Brahms Heelshire | The Boy

For twenty years, the Heelshires had maintained the fiction of their son's death with the same care that other families devoted to preserving their fortunes. There had been inquiries, naturally, and the occasional unfortunate visitor who remembered the fire, but time had done much of the necessary work. Older servants had departed, the village had grown accustomed to the family's peculiar seclusion, and the little grave beneath the yew trees had acquired the respectable appearance of one whose occupant had long since passed beyond anyone's immediate concern. Mr. Heelshire saw that the stone was cleaned twice a year. His wife continued to observe the anniversary of the burial, although she had ceased attending the church service some years ago.

Inside the house, meanwhile, their son had grown into a man.

The arrangements required for his concealment had gradually assumed the character of ordinary domestic obligations. Food disappeared from the kitchen, washing accumulated in unexpected places, and certain passages between the walls had been widened during renovations whose purpose was never explained to the tradesmen. Some things the Heelshires had learned to tolerate, others they had learned to conceal, and a smaller number they had agreed, without ever discussing the agreement, to leave entirely unmentioned.

Their approaching departure had disturbed this careful arrangement. Mrs. Heelshire had spent the better part of a fortnight instructing Brahms on the subject of his new nanny, while her husband occupied himself with practical arrangements, including the preparation of a substantial sum of money and the removal of several objects from the house. Neither had slept particularly well.

On the morning of the appointment, Mrs. Heelshire dressed the porcelain doll in a grey cardigan, white shirt, and neatly knotted tie. After brushing its hair and examining its painted face for dust, she settled it in the chair beside the nursery window. Her movements possessed the unthinking competence of long practice, although she paused before fastening the final button.

"You understand what we've agreed, Brahms," she said, speaking toward the narrow space between the wardrobe and the adjoining wall. "There's to be no unpleasantness. Your father and I have gone to a great deal of trouble over this."

A faint movement came from within the partition.

"She is coming here to look after you, darling. You must give her an opportunity to become accustomed to things."

Mrs. Heelshire waited. When no further sound followed, she straightened the doll's collar and went downstairs.

Behind the nursery wall, Brahms remained for some time after she had gone. The opening through which he watched the room had been fashioned years earlier, and the wallpaper around it had begun to peel at one corner. A press of his thumb flattened it. The little porcelain figure sat motionless in the chair, wearing the clothes his mother had chosen and the agreeable expression it had worn since his childhood. Although Brahms had never cared much for its face, he understood its usefulness, and sometimes found pleasure in watching his mother address it while knowing that her attention was directed entirely toward him.

A nanny was coming.

During the preceding weeks, he had turned the word over in his mind repeatedly. His parents had employed nurses and governesses when he was small, although his memories of them consisted chiefly of their smells, their hands, and the particular things that made them cross. One had worn lavender water. Another had carried peppermints in her pocket and allowed him to have one when he behaved himself. The last had been frightened of him, a circumstance which had made her intolerably tiresome.

The arrival of a motorcar interrupted his thoughts. Brahms moved through the passage toward the front of the house, where an opening behind a carved wooden panel afforded a limited view of the entrance hall.

Mrs. Heelshire had taken her position near the foot of the staircase. Beside her stood her husband, wearing the dark suit he generally reserved for funerals and important appointments. Although he had objected to its selection that morning, his wife had insisted upon the necessity of making a proper impression.

"Do try to look pleased, Geoffrey," she murmured.

"I am doing my best."

"Then do rather better."

The front door was opened for the new nanny.

Mrs. Heelshire received the arrival with a graciousness which, under less peculiar circumstances, might have seemed entirely natural. She introduced herself and her husband, expressed the hope that the journey had been comfortable, and explained that the house was rather remote, though she believed its quiet afforded certain advantages.

Mr. Heelshire contributed a few observations concerning the weather and the roads before allowing his wife to resume the conversation. The position, she explained, was a straightforward one. Their son was a boy of fixed habits, somewhat sensitive, and inclined to become distressed when his routine was interrupted. A gentle manner and a little patience would generally suffice.

"Perhaps we'd better introduce Brahms," Mr. Heelshire said presently.

His wife's attention shifted toward him. "Yes, of course."

At the sound of their approach to the staircase, Brahms withdrew from the panel. The route to the nursery was so familiar that he could traverse much of it in darkness, though his size had made several of the narrower sections increasingly troublesome. One elbow struck a beam as he turned. After stopping to let the footsteps outside pass, he continued more carefully.

By the time the nursery door opened, Brahms had taken his place behind the wall.

Mrs. Heelshire entered first.

"Brahms, darling," she announced, in the pleasant, encouraging tone she used when expecting him to behave, "we've brought someone to meet you."

The porcelain doll sat beside the window, its painted eyes directed toward the room and its small hands resting upon its knees. Surrounding it, the nursery had been preserved with extraordinary fidelity to its original purpose. Children's books occupied the shelves, a wooden horse stood near the hearth, and a collection of carefully maintained toys filled a cabinet whose glass doors were kept locked. There were no photographs of Brahms beyond his eighth year.

Approaching the doll, Mrs. Heelshire laid her hand affectionately upon its shoulder.

"This is our son, Brahms."

