Small People

Thump,clang, bang. The pipes made those noises, in that order; almost like a steam train, the ones that go through the valley -huffing and puffing, billowing white smoke from their chimneys. And the model ones that ran through our lounge, whizzing past the sofa, and under the tv. I used to watch them admiring their speed and efficiency, thinking of the rides I had had on trains around the valley.

That train set was Mum’s, she built it herself; crafting and painting the small people. Watching patiently, I would sit on the sofa, wanting to know whether the small people would come out of their little houses; and come to life -but they never did. Even when she wasn’t in the house for whatever reason, I would sit and wait for her to come home, and for the people to come alive, to creep out of their stations and railways.

Child fascination never ceased to exist, even when others did; and the bare reality of school took it’s toll on my self esteem. Like other’s imagination, the train set slowly diminished -parts breaking off- coffee spillages and other incidents. The last remaining train was the grand green one, proudly a loft on my bedside table. Just like Mum had taught me, I still made it whistle; running it up and down my bed, along my bookshelves, across the carpet; Dad told me that they didn’t have tracks -what did I care.

The hotel room was empty; Mum and Dad had gone down early -perhaps they wanted to watch the planes fly in. Red linen blinds made no effort to conceal the sunlight, showing the cream room. Next door’s shower switched on, clanging and banging.

A Whistler painting hung above me, a town scene filled with his famous matchstick style men; my art textbook lay open on the floor, a double page spread of his work. Slumped next to it, my sketchbook, notes scribbled onto the pages, black men dancing around them, a train ran along the bottom of the page. In my mind the train ran along the track making perfect time to each corner -like the train set in out lounge- and the men and women danced.

Getting up I pressed the start button on the coffee machine; and waited for the bundle of caffeine to fall out.

A two pound coin was shoved into my hand, my hair still wet from the hour of torturous swimming. Dad indicated to the vending machine, not wanting to spend any longer in the foul smelling pool. I always went for ‘prawn and cocktail’ as I used to call it, letting my fingers turn pink at on the journey home.

Punching in the numbers, I wondered how these machines work; Dad always knew the answer -but after sitting around a humid swimming pool for well over an hour- he was obviously going to say something a long the lines of “I don’t know.” Licking my lips I turned around, “Dad,” I said, pausing as he never listens the first time.

Grunting, he blinked and stood up from his position against the wall. “Wha!” Oblivious to the fact I had said anything at all.

“How does this work?” My crisps thudded to the floor, and I stooped down to pick them up.

“ Well when you put the money in, it sends a signal to whichever item you paid for... ” He trailed off in my mind, I wasn’t listening, it was all too complicated. In my head small animals and humans pushed buttons, which flashed to make other small animals and humans do the same until the item came out.

We reached the car and got in; my hands were sticky but I didn’t care.

Foul brown stuff was poured out of the machine; I was always put off coffee, mainly because of the fag smell that lingered around it in the humanities block. I vowed never to drink it; but then the late night homework sessions kicked in -and life just got that little but more complicated.

Showering, washing, and dressing quickly; I waited for the knock on the door. I knew that they would knock because they always did; and because they left their key on the hook -visible- by the door.

Packing my wash things, I thought about the past two weeks; Florida seemed like paradise, and on the other side of the world. All my friends had gone, and had come back with tans, sharing wonderful stories with each other about Disney, and other places they had been. Only part of me wanted to go -but the rest of me didn’t care- Dad took me after a lecture from another mum; the sort of person who thinks you’re doing everything wrong -and always wants to know if you’re okay. The truth is, he isn’t; when Mum stopped working, nothing gets spent on luxury items; the hospital gave us the money.

Sitting round a big glass table, in a white room, the doctors made notes on bits of white paper -only looking up to glance at the clock. They were obviously going to tell us something bad.

“Right Mr Walder, you have something to ask us?” The doctor in the middle said.

“I would like to take my wife to Florida.”

“Dad, no, please.” We had been through this a thousand times, I didn’t want to go.

Three of the doctors started laughing, “A child who doesn’t want to go to Disney!”

“When I told my daughter she screamed.”

“Mine fainted.” Other comments like these filled the room.

Standing up, he raised his voice. “It may be the last chance we get.”

The doctors stopped laughing. Everything slotted into place now; I understood why Dad wanted this so much -so we could have something happy to hold onto and remember. “Please,” I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell that he was pleading. “Before it’s too late.”

What Dad had just said ruined the whole experience. It was not the fact that most girls went to Disney with the promise of return the next year; whereas I only had the one chance because of money. I only had the one chance because my mother was dying.

Not understanding the whole cancer thing, sort of helped, in so many different ways; you may think that you would want to know, but really -you don’t. It lead you to believe the worst; which lifted the weight off your shoulders when the worst didn’t come.

Switching on the tv, I slouched down on the bed; I imagined small people running around the plastic casing, managing -somehow- to keep everything in order. Their small bodies running around like a small business.

Switching it off, I wondered where they had got to. If they had thought that they were going out for long, then they would have left a note -but none were to be seen. And if they wanted me to join them for breakfast then they would have woken me up. Maybe I was expecting something magic to happen; but nothing sprang to mind -it had happened a lot recently; thinking about things that would never happen; maybe that was the danger of going to Disney.

Making my way into Mum and Dad’s room, I spied two suitcases packed on the bed; still with the labels on. I didn’t notice this at first though; I noticed the answer machine flashing. Desperately holding back the tears; I pressed the start button down, hoping what I thought was on there wasn’t...

“Mew, we don’t have long. As soon as you get this message walk down to reception, a man will be waiting for you there; he will call you a taxi and explain what happened...”

Without even thinking where I was; I pulled open the door ignoring the instructions to walk. Tears running down my face, blurring my vision. My fingers slid down the banister, not because of the polished brass, but because of the sweat in between it. Round the corner to where a man stood at the reception desk.

Eyes focused on the computer screen, the maroon uniform in colour coordination with the rest of the hotel reception. He jolted his eyes up to mine, and without asking, he knew who I was. People turned and stared.

I was directed straight into a taxi; as soon as my bottom touched the seat, the phone rang in the reception. As the taxi pulled away, he ran back out; my heart lifted, only to be pounded on the floor by the look on his face...

It really was our last chanc