Digging to Australia

by Lesley Glaister

  The classroom was warm and brightly lit. The fog pressed itself against the windows. There was the smell of girls and woolly jumpers, and someone was sucking Parma Violets. Bronwyn muttered under her breath. I couldn’t concentrate. I stared out into the nothingness of the fog until my eyes hurt with having nothing to focus on. I tried to remember the stupid Christmas card rhyme. I tried to think of the warm things about Christmas that keep it rooted to the earth, cakes and puddings and blazing logs, but my mind was strange that day. I’d stopped believing in God when something terrible had happened. A mountain of coal waste had slipped down onto a school in Wales and killed the children. Either there was no God, I reasoned after that, or God was a terrible thing. In Bob’s newspaper I’d seen the faces of two people whose children had been killed, and whenever I tried to think about God after that, whenever I saw the picture-book God with his flowing beard and cornflower eyes I saw the grainy twisted grief of the parents superimposed. No, I tried not to believe in God but there was something that was playing in my mind, something above the density of plum pudding, beyond the warmth of the flame. The nearest I could get to it was the idea of angels. Not Mama’s host of paper angels, not the blank eyes of the stone angel, not a Christmas-card angel lit like a birthday candle with a halo of light. It was easier to say what the angels in my head were not than what they were.

  The scrabbly sounds of writing and crossing-out and sighing filled the room. Bronwyn kept trying to attract my attention but I took no notice. Miss Clarke was hunched over something on her desk, frowning and chewing her nails, and suddenly I remembered a dream. I had to force it back into my head, screw my brain into a recognition of it before it was snatched away again like a wisp of chiffon and gone forever. The feeling of the dream remained once the substance had gone, and I took up my pen and wrote a poem:

  Angels flopped from the sky

  And hunched upon white gravel

  Gnawing, anxiously, their feathered wing-tips.

  They sought hay and warm breath

  – a messiah. But there was nothing.

  No star, even, to point the way.

  Lost angels rose and clanked

  and scattered black shadow-feathers

  on what seemed to be white gravel. Or snow.

  It wasn’t Christmassy of course. I was puzzled by it, but it did catch the feeling my dream had left, like the negative of a Christmas card, a bit of dark brought out into the light. I called it ‘Lost Angels.’ It was the first proper poem I’d ever written.

  It didn’t win the competition. Miss Clarke didn’t mention it, or call on me to stand up and read it out like some of them. And I was grateful. I would have died of shame to have had everyone staring at me, and listening to my dream, as much as if they peeled off my clothes and looked at my naked skin. Bronwyn wasn’t called upon to read hers either, but I sneaked a look. She’d written four lines entitled ‘Stockings.’ Susan Carter, the first girl in the class to boast a colour television, won the prize, a chocolate snowman, for her poem about a fairy on top of a Christmas tree.

  At the end of the day, Miss Clarke called me to her desk and waited, before she spoke, until we were alone. Bronwyn waited outside the closed door, peering nosily through the glass panel.

  ‘About your poem, dear,’ Miss Clarke said. ‘I was very … well rather taken aback …’ She left me room to speak, which I didn’t take. ‘Are you all right? Quite happy I mean?’

  ‘Yes Miss,’ I said.

  Her pink face was crumpled with concern. ‘It’s not that it’s bad,’ she said, ‘it’s just that’s it’s a little unusual … rather a bleak vision for a child before Christmas …’

  ‘It was from a dream,’ I said.

  ‘Ah …’ Miss Clarke sighed with relief. ‘A dream. Dreams are funny things. Best take no notice. Think about something nice instead. And by the way, always remember there must be a verb in every sentence. ‘Or snow’s isn’t one because it hasn’t got a …’

  ‘Verb.’

  ‘Good girl. You won’t go far wrong if you remember that. Now run along.’ I went towards the door. ‘And if you do have a problem … some thingummy at home … you can always talk to me, or one of the other teachers. You do know that.’

  ‘Thanks Miss,’ I said.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Bronwyn demanded, the moment I was outside. ‘Was it because you skipped off yesterday?’

