Part one: chapter seven

 

Forever autumn

__

 

"Be a darling, Jane, and pour me some more tea."

 

Jane unfolded her legs from beneath her, and reached for the tea pot. "Same cup, or do you want a clean one?"

 

"Same cup," her mother replied. "I drink out of all sorts of things when I'm out painting. A bit of dirt never killed anyone."

 

Jane placed the full cup on the coffee table, and watched as her mother picked it up clumsily with her left hand. "Are you sure you'll manage?" she asked. "I can stay a bit longer. If you phone the school and ask..."

 

"No. I'll be fine." Jane's mother smiled. "Your father should be home the day after tomorrow, anyway, and I can get by perfectly well with my left hand. Anything but painting." She looked wistful. With a broken wrist, she would not be able to paint for weeks, and painting was her life.

 

Jane had grown to envy that lately. She had nothing that so consumed her, nothing that allowed her to express herself, to create. She was only average at art and music, and her English teacher told her that she held too much of herself back to be a truly great writer.

 

"I appreciate you coming home, Jane, to look after your silly old mum." Her mother placed the cup back on the saucer. "Tripping on the doormat. How stupid of me." She gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Now, let's settle down to some TV, shall we? Don't tell Dad, but I often watch the silliest things when he's away."

 

Jane walked to the television and switched it on. BBC1 was showing a costume drama, all swirling dresses and glowering men. "Jane Eyre," Jane said. "We did that last term."

 

"Oh, I did love that when I was your age," her mother cried. "That's why I called you Jane. Oh, I was so in love with Mr Rochester." She patted the couch with her good hand. "Sit down next to your old Mum, Jane. Let's watch it together. Ooh, he's handsome, isn't he? Do you think he's handsome?"

 

"Mum!" Jane felt herself blushing. Now that Jane was fourteen, her mother seemed determined to treat her like a giggling friend, to talk about men and romance. We girls must stick together, she often said. Here we are, stuck in a house full of men. It made Jane feel uneasy and miserable. She wanted her old mother back again, who had always... Well, who had always seemed like a mother.

 

"Who do all you young girls fancy now?"

 

"No-one," Jane said. "It's silly, that sort of thing." It was a lie of course, but she was not going to tell her mother whose pictures were plastered over the wall above her bed at school. She wasn't going to talk about late-night giggles, and the whispers spread by girls who had actually kissed a real live boy. She would not talk about the hearts drawn in her rough book, and the tears she shed over novels, or about the dreams.

 

"Oh, isn't that Mr Rochester dreamy?"

 

Jane stood up. "I've got prep I should be doing. I'll go to my room, if you don't mind."

 

"But I thought we could have a nice girly evening." Her mother looked crestfallen.

 

 "Honestly, mum, you don't have to try so hard." Jane paused with her hand on the door. "I'm not a different person just because I'm a teenager. I'm still me. You don't have to pretend to be someone different just to get on with me."

 

"I'm not." Her mother looked hurt. "Has it ever occurred to you, Jane, that maybe this is the real me? That maybe I've spent a dozen years playing mother, and that now you're finally growing up, I want..."

 

The television picture went blank. To a black screen, a sombre announcer said, "We interrupt this programme with a news flash."

 

Jane's mother screamed.

 

******

 

Hours later, they were still staring at the screen. The tea had long-since gone cold in the pot. The cat was screaming, demanding to be fed.

 

"I'll feed him," Jane said dully.

 

"No." Her mother grabbed her arm. "Don't leave me. There might be news..."

 

"I'll feed him," Jane said. "I'll be back in less than a minute. You'll see."

 

In the kitchen, she pressed both hands to her face. Her hands felt icy cold, or maybe it was her face that was burning hot. She felt the stickiness of old tears, and the dampness of new ones, though how was it possible that she still had tears to shed?

 

The cat rubbed around her ankles, and she lowered her hands, and turned to the business of opening a tin, and spooning the contents into a bowl. The smell of it almost made her gag. Then, walking towards the bin, she found a blood-stained dead mouse on the floor. She fell to her knees, and cried over it, then was sick in the kitchen sink, bringing up nothing but spittle. It felt as if it came wrenching from her soul.

