Rose stood facing the kitchen stove. She whistled, the happy notes jarring the uncomfortable communication barrier. Tension rose. Eugene observed every detail of the situation. His mother seemed to be at ease, a first time since the departure of her husband. By no means did that imply happiness; her abnormal whistling was due to the guilt she felt the night before. Panic had driven her to treat her son like an animal – how could she have dragged him down like that? Poor kid was probably exhausted from a blend of constant reading, misery and loneliness.
I’ve tried to make him feel better, Rose thought. He won’t respond to anything. He doesn’t even know why we nearly ended up on the street. We’d always know a war was coming and that every man was needed.
“Maybe a pony will keep his attention,” Patrick had said.
“You think he will choose an animal over you?” I’d snapped, on the verge of tears. My vocal cords tend to get tangled up in my emotions – I nearly choked from the mere effort of replying.
“Rose.” I could feel his eyes floating around my neck, but I stood firm facing the kitchen stove. Pretending to cook always helped me cope with every possible dilemma. I still yearned to hit him and see the affronted look on his face. I still yearned to embrace and live or die with him. “No parent cares about school anymore. Staying here as a teacher will do us no good. I must join the RAF, for better or for worse. And if I stay, with no job and no money, it’ll only get worse.”
A tear trickled down my cheek.
“Sell his books. He won’t need them if you’re here to teach him.”
“How could you even say that Rose? They’ll be all he has left, besides you.”
“Then buy your own damn pony.”
How the tables turn. Sleep deprivation did not improve the circumstances Rose was struggling through. Every night, a battle between selfishness and love ensued:
Her child must be sent away.
She wanted to keep him with her.
To whom?
Patrick’s aunt. If he’s not safe there, where can he be safe?
She’ll never accept.
You must try.
Mrs Falcón would never dare show outward contempt towards anyone, even by a private telegram. Her obsession with wholesome reputation should ensure a reply, no matter how brief or resentful. Whether she loved her great nephew enough to provide him with transient shelter or not, Rose would never find out unless she mustered enough courage to write a telegram. After a week’s endurance of constant air raids, Eugene’s mother could hold out no longer. She sent the telegram.
Now a reply could arrive at any given moment. The primary snitch of the plan had been the fear of rejection from Patrick’s aunt. What if she would refuse? Another quandary hatched inside Rose’s brain. What if Eugene refused? Would she have the gall force him do what she wants? After all, this was for his own good.
Blurred options mulled around in her head, almost igniting her into the daily fidgeting motions. Heartbeat quickening, she felt the panic of hesitation trickle all over her body, spreading agitation to the tips of her fingers. Closing her eyes, Rose monitored her breathing until it was safe to see again. Her lack of motion must have given her away, for Eugene’s head was angled quizzically, displaying a cocked eyebrow and purse like lips.
“I think your bread is getting cold,” he stated in a toneless voice. On the other hand, his piece of bread remained untouched, except for small nibbles around the edges. Taken out of context, one would’ve thought a brace of mice had attempted to stomach it.
Favourable occasions such as these did not occur too often. It was rare indeed for Eugene to participate in the monologue his mother put up for his sake every day, let alone inaugurating the conversation himself. She pounced on the one-time opportunity, “How would you like to take Newton out today?” she asked in the hope that the pony might reduce the boundaries setting them apart.
“I took him out three days ago,” he answered huffily, berating himself for speaking first.
“He’s a pony. You can’t expect Newton to exercise on his own,” she said gently, taking extra care not to shake her head or roll her eyes at the poor pony’s name. Eugene would only get angry if she did. Standing on the edge of a cliff blindfolded is a less painstaking task than coming up with an activity that would cause her son to take interest.
“I’m going up to read,” he stated in voice which left no room to manoeuvre. He stood up from the kitchen table and in a brisk walk with his back straight, rounded a corner and disappeared altogether from his mother’s sight. One gas mask was still under the table.
Rose was left motionless, jaw locked as she chewed a piece of bread that felt like excruciatingly hot bars of metal melting in her mouth. Tears highlighted her pronounced eyebrows, feeding on her self-pity. How could he insult her like that? She would never get him to go. How could her only son hate her so much? Was she such a terrible mother? She shifted her outstretched feet slightly as she sank lower in her chair, touching the concealed gas mask slightly as she did so.
Why couldn’t she just leave me alone? Eugene fumed as he stamped his way upstairs. We can’t go anywhere nowadays, not with these thrice-accursed, bloody air raids. Blaming his incongruent behaviour on the affairs of war made it easier for his conscience to bear. He passed his room in one giant step towards his tutelage with the books. The gas mask screamed out to him as he walked past. Flashbacks of the night before rushed Eugene in a frenzy in a chronological sequence – the nightmare, the doorknob, the stairs, the gas masks, the elbow, his mother and him. Guilt caught up with him once more as he dwelled on his harsh exchanges with her not five minutes ago, when the preceding night she had given him reason to believe she truly loved him.
I’ll try to make the best of it. At least, Newton will be there. I’ll use the pretext of returning the gas mask back under the table. Grabbing it securely by both hands, Eugene trundled back downstairs, trying to figure out how to make amends without hurting his pride. Rose was still in the exact position as when he left the room abruptly. Bowing his head, partly in embarrassment and partly because he did not wish to see the look on her face, he stooped down and placed the gas mask tenderly (as if he was dealing with a delicate ornament) on the floor. Grimly aware of the impact this might have on his pride, he stood up and went over to the doorframe. There he stopped and turned his head slightly:
“For how long should I exercise him?”
Her smiling muscles felt sorely stiff after all this time, but a sparkle of hope bestowed a genuine smile upon her face. Swallowing her sodden piece of bread, Rose met Eugene’s eyes and replied softly, “Till the siren rings.”
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