grandsons in the doorway of her London house and watched as her son’s car pulled up in the rain. Rising behind the roofs of the terraced houses on the other side of the road was the dome of the Imperial War Museum. Tim had gone to fetch the car, while the boys waited with her. Now, he was forced to double-park. The hazard lights flashed orange in the late-afternoon twilight. Inside the house, the phone began to ring.

The machine can get it, she thought.

Tim drove the boys up from Brighton to visit her every second Sunday. She looked forward to their afternoons. Sometimes they walked down the road to the Italian restaurant, or to the Greek place, which she was less fond of but her son preferred. If she was in the mood, which was about half the time, Suzanne would cook, usually a roast of lamb. Occasionally the boys’ mother, Astrid, came with them, but more often than not it was just Tim and the boys. Suzanne didn’t take Astrid’s absences personally. Her daughter-in-law worked hard and no doubt welcomed a day to herself.

Today the rain had been on and off and they’d stayed home. After lunch she’d pulled the boys away from their iPad and all four of them had played Cluedo.

Goodbye, Nana, said George. Thank you for having us.

Dear George, always so formal. You’re welcome, dear. It was my pleasure.

Bye, said Danny, and he hugged her quickly.

She watched them negotiate the flooded gutter between the parked cars. Danny took the front seat and immediately began checking his cell phone. George scrambled into the back. With the door still open he looked at her and smiled, teeth showing white against the dark of his skin.

Tim wound down the window and leant across Danny. Bye, Mum, he called. See you in two weeks. I’ll phone you.

As the car pulled away, she heard the answering machine sound a single high note and the murmur of a woman’s voice leaving a message.

Despite the rain, she stepped out onto the footpath to wave goodbye. This was something of a ritual, one she’d enacted with the boys ever since they were very young, although only George still took part. Turned in his seat, he waved frantically. Suzanne waved back more vigorously. In response George doubled his efforts until his hand became a blur. The car drew away and it became harder and harder for her to see him. At the end of the street, the brake lights flared and the car turned left. They were gone.

She stood for a moment, feeling the melancholy that always came over her at the end of their visits. Tim and Astrid had adopted the boys, who were biological brothers, from an orphanage in Ethiopia. Nobody knew exactly how or where their parents had died. Apparently there were no records. No relatives could afford to take on the boys, that was what Tim had been told. At the time Suzanne had harboured doubts—really, she supposed, primal fears—about the adoption, although of course she’d not said anything. Surely the children couldn’t avoid being traumatised by their early experiences, although nobody seemed to be able to say exactly what those had been. Wouldn’t interracial adoption raise myriad issues as the boys grew up? For Tim and Astrid, as well as for them. How could the whole arrangement not hopelessly complicate all their lives?

She’d met the boys for the first time fresh off the plane at Gatwick. Danny was less than two years old, barely walking. George was still a baby. They’d been so much blacker than she’d thought they would be. That sounded terrible, she knew, but their colour had thrown her off kilter for a long time. Every time she saw them, she was startled all over again. She’d found herself taking every opportunity to touch their skin, to secretly run her hands over their arms and legs as they dozed or sat next to her while she read to them, tales about paternal rabbits and conscientious trains. She traced the soft sacks of their bellies, their cheeks and shallow-buried bones. Their feet intrigued her the most. She often wrapped her hands around them, caressing with her thumbs the tops of their toes, at the line where the pink skin of their soles ended, as if she might be able to feel the exact place, a ridge, where the black began.

Now, twelve years later, the boys were perfectly well adjusted. They definitely weren’t wounded hostages to their earlier lives. None of her fears had materialised. Sometimes, though, usually at odd moments, their colour would still catch her off guard. It had happened recently, at Tim’s home, when Danny had emerged into the hallway dripping from the shower with only a towel held around his narrow hips. Or that day when she’d attended George’s end-of-term presentation at school. He’d stood nervously at the front of the class holding his volcano diorama, wearing his white uniform shirt, his back to the whiteboard. And last summer, at the outdoor pool, when Danny had been poised above the water with his toes hanging off the end of the high diving board. Seen from below, her grandson had been like a beautiful black hole cut into the blue metal of the sky.

Back inside, she put the deadlock on and went into the kitchen. Tim made a point of calling her several times a week, but in all likelihood she wouldn’t hear from the boys again until the next visit. A grandmother out of sight was a grandmother out of mind. Flicking the switch on the kettle, she took her favourite mug from the cupboard above her head and pushed the red flashing button on the answering machine.

Hello. I’m not sure if I’ve got the right number, but I’m trying to contact someone: Suzanne Barnett. Her birth name was Suzanne Taylor. She was the sister of Julia Elizabeth Chamberlain. My name is Victoria Hall. I’m the attaché at the New Zealand High Commission here in London. I’m sorry to bother you on a weekend, but it’s a matter of some urgency. If you would call me back I’d be grateful. The voice recited a number slowly and clearly.

The mug struck the edge of the kitchen counter, broke, fell to the tiles and shattered again. Suzanne made no effort to clear away the remains but stood straight and still among the shards. Occasionally she reached over to play the message again. She couldn’t have told you how many times she listened to it. Enough to pick it clean of all the information it could give