 

"Jane? Jane!"

 

Jane splashed water over her face, and returned to her mother. The television was still showing men in suits, who knew very little about what was happening. Sometimes they would cut to scenes of fire and screaming, but it was all too fast and too horrible to see what was happening.

 

All they knew was that the government had been overthrown, by a secret group within the military. The Prime Minister was dead, his body strung from a lamp-post in Whitehall. Bombs had gone off in Parliament, and Westminster Abbey was burning. A military dictatorship had been declared, and Britain had become the latest of the world's democracies to fall to military rule.

 

All we know? Jane almost giggled through her tears. It was enough. It was more than enough.

 

"But it won't really affect us, will it?" Jane has asked, when the first horror of the announcement had faded. She could not imagine those cold-faced military men being interested in a silly fourteen year old girl who lived in the suburbs. "It doesn't really make a difference to ordinary people, does it, when the government changes?"

 

Her mother had slapped her, the first time ever. "Stupid girl," she had screamed. "Stupid girl! Look!"

 

For London was burning. The people were resisting, pouring onto the streets with fire and flame and fury. There were riots in London, and now the merciless television was showing blood and bodies in all the other major cities, too.

 

Their father was in Edinburgh, and Edinburgh, too, was burning.

 

*******

 

At ten o'clock the next morning, the television went blank, and did not return. At her mother's request, Jane tried the radio, The local and commercial channels were still there, but the BBC channels were transmitting only static.

 

"They've taken over the BBC." Her mother was white-faced, with red-rimmed eyes. Neither of them had even tried to sleep. "I never thought to see such a thing. All through the war, the BBC kept going. I remember us gathering around the wireless after dinner, listening. It was our lifeline. And now... Is this real, Jane? Tell me it isn't real."

 

The phones were still working. Jane had already fielded a dozen phone calls from relatives. "Yes," she told them all. "We're fine. We're on the edge of London, you see. Miles from where it's happening. Mum and I are fine, but Dad... But Dad..."

 

"Answer it, please," her mother always said. "I can't bear it." A dozen times, reaching for the phone, hand trembling and heart pounding, hoping to hear her father's voice. When her uncle had spoken, his voice so like her father's... That had been the worst. She had not told her mother about the wild relief that had coursed through her at that moment, or the wrenching, horrendous disappointment when she had realised who it really was. She had not told her mother a lot of things.

 

Jane walked to the window, and looked out, half-hidden by the curtains. It looked as if nothing had changed. A pale sun shone through a thin layer of cloud, and swifts flew overhead. The flowers in the front garden were glorious, and greenfinches and bluetits fluttered around the bird feeder, while starlings patrolled on the grass. Beyond the garden, people passed as normal. Ladies with shopping bags walked back from the shops, and mothers pushed their children to clinics and playgroups. Earlier, the postman had still come, and the milkman had come still earlier, his van rattling with empty bottles.

 

It can't be true, Jane thought. They wouldn't still be doing normal things, if the world had really ended.

 

Then she, too, had to be one of them, for midday came, and she realised that neither of them had eaten. Her mother said she wasn't hungry, but Jane told her that she had to eat. You had to keep doing the normal things, even if your whole world had fallen apart around you. "How do you know?" her mother said bitterly. "You're only fourteen." And Jane nodded and said that she had read it somewhere, or learned it at school, but really it had come out of her own heart, from nowhere, and she found that she truly believed it.

 

"I'll get some bread," she said, "and some cheese. Can I take your purse?"

 

"I don't want you to go." Her mother bit her lip. "What if the phone goes?"

 

"Answer it." Jane picked up her mother's purse, and checked it for money. "I won't be long, and I will come back."

 

She stopped as soon as she was outside, breathing in deeply. Fresh air coursed through her veins, and a gentle breeze stroked her tired skin. The birds fled from her, but the flowers seemed to turn towards her, their varied colours beautifully arranged. This is it, Jane thought. The last time I'll be free.

 

She walked to the shops, and saw nothing except that people were more ready to talk to each other. She chose a loaf and a chunk of cheese, and joined the queue. "Shocking," the woman in front of her was saying, to anyone who would listen. "I wasn't surprised when those foreigners started doing things like this, but it's just not English, is it?"

