7. A HURRIED MOVE AND WET PANTS.

Moving from the vicaage

“I want you to come with me, to daddy’s funeral,” said Helen to Wallace the very next day. The funeral was scheduled for three days hence and, despite her personal reservations when it came to his faith, she knew he would have liked his son to witness his final moments above the green, green grass of the graveyard, or at least the ornate box his remains were resting in.

Wallace was still struggling to understand the actual and absolute meaning of death and the single fact that nobody returned from it, and he remained silent. Saying goodbye sounded awfully final, and it troubled him.

“I’ll come with you,” said Maureen encouragingly. “I’ll make sure that you’re alright. See if I don’t!”

Now, I don’t think...” began Helen, but her sister butted in, “yes that would be a good idea, Maureen. We should all be there to say goodbye because we’ve been like one family ever since my William got slaughtered in the war.”

“You think it’s wise, Amy?” asked Helen, “he’s so young.”.

“I know that Wallace isn’t five yet. It’s a lot for him to take on board. It might help him if he’s got somebody closer to his own age with him, somebody who’s gone through that kind of loss,” replied Amy, almost defiantly.

“Maybe,” sighed Helen, and that was that.

The funeral was quite a simple affair, though there’s nothing really simple about the sort of grief that bids farewell to a loved one when he’s slowly and almost theatrically lowered into the ground. And there’s nothing understandingly simple about the words intoned by a clergyman, the Reverend John Simpson, who seemed to be more in tune to the sound of his own voice than the actual meaning of what his voice declaimed in such a sombre voice.

And afterwards, in the vicarage, there was a kind of party, sandwiches and glasses of this and that from bottles, some of which had been opened for years and hardly ever touched, orange squash for the children and goodness knows what in small glasses for the adults, most of whom murmured that they didn’t particularly like it but sipped it anyway.

Then the day was over and a whole new future began for little Wallace Pratchett, a future that included free school meals and sympathetic stares from strangers … and moving house.

It all happened very quickly. A man from the council came in company with the Bishop and commiserated with Helen and suggested that if she was happy continuing to share her home with her sister and niece then a large enough council house on a large new brash estate was almost ready and waiting for them to move in. It might have been designed and built for them, he said, though there were families with a burdensome amount of kids who would gladly take their place if they didn’t want it.

“Of course,” said Helen, “beggars can’t be choosers.”

He eyed her warily at that. “And there’s a new school being opened soon,” he said, his tones oily, “so your children won’t have far to go! A brand new school for a brand new housing estate, and a brand new future for the working folks of the town!”

“And there’ll be access to Christ,” boomed the Bishop, not wanting to be left out, “we’re building a brand new chapel where everyone can come and pray. There’s be Sunday School for the kids and proper services for seekers after enlightenment. The future is God’s and his alone!”

Helen thought about asking what enlightenment and future there was in a father dying so young, but decided against it. But Wallace contributed “daddy’s dead,” which almost did the job for her.

And she gratefully accepted the keys to a brand new house.

And mere days later a furniture van pulled up and the furniture not belonging to the church was piled into it, leaving the vicarage still reasonably well furnished when it had gone. But boxes of personal possessions together with a few items the Pratchett’s had bought themselves were piled in together with the remnants of Amy Rosebush’s treasured possessions that had come with her when she had moved in with her sister’s family. In truth, she was probably better equipped than her sister, at least for the time being.

Then Wallace and Maureen were told to sit in the back with Amy whilst Helen sat at the front with the removal men, and the van trundled across town to where the new estate of council houses was still under construction. Some of the roads had been finished, but some were still unmade, mere tracks that would be coated with tar and gravel before the estate was finished. A huge diesel roller stood by, waiting for its turn to come, and Wallace caught it out of the corner of his eye as the van trundled past.

Their house, Number Four Elm Avenue, was larger than the rest. It occupied a space on a short stretch of road between the two end houses, a patch of land obviously deemed too small for a pair of semi-detached buildings, and so perfect for a slightly larger detached home.

The furniture van pulled up, and Wallace wet his pants in excitement when he saw the signs of recent building, the grass verges that separated the road from its pavement still churned up and muddy, and the gate with a number 4 hanging on a temporary board.

He looked shame-faced at Maureen.

“Look,” he said, “I’ve only gone and done this.”

She saw the spreading wet patch on his grey shorts and smiled at him. “We all do that sometimes,” she said, “it’s the thrill of moving house and discovering new things in the world.”

“Do you?” he enquired.

She shook her head. “But I’m a girl,” she explained.

“It’s nasty,” he complained, because it was. Winter was just round the corner and though it had been an uncharacteristically balmy autumn the first frosts of winter were already threatening to freeze the moisture in the small boy’s shorts.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Maureen encouragingly,” you just run up and down the road as fast as you can. It’ll warm you up and help your pants to dry, like the wind does when mummy hangs the washing in the wind to dry.”

Wallace usually took notice of what Maureen said, and he did this time. “All right,” he murmured, “I’ll run and dry myself!”

And he did run, fast as the wind, or so he thought, along the short road and to the end before he turned round and ran back.

“They’re still cold and wet,” he shivered to Maureen.

“Run again, then?” she encouraged him.

As he trotted back and forth their possessions were carried into the house by the two removal men, but made very little contribution to furnishing what was really quite a large house, with four bedrooms. Helen shook her head when she saw the spaces where proper furniture should be.

“Very spartan,” she said sadly to Amy.

“We’ll get fixed up, just you see,” replied her sister encouragingly, “meanwhile, have you got a spare pair of trews for you Wallace? He seems to have had an accident, and it’s really quite cold to be wearing soaking pants.”

© Peter Rogerson 02.06.19