When Miss Miller read the story of Lucy Brown, and the cruel giant was gone.
But Miss Miller had never got around to reading the story of Lucy Brown.
Paulette had watched her with the exercise book, watched her as she put it back down
On the desk again, as she sighed and asked out loud how she could possibly be expected
To mark a piece of work like this when its author had so obviously neglected
The basic rules of grammar, spelling and the need for clear handwriting;
Miss Miller held up the exercise book and said it looked like spiders had been fighting
All over the pages after dipping their feet in ink! The kids in the class had all laughed.
And Sarah Pugh had said that everybody knew that Paulette Patterson was daft!
Smiling through the scalding shame and shrugging at the spikes of embarrassment
Paulette picked up her exercise book. And that night when she got home, she went
Straight to her room and ripped the shameful pages from the book, the stupid story of Lucy Brown.
And finding the hole in the skirting board, she stuffed the scribbled pages down
Amongst the scrunched-up sheets of old newspaper that were meant to keep out the draught;
And tried to forget the shame and disgrace. To forget how everybody had laughed
As Miss Miller had betrayed her and held up the book; said it looked like spiders had been fighting;
And had never even noticed it was Paulette’s first try to write a story in joined-up writing.
Paulette tried to forget! And what she couldn’t forget she pretended had never taken place.
Although something that couldn’t be pretended away were the pages stuffed in the space
Behind the skirting boards and the danger that they might be discovered
And read by her father. And Paulette knew what would happen if he uncovered
The story and perhaps read a bit more closely than Miss Miller had bothered to do;
Her father, seeing through the scrawly writing, the thin disguise and realising who
The story was truly about. Her father who’d told her never to talk about their special game.
Because if she did, bad things would happen. And she’d only have herself to blame.
He’d smile at her when he told her that. But Paulette saw the threat behind the smile,
Heard the note of warning in the whispered words; and thought about the pile
Of pages still stuffed behind the skirting board, pages that swelled and multiplied
At night when she was in bed, in the dark. And then when the wind outside
Began to stir, she’d hear the hideous chorus start up, behind the alabaster;
The hidden pages rustling and scratching at the wood and plaster,
The scrawly words coming to life, letters sprouting spidery legs until a teeming
Army of ugly, inky insect words began pouring off the pages, streaming
Up and down, this way and that behind the wall, itching, scratching, the frenzied horde
Feverishly scrabbling till they found the gap and began to spill over the skirting board,
The torrent of misformed alphabetical bugs scattering out and over the floor,
The tittle-tattle, tell-tale words scurrying across the carpet and under the door,
Swarming down and through the house to spread the word of deceit and defiance;
And how Paulette Patterson had betrayed her father with tales of cruel giants.
Time after time she’d intended retrieving those sheets of paper,
To pull them back out from the skirting board and hide them somewhere safer.
Or better still, rip them into pieces and throw them down the grid,
Flush them down the toilet, bury them, burn them, get rid
Of the ruinous writing; but now she knew she’d left it too late.
And he’d warned her; warned her so many times how he wouldn’t hesitate
To do what would have to be done if the meddlers and the snoopers got to know
Just how much he loved his little daughter. And it wouldn’t be his fault. No,
Because he’d warned her! How many times had he said, daddy’s love must be kept
A secret, just between the two of them. And he thought she was such a good girl! Except,
Look what she’d done now! With her sneakiness and slyness, cunning and invention,
Boiling the pot and meddling with what she’d been told she must never dare mention.
He’d warned her! Oh he’d warned her. And he’d believed that she’d understood;
When all the time she’d just been pretending, planning to deceive her own flesh and blood
With a fairy tale for the teacher; spidery letters, coded, crippled words betraying
Him to the interferers; the snoopers, meddlers. Oh they’d all start baying
For his blood now. The fools who’d be falling over themselves to damn and to brand him
A monster: all the godly, the good, the interfering who’d never understand him!
And he’d warned her, so many times, of what would happen if she ever dropped
Even the merest hint of how much her daddy loved her. Hadn’t she stopped
And considered the consequences? The times she must have heard him say
There was nobody, nobody on this earth who could take her daddy away!
Nobody. Apart from himself! Had she thought it was some sort of joke
When he told her what he’d have to do if anyone found out? When he spoke
Of how nothing could ever separate them; when he made his solemn promise
Of what he’d do if the snoopers ever knew and tried to take him from his
Daughter: that they’d find he was beyond them now, where a daddy’s love couldn’t be defiled,
Where death had beaten them to it; uniting for ever and ever the father and the child.