 

"They interrupted that lovely Jane Eyre programme," another woman was complaining. "That Mr Rochester is lovely, isn't he?"

 

"Well, as long as I can still get my ginger snaps and pot of tea each afternoon at the club, I'm not complaining."

 

"I didn't fight in two World Wars for something like this to happen," grumbled an old man.

 

"You didn't fight in two, dear." Her wife nudged him. "You only fought in one."

 

"You mark my words." The man raised his voice, speaking to the whole shop. "It won't last. We English don't take well to tyrants. Look what happened to Charles I, and that Cromwell, too, when he started getting too big for his boots. This will all be over by next weekend."

 

Not over. Jane looked at the floor, and tried not to start crying. My Dad might be dead.

 

"What do you mean, no newspapers?" exclaimed the man at the front of the queue. "I do my crossword over morning tea, regular as clockwork."

 

Stop it! Jane wanted to scream. Stop being like this! She bit her lip, and tried to blank out the babble around her. When it was her turn to be served, all she could do was thrust the money silently at the man, and stumble from the shop.

 

The air outside felt cold and dangerous. The birds were dark shapes that saw everything, and the wind brought with it a faint smell of smoke, from fires that were the graves of ordinary people like herself.

 

She did not even remember the journey home, and when she shut the door behind her, it felt like a prison door closing, never to open again.

 

******

 

That night, if she went into Barney's attic bedroom, she could see a distant orange glow that came from London, burning.

 

Before that, though, the television burst back to life, to show a man in military uniform, plastered with medals. Normal service would resume, he assured them. All the programmes that they knew and loved would carry on as before, because of course it was not their intention to victimise the normal, loyal, decent people who just wanted to get on with their lives and would never dream of stirring up dissent. The break in service was regrettable, but necessary, since certain dissident elements had to be... removed. Once the staffing of the various media companies had been... cleaned up a bit, everything would return to normal.

 

Jane's mother had been sleeping, then, curled up uncomfortably on the couch with her broken wrist stretched out away from her body. Jane crouched in front of the television, and turned the volume as low as possible, while still being able to hear it.

 

The man introduced himself as Colonel Hampton. He was speaking on behalf of his superiors, who were busy trying to restore peace to the capital, after dissidents and trouble-makers had irresponsibly breached the peace. The dissidents cared nothing for all the innocents they killed, and all the property they ruined, but General Vaughan and his men were striving only to restore peace.

 

General Vaughan was now their President, Jane gathered. The existing political system had been dissolved, and the surviving MPs imprisoned. The Royal Family, too, were under guard, but Colonel Hampton assured his viewers that no harm would come to them. The General was just a custodian, ruling the country on behalf of the Queen. It pained him to take such measures, but the old system had been rife with corruption and treachery. The so-called servants of democracy had in reality served no-one but themselves, and the country had been sliding towards disaster and ruin. But now that General Vaughan had stepped in...

 

I don't believe it, Jane thought. It's all lies. But, even all alone as she was, she clapped her hand to her mouth to stop herself from saying it aloud. She looked at her sleeping mother, so fragile and afraid. I have to be strong for her, she thought. I can't say what I feel.

 

On the television, Colonel Hampton was introducing the men who were standing behind him. They were not the great ones, he explained, for the great ones couldn't be spared from the pacification of the cities. No, these were merely the loyal soldiers and agents whose hard work had helped this revolution come to pass. They were all blank-faced men in suits or uniforms, and Jane hardly listened to their names. One, though, stood out. He was handsome, in a cold sort of way, with pale skin and blue eyes and reddish hair. His name was strange, but it was his eyes that made Jane shiver.

 

I've seen him before.

 

******

 

Two days passed, and there was still no news from Jane's father.

 

They had reported him missing to the police, of course, and the police had said they would do whatever they could, but all travel into the big cities was still prohibited, so it would be at least a few days... They had seemed distracted, too. When leaving the police station, Jane had noticed a soldier standing at the back door, a gun in his hands.

 

That was one more thing she did not tell her mother.

