Chapter 10. Barefoot in Puddles

August 10, 1938

Wednesday

I sat patiently in the chair by the door. The square of tile sitting firmly on the wall opposite was cracked. I scrutinized it carefully. It looked very much like the river depicted on the map: here was the mouth, and here it looked like several tributaries. I wonder if Irene knows how to draw landscapes, or just people's faces.

"Tom, come in," Mrs. Cole sounded stern, as usual. I obediently got up from my chair and followed her through the open door. Her office was simple, but very bright. There was a huge window exactly behind the desk. "What did you want?"

"Mrs. Cole, I'd like to ask you to let me and Irene go for a walk today," I tried to sound peaceful and even a little pathetic.

"Tom, I'm still convinced that the dress your friend showed up in was stolen."

"No," I objected sharply. "That's not true, Mrs. Cole!" I realized at once that it was a cruel mistake to exclaim so loudly, and I tried to switch to a softer tone and, without hesitation, generated another lie right on the go: "The good woman herself gave that dress, because it had been made to order for her granddaughter and, unfortunately, it was too tight, you see? The money had already been paid... So, she decided to make Irene happy. Besides... Don't we look like children in need?"

Mrs. Cole's gaze was stern and inquisitive. No muscle twitched on my face under the onslaught of the desire to catch the thief and liar that she had long ago labeled me as.

"All right," she answered with a deep sigh. "But come back before dinner."

I nodded obediently, and headed quickly toward the small hall on the first floor. Irene, dressed in a black dress with a starched white collar, was standing at the door. She was leaning against the jamb with her arms crossed over her chest, staring intently at the kids playing some silly games right on the floor. As soon as she saw me, her whole face was transformed: the coolness dissipated behind a sly smile. I winked, grabbed her warm hand and pushed the door open.

"I hope you're not planning on falling off the bridge into the cold water," I skeptically blurted out as I walked, looking up warily at the protruding "A."

"Of course not," Irene snorted. All we're going to do is cross that Millennium."

I clicked my tongue loudly and showed with my whole appearance that I didn't support the idea. But in any case, it was better than sitting in a stuffy orphanage and looking at the kids whose mental abilities were in great doubt. It was windy outside, but very hot. In spite of that, we reached the bridge pretty soon. The Millennium was crossed at the speed of light, because its swaying due to the wind caused panic, of which I did not, of course, notify Irene. As I hurried across the bridge, holding her hand tightly, all I could think about was how the sway of each step was about to topple me down and I would be drowned in the muddy water like a miserable bug. In an attempt to distract myself, I grumbled:

"Don't tell me we're going..."

"Yes," Irene interrupted me, "that's where we're going."

"Well, what for?" I rolled my eyes involuntarily, slowing my pace.

"I might remember something, Tom."

The area around seemed flat, but in fact St. Paul's Cathedral was at the top of Ludgate Hill. Irene followed the thin thread of memory, and soon we were both in front of a huge, white building. Its bulk and majesty were pressing me to the ground, and I felt too small at once.

Irene's movements had been sluggish, and she looked more like a thorn in my side. But then she perked up, and her movements became shark-like, quick and sharp. Two raven-colored braids fluttered before my eyes, dragging me deep into the cathedral. I wanted to grab them with both hands at once, as if they were inviting me to do it in their teasing dance. The impulse was so strong that I automatically pulled one of them.

"Ouch!" Irene cried out. Only then I realized we were already inside. It was very bright. The sun was shining through the near-ceilinged windows, and the golden candlesticks were sparkling beautifully. There was practically no one inside except the lone priest who was at the altar. "Are you an idiot?" she hissed, throwing her braids forward irritably.

I answered nothing. The beautiful decorations consumed every concealed corner of my mind. Religion had never interested me, and I didn't believe in it, but it turned out to be quite beautiful. Irene stepped forward confidently, apparently toward the clergyman. The clatter of small black sandals seemed too loud. I sat quietly on the pew on the right side and continued to look at the ornate gilded images beneath the domes. A creaking door behind made me turn around: There was a tall man, neatly dressed, standing on the cathedral threshold. A black overcoat, under which a strict white shirt with a dark polka-dot tie was visible, harmonized well with a dark hat. He walked leisurely along the benches and sat down in the left row. Here were all the visitors. These cathedrals are not so much in demand! I looked ahead lazily. Irene was slumped. The older man put his palm on her head, then nodded, and she headed back. I decided not to ask any questions, at least not yet. She'll tell me all about it herself. She glanced furtively at the man to her right, and then at me the same way. For a fraction of a second, I felt a little uncomfortable. She strode toward the exit, seemingly ignoring my existence, and I hurried after her.

"Don't look at me like that anymore, Irene!" my insistent request sounded more like an order.

Irene stopped abruptly.

"You know, Tom, you looked at me like that for nearly a month when I came to that damned orphanage, and I didn't complain," she said sharp, cold and unpleasant. "You'll get over it somehow."

"What's eating you?"

"Absolutely nothing," Irene said and continued on her way. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.

"Irene, stop it. I hate tantrums."

