Honour Thy Father

by Lesley Glaister

  It is difficult to close the door because of the water. But we do, and unnecessarily bolt the door. Ellenanesther go into the sitting-room and kneel before the hearth. ‘Omotheromothero,’ they begin, but softly, sweetly. Agatha goes back to her wet room. I go to mine and get into bed and stretch out. Oh it is so peaceful now that that is done! It is so quiet. It should have happened years ago. I think that now I’ll sleep.

  When I wake it is still and quiet. Strange. I lie listening for a few moments to the silence. Something is different. Everything is different. It takes my old brain a little time to remember what has happened. There is a significance in the air. There is a wet stain on the ceiling that looks for all the world like a map of an island cut in half by a great river with many tributaries. And then I remember.

  It is so quiet. But I can hear a watery lapping and there is a creaking. The house is complaining. Agatha moves upstairs. Did she go to sleep in all that wetness after all? As she moves across the floor a piece of plaster falls from my ceiling and breaks softly on the floor. It looks as if last night’s soaking might have done it, as if the ceiling might finally fall in.

  But it is such a beautiful day. The sun is hot. It is strange to wake so late. It must be nearly lunchtime. From my window I can see the pretty sparkle of water. It is not deep. You can see through it to the grass and weeds, and yet it reflects too, the few wisps of cloud, the fence posts, the brambles that clamber over the privy, the tangle of bramble and briar, honeysuckle and clematis. It is so clear that in the distance I can see the spire, the tiny finger of the church, wagging at heaven.

  I am hungry. I think today that Mark will come. There will be biscuits and olives and gin. There will be instant food from China that only needs a stir!

  I have not been upstairs for a long time. Can it be years? But I make my way now up the bare curved staircase to Agatha’s room. I tap on the door.

  ‘Yes?’ she says, her voice a surprised croak.

  ‘It’s Milly,’ I say. ‘Can I come in?’ After all she came into my room last night. Into my bed, even.

  ‘Of course,’ she says as if there could be no question, as if there is no need to ask. Oh Agatha! Never straightforward. Her tone of voice says it all, says, ‘You might be peculiar about letting me into your room, but I am not so petty. I am above such things.’ I don’t care any more though. It is different today. I will not rise to her bait.

  She was not exaggerating last night. Her room is completely soaked. What’s left of the old carpet squelches under my bare feet. Her bed is dark with wetness and it is not just rain. There is the smell of pee. At least I have not come to that. The plaster has fallen off the ceiling so that you can see the tiles – and the gaps in the tiles.

  ‘How long has it been like this?’ I ask.

  She shrugs. ‘It’s been getting worse lately.’ It looks to me as if it has gone too far to mend. There is a hole in the corner of the floor too and the dressing-table leans crookedly towards it. Mother’s pots of cream and her brush have fallen off. It looks as if the floorboards are rotting away. ‘So you see I can’t stay in here any longer,’ she says.

  I have to agree. I wonder whether she will be able to sleep here again. There is a little leap inside me. Of fright perhaps? No, exhilaration. The house cannot last much longer, not now the roof has gone. There is a chink of light. There is an end in sight.

  In the hot green brightness of the attic with the sun shining through the green glass and the holes in the roof, I can see how shrunken Aggie is. She looks hardly alive, as if something has gone from her. My old witch, old bitch of a sister, is just a poor old woman, a poor old woman who wets the bed. At least she didn’t wet my bed. At least I’ve never come to that.

  ‘Last night …’ she begins.

  ‘Let’s have none of that,’ I say. ‘Last night was last night. Look what a beautiful day it is! Let’s go and find some breakfast.’ She hesitates. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ I encourage, ‘Mark will be coming soon with the biscuits and the stuff that only needs a stir and …’

  ‘The gin!’ Eager now, she follows me down.

  There is not much left to eat, and there is an inch of water on the kitchen floor. The cats come in, one, two, three, and the rest. Their belly fur is wet and they pick their way disdainfully through the water and leap onto the table miaowing and straining towards Agatha.

  ‘Hello, my poor babies,’ she says, scratching and stroking as they rub eagerly against her hands. ‘Are my babies wet then? Come to Mother, my poor wet pussy cats.’

