by Máire Fisher
Hold onto the feeling, I told myself. It won’t last. Once they learn what you did, they won’t even want to sit close to you.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Okay.’ And then I told my sisters about Ma Bess and Kitty. I told them the whole story, but I didn’t stop there. I went on and on, until they knew all about the boys, what she had told me about the mountain, even my visit to Mr Leonides and my trip to the harbour with the boys’ bones. And then it was time for the last part of the story to be told. I took a deep breath and started with the telephone call that had summoned Orville and Annie away. There was absolute silence as I told them the rest. Even Anthea said nothing.
I ended by telling them how angry I had been on the beach, how very angry I had been with Ma Bess before that.
‘I wanted to punish her,’ I said.
My sisters nodded.
‘I never meant to kill her,’ I said miserably and sniffed.
They looked at me in shock.
‘But you didn’t, Bird,’ Angela said.
‘Is that what you think?’ Anthea added.
I nodded.
Alice, ever practical, joined in. ‘She leapt down your throat the moment you walked in the room, right?’
I nodded.
‘And you answered her back?’
‘Yes.’ I waited for more.
‘You didn’t kill her,’ said Angela. ‘You just refused to be browbeaten by her. Hardly a crime, Bird.’
‘You challenged her, Bird. You took away her power,’ Alice added.
Anthea laughed. ‘And her phone and the key to her door. I’d love to have been a fly on the wall. Can you imagine the look on her face when she realised she’d lost control of you?’
‘I lied though,’ I said. ‘I didn’t tell Mom and Dad about not feeding her. I was all ready to deny what I’d done, say she’d lost it again. But then she went and died.’
And suddenly there she was again, lying on the floor, her blue eyes glaring at me, her face suffused, her legs splayed.
I shuddered and Anthea’s hand came down on my knee.
‘Look at me, Bird,’ she said and waited until I lifted my eyes to meet hers. ‘You didn’t kill her. All you did was twist her into a few knots. What you did was give her a taste of her own medicine – just a little, mind you, compared to everything she’s done to us. I wish I had your guts. Someone should have put her in her place years ago. Orville, or Annie. It shouldn’t have been left to a fifteen-year-old kid to deal with her.’
‘Nearly sixteen,’ I murmured.
‘Sure, nearly sixteen. But still, too young to take on that old hag. Do you remember the way she made Angela wash her feet?’
‘Oh God,’ Angela laughed shakily. ‘Cutting those toenails.’
And suddenly, we were all small girls again, telling each other what it was like, trying to make each other feel better.
‘So you’re quite clear on this, Bird?’ Anthea said. She looked closely at me and didn’t like what she still saw there. ‘Let me tell you what killed Ma Bess,’ she said. ‘Her vile temper. Her deceit, the anger and hate she lived with. It shrivelled her up. And it made her go off pop.’
‘Pop goes the weasel,’ Alice said and we all looked at her in surprise. ‘Well, it’s true,’ she said. ‘She was a weasel.’ And suddenly we were rolling on the floor, screaming with laughter until we heard Annie call up, ‘Girls, girls, is everything all right there?’ and we yelled down, ‘We’re fine, Mom, fine.’
As we quietened down, Anthea took me by the shoulders. ‘Bird. I need to hear you say this. Tell me you know you didn’t kill her because, God forbid, there’s no way she’s going to reach out from the grave and continue to ruin our lives.’
I thought of my brothers, their bones jumbled together in a cardboard box.
‘I shouldn’t have done it. I never thought she’d die. But—’ I drew a deep breath and told the last part of the truth, ‘I’d do it again, and again. Find some way of making her pay for what she did to Oz and Ollie.’
And then, finally, the feeling that had been waiting all week. A small tug, the sort you make when a thread has unravelled and you snap it off. I searched for words, but there was nothing. Nothing more to tell Oz and Ollie. My brothers had gone, and they weren’t coming back. It all felt very empty and I didn’t know how I was going to fill the space.
I turned to look at Anthea, and she hugged me. Just like that. Okay, I thought, so this is strange, but she held on even tighter, so I put my arms around her and patted gingerly. Angela put her arms around us both and then Alice joined in, and that’s how Annie found us when she looked into the room.
