October Exclusive - "Bobbing" - Part 3

THREE

It doesn’t take long.

The night lasts forever.

Trick-or-treating is over in half an hour.

Because Robin and Lucy are so young, and just the length of the street, two handfuls of homes, is more than enough. All the doorbells are answered (they take turns to press the buzzer, Mum lifting them up) because this is Parkdale and these visitors are expected, they are very welcome.

Besides, they’re hardly the only ones out tonight. They’re not even the youngest, there are babes in arms, dressed in the most infantile of costumes like pumpkins or chicks. And then there are the older children, those in primary or secondary school, disguised as their favourite TV or storybook heroes – whatever’s streaming or in cinemas this year. And then there are some scary costumes – fanged vampires and neck-bolted monsters – but they are not that scary. Because this is Parkdale.

Still, it is over in 30 minutes. And it is overwhelming, it is fantastic. Robin appreciates Mum’s patience, her hand-holding perseverance with a toddler on each side of her. When their immediate neighbor, the old woman next door, opens the door and beams at them, telling them that she’s never seen such perfect costumes, and is Lucy a doggie? Is Robin a unicorn? Robin can hear her kind but condescending tone, he knows that the woman will be just as effusive and complimentary to the next set of kids.

But he can also feel the thrill of being out in the dark and the excitement of anticipation between the doorbell and the open. This is something better than opening a birthday present, this is something close to validation. Tonight, Lucy must really be Skye from Paw Patrol, and Robin must really be a sparkly pink-winged unicorn. He can share Lucy’s delight in their filling plastic pumpkins, the glittering prizes inside, piece by piece, a Viking hoard. Mum lets them eat one each, little KitKats, and then another, and already their fingers are sticky and their mouths are stained.

“More?” Lucy asks Mum with hopeful, chocolate-smeared lips.

Mum shakes her head, sets a limit. “Little doggie, you eat any more and you’ll have a sore tummy.” It’s a good thing that she’s in charge, and even though Lucy whines, it’s just a little and Robin understands why; there’s another house to visit, and everyone just loves her costume.

When the door opens, he’s holding his sister’s hand, because he knows instinctively that this makes them even cuter, and you get more sweeties that way. They are irresistible, they are innocent perfection, and while Robin is not a huge fan of being barely three feet tall, he can handle the praise, he can even handle the dampness between his legs as he wets his nappy. Because there is no criticism, no high expectations. After the anxiety and uncertainty, it turns out that Robin is more than comfortable with being blameless.

And the worst thing that Robin anticipates? Being called out by a schoolfriend? Being called a little girl?

Neither happens.

Does anyone they meet tell Robin what a pretty little girl he is. No. The neighbours know him, they know Mum has a little girl and a little boy. Because everyone in the street knows each other, because this is Parkdale.

Does anyone seem to have a problem with Robin’s glittery, pink costume? No. Not even a hint of disapproval or derision. Boys can be unicorns, boys can be whatever they want, and Robin wonders if that’s also because this is Parkdale, or because the magic spell has made people kinder, or just made them better.

After four houses, they are fidgeting underneath a streetlamp while Mum assesses their bounty and tidies their costumes, and Robin sees Mark with his mates, all with negligible attempts at costumes, and none of them say anything to Robin. They sweep past, laughing and boasting, and Robin wants to shrink against his mother’s skirt, to shrivel up and, hide, but there’s no need. They don’t even see him, because he’s just another little brat being shepherded around by his mummy and the big kids have other things on their minds.

Which is why he can swing Lucy’s hand, he can giggle with her, and when the next neighbor opens the door, tells him that he’s adorable and then asks what they might be, Robin doesn’t dodge the question. He jumps up and down and declares, “Imma yoony-con!” And judging from the neighbour’s expression, from Mum’s peal of laughter and Lucy’s grin, Robin has given the perfect answer. Because he is perfect now, he is like the last bowl of porridge in Goldilocks’ search; just right.

Towards the end, with heavy pumpkins that he and his sister want Mummy to hold, with tired legs, wet nappy, and a growing sense that there might just too much of a good thing, Robin asks himself the question from earlier – who would want to make this magical night happen? – and just as crucially, when will it end?  Robin knows that this is some kind of trick, that it might fade or crack at any moment or it may instead last, and they will replay this night forever.

At the last house, Robin gets part of the answer.

Mum huffs at the pumpkins, juggling those, Lucy’s soft toy, and  herding two small children at the same time. “Glad we don’t do this every night,” she jokes to a passing parent. The other grown-up, a man herding a princess and a Spider-Man, replies with a joke about diabetic comas that Mum laughs at but is designed to fly over Robin and Lucy’s heads.

Lucy squeezes her brother’s hand, smiles mischievously at him and whispers hotly in his hear, “Magic.”

Magic. Just like she said before in the kitchen.

Robin stares at his sister. How did he miss something so obvious? Of course it’s Lucy.

Magic. Magic is why he was confused, along with everyone else.

She’s been answering his question all along. The witch has been with Robin since the start, sharing in the fun right beside him.

Robin watches as Lucy his hoisted up to ring the last doorbell. And he closes his eyes and remembers. A fortnight before, in his sister’s room. Lucy, who’s always been a year older, who’s thirteen to his twelve, was refusing to leave her bedroom and come downstairs for dinner. When she finally opened the door, Robin found his sister sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by books.

No, not just books. A bow of something…like dried flowers or herbs. And a smell – not bad, exactly, but strong, something that seem as though it would burn his nostrils if he got too close.

“What are you doing?” he asked his sister. “You stain the carpet, Mum’s gonna be livid.”

Lucy looked up, and she was his pretty but awkward teenage sister, and she replied, “If you must know, magic. I’m doing magic.”

Robin had stared down at her. He had held out his hands, as if waiting for something more, a punchline or explanation. When nothing came, he said, “I know things are hard without Dad, but you can’t mess around like-“

Lucy cut him off. “It’s not harder without Dad.” She scowls, looking back down at her bowl of ingredients. “It’s better. It’s easier. Or it will be.” She smiled faintly. “You’ll see.”

Which was stupid, which was nothing. Until the next morning, when Robin woke up to find that he had a three year old little sister, and like everyone else, thought this was completely normal.

“Look at you both!” says the kind-faced person at the door, and Robin comes back to the present.

He looks up at the smile, he says, “Trick or treat!” Twik-uh-tee! Because that’s his job.

But when the next, classic question comes – “What a wonderful costume! Who are you supposed to be?” – Robin doesn’t have an answer.