  ‘No. She just thought my poem was a bit …’

  ‘Weird,’ supplied Bronwyn. ‘Come on. Will you walk home with me?’

  ‘All right,’ I agreed, since I was in no hurry to see Mama and Bob. The fog and the gathering darkness had combined into a brownish soup. We dawdled back to Bronwyn’s house, stopping to look in the window of a corner shop at the boxes of chocolates with bows on the lids.

  ‘My dad used to buy Mum boxes like that,’ Bronwyn sighed.

  ‘Tell me about your dad,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t like to talk about him,’ she said.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Are you my best friend?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Will you keep it a secret, anything I tell you? Cross your heart and hope to die?’

  ‘Of course I will. Who would I tell?’

  ‘You must never mention Dad in front of Mum,’ Bronwyn said.

  ‘I know, you told me.’

  ‘She gets terribly upset. Her hair went grey overnight when she heard the news. She’s quite young really.’ Bronwyn’s voice had become throaty and confidential. ‘I’ve never told anyone before. Not the details.’

  ‘When was it?’ We resumed our walk, and I let her take my arm.

  ‘I know,’ she said, and she got hold of my plait and put it round her shoulder like a scarf so that we were tied together. I had to walk in step with her because otherwise it pulled but I let her do it because I wanted to know. I’d never known anyone with a murdered parent before. I’d never touched tragedy. ‘It was about six months ago,’ she began. ‘In the spring. He was an aero-plane pilot you know. We were quite rich then. He was always giving me presents. He gave me most of my dolls. He was handsome, with dark hair and eyes and a mole on his cheek, just here.’ She touched the skin beside her mouth. ‘And then one day he didn’t come home. The police came instead. They told us he’d been murdered by gangsters.’

  ‘Gangsters!’

  ‘In A-me-ri-ca,’ she confirmed solemnly. I looked at her face. It was sad and excited and I quite understood. I was almost envious.

  ‘But why?’ I asked.

  ‘Nobody ever found out,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose they ever will now.’

  ‘How did they know it was gangsters then?’

  ‘I expect he said something with his dying breath.’

  ‘You poor thing,’ I said, wincing as she stumbled and tugged my hair.

  ‘It was terrible. A trau-ma-tic event, Mum said. He was so handsome. I miss him lots. And we used to be so rich. I hate the house we live in now. Our other house was posh with two bathrooms and thick carpets and Mum was happier. Her hair went grey overnight.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, wondering if this was really possible.

  ‘You must never say a word about this to anyone. Promise? Swear it on the Bible?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. When we reached the corner of Bronwyn’s street we parted, and I walked back alone and as I walked I contemplated the terrible glamour of her father’s death, and the terrible coming down in the world, which is what Bob would have called it.

  10

  There were still three weeks to go until Christmas and I wasn’t in the mood for shopping. But it was what we did, Mama and I, every year, part of the lengthy ritual that was Christmas. We’d go into town on a bus and I’d choose my present – always clothing – and she’d give me five shillings to buy presents for herself and Bob and Auntie May. This year I wasn’t ready, although the occasion was approaching just the same. I’d signed my name on all the cards Mama sent to relatives we never saw. I’d stir
red the pudding mixture and shut my eyes and tried to think of a wish. Bob gave me an advent calendar but I wouldn’t open the doors until he reminded me. We had a small tussle of wills each morning. He couldn’t bear the day’s door to remain shut, yet he could hardly open it himself. He kept nodding towards the advent calendar, a manger scene with a knowing donkey in the foreground, and clearing his throat and remarking on the date, and finally asking, ‘What have we today, Jennifer?’ And I would say, ‘Oh no, I forgot,’ and prise the thing open with my thumbnail, and say sarcastically, ‘Oooh it’s a cracker!’ or whatever it was.

  ‘Last time I bother with one of those,’ he grumbled one morning to Mama. ‘Waste of money.’

  ‘Well, she’s growing up,’ Mama said wistfully. ‘Bound to happen, after all.’