She stopped in the doorway.
‘We’ll be down in a minute, Mom,’ Angela said. We sat there a few seconds longer. Then my sisters stood up and walked out of Ma Bess’s room. Alice turned at the door and looked back at me. ‘Coming, Bird?’
‘Just a second,’ I said.
I walked to the window and looked out over the sea. Such a view and she’d never appreciated it. I stood for a moment. Imagined myself out in the wild blue. Free to skim the waves, free to fly high.
I turned from the window and spun, slowly at first, then faster and faster, around and around and around, a whirling girl in the deepening shadows.
‘Goodbye,’ I whispered. ‘Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.’
I slowed to a gentle spin, panting hard. I leaned against the windowsill, my dizzy brain steadying as I looked down from the top of Harbiton Hill, across the village and out to sea. I rested my chin on my hands and stared out across the bay and over the mountains.
The sun broke through the clouds and sparkled on the cobalt sea. Oz and Ollie were out there, travelling the oceans without me. That was how it was, and nothing I could do would ever change it. The waves in the bay shimmered into a hazier blue and the light around the sun splintered into shards of watery colour. I stared hard, willing the tears in my eyes not to spill, to hold the soft dazzle in place. My brothers’ names brushed into my mind. I pulled a breath deep into my chest, then let it go. Oz and Ollie soared, featherlight and free.
‘Bird?’ Annie’s voice made its way up the stairs.
‘Coming,’ I called. Then I stepped out and closed the door behind me.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
OR HOW GOOGLE CAN AMBUSH YOU WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT
I made a terrible mistake. I Googled ‘acknowledgements, novel’.
All I wanted was an idea of the order in which to thank people. Who comes first? Tracey Farren, the friend who introduced me to Anne Schuster’s Women’s Writing Workshops? Writer, facilitator, guide and good friend – Anne introduced me to the joy of writing awry, the best gift I could ever have been given.
Tracey herself read a couple of versions of Birdseye. Stick to the spine of the story, establish your theme and work with it – this was some of the advice so kindly delivered from a fine writer.
Perhaps Fourie Botha and Beth Lindop from Umuzi should top the list? After all, they actively dispelled the myth that big publishing houses have lost the personal touch. But then, what about Jenefer Shute, the editor they teamed me up with? Shouldn’t she come first? Generous, incisive, eagle-eyed and firm, she helped me to send my darlings off to the chopping block, then saved some of the babies I wanted to chuck out with the bath water (she also picked up quite a few clichés …).
What about my family, though? My husband, Rob. Solid as a rock, kind, funny and caring, and as good as Google when I needed practical answers to queries about mountains and the sea and where to put harbours in an imaginary town. My son, Daniel, who tweeted so enthusiastically about my first draft and read the very last one before I sent it back to Umuzi. Kieran, who along with Dan makes me proud to use the hashtag #bestsonsever on Twitter. My father, Frank Doolan, my brother, John Doolan and my nephew, Chris Doolan were kind enough to read drafts and offer perceptive feedback. My brother, Paul in Perth, who has personally guaranteed that he’ll force all his friends to read my book, my three sisters
-in-law, Brank, Liz and Sue who have promised to do the same. And, of course, there’s my darling mom and my brother Brendan; both died before I finished Birdseye. All part of my life and all people I wanted to thank properly in the acknowledgements.
Then there were friends who happily read Birdseye. Their insightful crits helped me to shape and refine. Some of them are brilliant writers, like Christine Coates (my Kingfisher cottage writing partner at the Grail), Erica Coetzee, and Daisy Jones. Others like Joan Adams and Anne Bennett relish reading. So many readers! What can I say? It’s a big book and several people read drafts along the way.
What I so appreciated about all the feedback I received from friendly readers was how honest it was. Hearing what they liked was valuable, hearing what didn’t work was equally so.
