Because of this, Barnaby grew into an unusually pale child, as he almost never saw direct sunlight. For a time, Eleanor would tie him to the washing line on the back lawn and let him hover in the fresh air for a couple of hours. When there was a breeze, he might even rotate for an afternoon, ensuring an even tan. Eventually, however, she was forced to put a stop to this, as there were several extravagant bird feeders placed in different areas of the garden, and a four-year-old boy tied by his ankles to a washing line and waving his arms around in the air like a lunatic made him seem more like a scarecrow than anything else and the birds stopped coming.
“He’s as white as a ghost,” said Alistair, looking up at his son one evening as they were eating dinner.
“Almost as white as our ceilings used to be,” remarked Eleanor. “Before they had mattresses nailed to them.”
“It can’t be good for him, though, can it?”
“We’ve discussed this, Alistair,” said Eleanor with a sigh, resting her fork on the side of her plate. “If we take him outside, what will the neighbors think? They might even suspect that we all float behind closed doors.”
“Oh, really, Eleanor,” said Alistair, laughing at the idea. “I’ve never floated in my life, you know that. I keep my feet firmly on the ground.”
“And there are the other children to think of,” she added. “What if the boys in Henry’s class, for example, hear about Barnaby and think that Henry floats too? They might stop being friends with him.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t. It’s not a choice that Barnaby’s made, after all. It’s just the way he was born.”
“Tell that to Henry when he’s being beaten up in the schoolyard.”
“I don’t think that would—”
“Children can be very cruel,” she continued, ignoring her husband’s interruption. “And, anyway, it’s easier to keep him under control here in the house. Think what might happen if we took him outside. He could simply float away and we’d never see him again.”
As she said this, she was bringing a forkful of lasagna to her mouth, but it hovered in midair before reaching her lips; for a moment she realized how much easier life would be if this was to happen. Alistair glanced at her, and something passed between them—the germ of a terrible idea that remained unspoken. For now.
“Anyway, if you’re so concerned, you could always take him out when you come home from work,” she said a moment later.
“Out of the question,” replied Alistair instantly, shaking his head as if the very idea needed to be rattled out of his brain and his ears before it did any damage. “I will not, repeat not, make myself a figure of ridicule among our neighbors.”
“Well, then, don’t expect me to.”
“Perhaps we could hire someone?” suggested Alistair. “Like a professional dog walker.”
“But then we would have to explain his condition to a stranger. And before you know it, the gossips would be out in force.”
“True. But what about school?”
“What about school?” asked Eleanor, frowning. “What do you mean? He doesn’t go to school.”
“Not yet he doesn’t, no. But soon he will. He’s supposed to start in a few months’ time. If he goes in as white as that, everyone will think there’s something wrong with him.”
“There is something wrong with him, Alistair.”
“I mean, they’ll think he has a skin disease and no one will want to sit next to him. And before you know it, the school authorities will drag us all in to meet the nurse, and who knows what trouble that will cause. They might put it in the newsletter, and then everyone will know that I have fathered a floating boy. No, I’m sorry, Eleanor, but I’m putting my foot down.”
“You’re doing what?” asked Eleanor incredulously.
“I’m putting my foot down,” he repeated in a more forceful voice. “I am head of this household, and I have decided that we’ll have to risk all the ugly stares and cruel gossip. The boy must be brought out into direct sunlight. You can get the ball rolling tomorrow morning when you take Captain W. E. Johns for his walk.”
The dog’s tail wagged at this most wonderful of words—a single syllable that offered unparalleled delights—and Eleanor, too exhausted to offer any more resistance, reluctantly agreed. And so, the following morning—a bright, sunny day, perfect for putting a little color into a pale boy’s cheeks—she clapped her hands to summon Captain W. E. Johns, clipping his lead onto his collar before ascending a kitchen chair to take Barnaby down off the ceiling.
“We’re going for a walk,” she told him in a matter-of-fact voice.
“Around the house?”
“No, outside.”
“Outside?” asked Barnaby, who hadn’t for a moment believed that his mother would do what his father had insisted on the night before.
“That’s right. But before we go—well, I’m sorry about this but there’s something I’ve got to do.”
And with that she retrieved Captain W. E. Johns’s spare collar, which had an expandable neck, and the second lead, which they kept in the kitchen drawer, and a few minutes later all three were on their way.
They made an extraordinary sight as they set off from their home in Kirribilli, making their way along the street that led toward the governor-general’s house at the southernmost point of the peninsula: a middle-aged woman walking along with her head bowed low in shame, a dog of indeterminate breed and parentage trotting a few feet ahead of her as she held his lead in her left hand, while a four-year-old boy, white as a ghost, hovered above them both, suspended in the air by the lead she held in her right.
Barnaby Brocket had become a kite.
They made their way north toward St. Aloysius’ College, where Henry was coming to the end of year five, but once the bell rang and the children could be heard running down the stairs inside, Eleanor turned and walked quickly toward the Jeffrey Street Wharf, where she liked to stand and look across the water at the sails of the Opera House, the sweep of the skyscrapers, and the hotels dotted between them. The Harbour Bridge stood proudly to her right, linking the shores of North Sydney to The Rocks beyond, and she turned to it, staring up toward the flags floating in the breeze, before breathing in deeply and feeling, for a moment at least, at peace.
“Morning, Eleanor!” called Mr. Chappaqua, a former Olympic twenty-kilometer racewalker—Montreal, nineteen seventy-six; fourth place—who passed her at this time every day from the direction of Beulah Street, where he always began his morning constitutional, elbows tucked into his body as he waddled along like a duck in a baseball cap. “Good morning, Captain W. E. Johns!”
And then, looking up, he noticed Barnaby floating above her, and his cheerful expression immediately changed. Mr. Chappaqua was Sydney-born and -bred. He took great pride in the city, its people, and its fine traditions. He’d even stood for a parliament seat a few years before—fourth place once again—and remained a regular letter writer to the Sydney Morning Herald, where he complained about anything that wasn’t in keeping with his standards, which were exceptionally high.