J - Theo and the Battle of Luding Bridge

Sunlight filtered through the bay window in fat, discrete shafts.
Each beam exposed a dense contraflow; dust motes rising, falling, and
creating slow, whirling eddies where the currents met. Light caught the
tarnished silver rims of Professor Edward Sternum's spectacles, making
him frown. It caught too the teeth of his handsaw, as they grated back
and forth across the throat of a lead soldier.
The percolator in the corner bubbled and gurgled. Occasionally the
pipes in the ceiling made a noise like metal grinding against metal.
Professor Sternum seemed oblivious. He licked his chapped lips.

From some distant corner of the house there came a crash. He put down
the handsaw, frowned. After waiting a few seconds for a sequel, he
reluctantly slid back his chair and went to find the source of the
interruption.

The hallway carpet was maroon and balding. He noticed, with some
consternation, that the living room door was ajar. As he approached, he
could hear his daughter's worried voice.

"Sorry, Theo! Please don't die!" He put his hand on the cold brass
doorknob and entered.
A little girl with fey, auburn hair, dressed in a pink cartoon-print
top, stood in the middle of the room. She looked up, startled. "I'm
sorry, Daddy!" she blurted. "I just wanted to get my book down!" Behind
her, several thick books had toppled off the shelf and were scattered
across the cabinet below, pages splayed and sodden. The carpet around
her feet was wet and strewn with shards of glass. At the central point
of impact was a pile of fine, multicoloured gravel, several limp green
strands of weed, and at the summit, draped across stone, a goldfish. It
quivered, glistening like a newborn. "He can't breathe!" she wailed.
"Daddy, I'm sorry! It was an askident!"

"Shut up, Carbine," he said. "Go to your room." His daughter looked at
him, tears beginning in the corners of her eyes. "Now." He pointed out
of the doorway, towards the stairs. Carbine started to walk, then broke
into a run and scurried past him out of the door.

Professor Sternum surveyed the mess. In reaching for a book of Grimm's
Fairy Tales she had managed to dislodge several important academic
volumes. He shook his head with vexation. They would dry out, of
course, but the pages would wrinkle, and the spines had probably been
damaged by the fall. He glanced at the goldfish. Theo was twitching,
gradually asphyxiating on his mound of gravel. Light played across his
orange scales as he moved.
The Professor tutted, and left to fetch a dustpan and brush.

* * *

Francine Sternum pulled her keys out of the ignition and dropped them
into the handbag on her lap. Through the windscreen, the sky was blue,
almost cloudless. She reached into the glove compartment and took out a
creased pamphlet. She unfolded it and turned it over, rotating it until
she found the little map of Ealing, a red arrow pointing to the
clinic.

Outside, the wind picked up, fanning flurries of litter along the kerb.
Francine folded the pamphlet and put it in her handbag. She took some
documents from the glove compartment, and put them in her bag too. As
she dragged the zip across, she inhaled deeply. The scent of bitter
oranges stung her nostrils, wafting from the traffic-light air
freshener looped around the rear-view mirror.

Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she opened the car door and stepped
out onto the pavement. The wind was fierce, acute. She hastily buttoned
up her coat. She was about to lock the car when she realised she had
put the keys in her handbag. Overhead, leaves rustled and branches
ached as they were tested by each gust. Francine hunched her shoulders
and shivered as she dug the keys out again and pressed the rubber
button on the fob, activating the central locking and priming the
alarm.

She began to make her way down the pavement, gloved hands thrust deep
into the pockets of her coat, dark hair blown awry. To her right were
black railings, punctuated by horse chestnut trees. Beyond, in the park
itself, two children were struggling to control a fluorescent pink box
kite.

Crossing over the road, she passed a bath showroom. Taps and plugholes
sparkled gold and silver. Next door was a newsagent's, its windows
plastered with a mosaic of sun-blanched international phonecard
posters. A yellowing placard, stuck in place with a lump of blu-tack,
read in large capital letters: HAVE YOU HAD AN ACCIDENT IN THE LAST SIX
MONTHS?

Francine turned left, and entered a residential street. The houses were
semi-detached, with russet-coloured brickwork and sprawling front
lawns. She passed a turquoise VW van, parked at an angle on a gravel
driveway. A man with pleated blonde hair, a beard and a nose ring was
squatting down, changing one of the tyres. He wore a sleeveless
charcoal T-shirt with a picture of a flaming skull on it.

Grass sprouted through cracks in the pavement. She had to duck slightly
to avoid the branches of a thorn bush. When she raised her head again
she saw them; a huddle of ten or twelve people on the opposite side of
the street, facing a white, detached house. One by one, the hairs on
the back of her neck stood to attention.

Francine tentatively crossed the road. The tarmac was hot and dry
beneath her feet, road markings almost completely worn away. As she
came nearer she could hear their voices. They were chanting in unison,
like Benedictine monks. A grey cat lay stretched out on the pavement,
watching her. It yawned as she passed, revealing long teeth and a pink,
wet tongue. The chanters drew closer. They were dressed in sweaters,
blouses, jeans and corduroys, mostly beiges, indigos and browns. Each
cradled a black bible. They gazed into the middle distance, mouths
opening, closing, a great Gregorian moan emanating from their
midst.