Her husband remained at the threshold for a moment before coming farther inside and stopping beside the mantelpiece, where he studied a framed photograph with an attention quite disproportionate to its contents.

"He can be a little shy," Mrs. Heelshire continued. "Particularly when meeting someone new. But I'm sure the two of you will get along splendidly."

Through his narrow aperture, Brahms examined the room. His view included the doll, his mother's back, part of his father's profile, and the portion of the nursery where the new nanny stood. A slight adjustment of his position improved the view. There was an unfamiliar quality to having another person inside the room, someone who had yet to learn the limitations of the house or the importance of its arrangements.

From behind the wall, he watched with the attentive concentration he ordinarily reserved for things he wished to possess.

Mrs. Heelshire took the doll's hand and raised it a little, as though assisting a reluctant child in greeting a visitor.

"Now, Brahms, there's no need to be rude. Say hello to Nanny ."

From the wall came a slight creak, something so light it might be excused as an old home settling in the English weather, and her hand tightened around the porcelain fingers before she released them. Mr. Heelshire turned toward the sound, but his wife had already begun speaking again.

"We've written everything down, naturally. His meals, lessons, music, bedtime. It may seem rather particular at first, but you'll find it quite manageable once you've settled into the routine."

The instructions occupied a considerable part of the afternoon. Mrs. Heelshire demonstrated the correct way to dress the doll, showed where its books were kept, and spoke at length concerning Brahms's preferences. Music must be played loudly. His face must never be covered. Meals were to be prepared and any leftovers placed in the freezer, and only Malcolm, the local delivery man, was permitted to bring provisions to the house.

Other rules were less easily explained. Brahms was never to be taken outside. No guests were permitted. He must never be left alone.

While his wife gave these instructions, Mr. Heelshire stood by, occasionally supplying some small practical detail, though showing little inclination to elaborate. At the mention of the nightly kiss, his gaze shifted toward the window.

"That is quite important," Mrs. Heelshire said. "He becomes terribly upset if it's forgotten."

The afternoon advanced, and with it came the peculiar activity of people preparing to abandon a house they had inhabited for most of their lives. Luggage was carried down, papers collected, and several last-minute instructions delivered. Twice Mrs. Heelshire went to the nursery, ostensibly to retrieve forgotten belongings, though on neither occasion did she bring anything away.

During her final visit she closed the door.

Brahms heard her approach the wall.

"Darling," she said quietly, "I know you'll listen to me."

At the sound of her voice, Brahms moved nearer.

"We've found someone to look after you. That's what you wanted, isn't it? Someone who can give you all the attention you need."

Against the plaster, Brahms laid his hand.

There was a pause long enough for him to hear the faint rasp of her breathing.

"You must be good to her, Brahms. Whatever happens, you must remember that for Mummy."

The strain in her voice displeased him. Lately his mother had developed a habit of speaking to him as though they were approaching some difficult examination, one for which she had little confidence in his preparation. Brahms had agreed to everything she wanted, listened patiently through her endless explanations, and tolerated his father's interference. Surely that ought to have satisfied them.

"Good boy," she whispered, although he had given no answer.

A few minutes later the nursery door closed for the last time.

By then Mr. Heelshire had already taken his place beside the waiting car. His wife followed carrying her handbag and gloves, though she had neglected to put the latter on. At the front entrance she turned to deliver a final reminder concerning the written instructions.

"We do hope you'll be happy here," she said. "Brahms has been looking forward to having you."

Her husband made some brief remark about Malcolm's deliveries, then took her gently by the elbow. She allowed herself to be led down the steps.

Brahms heard the car door shut, the engine start, and the familiar grinding of tyres upon gravel. From a narrow window behind the staircase, he watched the vehicle proceed down the drive. His mother sat very upright beside his father, her face turned toward the road ahead. Neither looked back at the house.

When the car had disappeared, Brahms remained at the window.

There was much to consider. His parents had gone farther away than they ordinarily permitted themselves to go, and this new arrangement would require certain adjustments. Of the woman they had chosen, he knew little beyond what he had managed to observe during the afternoon. Whether she understood the importance of the rules remained to be seen.

The narrow passage brought him behind the fireplace, where a concealed opening led into a cramped recess overlooking the room. Settling upon a wooden platform, Brahms drew his knees towards his chest as he considered the arrangements for the evening. Supper at the proper hour, the curtains drawn before dark, and his bedtime story were among the things he wanted. Most importantly, there remained the question of whether the new nanny would remember his goodnight kiss without being reminded.

Across the room, the porcelain boy remained seated beside the window, his painted eyes directed towards the door. A neatly folded blanket rested at the foot of the little bed, and the glass of milk Mrs. Heelshire had prepared earlier was beginning to form a skin. Beside it lay a book of fairy tales, opened to the beginning of Brahms's favourite story.

His mother had forgotten to put the book in the doll's lap, something Bram would have to see to later, when the nursery was empty.

For now, he was content to wait. Through the narrow opening in the wall, Brahms watched the doorway with patient interest, wondering whether his new nanny would come to him of her own accord or whether he would eventually have to remind her that bedtime was approaching.

With his masked cheek resting against the timber, Brahms listened to the familiar sounds of his home. Mother had told him to behave, and he meant to keep his promise, at least for this first evening.

The nursery door stood ajar, and the evening routine was waiting to begin.