The open window wheezed its quiet, peppery sighs across the hospital ward, somewhere between the sound of a crickets violin and the breathing of leaves in a garden after rain. The morning nurse had flung it wide at dawn. Light as skimmed milk crept through faded curtains, and the garden outsidea confusion of rhododendron and boxpleased Peteys eyes. Summer heat still loitered far off, as if unsure it was wanted.
They’d removed Peteys appendix, right in the nick of time, so they said. Complicated, the doctor murmured, but Petey, never one to fret, felt only a dazed boredom.
Afraid of needles? the nurse smiled like shed met a lion cub with aspirations.
Petey rolled to his side, stubborn as a drowsy badger. He wasnt allowed to get up yet.
She found little with which to scare himhe had seen worse.
Petey had been carted in from some cobbled alley behind Cutlers Roadseized by cramps on the lam from the childrens home. Not that he didnt have a bed; the home was his estate, more or less. Hed been loafing near the stalls at Kirkgate Market with the pack, grifting tuppence where he could. That was when it all started; the rest, surgery and all, was a blur.
His only regret was that hed let down little Len and skinny Joe. Back at the home, a flurry would be eruptingrunaways, thats what was written in their files now. The deputy head, Mrs. KirkpatrickKirk to her friends, steel to her foeshad visited after the surgery, fussing about like a hen. Petey, hazy with ether, remembered her worried face bobbing before his eyes, but not the details of her scolds.
If only the cramps had struck on home turf. He couldve made it to the infirmary in his slippers. But fate chose otherwise.
It was, he decided, the apricots that did him in. Some vendor at the market had palmed off a box of the half-rotten fruit, sweet as treacle once you grew used to the squash. Theyd stuffed themselves in a way only hungry boys can. Gluttony, simple as that.
Oi, hero! Hows things? called the doctora bearlike man with hairy knuckleschecking Peteys wound.
All the worst bits are done with, lad. No more fear now.
I was never afraid.
Brave boy then, eh? The doctors tone sobered. Nothing but barley water for you, Petey. No treats from any visitorsI forbid them. Wait till evening, and youll get jelly.
Petey nodded to show respect. He knew thered be no treats. Back at Millers Home, no one was thinking kindly of himafter his escape, after dragging down staff with him. Theyd sneaked out through a gap at the hedge; the real sin was getting caught by pain on the return.
The doctor called him brave. True enough. Life made him so. His mother had produced him by accident, hed deduced, more from poverty than intention. By ten, he thought of these things the way all long-term wards of the state doplainly, without rancour.
He bore his mother no ill will. Thanks to her, at least, he lived.
From the cradle to three, hed been at a babys home in Luton, then shunted to one outside Manchester, then, after a scuffle or two too many, to Leeds. Survival became a muscle he flexed daily.
A memory rose: fights in the hall for bits of sausage, the kitchen staff pinching the best grub, the directors car sometimes groaning with the days takenever for the children. Theyd scrap over everything, not just food, and Petey found he could win his own way with fists. Once he busted both arms, another time the barber nearly wept over his scar-laced scalp.
Why weep over such things? Petey never did.
So a scar across his tummy or an injection only made him snort with amusement.
Grown-ups, hed learned, were cold, mechanical. Not inclined to love a rough, scruffy, plain boy like him; certainly not a sweet-faced orphan girl whom kindnesses might visit.
Mind yourself, Wren! Try anything and its isolation! Kirkpatrick admonished often.
Petey rarely argued, but he obeyed in his own fashion. He had rules, principles of his own making.
There was, in all his life, one grown-up he thought of sometimes. Not a mother, exactly, but close enough thatlike children might talk with their absent mums in their mindsPetey sometimes had silent conversations with her. She worked there when he was small, blue-eyed, gentle, with hands like warm tea and a soft, lavendery scent. Shed perch him on her knee and whisper:
You must be strong, Petey. Eat well, mind, and look after yourself. Times will be hard, but youll manage. Just do your best, dear heart. All right?
