White Jacket

It was a Tuesday. As Melinda walked beside her guardian, she watched swifts weave their aerial paths above Castle Street, flying and feasting on their breakfast in mid-air. Someone talking rapidly distracted her. She glanced down the side street and watched a business suited man clutching a mobile phone while carrying a laptop under his other arm.

With practiced ease, she disengaged, not wanting to find out what lay beneath the spikes of frustration, though envying him both gadgets. Everyone had technology at their fingertips except her.

Children under twelve used mobile phones, but her twelfth birthday had come and gone without the gift she most wanted. She never touched any devices, only watched videos on the large screen, always under supervision, mostly as part of her education.

Across the street, she saw the tired woman with the helmet of permed grey hair. They passed each other almost every weekday. Melinda could see the offices where she worked, up and down stairs all day, bringing in visitors, escorting them out, finding files, replacing them, sorting incoming letters, opening and distributing them. She hated the canteen food but felt others would judge her if she brought a packed lunch. She wasn’t looking forward to retirement because she dreaded loneliness.

The grey hair reminded Melinda of the balls of grey wool the new housekeeper brought home yesterday from town. How funny that the Italian was going to knit a grey jumper for her guardian. Was it possible she unconsciously perceived him in his true form, a human outline filled with swirling fog, those unblinking eyes resembling a pair of silvery flames, the mouth that held no tongue?

Melinda wanted to recommend Crocs like she wore but who would listen to a twelve-year-old? Instead, she offered the woman a smile. No response. Walking with her guardian generally made her invisible to ordinary people because his presence deflected their attention elsewhere.

Going anywhere alone was never an option. Her guardian only allowed her outside of his immediate orbit when she had to practice talking to people. Dog walkers were best because she could admire the dog and ask questions that would not be thought strange.

Although only twelve, her constant training made her feel more like an adult. Because her first blood had come, technically she wasn’t a child now that she could have children of her own, though she hoped she would be much older when that happened.

The closeness motherhood required frightened her, especially with an infant whose perception of the world would be so very different from her own. She wished she could press pause on her unending thoughts but only sleep reliably did that.

When she saw the flag of white on a windowsill ahead, she hoped her guardian wouldn’t notice. She imagined that they would turn the corner and go down the sloping street toward the donkey steps and walk along the beck under the shadow of the trees and listen to the birds singing. She loved birds. Much less complicated than people and never demanding anything.

Although she didn’t glance at her guardian, she felt the bright whiteness being registered, evaluated and turned into a target. Why on a Tuesday morning? She had left the house feeling that no particular effort would be required since people usually only abandoned things on weekend nights. She anticipated jackdaws, swifts, songbirds, perhaps a stray seagull. Life had decided to overturn her smug expectation.

If only she could dwindle, shed the years back to when everything had been a game, even lessons because she was schooled at home. Though she had yearned to play with other children, her guardian recently explained what would happen if, in the rough and tumble, she accidentally touched someone.

As part of coming to terms with that realisation, Melinda had watched a curated montage on the large screen above the hearth. Flickering black and white images showed normal people wrestling in sport, hugging old friends, jostling one another in crowded streets, many other close encounters, the final scene showing a couple walking out onto a balcony and joining in a kiss that would obviously lead to passion. Relieved that the video faded out, she pushed away the fact that she must have a baby someday, maybe more than one. This would require flesh to flesh contact. Difficult to imagine without having experienced a hug or a handshake.

As they continued along the quiet morning street, Melinda hoped the white huddle on the windowsill would turn out to be crumpled paper. Her guardian would add it to the recycling bag he carried and that would be that. But the closer they got, the more certain she felt that it must be cloth.

A small strip of zipper caught the sunlight, revealing the garment to be a white jacket. She wanted to turn and run. She might even be fast enough to get inside before her guardian caught up with her. But what was the use? He would only make her go back.

“We begin with small things,” the guardian reminded her.

“Why?” she asked, though she knew the answer.

Her guardian knew where the question came from, so didn’t tell her that she would work up to larger things with time like he would have done earlier in her training. Instead, he said, “With any gift, there come responsibilities.”

“But I don’t want this gift. Take it back.”

The silvery flames of his eyes observed her with amusement. “I didn’t give you the gift,” his calm voice said, “so I can’t remove it.”

Melinda crossed her arms and stomped one foot as she had seen someone do on a video about the physical expression of emotions, but nothing changed. Rebellion, she knew from experience, only meant that they would stand together near the target as the clouds had drifted slowly across the sky until she finally gave in and did what was required.