  No. Not much left. Just as well that Mark is coming today. And then what a feast we’ll have! Good hot tea with a dash of gin, and a plate of biscuits: bourbons and pink wafers, garibaldis, gipsy creams. Oh yes delicious!

  I squat just outside the door. There is no point going further, no point going outside at all really, for the same water is everywhere. But still, it isn’t right to do it in the house, not like Agatha. Ellenanesther are in the sitting-room. I put on the kettle. The stove is still alight, just smouldering. There is heat enough to boil, slowly, water for a cup of tea. Then one of us will have to go out and get a log from the barn. There is a horrible sound from the cellar, but only if you listen hard. It is a dull bumping, like a log in the water. Do not listen. Yes one of us must fetch some wood from the barn. Plenty of water, anyway!

  Although it is a hot day, paddling in the kitchen is no great pleasure. After a while, the water begins to irritate. It makes the tops of my feet itch where it laps as I move. Things float in the water: rubbish, leaves, dead mice and eggshells and spiders, and there is a scum of hairs.

  ‘I suppose it will go down?’ I remark to Agatha.

  ‘I suppose it must,’ she says. Neither of us so much as glances at the cellar door. The kettle is beginning to moan a little and I tip the old tea-bags out of the pot. I tip them straight into the water on the floor. After all, it will all have to be cleared up.

  ‘The floor will be clean, anyway,’ I say. ‘Let’s have our tea before we do another thing – and there are a few cream crackers.’ I put the teapot, cups, a punctured tin of condensed milk and half a packet of (soft) cream crackers on a tray, and carry it through to the sittingroom. We sit together sipping the sticky sweet tea, our feet lifted up on the chairs away from the wetness.

  Aggie balances her teacup on the arm of the chair and she puts on her stage face, old chin tilted, rheumy eyes flashing in a worldly way. And then she stands. She holds out her dress and she begins to dance. She dances round and round the trunk holding out her skirt, splashing and sploshing, filling the room with her ripples. She hums as she moves and then she remembers the words and she begins to sing. And she sings and she flirts at us as if we were an audience of men.

  She sang like a nightingale, twanged the guitar,

  Danced the cachuca and smoked a cigar;

  Oh what a form, Oh what a face!

  And she did the fandango all over the place.

  And then Ellenanesther stand up too. They stand up and sway to Aggie’s song, and then they join in. They have never done that, not sung a proper song like that with words and a tune. And I cannot resist it. I cannot resist joining in too. And we dance around the room and the sound of the water splashing almost drowns our voices. And we make such a racket we don’t hear Mark’s little green van scudding through the water.

  And suddenly he is there, at the door, the heavy box crammed with our food in his arms. He is wearing long green rubber boots. I open the door and cry ‘Hello!’ and there is something strange about my face. I can feel it stretching. I am smiling, not just smiling but grinning. He smiles back and he looks surprised.

  ‘It sounds as if you’re having a party, ladies,’ he says.

  ‘No, no,’ I say. And the stupid grin will not leave my face.

  He looks uneasy. ‘I’ve brought you your stuff and there’s some post here for Miss A. Pharoah, but Mam says I’m to say you’re to come back with me.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ says Ag
atha. She tries to scrabble the box from his arms.

  ‘Just a mo!’ he says. He strides right into our kitchen in the wonderful boots and puts the box on the table. ‘That’s a relief,’ he says. ‘That’s bloody heavy, ’scuse my French, with all them tins.’

  Agatha has the bourbons out and opened and has retreated to the sitting-room before the cats smother the box, purring and rubbing their faces against the food that they know is for them.

  ‘You can’t stay here,’ says Mark, looking at the filthy water. ‘That’s bad enough now but there’s been a warning that the big dyke might go – and if that do …’

  ‘Oh we’ll be all right,’ I say blithely. For of course, that is the answer. ‘Come on, pussies,’ I say, pushing the beastly things off so that I can reach the Beefeater Gin bottle, and the letter addressed to Aggie.

  ‘But you don’t understand,’ says Mark. ‘There int anyone else living this side or there’d be more of a palaver. But that’s dangerous. You need … what’s the word? … evacuating.’