  ‘Growing up. Is that what you call it?’ Bob retorted. ‘Sheer bloody-mindedness if you ask my opinion. Wants bringing down a peg or two. Wants a clipped ear.’

  ‘Now, now,’ soothed Mama absent-mindedly.

  ‘I am here,’ I reminded them. ‘You talk as if I wasn’t.’

  Mama and I sat on the top deck of the bus that carried us into town. The bus creaked and swayed along the main road past the church, the derelict expanse of graveyard and the briar hedge which bounded one side.

  ‘What church is that?’ I asked. ‘I’ve never seen anyone going to it.’

  She looked pleased that I had spoken to her. ‘It’s not a church really,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean? Of course it’s a church!’

  ‘It’s never been … made holy … what’s the word … consecrated.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not sure, dear. You’ll have to ask Bob. He’s the one with the memory.’

  ‘So it isn’t holy?’

  ‘Oh no. No more holy than any other old building, or empty house. Wouldn’t be surprised if they pulled it down. Rather an eyesore, don’t you think?’

  We went into the Co-op’s big department store to choose my present. Mama wanted me to have a special dress for Christmas. She chose a scarlet one with a zip up the front. ‘So festive,’ she said. But I didn’t want a dress. I wanted a jumper, a tight black jumper with a polo neck. I held it up to me and liked the way the blackness made me look so pale. I decided, seeing my reflection in the shop mirror, that I would cut my hair. I looked too much a child with the long pigtail hanging over my shoulder.

  ‘It’s a waste buying a jumper,’ Mama complained. ‘I could knit you one like that in no time.’ But she bought it all the same, and then we went into the café for a cup of coffee. This was the tradition. Once we’d finished, she’d give me my money and hover discreetly by the lift while I made my purchases and then we’d go home together with our arms full of parcels, moaning that our feet were killing us, so that Bob would serve us lunch.

  I drank my coffee black, which was horrible but sophisticated, and we ate mince pies as we always did, and Mama remarked that though she shouldn’t say it, the pies weren’t a patch on her own. The café was decorated for Christmas with bits of cotton wool stuck on the windows. I scalded my mouth on my coffee. Mama smiled at me so that I could see the place where her tooth was missing. Mincemeat glistened on her lips.

  ‘Why don’t you go straight home?’ I said. ‘I’ll do my shopping and get a later bus.’ Mama looked hurt. ‘I’m quite old enough. Thirteen, remember.’

  ‘I know, but we always go home together. Bob’s baking us some potatoes.’

  ‘So? I’ll be back later.’

  ‘I don’t know …’ Mama took another bite of her mince pie. I detested the way her jaw moved when she chewed, as if she was something mechanical. I could see the sinews in her neck standing out like strings. ‘Well all right then,’ she sighed, ‘but don’t be too long.’ When she walked away I noticed that there was a thread trailing from the hem of her coat. Among the bright mirrored surfaces of the shop she looked tatty and aged, bending with the weight of her shopping bag. I looked around to see if anyone was staring at her. She looked so completely wrong, so out of place. I’d never seen it before. It was a relief to be alone. I tucked my plait inside my coat and pulled the collar up and went into the perfumed cloud of the cosmetics department.

  I bought Mama some bath salts in a glass swan; Auntie May a tiny bottle of eau de Cologne and Bob a handkerchief with a horse printed on it. This left me one and sixpence with which to buy a maroon lipstick, a packet of five cigarettes and some matches. I caught the bus but got off it two stops early and walked to the cemetery. I walked straight past the church and pushed through into the playground. I hadn’t been there for ages, but it was just as I’d left it. I felt a sense of relief at being in my private place. I wanted badly to be alone, just because I like being alone. And also so that I could learn to smoke.

  I sat on my swing and unscrewed the lipstick and drew a pair of greasy perfumed lips upon my own, and then I put a cigarette between them. I was immediately glamorous. The first lungful of hot smoke made me choke and my eyes run, but I persevered. I smoked right down as far as I could go and squashed the lipstick-stained butt into the ground. And then I sat and dangled on the swing feeling sick and giddy. This was me: a teenager, a smoker who didn’t know her own mother. These were thrilling things. I knew and had drunk whisky alone with a strange man. I had a friend whose father had been murdered by gangsters. My life was opening up. Like some exotic flower. As the mild air revived me I began to swing, feeling the childish drag of my plait. The swing jolted and rattled as I flew through the air. I watched the stumpy vegetable spire sway and I could see that indeed it was not holy, had never been holy. The church was a failure, a sham.