Blind to all but the demons that danced inside her head, she went
Hurtling along the towpath, a hunted animal, nostrils thick with the scent
Of her own fear, ears deaf to all but the heavy thudding
Feet that beat upon the path behind her. Terror flooding
Her imagination, she ran without knowing that her only pursuer
Was nothing but the ghost of all that had happened to her;
The jagged fingernails scratching at her skin nothing more
Than the snagging of bramble branches as she frantically tore
Past the hedgerows; the incessant beat of the feet she heard,
Just the pounding of her own frightened heart as she hared
Along the path, under the bridge and out where rusted coal shutes and long-derelict
Grain hoppers sagged, propped up like weary old men against the solid soot-bricked
Wharfside walls where suddenly she saw her chance of sanctuary:
Leaving the towpath she clambered, scrambling over neglected machinery,
Stumbling over lumps of stone and shards of shattered roofing slate,
Trying to reach her refuge and hide herself before it was too late
And he emerged from under the bridge, able to see her again before she’d had chance
To reach the abandoned buildings. As she ran, she risked a quick glance
Behind her, seeing nothing but hearing still the relentless rumbling
Beat of feet against the earth; the beat beat beat, sending her stumbling
On, over the pock-marked cobbles of the disused wharf,
And across the derelict builders’ yard, racing past the half
Built hulls of rotting barges, running for her life until she reached
The gaping hole where the boundary wall had been breached.
Scrambling through the gap, she thought she’d be safe on the other side.
Thought that everything would be all right and that she could just hide
Behind the wall. But it wasn’t
all right! Glancing back there was nothing to see,
No-one running down the towpath, nobody coming under the bridge. Nobody!
Nobody’s feet on the pock-marked cobbles, nobody running across the builders’ yard,
Nobody treading across the wharfside, not a single soul to be seen in the scarred
And lifeless wasteland; no track or trace of her tormentor;
Just the sound! The stubborn, ceaseless, thudding sound that sent a
Wave of panic coursing through her veins; the numbing beat, beat of drumming
Dogged feet, sending out the message that still, he was coming!
The warehouse towered above her, vast cathedral walls blocking the sun,
Doors and windows battened, boarded up with sheets of corrugated iron,
Each sheet pasted with a message that warned of the consequences
For those who chose to disregard the ‘DANGER – KEEP OUT’ notices.
But Paulette Patterson didn’t stop to read and heed the warning signs,
The threat of possible prosecution and the maximum level of fines.
She was in enough danger as it was, to care about risks that awaited
Those who ignored the warning signs and went beyond the corrugated
Sheeting and ventured inside the building. Paulette found the loading bay
Where the rusting metal cover had been pulled and partly prised away
From the wall. Squeezing through the narrow gap, she faltered, hesitating,
Suddenly afraid of the deep black darkness that loomed beyond the grating.
But as she paused, she heard it again, coming closer, the dull thudding sound!
Hesitating no more, Paulette dropped and lying flat on the ground
She writhed and wriggled beneath the grating, stifling her fear of the dark within
As she pushed past the rusted iron doors, edging deeper into the darkness, the thin
Shaft of light from the entrance quickly fading as she crept forward, a careful hand placed
Against the dusty wall, fingertips guiding her in the blackness as blindly she traced
Her faltering way, floorboards creaking, whining, crying out beneath her tread
As if in complaint, the groaning wood, dryboned, too tired and foul-tempered
To bear the bothersome step, the tiresome weight of the intruder; the rotten pockmarked timbers straining
To bear the burden as Paulette stood, leaning against the wall now, regaining
Her breath; the throbbing thud of feet behind her finally beginning to slow, to fade and disappear.
Safe now, safe in the pitch black cloak of darkness, the beating feet all gone; nothing more to fear;
Only the dark, as she waited; counting to a hundred, two hundred, three hundred, four;
Then those same hundreds counted again, counted backwards, counted and recounted until she was sure
That she’d escaped him; that by now he’d have gone, given up, given in, forced to postpone
His plans. And now, now that she was no longer so afraid, now that the terror had gone,
Paulette told herself that perhaps, by the time she got back home, he might be himself again,
Might have turned back into her ordinary daddy, her proper daddy. And then perhaps she could still explain
Everything so that her mam would understand it wasn’t Paulette’s fault, losing her knickers like she had;
It wasn’t her fault at all, because it was the butterfly. And the missing sandal? She hadn’t been doing anything bad
At the allotments; it was the man’s fault, the man who’d chased her, that horrible Man from the Hut.
And so really it was his fault, Paulette losing her sandal; because he’d grabbed hold of her foot,
Pulling at her in the spiky hedge; and that’s why the buttons were missing, that’s why her dress was ripped;
And that’s why her knees were scratched and bleeding, from where she’d stumbled and slipped
As she was running away. So none of it was her fault, not really; and if she could just explain it to her mother,
Just like she could explain it now, in her head, then maybe she wouldn’t be in any bother.
And maybe her mam and her dad had even been worried out of their minds, wondering where she’d gone,
So that when she did get back, her mam might cry and say she loved her and promise that from now on
Everything would be different; so that instead of being slapped and called stupid and told she was a walking disgrace,
Her mother would hug her and hold and tell her there was no-one who would ever take the place
Of her precious little Paulette. And her mam would wipe all her tears away then and tell her not to be afraid;
Because from now on, her mam would always be there to love and look after her and make sure she stayed
Safe and sound. Then Paulette’s mam would whisper that of all the girls in all of the world
There was none so bright and clever; and none so loved and cherished as Paulette, her treasure of a girl.