  ‘Evacuating!’ I smile. ‘Listen to me, young man. I’ve lived in this house all my life and I’m not about to start being evacuated now.’

  ‘But look at the state of the place,’ he says. ‘Even if that drain don’t give way you can’t stay here. You’ll catch pneumonia.’

  ‘Agatha,’ I call, ‘Ellenanesther. Come in here a minute. This young man’s got some idea about evacuating us.’

  They come splashing in. Agatha has chocolatey crumbs round her mouth. She eyes the gin bottle.

  ‘Evacuating us?’ say Ellenanesther.

  ‘That’s incredible,’ exclaims Mark. ‘Did you see that, they said that together, exactly.’

  ‘Oh they always do that,’ I say. ‘They always have.’

  ‘But …’ He looks at them and they stare back. He looks away, their double gaze is too much for him. ‘Look you …’ he appeals to Agatha who looks by far the most decrepit. ‘You don’t want to stop here do you? Look, your dress is wet up to the knees. You’ll catch your death.’

  Agatha pops a bit of biscuit in her mouth, and sucks it against her gums.

  ‘And there’s a warning that the dyke’s packing up,’ he says. ‘God knows what’ll happen if that does. You’ll all be washed to kingdom come.’

  ‘Kingdom come,’ repeat Ellenanesther thoughtfully.

  ‘There they go again,’ says Mark. ‘Look, why don’t you just put a few things together and hop in the van,’ he appeals. ‘You can stop at Mam’s house tonight and then I’ll have you back first thing tomorrow if it’s all clear.’

  ‘No,’ I say. It is too late for that. Escape is the last thing on my mind. ‘Thank you,’ I add, for there is no call to go forgetting manners now.

  ‘No,’ say Ellenanesther. He watches them speak in unison and then turn and paddle out of the kitchen, every movement doubled before his eyes. He shakes his head in wonder.

  ‘No,’ says Agatha.

  ‘Well, all right then,’ he says. ‘If you’re sure.’ He’s given in already! A bit of a weak character then, really. I can’t see Isaac giving up that easily. ‘What about next fortnight’s order?’

  ‘Oh just the same,’ I say. I don’t add, ‘if we’re still here,’ although I think it and so does he.

  ‘Well I’m off then,’ he says. ‘They can’t say I didn’t try. I don’t want to hang around this side of the dyke any longer than I have to. Enjoy your Pot Noodles!’ He wades out to his van, then turns and looks back, ‘Are you sure you won’t?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say. And his little shiny green van sweeps away, cutting a path through the water, sending ridges of waves back to us to stir the rubbish in the kitchen.

  It is peaceful in the house. Oh, the fabric creaks, and plaster trickles every now and then from the ceiling. The cats purr, piled up now in the hot dusty sun on the windowsills. They have gorged themselves with sticky brown meat and now they dry out, their feet blissfully far from the wetness.

  I find a dry log in the barn, on the top of the pile, just clear of the water. I stay in there for quite a time, thinking, remembering. More of the roof has gone – though it’s better than the roof of the house. I stand and look at the place where Isaac and I were together. I remember the thudding of his heart. I remember the sounds he made … but I do not quite remember his face. I wonder if Mark has done it yet? I think he would be a tender lover. The bones of the cow are there in the corner, a fan of ribs softened and furred with cobwebs and dust. I cannot see the place where the floor got burnt that time. The water has rinsed it away.

  It is a hot afternoon. The surface of the water outside is buzzing with life. Such sudden life. This water so suddenly here is already teeming with wriggling buzzing life. I think of leeches. I go inside.

  And there are treats in store. That is what life is all about, should be all about. Treats. On the table are four plastic pots, like squat vases, POT NOODLE, it says on top, Sweet and Sour Chicken flavour. The kettle is on. My mouth is watering. I nibble olives as I read the instructions. Peel off lid. Pour on boiling water to ‘Fill Level’ on container. Let stand for two minutes, STIR WELL. Let stand for two minutes more, STIR AGAIN. AS simple as that! This is the life! Fancy discovering, only now, that it can be as simple as this.