She used her right hand to fold the little finger, middle finger, and pointing finger of her left hand into the palm, so that she could secure them with her thumb. She then had to straighten the ring finger because it always wanted to bend along with the other fingers.

Steadying her breathing and clarifying her intention, Melinda stepped closer to the windowsill. The presence of her guardian became like an oak tree whose branches overshadowed her. He would prevent passersby from approaching while she worked, even to the point where people would cross the street and be baffled after they did so.

Slowly, she reached out her left hand to touch the soft white folds of the jacket with the tip of her ring finger which provided the most direct line to her heart. What story would it tell her?

***

Angela unzipped her jacket. Jogging back into town under the pooled light from the street lamps had made her too hot.

Hanging out at the park had been great, even though her best friend, Dorinda, only shared a bottle of cola with her not anything more interesting. 

They savoured the last cigarette from the pack, taking a puff and passing it back and forth, pretending they were dragons when they exhaled the smoke. They didn’t cough like they used to do. Afterwards, they both sucked Polo mints to disguise the smell.

Mum, working late on her laptop again, barely noticed her leave the house earlier and probably hadn’t missed her. She couldn’t be sure as she had left her mobile hooked up to the charger in her bedroom. Dorinda deliberately forgot hers tonight. Only downside was they had no idea what time it was.

They had laughed, though, feeling free and easy because their parents couldn’t hassle them with: Where are you? Who are you with? What are you doing? They speculated whether drones would carry spy cameras in the future.

Feelings bubbled inside Angela as she walked along the pavement, grimacing as she avoided a pile of dog muck. She enjoyed making outrageous plans with Dorinda, though they probably would not carry them out just yet. Boys, the main topic of their conversation, seemed such alien and unpredictable creatures that it was safer to just talk. As they often told each other, they had to get their strategy right for the best results and that would take a lot of discussion beforehand.

She needed set her alarm for early so she could get her homework done. If her grades started to slip, Mum would get upset. No chance of doing it tonight as she needed to catch up online with friends. But sneaking out to meet up with Dorinda had been sweet.

Angela decided to take a short cut through the ginnel, a narrow passageway that cut through the retail shops toward where she lived. The other way would mean a long walk around. A few teenagers would probably be messing about in the children’s play area, but mostly people from her own school, so safe enough.

“Hey, Angie,” came the voice out of the darkness next to the display window of the lingerie shop.

Startled, she saw Terry in the shadows where he leaned against the wall, trying to look cool.

“Hey,” she said, suspecting he had been staring at the headless lingerie mannequins.

“Not so fast,” he said, as she walked past him.

“What?” she asked, trying to make it a challenge as she turned back.

“We never get to talk,” he said, pushing away from the wall.

She didn’t point out that was because she didn’t want to talk to him. “Mum’s waiting for me,” she said, the words a talisman promising safety.

“Let her wait,” he said with a shrug.

“I need to go,” she said, copying that no-nonsense voice her mother used now and then.

Terry grinned. “You need to stay,” he said, grabbing hold of the sleeve of her jacket.

Angela looked at his hand as if it a spider had dropped on her, but she didn’t want to brush it off. Instead, she squirmed out of that sleeve and then the other one.

“Hey,” he said, disappointment and a flare of anger in the single word.

She was already running past the bench and down the ginnel. She must avoid taking this shortcut at night if she was alone.

Nobody in the children’s park. Seriously late then. She was going to be in bother, but all she wanted right now was to be safe, even if Mum shouted at her.

Angela ran around the corner and over the little bridge toward the crooked donkey steps that led up through the dark grove of trees, wishing they were brightly lit or as easy to negotiate as normal steps. Partway up, she missed her footing, but caught hold of the old metal hand rail and kept going.

***

“Again,” the guardian said in that firm yet gentle voice.

Melinda stared at the white jacket which felt like it belonged to her because she had worn Angela’s trainers, her clothes, felt the adrenaline race through her body, the panic and fear which curdled in a residue that elevated her own heartbeat. “I can’t,” she said, wanting to back away but unable to because the guardian stood behind her like a stone wall. 

“We need to return the jacket,” he reasoned.

She shook her head. “We can go into town tomorrow, market day, buy a yellow jacket. Angela likes yellow better because it reminds her of bees. We’ll find a bargain.”

“Where does she live?” the guardian asked, the simple question hanging in the air because he knew that she had not found that out.

Melinda took a shaky breath in. Why couldn’t she be born with a gift for drawing or solving maths problems or anything normal?

