The First Summer

The summer I turned twelve, my parents had the idea of sending me to summer camp before next term began.

I had gone away for holiday before, but never very far from London, with the exception of one memorable summer we spent in Bognor Regis. (And even then they were located not ten minutes away, at a resort.) I was surprised that they would trust me to go as far as America, but even greater was my surprise at learning where I'd be staying — not with my aunt, as I had assumed, but with none other than Uncle Simon.

After the death of Grandad, my uncle had changed. He'd abandoned his post in the family company, hired someone else to take over, and moved to New York. He was working at a disability centre and lived in Brooklyn — where my maternal aunt lived with the in-laws. Because Simon was blind, it was far too much of a hassle for him to fly back to London, but thus far he'd rejected every attempt my parents made to visit him, on account of work or health or even the cost of us flying and booking a room.

Finally my parents were fed up. They signed me up for summer camp in the city, brought up the matter with him again, and this time, he couldn't disagree and spoil the whole thing.

I felt a little sorry for Uncle Simon, but in my heart of hearts I was elated — and apprehensive. For six years I hadn't seen him, or even heard his voice beyond the courteous phone calls he made around Christmas, New Year, and birthdays. Who was waiting for us on the other side of six years? Did he remember me, “Ari,” or not?

In subsequent years I was only accompanied by one (and from 16 onward, I'd earnt enough trust to fly alone), but I went with both of my parents on that first trip to New York. Flying — and airports — are liminal experiences. You almost go out of your body while in the middle of them. Our plane crossed the Atlantic overnight, but I was too excited to fall asleep, even with so little to do. When we landed in LaGuardia it was still dusk, which made for a queer feeling as we stepped off the aircraft and peered out of the windows.

Also on that first visit, we took a cab directly to the hotel in Brooklyn. I don't think my father has ever sworn so loud at the price of fare, but finally we arrived, we'd made it in one piece, and we were going to see Uncle Simon first thing in the morning.

The next day we ate bagels, which are quite a big deal in New York City, and took the metro to the stop nearest to Uncle Simon's building. I know London is crowded, but the city…! It earns the title of “concrete jungle,” if your idea of a jungle includes clouds of exhaust, Brutalist architecture, and panhandlers. I brought my luggage since I would be staying, but the glamour of my trip had begun to fade after leaving the hotel. Once more I was feeling uncertain of my place — both from homesickness, and from not knowing what to expect.

We disembarked the train onto a platform that looked identical to all the other platforms we'd seen, lugged my things up the steps, and emerged into a neighbourhood of brownstones and verdant trees. I was amazed; it was a different city altogether, like parts of Exeter cut and pasted without the waterfront. Where LaGuardia had been suffocating and loud, this street was quiet, and smelled of baked goods. We walked a little further to the avenue called Fenway, and then we counted the brownstones until we found it: 2510. We rang the doorbell and waited for Simon to fetch us.

We were answered with a bark, and my parents and I exchanged glances, puzzled.

From inside we could hear a voice shushing the dog — dear Lady, they're friends of ours, now sit! — and at the sound of it I stood a little straighter. I didn't know then that my uncle was nearly completely blind; I only knew he was “visually impaired,” and I wanted to make an impression of how tall I was, and how much I had changed.

The door opened and a friendly golden retriever with a pink nose trotted up to us, wagging a feathery tail as it inspected us for treats.

My mother was delighted. “Now who's this?” she cooed, petting the dog and scratching it behind the ears. The retriever looked pleased with the attention it was getting; the two of them got on practically at once.

“That would be Lady Buttercup Goldenplume,” replied my uncle, emerging from within, “1st Baroness Kitchenstone, my companion, and guide dog. Come in! Make yourselves comfortable. I'll put on the kettle for tea.”

　

My parents' visit lasted a few hours. They're not too keen on long visits, but it was Simon, and they'd seen about as much of him as I did since he left England — that is to say, not at all. My father nagged him about visiting Gran more often, but Uncle Simon took it all in stride. I watched him closely at this meeting and answered his questions about school. If he was depressed, he didn't show it; he seemed healthy, with an even gait and none of the paunch that besets most men in their middle age. He navigated his home with ease, without the use of his white cane, which he later took out along with Lady (in her full regalia) to give us a tour of the neighbourhood.

