The story of Emma - Part Three

The story of Emma (Three) - written by Bruno Bernard 2016

November had come abruptly. The days were now shorter, wet and intolerably harsher with the change of the season. The cold western winds swept across the West Country from the open seas. Habitually, I found myself staring at the wintry rain splashing against the classroom window pane. Autumn showers were particularly unkind as I was beginning to discover. The walk to school was a face-down push against a cold wet wind. The late, bleak afternoon walk back home was increasingly darker. Poorly lit street lamps here and there cast long and eerie shadows of all sorts. Tall arching trees swaying over the street made me feel nervous when walking home in the dark. But a few weeks ago the long lazy summers seemed unending. Then the dark western clouds had rolled in and all of a sudden those warm summer memories of Emma were swept aside with a quickening shudder.

Emma was part of my summer memory. I thought about her all through the autumn period as the leaves turned yellow and brown before the rains. In our shortest encounters I played over her smiling eyes repetitively in my mind. But now it was November and the landscape was caught within its death throes. I had many friends at school and of course there was Susan; eight years old and with adorable large brown eyes, she was always there whenever I turned around. She was always watching me with her adoring eyes. But my mind was drifting elsewhere. I was secretly disappointed. Emma was no longer anything more than a brief summer friendship. Her smile had faded just like the rest of nature with the onset of winter’s cold hand. I yearned to see Emma again but those days of slow summer walks to the old churchyard on top of the hill were no longer possible. The country lanes were now cold, dark and foreboding and the thought of visiting an old churchyard bereft of its summer color was forbidding.

Darkness was setting over the land and in my mind I was feeling insecure. The winds began to howl through the cracks of every window in the house. We had central heating with hot water bubbling up the pipes to the radiators. But the western winds were dreadfully bitter and could penetrate any home. It was on one such cold November night that Mummy had to go for an evening dinner party in the little down about a mile down the road. Mummy said that she will be back by eleven that Friday evening. It was the birthday of Mr. Lynn and Mummy gave me permission to stay at home and read books in my room all evening. Our house was quite large. It was a four bedroom house on two levels with the bedrooms upstairs. But the only occupants were myself and Mummy. I was a lonely child in that I had nobody to play with at home. But I had a world of books to keep me company that evening and there was always my toy soldiers so there would always be something to do.

I sat on the carpet floor lining up my Napoleonic infantry men for an impromptu Battle of Waterloo. It was now seven in the evening. Mummy bent down and kissed the top of my head. Her long strawberry blond hair was cascading over the side of my cheeks and I could feel the gentle tickle. Without lifting my head I continued to assemble my ground troops and cavalry. Mummy left the room in silence but by the depth of her fragrance I knew exactly where Mummy was without even having to see her. When the rich jasmine smell in her hair was distant I knew she was going down the staircase to the lower level of the house. As the fragrance faded entirely I knew that I was in the house alone; all except for my toy soldiers preparing for a mighty battle on the carpet floor.

I had decided I was going to reenact the Battle of Waterloo. I threw down a towel on the floor and made a tiny bump and placed my British infantrymen in a menacing defensive position on the top of the bump. Wellington was placed behind the line to cheer on his troops with a group of hussars to the right flank to look decidedly ferocious. The French infantry, I threw in a line at the bottom of the towel on the carpet. Napoleon was not to be outdone. I lined him the great general behind his elite French infantrymen with a large group of cuirassiers. It was going to be an epic struggle so I quickly reached for a cup of Ovaltine from a flask on the dresser table . But the battle was not complete. I began ruminating in earnest. I needed some improvisation to make the fight a more memorable event. Downstairs the grandfather clock chimed eight. There was not a moment to be lost. I looked around my basket of toys and found the solution. So I threw in a WW2 Sherman tank on top of the towel with the British and a medieval trebuchet at the bottom of the towel hill on the side of the French to spice up the fight! The decided intervention was an inspirational success. The French started the battle and immediately I launched the French medieval trebuchet and threw a huge chunk of Lego into the air in the direction of the British line and which instantly knocked the turret right off the British Sherman tank and skittled a good section of defending British infantrymen on top of the towel hill. There was no time to be lost. The French were up the towel hill and it was all cut and thrust stuff now. Wellington had somehow lost his hat in the fray and must have been startled. The British infantry fell back and were almost done in by the courageous French elite rising to the cries of a defiant Napoleon throwing in his lot with great bravado. All was nearly lost as the desperate melee drove the British back. Suddenly I realized this could not be right. Seizing the moment in another flash of inspiration I came to the rescue of Wellington’s noble men. Wellington’s hussars were now being pressed in desperation by a large flanking body of cuirassiers. Suddenly out of nowhere I hastily reached for the reserves and decided to throw in a marauding Spitfire with decisive genius to rescue the British and drop more Lego bricks on the advancing French infantry and turn the heated battle on its head. The day was saved by a Spitfire and Wellington’s men stood their ground. Waterloo was won even though the French trebuchet had let off one more giant Lego chunk and successfully managed to do more harm than good by knocking out a good portion of the retreating French line! I threw my fist in the air with satisfaction and Wellington was a hero all over again; largely thanks to my inspired choices whilst remaining generally irreverent of any pertinent timeline in the history of warfare.