She turned around and stared up into the silvery flames of his eyes.

“Can’t you finish it?” she demanded. When she was little, that was sometimes an option.

“This isn’t some leftover salad on your plate,” the guardian commented. “I could, but the easy path isn’t always the best. You must always begin as you mean to carry on.”

She turned back to the windowsill. Normal people had gifts that didn’t require plunging through the normal barrier between one person and another.

Melinda looked watched her right hand fold the fingers of her left hand as before, secured them with her thumb, then straightened the reluctant ring finger and reached toward the white jacket as though it might burst into hot white flame.

***

Terry, holding the white jacket, pounded up the haphazard steps through the shadows. How dare Angie run away? What else was she doing out alone this late but looking for some action?

Her long legs made her faster. Besides it wasn’t a fair race. Nobody had counted down. The stupid uneven steps slowed him because this was her turf, not his. He often hung out in the play park but his friends almost never went up these uneven steps as they only led to houses, nothing interesting. Sometimes Jack brought a plastic cola bottle filled with vodka to share.

He chased Angie along a back street that followed the grove of trees, hating the cobbles that made him have to watch where he ran. When he looked up, he saw her unlatch a gate and rush into a back garden. He crushed the white jacket, wanting to tear the cloth apart.

Not knowing what to do, he raised the jacket toward his face and smelled her perfume. He would keep it. But how to explain to his mother when she found it when she did the next clear out of his room? Maybe he could hide it really well.

Not wanting to go back down the crooked steps as that felt too much like failure, Terry turned left and started walking up a hill. Not a single light on in the houses at either side of the street.

He could bring the white jacket to school and return it to her.

No. That would be lame.

When Angie ducked into the garden, he could have thrown it over the gate. He could go back and do that now. But all these terraced houses looked the same. It might get dirty on the ground, blown away by the wind or be pissed on by a cat.

As he kept walking, he started to worry about his father finding out that he had chased a girl. He imagined whispering as he passed her desk, “Don’t tell anyone.” If Angie had any sense, she would keep quiet. But what if someone overheard?

Best to get rid of the evidence. Terry sniffed the white jacket again, imagining what kissing her would be like, then tied the sleeves into a knot. Maybe Angie would see it on her way to school. If she didn’t, it was her fault for playing hard-to-get. He knew she really wanted him. He dropped it on the windowsill.

***

“You found the house,” the guardian praised.

Melinda barely heard his words as she studied her hands, trying to connect herself to the small hands of a child and escape the memory of Terry sucking at his teenage knuckles and flexing his tongue inside his cupped palm, practicing for getting what he wanted from Angie. He didn’t realise that she hated that nickname. 

“The swifts are dancing,” her guardian said.

She gazed upward and lost herself in their squeaking cries, their aerobatic freedom. All too soon, they vanished from view.

Resembling now, even to her eyes, a man in ordinary clothing whom onlookers tended to label teacher or maybe solicitor, the guardian took a folded cotton bag out of a pocket. He stuffed one hand inside to pick up the white jacket, reversing the bag to contain the garment. Not that he needed to avoid touching it like she did but providing her yet another good example of the technique.

Melinda stared at him until she could observe the grey mist ceaselessly swirling within the human outline, wishing that fog could invade her mind and erase everything she knew about Terry. She rather liked Angela, but didn’t want to think about her either because then she would be warned against getting attached.

“Ready?” the guardian asked.

For answer, she began to walk. Together, they walked down the side of the hilly street under a blue sky where Terry had walked last night under street lights. Everything looked different enough when they reached the cobbled lane at the bottom that Melinda paused, consulting the image of a compass in her mind before heading northwest.

Being much taller than her, when they reached the garden gate behind the house where Angela lived, the guardian reached over the fence to secure the cotton bag to the latch. This satisfied her more than she cared to admit to herself, but then she had grown up learning to return items bereft of their owners.

Melinda knew that making the world right again would demand much more of her as the years went on. This, in comparison, was child’s play, though this morning had taken her another step away from childhood. 

“You can choose another charm for your Crocs after lunch,” the guardian suggested.

Walking alongside him, she glanced down at her purple Crocs, so far bare of any jibbitz adorning the empty holes. The promised reward would not remove Terry from her memory, but Melinda decided she would choose something that Angela might like.

The new Italian housekeeper would navigate the world wide web on the laptop that was always kept locked away to make the purchase. Perhaps they could explore with Google Maps as well. She doubted that the woman would forget the rules and leave her alone in the room with the laptop, but there was always the chance because humans, unlike the guardian, made mistakes.