I'd imagined — I don't know what I'd imagined, but it wasn't Uncle Simon living, on the whole, what seemed to be a perfectly self-sufficient life. My concerns about things changing between us were also dashed. As soon as my parents departed for the hotel (my mother purchasing a dog bone for Lady before doing so), he challenged me to a game of checkers, and we made conversation over it.

I would be remiss not to mention something else about my uncle — he was handsome. Not the sort of handsome that a 12-year-old girl is attracted to, as he was older than Dad, and to be Dad's age was on a par with “being ancient,” then, but the kind of handsome that draws admiration, that you want to keep studying, like Greek statue. He had a straight nose, a noble brow, hair the colour of a fallow deer before the brown turns creamy white along the belly. His eyes — when he opened them — were a vacant hazel, with rings of brown around the irises. My father was also handsome, but his moodiness often undercut the effect. He'd inherited the stiff upper lip that occasionally made him resemble a bulldog, and today they've grown into jowls. Uncle Simon's face was open and friendly. The ghost of a smile or laugh never seemed far from his lips.

In that first week, I began summer camp. At the same time that I was learning about penguins and jellyfish at New York Aquarium, I learnt how to live with a blind man. For starters, you'll never surprise them — they have a keenly developed sense of hearing, and they pay more attention to aural stimuli, too. You also never move their things without asking or telling, or they'll have no idea where to begin looking for it (as I discovered when I accidentally left the TV remote on top of a side table). They don't need the lights, although Simon had just enough vision left to know when I'd turned them on, or when I was standing about a metre away from him by the shadow I cast. He navigated his phone, his computer, his shopping at the corner store or pharmacy all by voice — placing his trust in strangers when he didn't have me to locate and pay for objects for him.

It had been terrifying for me to imagine him living in darkness, but the reality seemed quite opposite. My uncle happily spent Monday to Thursday at Rosemont teaching other visually impaired visitors Braille, orientation and mobility, and access to resources in the city that they could make use of. On Friday he went to a parasports club in Manhattan and returned before summer camp finished for the day. On weekends, he relaxed, and he would take me into town or read to me out of books, his hands moving over the pages swiftly, as if he'd been doing it since he was born.

And for a week or two, or three, that sadness I'd felt was nowhere to be seen. But neither was the tenderness we'd shared when I was younger, before the accident, and I tried not to feel disappointed that while he acted much the same as he always had, it was without much warmth. Perhaps I was misremembering. Perhaps too much time had passed.

But then he became too comfortable, and the guise began to slip.

　

There was a girl at summer camp who disliked the fact that I still had an affinity for plushies, and one day she knocked Bunnard out of my arms into a seawater tank. The aquarium employees rescued him in short order, but he smelt strongly of fish and brine, and when they tried to wring the water out of him, he looked to be in such suffering that I had to turn away. I spent most of the rest of the day holding back tears, and when they returned Bunnard from the sun lamp, it was the final nail in the coffin — he had a kelpy smell, he was still heavy and damp, and his pink fur was stiff, caked with salt. I burst into tears.

The teachers called my uncle.

I didn't want them to. Uncle Simon was busy and important; he didn't have time to waste on a petty squabble between children. I said I could go home on my own, but the teacher said he was already on his way.

An hour later, the tip of his cane crossed the threshold of the office, and he called out my name. If I'd been worried about what he'd think of me, that concern melted away immediately, and I leapt from my chair to hug him.

He froze when I touched him, and then relaxed. Placing a hand on my head, he pet me gently, consolingly, while the teacher explained the situation to him. He asked to see Bunnard, and I pointed before remembering he couldn't see. So I fetched Bunnard from my chair, said I was giving it to him, and placed the ruined plushie in his hands.

He felt Bunnard's sides, felt how heavy he was, put his nose against his head. “Why, Bunnard,” he said, “you've gone for a swim.”

“He's ruined,” I said, still feeling sorry for myself.