I’ve met many delightful people over the years that I’ve been writing: All the women who belonged to Anne Schuster’s monthly writing group, many of whom now attend the Grail Writing Retreats; Ilze Olkers, who said Bird should be young and innocent, end her story before she turned sixteen; Chantal Stewart and Annemarie Hendricks, who now facilitate and coordinate the writing retreats at the Grail; Colleen Higgs, who broadened my writing world.
Quite a list … and it was still growing. What would I do if I forgot Brad, formerly of the Blue Brinjal in Kalk Bay, who was always happy to let us sit and write for as long as we wanted? (My motto: generous tips, whatever you do.) So many writing sessions there with people like Joanne Hichens, Karin Lijnes, Cynthia MacPherson, not to mention those with Tracey and Christine at various friendly cafés in the Deep South. (All cafés and restaurants who allow writers a place to write should be profusely thanked in acknowledgements.)
I couldn’t forget Hayley Goullee, my forensic angel, who told me exactly what I needed to know about bones and how they would look and feel after a long period of time. I wish her mom, Janine, was still here, and another dear friend, Janey Moore. I think they’d both have liked Bird.
My ideal readers are the members of my book club, women with whom I’ve shared thoughts about books for over twenty years.
Who to thank, and in what order? Google would have the answer, I thought. And so I typed in those two words.
I wish I’d never pressed enter. If I hadn’t followed link after link (compulsive clicking, feeling increasingly ill), I’d now be barrelling my way through the thank yous without worrying about seeming ‘effusive’, ‘needy’ and – most damning, often in the case of debut novelists like me – ‘juvenile’ (Stuart Evers in a Guardian books blog).
Useful fact of the day: Many see the acknowledgements page as a marketing/publicity/name-dropping (should you have names to drop)/preening sort of place. Acknowledgements, they say, should be for ever banned; it’s become a political game, a you-thank-me-and-I’ll-thank-you sort of thing. Sam Sacks, writing in The New Yorker, sees acknowledgements as ‘garrulously narcissistic’, ‘strewn with clichés’.
The queasiness in my stomach settled momentarily as I read that several people see the acknowledgements page as a place where writers can thank the people who have helped them, saying that to do so is simply good manners.
Writing is a lonely process. I sit for hours in a space where my mind gallops and my pen races to keep up. I enter that space alone, but when I emerge, I am so grateful for the support and love I receive. So thank you, I say, and I’ll say it again, as effusively as I can: Thank you! Pshaw to those who think that writing these acknowledgements makes me seem garrulously narcissistic; hurrah to the rest!
Ages ago I was asked to write a short story based on a tabloid headline. As I started writing, this really truly awful grandmother began to materialise. I was in the fortunate position (as far as this story is concerned) of never having known my grandparents; my parents emigrated before I was born and I grew up without any extended family. So as she grew to life I could let Bonita’s grandmother behave abominably. There’s so much mileage in a character like this, so much more that she is capable of. In Bonita’s gran I discovered the seeds of Ma Bess, and there’s also a bit of Bonita in Bird.
– MÁIRE FISHER
_____
I WILL NOT APOLOGISE!
by Máire Fisher
It’s getting dark outside. My bike’s still leaning against the garage wall where I left it this morning, ready to head off with the boys. My homework books are jumbled on the floor next to my desk. Mom’s in the kitchen, liquidising something for Gran’s supper, Dad’s voice murmurs through the closed door of my bedroom. I put my ear to the door, but can only make out a few words. ‘Lou the Plumber? … urgent … tomorrow morning? … nothing sooner?’ I walk to the window, and it throws my reflection back at me. Pale face, dark eyes and a mess of red hair.
Tom and Sean will be back by now. We’d been planning it all week. Get up early. Meet at Tom’s. Ride to Kalk Bay and spend the day there. But instead, I had to stay at home with Gran. Mom and Dad were really sorry. In typical Dad fashion, he’d made the arrangement ages ago and forgot to tell us. They couldn’t cancel their plans, so I had to cancel mine. I had to stay inside for the whole day. With her.
