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Glasshopper

Page 2

by Isabel Ashdown


  Mummy narrows her eyes against the sunlight. “You’re only twelve, for heaven’s sake, Rachel! Come and help me hold down this blasted cloth.”

  Daddy strides back up the hill, after a walkabout. His usually neat hair lifts and sways in the wind, and I like the jaunty way he marches towards us in his tweed suit. He sees me watching and raises his hand.

  Rachel’s cheering up now she’s been given a job. She lays out the jam tarts she made this morning, placing them on the plate, one by one in the right pattern. Mummy always lets Rachel in the kitchen to make things. “You’ll make a mess,” is what she tells me. Rachel’s good at it, naturally, so I suppose that’s the real truth.

  “Shall we give her a little present now?” Daddy asks Mummy as he reaches us, out of breath. He stands with his hands on his hips, his stomach thrust forward. Lately his waistcoats seem to be getting tighter around his tummy. Whenever Mummy mentions it he pats his stomach with both hands and calls it Good Living.

  “As you like,” says Mummy, not taking her eyes off the lunchtime preparations. She unpacks a stoppered bottle of home-made lemonade and four china cups.

  Daddy squats down and rummages through the wicker basket. “Are you sure you packed everything?” he calls over his shoulder.

  “Well, if you put it out where I asked you to, I will have packed it.” Mummy reviews the picnic spread seriously. She reaches into her handbag, then briskly fixes a headscarf over her head to keep the wind from ruining her hairdo. She wears no makeup except for lipstick, which is a perfectly applied slick of tomato red. From a distance she has no features, except for her lips. I can’t remember if I’ve ever seen her without her lips.

  “Aha!” says Daddy, and he turns to hand me a long flat parcel, wrapped in brown paper and ribbon. “Sorry the wrapping’s not too good. That’s down to me, I’m afraid. Happy birthday, ten year old!”

  He always chooses us something himself, usually something fun that Mummy wouldn’t have thought of. I kneel on the edge of the blanket and start to untie the ribbon, with Rachel and Mummy looking over my shoulder. Daddy hunches down in front of me, studying my face expectantly. As I turn back the brown paper, a flash of bright red and yellow is revealed, bound up in white string.

  “A kite?” I ask.

  “Yes! A paper kite. It’s supposed to be the latest design; extra thin paper – but also extra strong. Shall we try it out?”

  “Yes!”

  Mummy shakes her head and gets back to the picnic display. I’ve always wanted a kite.

  Once we get it into the air, the breeze sucks the paper diamond way up high, and the spool of white cord tugs reassuringly in my hands.

  Daddy shouts instructions to me, as he shields his eyes from the sun with his hand. “Reel it in! Let her out! That’s it … good girl!”

  We run and loop and whoop with the kite, until Mummy calls us back to the blanket for lunch. I can feel the cool heat in my cheeks, and Daddy beams at me, flushed and breathless, pleased with his gift.

  “I love it!” I tell him as we flop down to eat. “I love it!”

  Mummy passes around china plates and we each pick out sandwiches and cakes. She’s a good cook. No one’s better. And she remembered to do egg for me, which is my favourite. She leans back to produce another parcel from the basket. As usual, it’s book-shaped. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. I kiss Mummy on the cheek and thank her.

  “Not as good as a kite, I suppose,” she says, casting Daddy a wounded look.

  “It’s super, Mummy, really. I love them both.”

  Mummy clicks her tongue and gives me a dry smile. Rachel passes me her gift, a needlepoint bookmark to go with my book. It says “Mary Murray, Happy Birthday 1957”, and it’s decorated with hearts and flowers. It’s beautiful, with not a stitch out of place. I hug her and she hugs me back.

  After we’ve eaten, Daddy, Rachel and I take turns flying the kite. The day was just made for kite flying. Mummy is busy clearing the plates.

  “Come and have a go, Penny!” Daddy shouts to her.

  She shakes her head and carries on packing away lunch.

  “Leave that!” he tries again. “Come and have a go! It’s great fun!”

  Mummy turns her back to us, pretending not to hear, and Daddy returns to concentrate on the kite flying.