“He'll likely never be as cuddly as he was,” admitted my uncle, “but life changes us all, doesn't it, Ariel, my darling?”

It would have been patronising from anyone else, but I looked at him — my changed uncle holding the changed Bunnard before him — and had to agree. I couldn't think of another purpose for Bunnard now that he wasn't as cuddly or soft as he used to be, but that didn't mean there wasn't one.

We left, Bunnard in a paper bag, and made our way to the train station. “You know,” my uncle said, “there's a toy shop near the house — we could stop by and get you something new.”

I said thank you, not today, but maybe the next day, or over the weekend.

At home Uncle Simon placed Bunnard on top of the radiator while Lady trotted up to greet us. “Baroness, have you met Lance Corporal Bunnard?” She sneezed. “Bless you. He'll keep watch over the house when we're gone and aid you when you're both here.”

“What's a lance corporal?”

“A rank of officer, below corporal. What do you think? Is Mr Bunnard up to the task?”

I laughed; I couldn't help it. “He'll do his best.”

“So he will.”

My uncle paused, one hand on Bunnard's left foot, the other hanging limp by his side. I craned my neck to better look at him; he was smiling, but just barely, and his brows were drawn tight. The muscles in his cheeks were likewise tense.

I touched his arm and he turned, his eyes opening out of habit. They were trained in my general direction, but they didn't, couldn't, latch on to anything.

“Uncle Simon?” I said, unsure.

His brow trembled, the expression melting into something unguarded, something tender. He crouched in front of me and took my hands in his, rubbing his thumbs over them. My skin began to prickle with heat.

“Ariel,” he sighed, “Ariel — oh, Ariel. We'll buy you another one soon, I promise.”

I thought of that expression, of the oddly fragile quality of his voice, all throughout dinner and after he bid me goodnight. I knew then that my uncle still loved me, but whether it was the love of a man for his niece — of that, I was less than sure.

　

Summer camp ended. I had a surplus of free time and nothing to do. A few other things of note happened in the last ten days of my first trip to New York — chief among them meeting my aunt and cousins for one of those days — but for the most part I spent the time watching TV, exploring the neighbourhood, and spending a little more of my allowance than was probably wise on books, treats, and novelties. Uncle Simon, I think, was still a little rattled from the Bunnard incident; he seemed to feel bad about my always being at home. Would I like to see a Broadway show before leaving? Go to an arcade, shop around Times Square? Or did I want something quieter — to visit one of the many museums the city had on offer, perhaps?

“With you?” I prompted him.

“With your cousins,” was the inevitable reply.

“Maybe next time,” I said, never mind that I didn’t know if there would be a next time, and watched my uncle’s brow furrow in much the same way my father’s did.

I wasn’t trying to be difficult, really I wasn’t. But I had seen a glimpse of what was real underneath the gilded veneer my uncle presented and — I felt it was a matter of urgency. Now that camp was over, I had ten days to break the ice that had formed over our relationship in the years since the accident, and no tools to do it with. My uncle loved me still — that was clear to me — but what did he actually feel for me? To think of wasting even a day with him, of missing something important, was so painful to me it eclipsed any desire I had to do or see anything else.

I didn’t care what the answer was, as long as it was an answer.

Since Uncle Simon went to Rosemont on most weekdays, I made a point of going there at around four to meet up with him and Lady. The first time I did, he blushed so vividly, even his ears went crimson. Enthralled, I tried to replicate my success on subsequent days, to no avail. Once we were home, I whipped up simple recipes out of the cookbook I’d bought for our party of three. (I often cooked for Mum and Dad when they were zonked from work, so I was more than capable of handling myself, and more than a little tired of takeaway.) My uncle protested this, but secretly, I think he was pleased. I didn’t think about it then, but he was a single man and lived alone. It had probably been some time since someone cooked just for him.