Then, shed hum him a tunea lullaby about a little grey tabby with white paws and clever, black-tipped ears. Petey, though big for his years, re-ran this tune, mouthing the words inside his ribcage on grim days, and it soothed him.
Then she disappearedinto the mist as adults doleaving Petey just a memory and her song. He forgot her name, so called her Mum in secret, though she was likely just another temp nurse or helper. But imagining otherwise gave comfort.
Now, the nurse closed the window, briskly straightened the bedding opposite. Petey was gladhis own solitary company bored him.
Moments later, a gurney rolled in, trailed by white-capped staff moving in a bustle peculiar to hospitals. Petey watched, breath held as a sharp-nosed, fragile boy was settled into bed, a drip swinging above his head. Soon, only a nurse and a man in doctors whites remained.
They barely spokesentences sparking briefly, dull as flint.
Hell sleep now, said the nurse.
Thank you.
Call if you need
Yes.
The nurse left. The manperhaps the boys fathersat hunched, hands on knees, still as a statue. Petey shifted on his cot; the springs squealed, and the man turned. Deep lines mapped the space between his brows, but his gaze was soft.
Hallo, he whispered, as if surprised to find another in the room.
Hello, replied Petey, after a pause.
The man roused, looked at his sleeping son, moved a chair to Peteys side.
Had an op?
Appendix, said Petey.
Good. Not up yet?
Not yet.
You fancy anything?
Cant. Barley water till evening. Whats wrong with him? Petey nodded at the other bed.
Him? Different sort of ill. Mind if I sit here awhile? Can help, if you need.
Dont mind. Petey shook his head. Not like he had a choice.
The man tidied himself, said quietly, Thats Simon. Hes eleven. And you?
Peter. Ten.
Thank you, Peter, the man said. Petey didnt know why.
The next day, people streamed throughnurses, doctors, family. Simon, the boy, danced near death, hands and head twitching, eyes closed. His father always by, sometimes speaking softly, sometimes gazing at his slack face, as if looking for the Simon he knew.
Later, an elderly pair and a tall, tired woman arrivedSimon’s grandparents and mother. The mother, pale-faced and blotched-eyed, had to be led by the arm to sit. She stroked Simons hand, whispering over and over, smoothing blankets that didnt crease.
Could we move Peter? Simons father asked, glancing at Petey with concern for his wife.
Yes, well transfer him today, the doctor said, finally remembering Petey.
How are you, son, pain?
Sore.
Hed barely slept for itthe night was full of aches, and hed not been fed. Barley water was his prize.
Its time you got up. Well move you over. Nurse will help with the tube.
Petey waited, worrying about his clothes, as people bustled in and out. He began to realise Simon was dying. Simon slept, while the others muttered, carried burdens, waited for what was plainly coming.
That day a young womana relativeremained, whom Petey secretly feared. When the nurse came to remove his catheter, he hinted his embarrassment. She only scoffed, You? No one cares, boy! Come on, quick as a wink.
Yet she was fast, and freedom tasted odd. Petey, naked under the sheets, wondered where his clothes had wandered. The young woman fussed over Simon, barely seeing Petey, tending the dying with ritual gentleness. Petey would have asked about his clothes, but felt invisible.
No one caresthe words echoed, true as a church bell.
Still, he tried to get up, blanket wrapped gawkily round him. Dizzy, legs trembling, he slumped back, defeated.
Want help? she asked.
No. But the bathroom called. Eventually, she offered to find his clotheshospital garb, two sizes too big, arrived instead.
Ill turn around, dont worry, she said.
He pulled on the gigantic trousers, cinching the waist as best he knew. Couldnt bend to roll the hems, so when he shuffled forth, nearly tripping, she knelt to fix him.
Hold stilltoo big by half! Let me sort this Her hands fussed and fiddled until Petey felt ill.
Ill fall
Up we come. She propped him onto a chair. Still a sick lad, arent you? Have you eaten? Whats your name?
Peter.
Im Lizzie. Petey, are you sure your mums not here? Shall I ring her, or
Dont have one.
