When the Snow Fell

And Time Continued to Race Past...

Christmas was approaching. School had broken up for the holidays. Joel had reluctantly allowed himself to be dressed up as a shepherd when they assembled in the church to listen to the headmaster’s boring Christmas address.

Afterwards, Joel had gone home with his school report in his jacket pocket. It hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared it might be, although it could have been better. Still, he knew that Samuel would be pleased and proud: Joel was one of the top ten in his class. And he had the highest mark of anybody in geography.

He’d put his report in the middle of the kitchen table.

Then he’d walked to the hospital to visit Simon. Simon was still poorly, but the doctor told Joel that the chances of his recovering were rather better now. He might even be able to talk.

“Simon never says much,” Joel had said. “So it will be enough if he can only talk a little bit.”

When Joel left the hospital, the Greyhound was waiting for him outside. They continued up the hill to Simon’s house and fed the dogs. They did that every day. Joel had been forced to tell Kringström that he couldn’t go to practice the guitar and dust and wash up, not while Simon was ill in hospital. Kringström had heard about what had happened, and said that it was OK for Joel to attend whenever he had time.

Quite a lot had changed. Every time Joel went to do the shopping and Sonja Mattsson was behind the counter, she spent ages talking to him.

The fat old ladies were not very pleased about that. But Sonja told them they could go and do their shopping somewhere else, if they couldn’t wait until it was their turn.

Joel and Sonja had a secret they shared. That was nobody else’s business.

Samuel hadn’t gone off drinking again. Joel could never be certain that his dad wouldn’t simply disappear one of these days, but it did seem as if Samuel was now starting to think seriously about moving away from their little town by the river. Perhaps he might even try to become a sailor again, despite everything.

Samuel had finished reading Mutiny on the Bounty, and then started it all over again.

Joel had decided to postpone toughening himself up. He wouldn’t sleep in the snow again. Not now. Later, perhaps. After all, there was a long time to go until 2045.

He still thought he would be able to become a rock idol. But it had dawned on him that it would probably take rather longer than he’d thought at first. Even learning to play the guitar was pretty difficult. But he was getting better. He knew nine chords now, and the strings didn’t dig so deeply into his fingers anymore.

The Greyhound went with Joel to Simon’s house every afternoon. They never talked about what had happened that evening in her flat.

Joel waited and waited.

The day that school broke up for Christmas, the Greyhound had accompanied him to Simon’s house as usual. She suddenly disappeared while Joel was feeding the dogs.

When she came back, Joel noticed that she had painted her lips red.

They were standing in the middle of Simon’s living room.

“Now I’ll teach you,” she said.

And she did. Joel knew that he would never forget that feeling as long as he lived. The Greyhound’s lips against his.

Afterwards, she giggled.

And Joel blushed.

It was the last Sunday in Advent, the Sunday before Christmas. Joel asked if the Greyhound would like to go with him and watch the night train.

“Is that anything worth watching?” she wondered.

“Maybe somebody will get on and travel away from here,” said Joel. “Or maybe somebody will get off. Besides, I need to post a letter.”

The Greyhound could be very nosey.

“Who to?”

“Nobody you know.”

“To a girl?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I promise.”

Lots of people had gathered on the platform when the train arrived. There was a squeaking and clattering as the enormous iron wheels ground to a halt. Station master Knif strutted around, making sure that every thing functioned as it ought to do. Joel led the Greyhound to the mail coach. He had the letter in his hand.

“Who’s it to?” she asked again.

“I’ll tell you another time. But it’s not to a girl.”

When Knif wasn’t looking, Joel popped the letter into the box.

This time he’d attached a real postage stamp.

They remained on the platform, watching the train heading south, towards the railway bridge and the world.

Then they wandered around town, stopping at various shop windows to admire the Christmas decorations.

Joel asked if the Greyhound would like to go with him and pay a visit to Gertrud. She hadn’t been there yet. And Joel thought it was a long time since he’d been there himself.

She would love to. But not tonight. It was late already. Her parents would be worried if she didn’t go home now.

Joel saw her home.

He watched her disappear through the front door. Looked forward to meeting her the next day again. He needed to practice kissing.

It was cold. The sky was clear and full of stars. Joel stopped between two streetlights and gazed up at the heavens.

He thought about the letter he’d written that was now on its way southwards. Wondered if it would ever reach its destination.

But he was quite sure about the address, in any case.

To

The descendants of Mr. Fletcher

Pitcairn Island.

He set off for home. Samuel would be expecting him.

You always have to have a few secrets, if not more, Joel thought. You can’t keep on living if you don’t.

Before, I had the secret I shared with Sonja Mattsson.

I have another one now.

Now I also have the letter to Pitcairn Island.

But he wasn’t absolutely sure that he wouldn’t tell the Greyhound about the letter. It was at least as important to share secrets as it was to keep them.

Perhaps she would think it was childish? Writing letters to somebody who might not even exist. On an island at the other side of the world, as far away as it was possible to get.

Too bad.

He had learnt how to kiss.

But he was still childish. And he wanted to carry on being childish.

For as long as he enjoyed being childish.

He was walking quickly because it was cold.

Just as he opened the gate, and noticed Samuel’s shadow in the upstairs window, it started snowing.

I wasn’t surprised this time, Joel thought.

Snow is silent. It creeps up on you.

But this time I was ready for it.

Then he dashed in through the door. Everything felt better now. It was Christmas. Samuel had bought a Christmas tree that they’d helped each other to decorate. There was a smell of candles. And the Greyhound was around, and would still be around tomorrow.

Samuel was in the kitchen, waiting for him. He looked serious. Joel was afraid Samuel would tell him off for being out so late.

“I’m on holiday,” Joel said. “I don’t need to get up early tomorrow.”

Samuel was still looking hard at him.

“Simon is dead.”

Joel heard what Samuel said. But it didn’t sink in.

“No,” said Joel. “Simon’s not dead. I talked to the doctor. He said that Simon was getting better. He’ll probably even be able to speak again.”

“Simon is dead,” said Samuel again.

Joel shook his head.

“He seemed to be getting better,” Samuel explained, “but then he just died. Stopped breathing. And was gone.”

“But why?”

Joel didn’t have any other questions. That was the only one he could think of.

Why did Simon have to die, when Joel had rescued him and dragged him ashore like a shipwrecked sailor in a sea of snow?

“Death always creeps up on you and makes a mess of everything,” said Samuel.

Joel felt as if he had a knot in his stomach. He thought about the dogs. Were they sitting on the steps outside Simon’s front door, howling? And the hens in the cab of the truck. How were they grieving?

“Simon can’t be dead,” Joel said again. “I’ve borrowed his guitar. He can’t die until I’ve returned it.”

“Simon is dead,” said Samuel yet again.

And now the message finally got through to Joel. Simon really was dead.

Later, during the night, when he couldn’t sleep, Joel curled up on the window seat. He tried to make himself as small as possible, so that there was room for him. Just like there used to be.

This is evidently what life is like, he thought. Always, all the time. Death can intrude and make a mess of things at any time. So why should he insist on living to be a hundred? And going to bed in the snow in order to toughen himself up?

I have to choose, he thought. Now that Simon is dead. Decide if I’m going to carry on being childish or not. If that’s a choice I have.

He tried to find an answer. But there wasn’t one. In the end, he fell asleep on the window seat.

And the snow kept on falling silently through the night.