We went to the toy store to buy Bunnibel, Bunnard’s pink, lop-eared niece. We played checkers, Battleship, and chess at home. We went to a local café decked ceiling to floor in real flowers and ate honey lavender cake, topped with edible flowers. My uncle began speaking to me in tones that stirred the memory — low and murmuring, indescribably gentle, yet with a little too much breath, so that each sound was gossamer on the verge of tearing. Frequently I would replay his words to me at night: Ari, Arielmydarling, good night, my dear, whatever will I do without you?

At last, it was the day before my parents’ arrival. I’d already packed, not wanting to perform my usual last-minute scramble in front of my uncle, and the room I’d been staying in looked bare. After doing my hair, I went to join Uncle Simon for breakfast, but he wasn’t there; only Lady was, and when she heard me, she rose from her bed to greet me, her pink nose searching me for treats.

I gave her one from the jar before looking around the flat for clues. His shoes were still in the rack, the white cane folded near the door. He hadn’t left for Rosemont yet — so was he still in his room? I crept to the door and knocked. “Uncle Simon?” I called.

No answer.

I began to feel concern. It wasn’t like my uncle to be silent, or to wake up late. “Are you well?” I tried the doorknob: open. When there was no response again, I said, “Sorry, I’m coming in.”

With some trepidation, I pushed open the door to my uncle’s room. I had never been inside, and I couldn’t help but shiver at doing something I hadn’t been given permission to do. At the same time, I drank in the surroundings, eager to glean new information about Simon from his living space, but on that count, I was disappointed. He kept everything boarding-school neat, and the walls were almost as empty as they were in my room.

Halfway to the bed, I paused. A single frame stood on the bedside table, containing a medium-sized photograph. It was the four of them, that is, Dad, Simon, Gran, and Grandad. It was spring in the picture, or early summer, and my uncle stood to the side of my father, a little shorter, fair-haired and faintly smiling next to his brooding brother. My eyes wandered from the frame to my uncle’s back, his shoulders rising and falling, rising and falling. Still asleep.

I reached out and touched him, not on the shoulder, but between the shoulderblades, wondering if the accident had left scars there, too. Where I could imagine the slow beating of his heart, my touch waking him up.

It was pounding.

I gasped and pulled back my hand. “Oh!”

Uncle Simon stirred, then began to sit up. His movements lacked their usual sharpness; his limbs seemed too heavy for him this morning, and he swayed like an oak in uncertain winds as he righted himself on the bed. There was the faint, acrid odour of wine on him, and I was taken aback. I’d never known my uncle to drink.

“Ariel, my dear,” he greeted me. “This is new. What time is it?”

“Past eight. Is everything okay, Uncle Simon? You don’t usually…” I didn’t know how to finish that sentence. Flustered, I rushed past it. “Did you, um, catch something?”

“I’d be more put together if I had,” he said with a wry smile. “No, everything is fine. I wanted wine last night, but I had slightly too much. It used to be I could drink two glasses without feeling it, but I’m not a young man anymore, am I?”

My eyes flickered back to the frame on the bedside table. For once, I was glad he couldn’t see me. “Does that happen often?” I asked.

“It doesn’t. But you’ll fret until I get out of bed, won’t you, so give me a minute, please. I’ll be right out to join you for breakfast.”

I scampered out of the room and shut the door behind me, leaning against it to recover my composure. I didn’t need to put a hand to my own chest to know my heart was hammering, or to my face to know that… I touched it anyway. My stomach turned over. Now I was really glad he wasn’t able to see me.

Rather more than a minute later, the Uncle Simon I recognised emerged from his bedroom in slacks and a crisp white shirt. We exchanged greetings again, this time more formally. The image of his dishevelled hair and exposed collarbone continued to haunt me as I whisked the eggs in a bowl, and I looked over my shoulder more than once to observe him as he waited for the kettle to boil. Classical music played over the radio while we attended our respective tasks, occasionally interrupted by news and the weather report.

We chatted over omelette and toast, and Uncle Simon drank coffee. I learnt that he had asked for the day off, on account of my leaving so soon; he’d wanted to give me a day to spend with him doing anything I’d like. How thoughtful of him! And what a stroke of luck for me! That being said, I didn’t know what my options were, or what a high of 90 degrees meant in centigrade. Both seemed important for planning the trajectory of the day.