Gran moved in nine months ago. Mom explained that her pension was small and that before he died, Grandad’s medical bills had used up most of their savings. ‘It’s not easy for her either,’ she said, ‘so let’s all try to make this work.’ And I did try. I do try. Most of the time I can tune out her endless ‘youth of today’ spiel, ignore the way she criticises everything I do. But when she gets on Mom’s case, I can’t keep quiet and I answer her back. Then Dad and Mom talk to me, and I promise to try harder. Again.
Gran doesn’t like Mom, and she doesn’t try to hide it either. She never thanks her for anything. She just moved into our house and became the queen bee. With her came a whole set of rules. No friends over the weekend – we make too much noise. Complete silence when she’s taking a nap. No loud music – ever. She took my room because it was closest to the bathroom. Even our food changed. Mom used to cook brilliantly, but Gran’s dentures and her digestion are major culinary stumbling blocks. The menu is now officially substandard.
A day in the house with Gran. That’s what I had to look forward to as I watched Mom and Dad drive off. I made tea, weak and milky, the way she likes it, with two digestives to dunk. I tried doing my homework, but I couldn’t concentrate. Maybe if the wind had been howling like it always does in Fish Hoek, I wouldn’t have minded so much. But no, today was a perfect day.
My topic for my English oral on World War I was Siegfried Sassoon. I’d done all the research; all I needed was to choose quotations from his poems. I sat on the floor and opened the book I’d taken out the library.
… the Dragon sings
And beats upon the dark with furious wings …
Sunday-morning sounds drifted into my room. Cars coming back from church, the drone of Mr van Heerden’s lawnmower, the kids next door shouting in the garden …
I wondered whether Tom and Sean had caught anything. I’m not really into fishing. I like chilling – dangling my legs over the harbour wall, watching the sea and the mountains changing colour, listening to Tom and Sean messing around, joking about home and parents, school and teachers.
… all grew black as pitch,
While we began to struggle along the ditch;
And someone flung his burden in the muck,
Mumbling: ‘O Christ Almighty, now I’m stuck!’ …
It was no use. I closed the book and went into the kitchen to heat Gran’s soup. In Kalk Bay, Tom and Sean would be talking to the fishermen, counting their money to buy slap chips and Coke. And here I was, stuck indoors – leaping into action whenever Gran wanted something.
She shouted for me after lunch. ‘Bo-neeta! Come here.’
I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling and my fists clenched. She has this way of saying my name as if it’s part of some weird language she doesn’t want to learn. She’s always going on about how things should be plain and sensible. My name definite
ly doesn’t fit into that category. When Morn told her it means ‘pretty’ in Spanish, she just hmffed and told her to pass the mashed potatoes. ‘Pretty is as pretty does,’ she said. ‘All a fancy name does is put fancy ideas into a child’s head. Spare the rod, spoil the broth, I always say.’ Gran adds a totally new dimension to calling a spade a shovel.
‘Bo-neeta! Can you hear me?’
I tried Mom’s remedy. ‘Take a few deep breaths, Bon. Take your time before you say anything.’
Dad says that when people get old, you have to give them some leeway. ‘You’ve got to allow for her eccentricities, Bonita. She can’t help the way she behaves.’ He’s always saying that sort of thing to smooth things over. He doesn’t like it when people don’t get on. But I think Gran is perfectly capable of behaving properly. She just doesn’t want to. I think as people get older they just become more of who they have always been. And my grandmother has always been horrible.
I breathed deeply all the way down the passage. She was watching TV. Full blast. Zapping through the channels. The remote control’s a lethal weapon in her hands. The sitting room was stuffy, gloomy; windows closed tight, curtains drawn against the sun. She clicked Dr Phil off in mid-sentence when I walked in.
‘About time,’ she said. She flapped an imperious hand towards the corner. ‘Get me my knitting.’
‘Please,’ I muttered. Gran never asks. She commands.
‘What’s that?’
‘Nothing.’
I fetched her ratty old knitting bag and brought it to her. I prayed she wasn’t planning on unpicking another baggy jersey; otherwise I’d be trapped there for hours, holding my hands in the air so she could wind the ancient wool around them. And then she’d knit another one, just as gross and baggy as the last.
Gran hauled out her needles and peered at the stitches. ‘Sit down,’ she said.