  And then there will be another pot of tea, strong, with gin and a thick dribble of condensed milk and pink wafers to dip in. Oh yes, this is the life. You can keep your palaces and your shops and what have you. You can keep your aeroplanes.

  The kettle boils. I think that I need eye-glasses for I can’t see any ‘Fill Level’ on container. Of course it’s me that’s cooking. If you can call it cooking. But even Pot Noodles are too much to ask of Agatha. No more use than ornament, big sister Agatha. But never mind. I’ll just fill them to where I think. One, two, three, four, there. And a good stir. There are dried peas and all manner of bits and bobs floating about in there. And the smell! I’ve never smelled anything like it. I’ll be glad to get off my feet, out of all this wet. Perhaps … Yes I know. I’ll invite them upstairs to my room. That’ll surprise them. It’s a long time since we have all eaten together. It will be like a picnic on the floor of my room. Yes. We can carry the Pot Noodles and some forks, and a tray with tea and gin and biscuits. It will be a change. It will be fun. There are some little packets here. What do they say? Soya Sauce. Add sauce according to taste. Parcels of sauce! Well what of it? Tea-bags were an oddity once. But you have to move with the times. I remember the first time we had tea-bags. Was it Sarah Gotobed who brought them? No, it was well after her time, must have been one of her sons or grandsons. ‘Try these, ladies,’ he said. ‘Much more convenient.’ And after he’d gone, I caught Aggie snipping the corners off and pouring the tea into the pot. She thought the tea was put in the bags to measure it out. For people with no spoons.

  The Pot Noodles are delicious. They are hot and filling. A proper hot meal. It’s a long time since we had a hot meal other than everlasting omelette; it’s even longer since we all ate together. It feels good, as if the water has drawn us all together. And of course there is no moaning. No trip to the cellar to dread. I have such an appetite. The sun shines into my room lighting the old sagging bed – those blankets could have done with a wash – and illuminating the plaster that hangs in clots now from the ceiling.

  ‘My poor pussies,’ says Agatha. ‘They don’t like the water. What will they do?’

  ‘Oh they’ll be all right,’ I say. And then I remember the letter and I give it to her.

  ‘It’s from the bank,’ she says, holding it up and squinting. I think her eyesight must be going faster than mine, she fumbles at it so, or perhaps it’s just that she’s had more gin. In the end she puts it down, unopened, unread. ‘I don’t need to read it now.’

  Agatha fidgets. She has never learned to relax. She likes to be doing. ‘What shall we do?’ she asks.

  ‘What would you like to do?’

  She looks at me confused. ‘The knitting is all wet,’ she
says.

  ‘Let’s just sit,’ I say.

  She fiddles with the empty noodle pots. ‘These are nice,’ she says. ‘We could use them for something.’

  Ellenanesther are sleepy. They are worn out, you can see by their faces. Their eyelids droop.

  ‘Lie down on my bed if you like,’ I say. I don’t want them to leave the room. None of them. I want all my sisters here with me. It feels like the centre of the house, this room. It is a large sunny room, quite dry. We can stay here now. The sun shines through the window so hotly that it is like a hearth. It is nice to have my family all around me. Ellenanesther lie on the bed. They lie facing each other, but not touching. They fall asleep almost immediately, their blue eyes closing at the same instant.

  ‘We could use them for cups,’ says Agatha. ‘I might have used them for plant pots once.’

  We sit in silence for a moment, then something crashes downstairs, splashes to the floor. ‘The sitting-room ceiling,’ I guess. ‘It had to go sooner or later.’

  There is an odd twang, a complaint from Mother’s piano. ‘It doesn’t like the wet,’ I remark.

  Agatha laughs and when she laughs I almost like her. Her face is transformed. You can see something of the girl Agatha, and something – the merest trace – of Mother.

  Aggie hums a snatch of the fandango song again. ‘If Mother’s Dyke does give way,’ she says dreamily, ‘a twelve-foot wave will sweep the countryside destroying everything in its path.’

  We sit and ponder this. Really, since the house is falling down around us; since we are old and mad; since we are murderers; I cannot think of anything fitter.

  I drain the teapot and put a big splash of gin in each of our cups. ‘Remember the painters?’ I say, smiling at scraggy Aggie, such an aged stick.