In the end, we decided on staying indoors. We had games and channels enough to keep us entertained, and I didn’t want to risk burning my pale British complexion a second time. Looking back, I wonder if my uncle had known about the scalding temperatures and planned for his day off in advance, or it if had merely worked out that way. Anyway, I digress.

After a late morning trip to walk Lady (buying peanuts and ice cream on the way back), we returned to the flat, glad to be done with the outdoors before it was too hot to be tolerable. As we had dozens of times before, we began to set up chess, only this time, I insisted on taking the black pieces instead of the white.

“But don’t you want the opening advantage?” my uncle asked, surprised.

“You don’t think I can win without the handicap?” was my response. Even with my gentle breeding, I could be sassy when I wanted to be!

The corner of his lip curled up into a smile. We spun the chess board round — it was one of those tactile ones, with holes in the squares and the pieces built with pegs to fit into them for blind players — and began the game.

“Pawn to E4.”

“Pawn to C5.”

“Hm, I see. Knight to F3.”

“That’s not F3, Uncle. F3 is a square down.”

“Oh, pardon me.” He adjusted his knight’s position. I didn’t quite remember how the Sicilian Defence was supposed to go after that, and Uncle Simon won several of my pawns handily. As I debated my next move, I couldn’t help but notice that he was fidgeting, drumming his fingers against his knee. The tips of them made a dull sound against his pants, and I became aware that his attention was drifting inward, away from our game.

I waited for him to say something. Waiting seemed the only thing I could do.

Finally, as I was on the verge of giving up and making my move, he said, “Have you enjoyed your trip to New York, Ariel?”

I let go of the bishop whose path I was contemplating and looked up. “Yes, Uncle Simon.”

“You did everything you wanted at camp? In the city? I hope you weren’t bored, staying here instead of at your aunt’s.”

“You’re not boring,” I said, incredulous. “We’ve gone out places — and played games together — and…” Spent hours with each other, I thought, but that wasn’t right. It was true, but it didn’t capture the essence of what I wanted to communicate.

My uncle turned his head. “It’s hardly what a young person wants to be doing in the summer, is it, nattering about with a dull old man.”

I have to admit I gawked at him then. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing — or what I was seeing as a flush crept into his cheeks again. Neither of us moved, but his Adam’s apple fluttered.

I imagined pressing my lips to it, to the sandy stretch of his throat, and had to hold on to the table until the dizziness passed.

And then his lips quirked. His shoulders contracted; he barked out a laugh. Uncle Simon always did move faster than my child’s mind.

“I’m being absurd,” he said, giggles subsiding. “Dramatic. I should really be thanking you, not wallowing.”

“Thanking me?”

“For bearing with me when you could have been exploring, or making new friends. You’ve gone above and beyond what your parents expected of you, my dear.”

Understanding dawned on me then. “You think Mum and Dad told me to look after you?”

“I know they did. My brother complains that I don’t talk to you all more often, but it’s because he worries. You would think he’s the older one, the way he frets. Rebecca… no, your mother is sensible. I’m sure she wants her daughter to have a good relationship with her uncle. Do I have it?”

This version of my parents, so far as he had described them, was correct. Before leaving, my parents had told me that Uncle Simon might need help from time to time, encouraged it, and checked in with me over the phone several times over the course of the summer — but they had also stressed his need for independence, and the fact that he was more than capable of living on his own. Technically, I was to ask before volunteering my services.

Over the last ten days, I hadn’t asked if I could cook for him and Lady or meet him at Rosemont, though.

I captured one of his pawns with my bishop. It would cost me, but I was beginning to get a little frustrated with my uncle’s control over the narrative. “I wanted to look after you,” I said.

His smile faded just a whit.

“I…” Was having trouble finding my voice, and making myself look stupid in the process. Images and feeling jockeyed for supremacy in my mind, vying for attention. Simon’s hands. His voice. His eyes. As I remembered him, six years in the past. As I knew him now, changed. My pulse hammered in my ears, deafening. There was only one phrase coming to mind, but I didn’t dare say it. “I… you…”

Uncle Simon stood up.