  I climbed up the climbing frame and peered over at the houses. The kitchen light was on and the woman was standing at the sink working, her head bowed. The little boys were outside with their father, wearing Wellington boots. It was like a picture from a reading book. It was the sort of family you could believe in. I could feel Mama and Bob’s fretting stretching out all the way from home. They would wait a certain length of time for my return, but eat lunch without me in the end. ‘No sense letting good food go to waste,’ Bob would say. And after lunch Mama would wrap my jumper so that I could pretend surprise on Christmas morning, and Bob would settle to his crossword. And it would be all as normal, except that I wouldn’t be there. And I would have spoiled the day for Mama, with her Christmas traditions. Because for those I needed to be twelve and a half with a birthday to look forward to in June. I needed to be hoodwinked.

  I climbed down and pushed my way back out through the hedge. I hesitated outside the church. I had almost decided not to visit Johnny today. He had said I shouldn’t go too soon, and I was ashamed that I hadn’t got far with the book. I had read only the beginning, which was about a baby called Steven wetting the bed. ‘When you wet the bed, first it is warm then it gets cold. His mother put on an oilsheet. That had a queer smell.’ I was shocked to read that. I didn’t know it was possible to have such an ordinary sordid thing in a book, the sort of thing you never talk about. But it caused me to remember the times I used to wake with my nightdress soaked and the sheets all sticking to me, and how it was always Bob who’d come to me, and never say a word. He’d peel away the wet sheet and flip over the mattress which had a permanent peppery wee-wee smell and put on a clean sheet. He’d pull my nightdress over my head and I’d shiver till he put on a dry one. This was all done silently as if it wasn’t real. As if speaking might make it real. I never liked to look at Bob in the middle of the night. His eyes were slitty as if he didn’t want to open them quite, and his giblets were swollen.

  I stopped by the angel for a moment. Today it was just a lump of stone. I listened for Johnny’s whistling, or for the sound of him working, but it was quiet inside the church. I decided just to peep inside. I went to the side door and turned the handle. At first, as before, I could hardly see a thing in the gloom, just the grey bubbles of light falling through the tops of the windows and the long slab of
light stretching from the door. I stood for a moment squinting into the darkness, and then Johnny’s voice said, ‘Remind me to put a lock on that blessed door will you? Come in if you’re coming.’

  I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, shutting out most of the light. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t really mean to disturb you, I was just passing.’

  ‘Just passing!’ he scoffed.

  ‘I was. I’ve just been to my …’

  ‘To your swings and roundabout? Little girls must have their fun.’ His voice had a different sound, a hard sound, slow and cold.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’ It was peculiar talking to the darkness. I still couldn’t see him.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Wait. You might as well make yourself useful now that you’re here. Make me a cup of tea, will you?’ I heard a rustling sound and then saw him rise. He’d been lying in the deep shadow under a blanket. ‘Excuse me,’ he said and lurched past me to the door. He was wearing many clothes, including a black woollen hat.

  I put down my shopping and lit the flame under the kettle. I looked hopefully in his suitcase for sausages, for my stomach was growling. He came back inside doing up his trousers. ‘What I could do with is a proper breakfast,’ he said, as if he was reading my mind. ‘A full English breakfast, as they say, I believe, in the catering trade. Bacon and sausages. The whole caboodle. Although strictly speaking, I suppose the hour for breakfasting has passed. I’m a mite tardy this morning.’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Bread and cheese. I wasn’t expecting a guest for luncheon.’

  ‘You’re not,’ I said. ‘I told you, I was just passing. I can have lunch at home.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he said. He cut chunks off a loaf and ate them standing up with pieces of cheese. He handed some to me.