 

Jane had phoned her brothers' schools, and had been able to speak to both of them. Neither of them had known that their father was in Edinburgh, or that their mother had broken her wrist. "No," she said, in answer to both of their questions. "There's nothing you can do here. Best stay at school. I'll let you know the minute we hear anything."

 

"He's dead," Jane's mother said that night, picking at the dinner Jane had struggled to cook. "I just know it. He'd have phoned us if he could. The city's cordoned off, but phone-calls are still getting out. I just know he's never coming back."

 

Jane took a sip of her drink. It tasted of ashes. "We have to keep on hoping," she said brightly.

 

"He isn't coming back..." Her mother's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Jane, I know it's awful to think of such a thing at such a time, but I just wish I could paint. I always feel better when I'm painting. It's as if the world goes away for a little bit, and nothing can hurt me."

 

I felt like that, Jane thought, when I was little, and you hugged me. She chewed another tasteless mouthful. Please, Mum. I just want you to give me a cuddle. He's my Daddy!

 

"I don't know how I'll cope, Jane."

 

Jane breathed in, and out again.

 

******

 

She made the phone call when her mother was sleeping, sprawled restlessly on her bed in the middle of the day.

 

"Jane." Her headmistress's voice was gentle. Some of the girls found her a monster, but Jane had always liked her.

 

"I..." Jane swallowed. "I got permission to come home for a few days, because my mother broke her wrist and Dad… and my father was away."

 

"I know," the headmistress said. "I signed the form. You were supposed to be back today."

 

"I..." Jane cleared her throat. "Are things... I mean, are lessons still...?"

 

"Everything's still happening," the head said gently. "It's best that way. Until we know how things will be, we will carry on as if nothing has changed. The English are a remarkable people, you see, Jane - and I say that as a Scot, looking on. No-one else in the world is quite like the English when it comes to proclaiming business as usual, even if bombs are falling all around their ears."

 

It was not what she wanted to hear. It would have been easier, she thought, to hear of chaos, and lessons cancelled, and all her friends gone home.

 

She blinked back tears, and struggled to speak. "I won't be coming back. My mother... She doesn't know yet, but she'll sign the forms. My father… he's probably dead. He was in Edinburgh, and we haven't heard..."

 

"Oh, Jane, I'm so sorry," the headmistress gasped. "But, really, is that a good reason to throw away your future?"

 

Jane wiped roughly at her eyes. "I'm not throwing it away. There are other schools. I'll go to the comprehensive down the road. St Catherine's. It's not a bad school. My friends from junior school are all there. My life isn't going to be ruined just because I'm not going to a posh boarding school any more."

 

She had expected to be shouted at for speaking like that to the head. Perhaps she had even wanted to be shouted at, because then she could shout back, and perhaps that would melt the block of ice that was where her heart should have been.

 

But the headmistress gave her nothing but gentleness. "But you've settled in so well here, Jane. We've all got great hopes for you. And it's always disruptive to change schools, whatever school you're going to. It's a bigger thing than you think it is."

 

Of course it's a big thing! Jane wanted to scream. Do you think I don't know that? But what else can I do? There's no-one else.

 

"Jane?" She must have seen silent too long, fighting tears. "Jane, are you still there?"

 

Help me. She pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling sobs. Please help me, Mrs McCrae.

 

"Jane, listen to me," the head urged. "I know you feel you have to stay at home for your mother's sake. That's it, isn't it? But don't do anything rash. It's only three weeks until the end of term, and then it's the long vacation. I wouldn't normally do it, but I'll grant you permission to miss the rest of the term, if your mother consents. You'll have nearly three months at home. Things might seem different in September."

 

Jane nodded desperately. "Yes please. I mean, thank you. Thank you, Mrs McCrae. I'll do that. I... I don't want to leave." The last words came out in a rush, quiet and tiny.

 

******

 

But summer passed, and the days grew shorter. The nights grew darker, and her heart grew colder.

 

September came, and nothing had changed.

 

By day, Jane went to a strange school, where she found that her friends from two years before had become strangers, who did not know her. Every evening, she came home to a grey house, and her mother, who no longer painted, although the plaster had long since come off.

 

September came, and turned to winter, and then to spring again.

 

In her heart, she thought, it would be forever September.