Oh She stopped. Well, a dad? Anyone?
All right, really. Could do with the toilet.
In there, he met his own hollow-eyed reflectionskin grey, lips whiter than ash, eyes black as crows wings. His surname, ‘Wren’, had been given, a matron said, for those eyesso dark as to seem feathered. ‘Wren’ became his handle at the home, a badge he wore with edge.
He washed his face with cold water and felt more human. Lizzie had ordered him jelly.
What do I dofetch my own now, do I?
Follow your nose to pudding, joked an orderly.
But Lizzie protested, He nearly toppled overno stairs for Peter! Ill fetch it myself. Youre on the thin stuff for now.
Petey roamed the room to shake off restlessness, watched over Simona lovely, fair thing, curls wild as a lamb’s, more like his mother than his father, but hollowing out before their eyes.
Is he dying? Petey blurted, with the directness of boys whove only ever had the truth.
Lizzie flinched.
They think so. Simons been so brave so many operations, so many hospitals. Weve tried everything. But miracles can happen, cant they?
Petey sat, worrying, pondering Simons other-worldly lifeparents, grandparents, cousins, all the brass and trimmings a boy might want. Yet he lay there, fading.
Some dont get luck, thats all.
In the end, Petey wasnt moved, despite plans. Simons fatherMr. James, he said his name wasreturned at night, and Petey heard them discussing him.
No ones been to visit you, Petey? Mr. James enquired gently.
Im from Millers Home, Petey admitted.
Perhaps you should move rooms then Simons poorly. Mr. James sounded weary.
Id sooner stay, Petey answered, surprising himself with how much he meant it.
Four days passed, identical as smokePetey even caught a fever, was moved to a ward full of grampas and ancient grannies, found it dull, so snuck back to Simons room to sit, unremarked.
His discharge was delayed for the fever.
Mr. James, affectionate in a silent sort of way, learned all about Peteypiecemeal through talk and patient eavesdropping. He brought him clothes, hand-me-downs from Simon.
Are they his? Petey asked.
Yes, said Mr. James softly.
But what if he doesnt die? Peteys candour startled them both. In their family, the ‘d-word’ was never uttered. To say it of the only child it was monstrous.
Whys he dying when we did everything right! his motherSophiehad screamed once. There comes a time, Mr. James knew, when reality files all hope smooth. Sophie faded; no son meant no reason. Now, she toyed with tranquilizers while grieving.
Is death painful? Petey held tightly to Simons shirt, as if it were a shield.
Its softer than sleep. Were here to make sure theres no pain.
But he moves.
Sometimes. So we talk, keep hoping he hears us. Its not clear.
Petey was often left with Simon when the family went for tea or air. Mr. James, once, came back to find Petey talking to Simons quiet form:
Dunno where my mum is, Simon. Maybe dead, maybe just somewhere. If she came for me, Id forgive her, I promise. Dont die, mate. See how your mum weeps? And your dadId swap for a father like that. Your shirtsll be clean, promise. Just hang on, will you?
Mr. James cleared his throat. Petey spun round.
He squeezed my hand! Simon did! He knows!
I believe you, Peter. I do.
Simon died in the night. Petey didnt noticenobody told him. When he went looking, the bed lay empty, hospital-prim, all evidence erased.
Wheres he gone? Petey asked the new kid in the next bed.
No clue, mate.
Petey ran to the nurses stationno one. To the doctors lounge, found a young registrar.
Simon! Did they move him?
The registrar shook his head, eyes soft with a kind of old grief. Simon was very ill, Peter
He died? Peteys voice cracked.
Yes. It happens sometimes.
Petey stumbled back, anger flaring. The whole hospitaluseless, all of them, for letting Simon go.
How could he tell them they were wrong? The only outlet was to kick the cleaners bucket, water bursting over the tiles, causing staff to curse, nurse to scold. He didnt carehe shut himself off on his bed, hands clamped to his ears. Hospitals, staffed by legions, could do nothing for a friend.