Francine was breathing heavily. She tried to convince herself they
weren't watching as she stopped in front of them and fumbled with the
rusted gate latch. It gave with a clunk, and the gate screeched open.
She stepped through, her shoes scrunching against sand-coloured gravel,
and pushed the gate to, without looking back. Voices sighed after her;
a low, steady resonance that recalled the hum of power lines, or the
insistent timbre of a ship's engine.

The front of the house was whitewashed, with no windows. Ivy had been
allowed to grow up one side, almost black by contrast. The front door
was double-glazed. Next to it were a recessed wall microphone and a
button. Francine walked up to the door and pressed the button. There
was a burst of static then a trebly voice.

"Hello?"

She leaned forward cautiously. "Hello," she said, "it's Francine
Sternum. I have an appointment for twelve-thirty."

"Hold on."

She stood facing the u-PVC door, the thrum of the chanters heavy in her
ears. A shape appeared through the net curtains. There came the click
of a lock being undone. A dour-looking security guard with a
double-chin drew the door open.

"Come in," he said, casting an irritated glance towards the group
behind her. He moved aside to allow her in, then shut the door with a
bang.

* * *

Professor Sternum gently worked the needle file along the soldier's
arm, scraping away unsightly lines created by the moulding process. He
stopped for a moment to take a sip of coffee.

Three large, faded maps were pinned to the east wall. The central one
was of China. It was about the size of a flag, crumpled and
discoloured. Thick black arrows, stretching up from the south, curving
round to the west then heading towards and culminating in the
northeast, had been drawn on with a marker. The dry, porous paper had
readily soaked up ink, leaving a blotch wherever the pen hand had erred
or hesitated.

Just to the right of the map was a framed print of a black-and-white
photograph. Six Chinese men in caps and double-breasted khaki shirts
posed, hands behind backs or thrust into pockets, against a backdrop of
tall, dark trees. The caption beneath read, in a tiny, archaic
typeface: Ren Bishi, Zhu De, Deng Fa, Xiang Ying, Mao Zedong, Wang
Jiaxiang - November 1931. Just above the photo, also in a frame, was a
PhD diploma.

The air was tart with solvents. Beneath the maps was the desk at which
Professor Sternum sat, round backed, squinting. Newspaper blanketed its
surface, spattered with flecks, streaks and runnels of encrusted
colour. At one end, little tins of Humbrol acrylic paint had been
stacked in teetering piles, arranged by hue from reds through to
oranges, yellows, greens, blues, and purples. A Tupperware box
contained the blacks, the whites, and the metallics. The remainder of
the desk was a congested clutter of miscellaneous craft-related
accessories. There were two jam jars - one containing musty grey water
and three stiff-bristled paintbrushes, the other filled with white
spirit - a split packet of Castle-Craft modelling putty, a spool of
thin wire held together with bag-ties, a pair of wire cutters, a clear
plastic bag of green flocking, a Marks and Spencer coleslaw tub filled
with sand, a ball of string, four needle files of varying sizes, a tiny
drill, a pair of pliers, a tin of Cuprinol gloss varnish, a box of
spent Swan matches, a packet of UHU White Tack, five sable detail
brushes in their plastic sheaths, a pair of scissors, a red-and-black
2B pencil, a tube of Loctite superglue, a 1989 two-penny piece with
spots of white on it, a pin, a stack of balsa wood planks bound with
parcel string, a craft knife, a can of black spray-paint, and a little
cardboard box full of pebbles.

Against the west wall stood a grandfather clock. It had walnut casing
and a long bronze pendulum. Professor Sternum's greying, unkempt hair
hovered in the glass door, above his pinstripe shirt. The time on the
clock was wrong; the hands had stopped at half past four.

Most of the space in the room was taken up by two stout tea chests,
supporting a piece of MDF about the size of a billiard table. An
embossed platinum plaque had been mounted on the side facing the
Professor. It read: The Red Army at Luding Bridge, 1935. Behind it
spread a vast, intricate diorama.

A wide, raging river fashioned out of cardboard and modelling putty ran
diagonally across the table. It was spanned in the middle by a long
bridge, constructed from a tenuous cobweb of jeweller's chain and balsa
wood. White, foaming crests had been painted round places where the
water met rocks, branches, or bodies, the surface glistening from
several coats of gloss varnish. Along one bank ran a buttressed stone
wall made of pebbles. At its centre, between two sentry towers, was a
town gate, barred on the other side with ice lolly sticks glued
together for thickness and drybrushed to resemble oak struts. Figurines
stood on top, commanding the approaches with rifles. There were machine
gun nests at the base of the towers, surrounded by barbed wire.