  I run to her, and tug at her blouse. “You’ll love it, Mummy. Have a go!”

  When she pulls her sleeve from my fingers, I can see that she’s crying.

  “I love the book, Mummy. Really! I can’t wait to read it! Mummy?”

  She nudges me off, turning away again. “It’s not the blasted book,” she says, and I take a step back, embarrassed. “I’m fine, Mary. You go and fly your kite. Go on – they’re waiting for you.”

  I kiss her, and she nods, not meeting my eyes. There’s nothing to be done when she’s like this, so I run back to Daddy and take the spool from his hands.

  “Carefully does it!” he shouts after me. “Keep her steady. And she’s away!”

  The kite dances and weaves on the currents, bobbing every now and then as if trying to escape, before pulling itself back up on high. Rachel and I giggle and shriek each time the kite drops from the sky, threatening to break free of the breeze. Daddy looks on, clapping as we recover the kite from its downward spirals. He looks like a little boy. Mummy sits at the top of the hill, her knees drawn in to her chin, the white tablecloth fluttering beneath her. When I squint she blurs away, so that she’s just a rock on a hillside. I squint for ages, but the rock never moves, just sits there, a grey mound buffeted by a bright white light. For a brief moment, the flapping cloth looks like a young girl kneeling beside Mummy, whispering in her ear. It looks like me. When I bring Mummy back into focus, you might think that she’s staring back at me. But I know she’s not.

  “I think we should go and see Mummy now,” I tell the others, and we wind up the string and start up the hill.

  As Daddy lugs the basket back towards the parked car, Mummy puts her arm around my shoulder and kisses my hair.

  “Happy birthday, Mary,” she whispers.

  I smile up at her. “I really do like the book,” I say. “Lydia has it, and she’s always telling me that I have to read it. Now I can.”

  “Well, that’s just grand,” Mummy says, happy again.

  When we reach the car, she turns to look back the way we came. She grabs both my hands and spins me until we’re dizzy.

  “What a view!” she shouts into the breeze. The Downs spread out behind us, bathed in light. “What a magnificent view!”

  Jake, November 1984

  It’s Wednesday afternoon when Matt phones. I’ve only been home from school ten minutes, and I’m so surprised when I hear his voice that I drop the sick sponge and it splatters up the kitchen cupboards.

  “Jakey!” he says, and he sounds really far away, and really happy to hear me. “What you doin’, Jakey boy?”

  I’m gob-smacked, it’s been weeks since he left. All at once I think of his empty bed, and what it’ll be like when he comes back home, and what Dad’ll say when I tell him. I don’t even mind going back to sharing with Andy just to have Matthew back home again. Even though he’s out chasing girls most of the time, it’s just good to have him about.

  “Matt! I’m just mopping up Mum’s sick,” I tell him, clicking the kitchen door shut behind me. “I found it on the kitchen floor when I got up this morning, and it was still there when I got home, so I thought I’d better clear it up before Andy sticks his clod-hoppers in it and treads it through the house. You know what a messy bugger he is. But anyway, Andy must’ve gone back to Ronny’s house or something cos he’s not here and I didn’t see him on the way home …”

  “Alright, alright, boy! Slow down!” Matt’s laughing at me down the phone, and I think I must have been gabbling. “So, guess where I am?” he asks me. “You’ll never guess in a million years!”

  I pause, realising that he must be far away if he’s asking that. I feel my eyes well
up and the drip from the tap seems to just hang there, not dripping quickly like normal, but hanging there, getting fatter and fatter. There’s a massive pile of dirty pots on the side that wants washing. I suppose I should do them next, before Andy gets home wanting something to eat. The empty space down the phone line is waiting for me to answer. The fat drip plops on to an eggy plate in the sink.

  Matthew shouts his answer, still laughing: “Germany! I’m in bloody Germany! Guten Abend! What d’ya think of that, Jakey?”

  I can’t talk, and suddenly all I can smell is the sick and the sick sponge and then Mum’s shouting from her bedroom, “Who’s that?” and I find that I don’t want to talk to Matthew after all.

  “That’s great, Matt,” I tell him, and for some reason all I can think to do is to put the receiver back in its cradle on the wall.

