Broken Things (Salt Modern Fiction)
Page 11
I broke the taps off the sink and made a lake for the mice, a reservoir; within hours they were paddling little canoes up and down the linoleum floor, and by bedtime there was a steamboat. Someone knocked and knocked on the door for ages, but we pretended there was nobody in. They came around the side of the house and looked in the kitchen window but we all stayed very still, until we were quite invisible.
I broke everything there was for the mice and finally ripped up the clothes on my back with my hands because the scissors were the archway entrance to the museum. My fur was growing by now, I was almost sure; the mirrors were in pieces, in use as solar panels, but the mice assured me that all was well. We were all so small and so light; I was as happy as any mouse could be. Everything was mending, becoming perfect and alive, with felty paws and flickety tails.
When they knocked the door down, when they made me come out, they ruined my world with their great nasty feet; trod my mice into sad raggled heaps of broken things.
Acknowledgements
THANKS ARE DUE to my agent, Victoria Hobbs; to the Arts Council England for Escalator funding and to George Szirtes for his endless time and encouragement. Thank you to Tobias Hill for the big break; to Kate Pullinger for mentoring; to Helen Ivory for the pizzas and ice-cream. Thank you to Andrea Porter; Caféwriters; Hilary Mellon; Caroline Forbes; Simon Miles; Barry Newman; the Bridges Creative Writing Group and Rethink; my sister Naomi and to Dawn Echlin, because she knows it’s true. And thanks to my darling little girl, Jay.