On the opposite bank, there were close to a hundred painted lead
figurines massing to storm the gate, each with improvised detail work
such as ammunition clips, water bottles, or side-arms. Most were
endowed with defining idiosyncrasies. One soldier's eyes had been
painted gazing nervously skyward. Another crouched on one knee next to
what looked like a piece of radio equipment, holding a receiver to his
ear. On the bridge itself, soldiers were swinging hand over hand
towards the gate, grenades and Mausers strapped to their backs.

Wounded men lay everywhere; on the bank, across the bridge - a red wash
had been applied liberally to the waters below. A single arm had been
positioned reaching up out of the lacquered torrent, vainly grasping
for purchase. There were bodies sprawled in the mud, even someone
apparently in the process of being shot in the forehead.

The door to the study squealed open. From the bridge, it appeared to do
so by itself. The view from atop the gate, however, told a different
story. Carbine stood just within the boundary of the room, an enquiring
look on her face.

Professor Sternum looked up from his work, and turned to regard the
intruder. The little girl's lower lip quietly folded over the upper
one. She stood on tiptoe for a glimpse of the diorama.

"What are you doing in here?" the Professor snapped. Carbine dropped
back onto her heels.

"Where's Mummy?" she asked, cocking her head. She made a show of
scrutinising the bookcase behind her.

"Carbine," he said, adopting an austere, peremptory tone, "this is my
private study. Your mother has gone shopping. Now, out. I gave you no
permission to leave your room." Carbine looked at him. "That means
now." The little girl shrugged, turned, and tottered out of the room.
"Close the door." This parting fiat went unheard or unheeded, his
daughter's footsteps quickly fading as she scampered off down the
hall.

Professor Sternum sighed, shaking his head. Gingerly placing figurine
and file on the desk, he pushed his chair back, got to his feet, and
went to close it himself.

* * *

Francine walked with an ersatz slowness; a trudging, fatigued gait. It
was getting late. The streetlamps buzzed pink and orange. Returning to
the car seemed so much harder than leaving it had been. Her head swam.
She had woken from the general anaesthetic an hour and a half ago. She
knew she oughtn't to be tired. She passed the newsagent's again. It was
closed. The pavement was speckled with chewing gum and squashed
cigarette butts.

She got to the car, opened the driver's door and tossed her handbag
through onto the back seat. It rebounded off the central armrest,
tipping upside-down and scattering its contents across the seat and
into the footwell. Francine blinked impassively at the picnic of
minutiae; a leather purse, half a roll of mints, some tissues, a hanky,
a powder-blue compact&;#8230; She walked round to the front of the
car, drew her foot back and kicked the right-hand headlight as hard as
she could.

Her toes struck the glass with a flat thud. She grimaced, backed away
limping. The headlight was undamaged. Francine scanned the ground for
something solid. Between the railings, nestled in a tuft of grass like
an egg in a nest, was an angular chunk of concrete. She crouched down
and picked it up. The surface was rough, cool. It looked like it had
been split from a paving slab. She gripped it in her fist, the sharp
end poking out.

A gust of wind rustled the leaves in the darkening trees as she stepped
up to the car. She inhaled through her nostrils and swung with the
rock. The headlight burst with a tinkle, scattering glass over the kerb
and into the gutter. Lifting her hand, she saw blood seeping from a cut
in her palm. She balled her hand into a fist, and squeezed. Glistening
red droplets pushed their way through the gaps.

Someone droned past on a motorbike. Francine blinked. Her fingers were
slick, wet. She climbed inside the car to find a tissue.

* * *

Professor Sternum was in the kitchen, making poached eggs, when the
back door opened, letting in a blast of frigid evening air, and his
wife. He glanced at her over his shoulder. She was stooping. She turned
and shut the door.

"Hello," she said. Leaving the eggs cooking on the stove, the Professor
walked across to the bread bin, and retrieved two thick slices of
wholemeal bread.

"Good evening," he said, slotting them into the toaster. He pushed down
the lever. It sprung back up. He pushed it down again. It sprung back
up again, this time making the bread bounce. He let out a hiss of
irritation and pushed it down a third time.

"It's not plugged in," Francine said quietly. Professor Sternum looked
across to the empty plug socket, then to the plug on the worktop
beneath. He grabbed the cable and thrust the plug into place. This
time, the lever stayed down when he pressed it. He returned to his
eggs. His wife made her way towards the chair on the opposite side of
the room.

"Did everything go okay?" he asked. He lifted the lid on the poacher. A
puff of steam misted his spectacles. She took her coat off, and instead
of hanging it on the back of the chair began to wind it around her
forearm distractedly.

"Where's Carbine?" she said. Professor Sternum replaced the lid. He
removed his glasses and wiped the moisture from them with the hem of
his shirt.

"She's up in her room," he said. "She's been misbehaving again." He sat
the spectacles on the bridge of his nose, squinted. "You didn't have
any problems, I take it." Francine gazed down at the cream floor
tiles.

"No," she said. She hugged the coat close to her abdomen. "Except for
the car." The Professor turned from his eggs to look at her.

"What's happened to it?" he said, frowning. Francine ran her thumb
along the plaster on the opposite palm.

"I had an accident," she said.