  “Wrong number, Mum!” I shout, and I get on with the sick scrubbing.

  When Andy gets home I make us some Marmite on toast, and we go up and watch the Lions Club fireworks from the top window. We talk about what it would be like if we could have our own fireworks one year, when we’ve both got jobs. Roman Candles; Snowstorms; Zodiac Fountains; the lot.

  Mary, April 1961

  The house is full of clients and family friends. On the other side of the door, I can hear Mummy welcoming them in, taking their coats, calling to Daddy. I sit on the toilet seat, staring at the door handle as someone tries it from the outside, pauses and walks away. A little patch of long awaited blood nestles in the cotton of my white knickers. I look at it, and wonder what Rachel does when she has hers. I know she has them, but when she’s tried to talk to me about it I’ve told her she’s making me squeamish. Now it’s here, it’s not what I thought it would be. It’s so small, so insignificant. I wish I’d listened now, so I’d know what to do. I need to get fresh underwear, but Mummy’s designated our bedroom as cloakroom. I roll up a wad of toilet roll and carefully balance it in my knickers, before flushing and washing my hands. I stand over the lavatory to make sure that everything’s gone down, that there’s no trace left behind.

  “Mary!” Mummy calls when she spots me in the hallway. She’s wearing a pretty white blouse with ruffles down the front, and a neat little pencil skirt. Her hair is rolled up into a loose bun, with escaped ringlets tumbling around her neck. “Come and say hello to Mrs Stokes. Mr Stokes works with Daddy – you remember?”

  I nod, and smile at Mrs Stokes. Mrs Stokes isn’t as pretty as Mummy, and she looks serious and sensible. She’s what Rachel would call “frigid-looking”. Mrs Stokes smiles back at me, briskly, then carries on talking to Mummy. I run upstairs to see if I can find Rachel.

  There’s no one in our bedroom, so I quickly find a clean pair of knickers in my drawer, and ball them up into my cardigan pocket. I poke my head in all the other rooms, but Rachel’s not there. The sounds of jovial cheer and adult conversation ripple across the floorboards and up the stairs. The hallway chandelier twinkles and sways with the noises of the party. If I go down now, Mummy will give me a plate to offer around, and I’ll smile and smile until my face muscles ache. My knuckles are white against the smooth oak of the banister. Below me, Rachel hurries by, back towards the kitchen with an empty nibbles tray.

  I dash down the stairs after her, and divert her into the lavatory.

  “I’ve started,” I whisper, pushing the door closed behind us.

  “Started what?” asks Rachel with a frown.

  “You know!” I say, impatiently. “You know!”

  “Oh! Your periods!” she says, too loudly. “About time too. I was starting to wonder when they’d arrive. Does Mummy know?”

  I shake my head. “It just happened. I don’t want to tell her. She’d probably tell the next person she speaks to, then the whole houseful will know that I started my periods at the party. Oh my God.”

  Rachel nods. “Right, you wait here. I’ll go and get the stuff and we’ll sort you out.” She kisses me and runs off, leaving me biting my fingernails and holding my breath until she comes back.

  After everything’s in place, Rachel stands back admiringly, as if I’m a masterpiece of her own making. “I think this calls for a celebration,” she says, wickedly.

  I follow Rachel through to the kitchen. The table is laden with plates of tasty treats for the guests, and bottle after bottle of wine.

  “Mmmm,” says Rachel, with wide eyes on me. “Hungry?”

  I giggle, and we both grab a plate.

  “Good girls!” Daddy bellows, making us jump as he leans across the table to pick up a bottle of red wine. Rachel and I both watch as he removes the foil and unscrews the cork. “You doing another waitress round then? Chop chop!” He leaves the kitchen with his bottle.

  Quickly, we load up our plates, grab a bottle of white wine and a corkscrew and dash out of the back door before we can be seen. We head down the side of the house and out into the blinding sunshine of Hove seafront. The gulls screech and squawk overhead, adding to the sense of urgency and deceit, and we hurry along like double agents on a secret mission. With one last look over our shoulders, we cross the road and trot down the steps to the pebbles below, where we scrunch into a windless hollow tucked up against the breakwater.

