Lynne Banks - The Key to the Indian

His dad gasped.

“Dad, it just happened, and it’s good it did! She was in the river – she was drowning! The magic just got her out in time – I – I sort of saved her life!”

“ Is she here? ”

Omri nodded.

“She’s upstairs – Jessica Charlotte – she’s upstairs now?” his dad asked dazedly.

“ Yes , Dad! And she’s agreed to do the key for us. Only I didn’t have it. Bring it up. You can meet her! Come on!”

His father dropped the box on the table with a thump and was halfway up the nearest stairs before Omri could stop him.

“The other stairs, Dad!” he whispered, and pointed upward to Gillon’s room.

Down, across through four rooms, and up the far staircase they ran, and in five seconds they were in Omri’s room. Omri pointed silently. His father followed his finger, and turned to face the bed. His face when he saw the tiny figure of Jessica Charlotte was a study in wonder. Omri thought that for him, it was like looking at a famous person, from history or fable, standing alive before him, staring back at him.

He moved towards her slowly. He crouched down beside the bed and smiled at her like someone dazed by a miracle. “I’m so pleased to meet you,” he breathed.

“Dad! Shhhh! Let’s go next door!” Omri mouthed.

He picked Jessica Charlotte up very carefully and they went into his parents’ bedroom. There, his father indicated his mother’s dressing-table. It was her favourite piece of furniture. It had a glass top, under which she had arranged a number of family snapshots. Omri put Jessica Charlotte down on its top.

She, it seemed, could no more take her eyes off Omri’s dad than he could take his from her. Her tiny but compelling voice piped, “Are you my Lottie’s son?”

“No,” said Omri’s father. “My wife is Lottie’s daughter.”

“What is her name – her first name?”

“Jane.”

There was a silence. “Well,” she said at last. “At least the initial is the same. It is a sort of bond, even if… accidental.”

“But her second name is Charlotte.”

After a beat, Jessica Charlotte said hoarsely, “After her mother.”

“No. After you.”

Jessica Charlotte seemed to sway where she stood. “How – do – you – know – that?” she asked as if she could barely get the words out.

“Because her grandmother told me so.”

Omri hardly believed what he was hearing. Was his father making this up? But no. He wouldn’t do that. Why had Omri never thought to ask if his mother had a middle name? Why had it never occurred to him that his dad must have met Maria?

“Her grandmother!” Jessica Charlotte gasped. “She was my sister.”

“Yes. And I knew her. Of course I thought the same as you did – that Lottie had named my wife after herself. But one day before we were married, when I was visiting Granny Marie—”

“Granny Marie!”

“Yes, that’s what my wife called her. She got annoyed with my wife over some little thing, and said, quite sharply, ‘That’s your namesake coming out in you!’ My wife said, ‘Do you mean, Mummy?’ meaning Lottie, and Maria said, quite tartly, ‘Don’t run away with the idea that your mother christened you after herself ! She never thought of herself as a Charlotte, it was always Lottie. She named you after my wic—’” He caught himself, and stopped, and then went on, “‘—after my sister, Jessica Charlotte.’”

“Is this the truth?”

“Yes it is. I remembered it very clearly when I was reading—”

Omri trod heavily on his foot and he stopped.

“Tell me!” she cried, and Omri saw her clasp her hands at her breast. “Is my Lottie still alive?”

Omri’s mouth went abruptly dry. He almost pushed in front of his father. “Aunt Jessie, we can’t talk any more. It’s – it’s not allowed. If we give you the key, can you take it back with you and copy it?”

She switched her gaze on to him. He thought he saw a look of eagerness – a sort of blaze – in her eyes.

“I will.”

Omri put out his hand for the key, and when his father gave it to him, laid it on the glass at Jessica Charlotte’s feet. She bent down and looked at it.

“How can I manage to carry something so large and heavy? I have a long walk home from the Embankment.”

“When you get back, you’ll be full-size, and the key will be very small. Do you think you can do it?”

“I’ll try. How shall I – go back?”

“The same way you came – through Frederick’s cupboard.”

“Frederick’s cupboard? What do you mean?”

“Never mind. It’s all in your future. When do you think the key will be ready?”

“Tomorrow.”

“We’ll bring you back then.”

Jessica Charlotte bent down again and grasped the key, holding it just below the bulging plastic top part. Just as she was lifting it, with some difficulty, she stopped and pointed at the glass at her feet.

“These are photographs,” she said. “Who are they?”

“People in our family.”

“Who is that?”

She was pointing to a black and white picture of a young woman holding a baby in her arms. Beside her was a tall, good-looking man in naval uniform.

“That’s your Lottie,” said Omri’s father very quietly. “With her husband and Jane. My Jane, Omri’s mother. Jane Charlotte.”

Omri’s Aunt Jessie stood with the heavy key, its end still resting on the glass, in her hands, staring and staring down at the faded photo. When she had looked her fill, she turned, lifted the key, which was nearly as big as herself, and turned her face to them. The tears in her eyes caught the light in starlike pinpoints.

“I will never despair again,” she said. “Now please. Send me about my business.”

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