My spirits lifted stood up and went to the dresser table where Mummy left me plenty of buttered toasties on the table with a flask of Ovaltine to warm my spirits should I feel bored. I tucked into the sugared and buttered slices of toast with agreeable. But still the wind was howling outside and darkness had thickly enveloped the entire neighborhood as if under a menacing pall of doom. I went over to the window and sat by an armchair and tall lamp and stared into the rain. Outside I could see the trees sway in the wind through the darkness. I reached for some picture books on a small table beside the armchair. There was a Dr Seuss, some Tin Tin but eventually I settled for a colorful cartoon book of Asterix the Gaul.

The grandfather clock in the hallway downstairs chimed nine times. My eyes were beginning to feel a little weary through all the excitement of the Battle of Waterloo. My mind was now drifting and I turned to look through the window pane again. The room was warm but I could feel the cold against the window pane. I looked down at my book and tried to ignore the pitter patter on the window. It was then that I first realized that there was the faintest suggestion of a rose fragrance in the air. I looked around the armchair and towards the open bedroom door wondering if Mummy had returned with a different fragrance. But the house was silent and so I turned back to my book and continued reading.

The clock downstairs chimed ten. I had put down my Asterix and now resorted to flicking through pages at random from any book I could pick up by the side table. Then there it was again; the fragrance was now stronger. It was the faintest aroma of a rose and it was gradually growing stronger. I could not concentrate on my books and I wondered now how the room was slowly becoming filled with an over-powering sense of roses. I looked down at the pages on the book sitting on my lap again. It was then that I could feel the strong sense of a rose closer to me, almost as if the sweet odor was coming from behind the armchair. My mind was now swirling with apprehension. The powerful feelings of discomfort were now surging through my mind as I began to place a bearing upon the fragrance growing behind me. I could almost feel as if there was another presence in the room. But I did not want to acknowledge my senses. I flicked a few pages more. It was at that moment the heavy silence in the room became so acute. The air of roses was now so distinct that I was becoming dizzy. I rubbed my eyes and thought about Mummy. Then my senses started screaming back. The volume of silence was pressing me down. Even the pitter patter against the window pane was being drowned out as I realized there was a presence standing behind me. Closer and closer we were now almost in contact. I looked at the night lamp by the side table. My mind was becoming paralyzed with fear. My hands were now becoming so white as I gripped the open book on my lap. I felt that the hairs on my head were becoming electrified and trying to stand up. There was someone behind me standing in the silence; watching me. I could not move my body. Out of fear I could not look behind me. The fragrance of roses was now so strong I could almost touch the presence behind me. It was then that I could feel as if the presence was looking over my shoulder and down at the pages on my book on my lap. My mind and my body froze as I could almost feel a chin rest on my shoulder. Then I knew that her hair was touching my hair as she paused over my shoulder, hovering and watching. My mind then slipped away into the darkness with the soft fragrance of rose stealing my senses. I drifted into a slumber.

When I woke in the morning the room was slightly chilly. I was on the floor. There was a pillow under my head and a blanket over my body. I turned on my pillow and on my side I gazed across the carpet The scattered toys had been gathered and were now contained in my toy box on the floor. From across the hallway I could feel the fragrance of jasmine. Mummy was home safely. I blinked then drifted back to sleep.

A clock chimed ten in my mind. I struggled to rise from the floor but eventually I made my way to the armchair by the dresser to find my towel. I was yawning. The air was grey outside as light streamed through the bedroom windows. I reached for a hairbrush on the dresser table by the armchair but instead I clumsily knocked over a large thick book and it fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Crouching on my knees in silence I stared at the open leaves and saw the title ‘Gem of the Nile.’ It was a novel Mummy was reading to me at night sometimes to send me to sleep. Inside the book were a few pressed flowers that Mummy must have picked up from the abandoned graveyard in the summer. I picked one of the dried flowers and pressed it against my nose and closed my eyes. It was a pink rose and it bore the slightest hint of a rosy fragrance. Instantly Emma came to my mind and in my mind’s eye I recalled her gazing into my eyes with such a warm embrace. Her eyes sparkled with enchantment as she handed me the pink rose. I opened my eyes again and sure enough, yes, this was a pink rose, dried but still bearing the semblance of a summer memory. My mind started drifting. I looked down at the title again. ‘Gem of the Nile’ and I thought about the rose. The faint fragrance of Mummy’s jasmine wafting through the open bedroom door from the hallway was now lost within the swirl of a new scent taking over my senses. The silence of the morning was now being drowned out as I could hear the blood rushing in my own temples. I must have been imagining things. But the rosy scent was distinct now from the dry pressed flower. ‘Gem’ I wondered in my mind. ‘Gem.’ I paused. ‘Em,’ I opened my eyes wide now with a sudden realization. My summer memories were now swirling in my mind and I could see the little girl dressed in blue smiling back at me and stretching out her hand and handing me a pink rose. She had a beautiful soul and even though we met a brief while she sparked a flame of friendship that was so warm inside me. ‘Emma’ I quietly whispered into the silence as I stared at the dry pink rose in my hand. My heart warmed at the sudden thought of her. The smell of roses was now distinct in the room overpowering the wafting jasmine from across the hallway. Emma was lingering in my mind. I could almost count each freckle under her eyes as she glowed with a smile. In the instant, it was if I could hear an echo in my heart. A pink rose; Emma ... ‘Emma,’ I whispered once again. It was then that I could hear behind me a faint and barely audible sigh.