"Tom, this is not a tantrum. Learn to distinguish emotions. I am terribly infuriated by this ignorance and misunderstanding. I remember absolutely nothing but the cathedral and the bridge. And now my only memory is cut off right there. My whole life now is a filthy orphanage where the only normal person is you."

So, it turns out that I'm not enough for her? Annoyance hung like a stone around my stomach, pulling me uncomfortably toward the ground. A gust of wind mussed my hair defiantly. I took a deep breath. I looked up into the sky. The cumulus clouds floated by hurriedly, like pot-bellied men who were late for important business. I pressed my lips together so I wouldn't say anything nasty that might slip unintentionally off my tongue. Exhale. There was an oppressive silence.

"I just have a bad feeling about this." Irene said and hang head.

"Everything's going to be all right." I guess that's what you're supposed to say in situations like this.

Irene's thoughts and attitude hung over my head like a sword of Damocles, giving off that nasty aftertaste of anxiety. I hugged the frail figure, wanting to feel the full power over her emotions and feelings. The things of the orphanage kids I liked, I just took and put in a box hidden in the wardrobe. But what to do with her?

Somewhere far away, at the very entrance to St. Paul's Cathedral, stood a familiar man in a black coat and the same charcoal-black hat. He slowly lit a cigarette, looking around the place. Why do people smoke? I've always found self-destruction and the pursuit of death disgusting.

"Do you want to go for a walk?"

The head on my chest nodded obediently.

After covering a distance of several blocks, in about forty minutes we approached the small but cozy Mile End Park. The gusts of wind intensified, more and more vividly catching the clouds, which rapidly changed color from fluffy white to dirty blue. A raindrop struck flat on my nose, which made me snort unhappily. Few people left the park in a hurry.

"No, not this, please," I muttered disappointedly, looking around in the hope of finding some hint of a potential shelter. Irene, on the contrary, got very excited.

"Come on, Tom!" she challenged. "It's no big deal!"

She belligerently checked the reliability of her braids, and fixed her collar. Then she fixed her gaze on me and began to roll up her sleeves. Her green eyes blazed with anticipation of something definitely nasty.

"If you're having a bad day because you live in an orphanage, Irene, I'll tell you a secret: I've lived like this for eleven fucking years, and I hate every single one of those days with every fiber of my being. But that doesn't give me a reason to poison your peaceful existence."

An impudent and rebellious smile appeared on her face and ate in my consciousness. She looked like the Cheshire Cat! The large raindrops persistently dripped one by one, hitting the ground. I looked up at the sky. A gray, heavy cloud was preparing to spew everything that had accumulated in it from the lands of Scotland. 'Well, that's it,' I thought, and the next thing I knew, the downpour was coming down in full force. A warm hand took mine, and I looked at Irene again. In her left hand were black sandals with white socks in. "Now that's definitely it..." flashed through my mind.

Irene rushed through the already damp grass. The heavy drops nailed the greenery to the ground, uncompromisingly filling the fiber of clothes with moisture. In a few moments, all the clothes were wet through and puddles flaunted around. Irene screamed, waving her shoes. Loud, joyful laughter mingled with the noise of a summer stormy downpour.

"Not that way, Irene!" I shouted in panic. "Not there!"

She was hurtling toward the hillside, and my heart was hurtling into an abyss of despair. I didn't want to be covered up to my neck in mud, in addition to the dampness.

"I'm so happy!" Irene yelled like a mad girl, as a treacherous burdock, collecting drops of cold heavy rain on its surface, met a small, already muddy foot.

A treacherous slip.

Unwillingness to let go of the little palm is weakness.

Hate.

My side burned painfully.

There was a high-pitched howl somewhere around my stomach.

I grabbed the fragile body harder with both hands.

An endlessly long slope.

I rolled down, bumping my head painfully against the girl's heavy sandal.

"My arm, Tom," Irene wheezed.

There was something beneath my right thigh. I lifted my body exhaustedly. The small palm slid out from under me, depriving me of such an unpleasant feeling of discomfort.

"I hate you," I breathed deeply, trying to dull the burning sensation in my side. My gaze traced a bloody, thin streak. A scratch. I pulled on my brown jacket, heavy with moisture, exhaustedly, covering the cut. I rolled over on my stomach and crawled over to the face, which I wanted to look into and give her all my anger and resentment.

Stretched out on the ground in a star pose, wet to the skin, Irene laughed loudly. Her eyes closed. Damp curls stuck to her cheeks and forehead, dislodged from her braids. I ran my fingers gently over the gaunt face, tucking the hair behind her ears.

"I feel so good," she whispered. Large raindrops washed over her pale face. "I feel so good, Tom."

Her heart was beating treacherously fast as a bird, ready to burst out of her rib cage. Damn it.

Irene slowly opened her eyes, squinting at the water spilling from the sky.

"Take off your shoes." She said urgently and looked at me.

I shook my head.

"Your premonition was bad, indeed. Except, apparently, it was about me."

"Take it off." Irene leaned back, trying to get up. I gave her a skeptical look...

After collecting all the puddles in the park, we ran barefoot through the cobblestone streets of London to Wool's orphanage, happy and damp. We couldn't be late for dinner.