Odd, he thoughtSimon, forever silent, had become his friend. Petey had told him everything: of his absent mother, the anonymous singing woman, the endless scrapes.
One night, when Petey still slept in the dying boys room, he dreamed Simon sat upright, pale but smiling gently.
Petey lunged, trying to lift him, but Simon asked Petey to let him sit, speaking in a faint, not-quite-boyish voice about his lifea seaside trip, his general-grandfather, a school full of friends, a mother waking him each morning. A life Petey only saw in adverts, never lived.
Eventually Simon looked at the window, climbed up, began to wrestle with the latch, and Petey woke, heart thumping, sure his dream-self had failed to keep his friend safe.
The window in the waking world shuddered; moonlight painted twisted branches on the wall. Sometimes, in the night, Petey took Simons hand, or sang, softly as possible, that song from long ago:
Little tabby, wag your tail, sleep my darling, sleep… Grey tail sways, white paws stay, sleep my darling, sleep
After Simon died, Petey often imagined talking to him. Simon described family beach holidays, the way breakfast happened (Mum hands out tea with a ladle). Petey filled in impossible details, having no family of his own.
He thought maybe every family slept on cots in a single room, with wardrobes like sentinals in the hallway, and that Thursday must be Fish Day, everyone enjoying it because mum said so.
***
When Simon died, Mr. James drew a shuddering breath. Not because he didnt care or was a poor fatheronly that Simon had long since left them, lingering in that limbo between pain and oblivion thanks to careful medicine. Relief came smothered by sorrow.
Now, all there was to do was help Sophie survive, help himself believe life would stumble forward.
Increasingly, though, he thought of Petey.
Impossible, now, to think of adoptionSophie wouldnt countenance it, not when Simons portrait overflowed with flowers, and she spent hours before it, candles flickering like little prayers, visiting the grave daily. Petey was alone, just as they were.
He wasnt Simons mirrorPetey was rough, awkward, black-eyedbut his soul, Mr. James knew, was gentle and untarnished, despite lifes knockings.
Soph, I was at the hospital. Peteys been discharged. They kept him long, but hes out.
Why go there? Sophie asked, startled.
Me? OhI had to get Simons notes. They say Petey threw a fit when he found out Simon had gone. Accused them all.
Silly boy, Sophie sighed.
Exactly.
Dont worry for me. Ill manage
So he said no more, but on Saturday, he set off for Millers Home. Red tape, wary stares, questions hurledthe director, all starch, declined a meeting. He remembered an old schoolfriend, Tessa Saville, now a social services contact in Leeds.
Next day he knocked on her door, poured out the tale. She promised to help. Most important, she emphasised, was Sophies say, and Peteys own. Without that, nothing would come of it.
Stubbornly, Mr. James approached the adoption board, gathered forms, was surprised by how kind they were, promising a meet-up soon.
He didnt tell Sophie, but his sister Lizzie heard. She was buoyed by the ideashe liked Petey, anyway. Both she and their father promised to speak to Sophie, softening her defences.
Still, Sophie always wept at Peteys mention.
He wont replace Simon! Dont you see?
Nobody could. Peteys an orphan, Soph. Were orphans now, too. He cant be our son, not in the way Simon was. But if youd heard him with Simon, wanting him to live, wishing him wellsometimes I think that boy kept me going. Please, lets just meet him. Thats all I ask.
Dont push me
And that became a seed of possibility.
Petey came for a visit, shuffling into the directors office, looking as if hed outgrown hope, hands knotted hard enough to whiten bone, unable to meet anyones eye. He gave Mr. James not so much as a handshake.
Tessa sat with them unobtrusively. Mr. James fumbled through chatter, feeling as awkward as Petey looked. Sophie watched, breathing carefully, unsure. Petey was dismissed early, nerves taut.
So much for fearless, Mr. James sighed, in the car.
Hes desperate for this to work, Tessa told them quietly. He wants to belong, but hes terrified of failing you. Now, all his hopes are in this.
Are we really so fearsome? Sophie wondered.