  Rachel expertly opens the wine. “Damn it! No glasses. It’s straight from the bottle, I’m afraid.”

  She hands it to me, and I drink it back, coughing at the sharp flavour. Rachel laughs, and swigs it back herself.

  “So, what’s it like? Having a period every month?” Even though I’m practically fourteen, I still don’t know much about this stuff. All the other girls at school have started already, so I never asked them, because then they’d know I hadn’t yet.

  “It’s a complete bore, to be honest,” Rachel says, leaning back knowingly. “But it’s the burden of women. If you don’t have periods, you can’t have children. Mind you, I’m not even sure I want them, so the bloody periods might be a complete waste of time. Tania says if you don’t want children, you can get your womb removed and then you wouldn’t get periods. She says she’s seriously thinking about it. But then Tania is full of funny ideas that she never follows through.” She hitches her skirt up high, to stretch her legs out for tanning. I do the same, noticing how white my legs look against hers. The warmth of the sun is heavenly.

  “But isn’t it meant to hurt when you get your period? I didn’t feel a thing when it happened.”

  “It will. It can hurt like hell sometimes. The cramps. In your back and tummy. That’s usually how you know it’s coming – like a warning sign. And you can get moody – PMT. Really moody, or kind of sad feeling. We’ll have to tell Mummy, though, so she can get you your own sanitary stuff.”

  I’d rather keep it to myself, not tell her at all. The sea line is hazy and slow, and the backs of my knees are full of butterflies. “Are we drunk?” I ask Rachel, as I take another swig from the bottle.

  “Will be,” she says, taking the bottle from my hand.

  “Is that why Mummy gets like that? PMT?”

  “No. Mummy’s is different. Hers isn’t a monthly thing, is it? It comes and goes. Maybe some people are just like that. Up then down. Don’t know how Daddy tolerates it, to be honest. She’s a cow sometimes. It’s best when she just goes and lies down in a dark room, keeps out of everyone’s way. Have you got a bra yet?”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh my God! You must get one – they might be small now, but if you don’t get a bra soon, they’ll be round your knees by the time you’re twenty-one. I’m not kidding! I’ll talk to Mummy for you.”

  I throw my arms round Rachel’s neck and pull her close. The deep, clean smell of her hair reminds me of being tiny, of snuggling up together like puppies. “I love you, Rachel,” I tell her, and I gaze into her dark, kind eyes.

  Rachel thrusts the bottle high in the salty bright air. “To womanhood!” she shouts into the wind. “To breasts and fannies and periods!”

  We shriek in disgust and roll about on the pebbl
es, knocking our vol-au-vents off Mummy’s best china plates.

  Jake, December 1984

  I had this really weird dream last night. It went like this. It starts off with me walking. I’m on my way to school, and then I look at my digital watch, but it’s dark so I have to press the light button to see the time. Then I realise that I’m really late for school, and that it’s near night time, so I start to run as fast as I can, and as I run my books start to fall out of my bag behind me. It’s like they’re in slow motion, and I turn and see them landing, one by one, in this massive puddle of dirty water, and one of them flaps open and I see all the words floating off the page and trickling away down a drain in the road. And then Malcolm cycles past on his shiny new bike, going, “Jake, what are you getting for Christmas?” I can see he’s got these little wings sprouting out of the back of his trainers. And I say, “A puppy,” and he snorts at me like it’s a really sad thing to want. So I keep on running, but then I’m running towards home instead of school, and I get to the house, and see Andy in the top window, and he’s banging on the glass from the inside, shouting, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. So I stick the key in the lock, and turn it, but it just won’t open, the door’s jammed solid. My heart’s really pounding by now, with all the running, and I step back to look up at Andy, to tell him to let me in, but he’s gone. So I try to shout “Andy!” but nothing comes out.

  When I woke up, my stomach muscles were all bunched up like I’d really been trying to shout, but I know I hadn’t because everyone else in the house was still asleep. Anyway, it was a shit dream, and I kept thinking about it all today at school. I wonder if Malcolm did get that BMX bike for his birthday. Probably, spoilt git.

 

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