One year ago

The air had a bitter, stone-cold edge; it was so cold my skin felt damp, so cold my ears throbbed, so cold my breath puffed in front of me. The station buzzed, not excitedly, not angrily either, but some mix of the two. Through the hubbub, I remember hearing a round sort of voice saying sadly, ‘Oh Marge, it’s not as though we don’t have enough skeletons in our own closet.’

I don’t know why the oh-Marge lady stuck in my head. Because all that mattered that day was Alfie.

His cheek was smooth and pale, his bag slung in such a would-be-carefree way across his shoulder. His shoes were shinier than I ever thought I’d see them (‘You should look your best,’ Mum has told him the night before, as she sat at the kitchen table frowning sceptically at the toe of his left boot). He was holding his arms closer than normal to his body and his face looked different, as if he had to tighten the muscles so his features didn’t smudge together.

I remember that a whistle blew and there was an unconscious hesitation, a moment where every person on that platform was waiting for every other person to move. Then the moment was over, and Alfie turned to Mum, and he sort of collapsed into their hug. Not Mum, he didn’t collapse onto Mum, he wasn’t leaning on her more than usual. But it was like he was sinking into the hug, soaking it up, remembering it to describe to someone later.

Then he turned to me and stuck his arms around me and I didn’t realise I was crying until I saw the wet patch on the back of his shirt. It looked a bit like a teddy bear without ears. And also lying on its side.

I’d planned to say, ‘I’ll miss you. I love you,’ but the words couldn’t squeeze through my throat without changing shape and they turned into his name.

‘Alfie.’

‘Jo,’ he said. ‘I - you’re my -’ He gave me a little shake, nodded his head a tiny bit. There was a black speck on his cheek, just under his eye. ‘ - you’re my sister, Jo, and you’re so - ’

The whistle blew again and there wasn’t a pause this time. Boys began to move towards the train, each walking in the same deliberate way, as though they’d been warned the ground was slippery. Black smoke started to belch from the train into the sky, thick first, and then splitting into wisps as it floated higher. Alfie hugged me again, tightly, hugged Mum, and we started to wave, wave as he walked away. The object in my throat had expanded and I could hardly suck air in. I thought Mum would put her arm around me, but she stayed staring straight ahead, at Alfie.

I tried to focus on him, remember him, remember the freckles on the back of his neck, remember his combed hair and oddly square fingertips, but there was so much noise, and I was crying properly, crying as I watched him, crying as he clambered on the train.

The whistle blew for the third time, and the train started to move.

We stood there, Mum and I, alone but surrounded by dozens of others, until long after it had drawn out of sight.

✹

Now

‘Jo?’ It’s Mum’s voice, quiet, gentle. ‘Are you okay, darling?’

‘Yes,’ I hear my voice say. ‘I’m fine.’

I look at the ground. There are soggy leaves flattened on the footpath, and they squelch as I walk. Muddy water spurts through the hole in the side of my boot. I look up, up at the sky, and have to blink at its dazzling brightness. I glance at Mum. Her scarf is green, but the spots where she had to mend it are darned in blue wool. The soft creases around her eyes look like the lines on my palm.

I tuck my hands into my pockets. Stretch, unstretch my fingers. Breathe in sharply through my nose.

Tears blur, and I blink once, twice, four times, hard, sharp blinks, trying to scrub the feelings away.

Mum turns through the gates and into the village park. There’s a solid metal fence around the edge of the grass, and if you gaze at it and unfocus your eyes, the bars seem to shimmer in the air.

Around fifty seats are arranged in rows facing the Memorial Stone. It’s tall and dark grey and I’m sure it would be cold to touch.

I sit next to Mum, and look to the front, my eyes on the blotchy nose of the man speaking. Even if I tried to, I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to hear his words. There’s a high-pitched whistling in my ears.

I think of Alfie teaching me how to skim a stone the time we went to the seaside, Alfie saving his money to take me to the pictures, Alfie trying not to cry when he broke his arm. I think of showing Alfie the first scarf I ever managed to knit, the way he lifted me from the ground and swung me around and around.

I think of a doorbell ringing and running down the stairs and seeing Mum at the kitchen table, a telegram in her hand, and I think of her broken face. Missing in action. Each such an insignificant word when used alone.

I think of the way she hugged me, and the way we both cried, and Alfie’s face skims again and again through the black space behind my eyes.

I look at the memorial, and I look at Mum, and I think: what will happen to us now?