Youre parents, thats why. Hes not sure how to act.
They planned a day visitPeteys assent came slow, Sophies slower.
At their house, nerves battled with curiosity. Peteys hands sweated. He stared at his teacup, afraid to clink the saucer, lift his eyes, or mar the lavish kitcheneverything too close, unfamiliar.
He was especially afraid of Sophie.
When Mr. James dropped his spoon, Petey twitched.
Blasted thing! Mr. James joked, to break the tension. Im useless, you see. Petey, eat uptheres plenty.
Petey nibbled at a potato, chewing like a stranger, holding it in his cheek.
Relax, mate.
Petey, want to see Simons room? Sophie said gently.
Petey brightened, nodded fierce as a woodpecker.
He tiptoed in. A giant photograph of Simon hung thereround-faced, smiling alive, almost winking. It was almost like Simon was saying: Dont fret. Im here with you.
Hey, Simon! You look chubbier here, Petey said, fingering the frame.
That was before, well before, Sophie sighed.
Before dying, yeah? Petey asked plainly, tracing the pictures edge. Will you show me how he lived here?
Sophie hesitated, fumbled for a photo album.
You go on, look. Ill join you in a sec. She perched beside him, curiosity overcoming grief.
Petey turned the pages, voice running in spurts: “Funny odd ace!” and so many questions.
Suddenly, at a beach photo, he crowed: See! He said you all went to the sea!
Sophie shook her head softly. He told you? Petey, he couldnt talk by then
Petey glanced up, abashed to be caught out on that fancy. He did, to me.
She let it lie. Looking at Simons life alongside this boy, she realised the pain lessened, just a notch.
She took a deep breath and asked, Petey, if we wanted to would you like to be adopted?
Peteys hands stilled. Hed was silent for several heartbeats.
Im not like Simon. He was good. Im not, really. I dont know how
Sophie, suddenly maternal, swept him into a hug.
Thats enough. Wed never ask you to replace Simonjust to join us, as his friend.
Petey stiffenedoutside of squabbles, he hadnt been touched in years. He breathed in her soft, soapy scent, the warmth of arms not ready to let go.
He started thumbing the album again, hands trembling, not looking at her, and she held him, rocking.
Hed never cried before. Not once.
But now a lump rose, and the tears fellsilently at first, then wracking, as he tried to bite them back.
Oh Petey, are you crying? There, there, love, dontelse Ill start up, too. Hold it togetheryoure a man, youre strong! Sophie wiped his cheeks, smoothing salty tracks.
Hed heard those words before.
The window in Simons room stood open to the breeze, ballooning the curtain gently, gardens green shining bright. On the wall, Simons smile blessed them all.
Petey, suddenly tiny, whispered, Do you know a song about a little cat? Grey tail, white paws sleep my darling, sleep?
I think so. A lullaby, maybe? Want me to learn it?
Petey sniffed, nodding fiercely. That was everything.
***Sophie cleared her throat, voice unsteady but growing stronger with every note, making up the tune as she went along. Petey nestled close, as if the song was a secret passageway between worldsa thread from Simon, from the lavender woman of memory, from all the missed mothers and lost years.
As she sang, Mr. James hovered in the doorway, uncertain, unwilling to intrude on their gravitation. He watched Peteys lashes flutter, cheeks slick, Sophies hand gentle on his head. In that moment, their little family, battered as it was, began to mendnot by forgetting Simon, but by letting space swell for someone new.
Petey whispered, somewhere between waking and sleep, Ill remember both of you. And Simon too. Always.
Sophie squeezed his fingers. So will we, Petey. So will we.
Petey breathed in the safety of dusk, the promise of rest in a house with a garden, where even the sorrow in the air seemed to carry a gentle hush rather than a closing door. He listened to Sophies humming and, just before sleep, believed for the first time that a boy like him might be wanted, after all. That a song could outlast grief. That love, when offered quietly, was the bravest thing of all.
Curtains billowed, catching the last gold light, and the little house was silent but for the lullaby carried on the soft, forgiving wind.