My heart somersaulted in my chest. For a second, I thought he would walk away — I would have cried — but he only went to the edge of the carpet, turned, and came back. Then he did it again. From the couch, Lady watched him pace, her ears pulled back with concern.

Far from being flushed, he had gone pale, and he nearly banged into his chair as he came to a stop. “Ariel,” he said, clutching the back, “you must think about this very carefully.”

My throat contracted. Tears began to prick my eyes, although I couldn’t say why. “Yes, Uncle Simon.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong, darling, or upset me. I fear I haven’t been as responsible with you as I ought to. Now, you’re a bright girl. I assume you've already made your conclusions on the matter, and they are probably correct.”

I responded in the affirmative again, this time a bit more hesitantly.

“And what do you think,” he said softly, “of your Uncle Wolfy now?”

I’m not sure he’d been prepared for the answer I gave him, but if he hadn’t learnt that you should never invite a child to be honest unless you’re willing to stomach it, he did right then. I didn’t cry — I remember that, and the effort it took — but my voice came out wobbly, unsure if the situation called for being an infant or a mature adult. “I don’t want you to go away again,” I pleaded. “Please don’t go so far away.”

And that was that. The walls torn down, I said other things, too, but my memory didn’t preserve them so much as the feeling of saying them. It was an exorcism. I hadn’t known I had so many emotions about it until they came pouring out of my mouth.

What I do remember is Uncle Simon’s stricken expression — him groping toward me, holding his hands out for mine — him kissing the backs and kneeling before me, as if he were praying at an altar. “Oh, Ariel,” he exhaled, “it will be temporary, don’t you see? You can come back next summer, and as many summers after that as you want. I’ll wait for you, always. We’ll do it all again.”

“I will — we will — I want to.”

“We have plenty of time with one another — all the time in the world, now that we’ve found each other. Isn't that right?”

“Yes, Uncle Simon—”

“I can’t believe you know now — that I love you. I can’t believe you love me.”

His face tilted up, I bent my head and kissed him on the cheek; for I hadn’t yet processed that I had confessed, and I was still too shy to go for the mouth.

But he sighed with happiness anyway and rested his cheek against the edge of my knee. How very chaste my uncle was! “Now I’m yours. For as long as you’ll have me, I’m yours.”

Trying to contribute, I said, “Forever?”

His jaw tensed under my palm. Just for a moment. Then it relaxed. “As long as you’ll have me,” he repeated. And then, softening: “Whatever will make you happy.”

We stayed like that for a little longer, and then broke apart. I was relieved for that, honestly. As glad I was to get to the bottom of the mystery with my uncle, I’d found the whole thing overwhelming, too, and I appreciated having time to collect my thoughts. We agreed that we would keep it a secret from Mum and Dad — that seemed obvious to me, but I suppose he wanted to cover his bases — and that I would call or write an e-mail to him every so often, omitting any sensitive information. “I’d like to hear what you’re up to throughout the year,” he said. “Should you need someone to talk to, you can always come to me.”

And so the first summer I spent with Uncle Simon came to a bizarre end. Frankly, I thought I had dreamt the whole thing until I woke up next morning and he asked if I had changed my mind. There was still time to take it back before my parents picked me up — to pretend the last twenty-four hours hadn’t happened — and resume a familial relationship as best we could.

I tugged on the front of his sweater vest to make him lean down.

And the question of whether we were “just” uncle and niece, so to speak, was laid to rest for the next six years.

We played the role in front of my parents when they arrived, all the same. For half an hour we sat apart, me curled into my mother’s side, Simon with Lady curled at his feet. Our one point of contact was a brief hug at the door, my father wheeling out my luggage with Bunnibel riding on top. For once, he looked pleased as we left the brownstone. Once we were out of earshot, he asked how living with Simon had gone — whether I’d enjoyed my summer in New York, truly.

I delivered the line I had rehearsed in front of the mirror that morning: “Can I come back next summer, too?”

He and my mother exchanged looks, delighted that their plan to bring my uncle back into the fold had worked. They didn’t know it had worked a little too well.