And perhaps Paulette believed her concoction, of the mother as a mother who cared;
And her father, a father whose love she could trust, one who gave her no cause to be scared
Of him. Perhaps she believed it; or just needed to believe something better than reality
As she started to retrace her steps in the darkness, holding onto the wall, holding onto her fantasy
Of the joyful reunion; of her mam and dad both thrilled to see her safely returned.
Impatient now to be back outside in the sun, running home, Paulette stopped and turned
Away from the wall that had been her guide, choosing instead to strike out across the warehouse floor
Towards the sliver of light from the entrance. But Paulette never made it to the door.
In the blackness, Paulette couldn’t possibly have seen the void; the gutted
Timbers; spars collapsed, fallen or flung into the vault below; joists jutted
Out, fractured floorboards splintered into emptiness, a yawning hollow
Hidden in the dark; a ravenous gaping mouth, insatiable, ready to swallow
And suck down into its bottomless black belly, those who deserved everything they got
For straying so far from home; straying and meddling where they should not.
Paulette Patterson lifted her foot, eyes fixed on the shard of light from the door
As she stepped forward. But where her step should have met the wooden floor
There was nowhere for a foot to fall; nothing but the space, into which she lunged,
Toppling from her feet, arms flailing, fingers grasping, snatching at the air as she plunged
Tumbling into the void, plummeting down through the lift-shaft; and thudding to a halt,
Amid the stinking raft of scrap and rubbish that lined the black belly of the brick vault.
She tried at first to find a way out. But in her terrified heart she knew she was trapped, entombed
In this shaft, where the only chance of escape was to scale the sheer walls that loomed
Above her. She tried at first; clawing at the brick, scrambling to find a crevice or crack
Where tips of fingers could grip, a foot could fit; and she could begin to push and heave her way back
Out of this dark stinking tomb. She tried, again and again; feet slipping, sliding, fingers scraping;
And all her frantic effort mocked by the voice in her head that said this time there would be no escaping.
Outside, in the stillness of the early evening sun, any passer-by would have heard the calls,
The shouts, the whimpered cries for help from deep within the disused warehouse walls.
But that evening, no dog was walked, no lovers strolled, no bicycle boys came thereabouts,
No vandals, vagrants, stickleback hunters, mischief-seekers, no-one to hear the shouts
Of the child drifting up from the bowels of the buildi
ng. Nobody came and nobody heard
The wasted cries, left hanging limp and feeble in the sultry air where nothing but the gnats stirred:
And the butterfly! The single crimson butterfly clinging to the face of the baked brick wall,
Where it basked in the sun, in its own brief glory, unaware, undisturbed, untouched by the call
Of the child, growing slowly weaker, fainter; fading till it was barely more than a bleating cry;
Than the beat of a wing in the air that bore the soaring crimson butterfly.
RJM
The Pulse and Husk
Wholefood Cantina,
Rennet Street,
Huddersfield
Dear Morrissey,
They cancelled the coach! When it came on the tannoy and they said that due to unforeseen circumstances the three o’clock service to Grimsby had been cancelled, I couldn’t help feeling a massive, if momentary, surge of relief. All the other passengers started groaning and shaking their heads but I just sat there hoping that this was the news I’d been waiting for and that Grimsby had had to be sealed off from the outside world because of blue asbestos or an outbreak of foot and mouth; or even severe earth tremors or civil unrest and cod riots or the invasion of the sodding body-snatchers. I didn’t care what it was as long as it was something that meant I could just turn round and go home to Failsworth without upsetting my Mam.
But the announcement just said the cancellation was due to mechanical problems with the incoming vehicle. And we’d have to wait for the five o’clock service instead. They said they were issuing vouchers so the delayed passengers could avail themselves of a selection of sandwiches in the bus station cafeteria. But as all the selected sandwiches were of a notably non-vegetarian variety, and some of them were positively cannibalistic, containing things like brisket and brawn and tongue, I gave my vouchers to this elderly couple in the queue.
‘Don’t you want them?’ the man said to me.
‘No,’ I said, ‘they’re no good to me. I’m a vegetarian.’
His wife looked at me then, cocked her head all sympathetically and said, ‘Agh,’ as if I’d just informed her I only had three weeks left to live.
I went for a walk round. Even after paying for my coach ticket, I still had £1.65 left. So I saw this place and I came in here. I don’t know about you, Morrissey, but despite my avowed vegetarian status I always find the atmosphere in wholefood cafés to be somewhat intimidating. They seem to attract the sort of vegetarians who give vegetarianism a bad name, all sat around looking ill, avoiding salt and getting wound up about E numbers and CFCs. And for such caring people they all seem so hostile. Even the food seems to have some kind of passive hostility to it. I ordered a homity pie. But it was all attitude and no flavour. I took it back and told him the potatoes were hard. He looked at me like he was too bored to breathe.
The Wrong Boy Page 16