Digging to Australia

by Lesley Glaister

  I winced, startled to find that I’d spoken. ‘No, not really. I was thinking about the Mad Hatter’s tea party,’ I explained. ‘You know, in Alice in Wonderland. With the dormouse.’

  ‘Weren’t they all mad, in Wonderland,’ Johnny said. ‘Wasn’t that the point?’

  I considered. They were certainly illogical. ‘All except Alice,’ I said.

  ‘And they would have thought she was mad, you can depend upon it,’ Johnny said. ‘Now hop it.’

  ‘What I don’t quite see,’ I said, ‘is, how you’re going to get the wings out, even if you could fly with them. They won’t fit through the door, you know.’ I went to the door and looked back into the gloom.

  Johnny had already started planing a piece of wood. I wasn’t sure whether he’d heard me. ‘By the way,’ he called, pausing for a moment. ‘I’d like to see some of your poetry.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Cheerio.’ I went outside to find the brightness already fading, the sun hidden behind the dark spire. Far above me an aeroplane scratched a pink weal on the wintery sky. I trailed slowly home worrying about poetry, wondering whether one poem would do, or whether he’d expect sheaves of them.

  In bed that night I thought about Johnny and his wings. I tried to imagine him soaring or gliding. I tried to picture the silken moth that he thought he would be. But all I could see was the rough splintery wood more like floorboards than wing-bones. All I could picture was him plummeting and crashing. It was a grand idea. I could see that. But it was quite mad.

  15

  ‘Only a week till Christmas,’ Bronwyn said, linking her arm through mine. ‘Only two more days of school. Aren’t you excited?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, and I was trying to be excited. The house was crammed now, with fragile folding things, angels and stars and reindeer, even a Father Christmas, all papery and frail. Mama had spilt a packet of glitter and it had gone everywhere so that we trod it into the carpets and found it in our hair. Even my porridge had sparkled that morning. We didn’t have a tree yet. Our household tradition demanded that Bob dressed late on Christmas Eve and went out to buy a Christmas tree. We decorated it, all together, after tea, and then ate mince pies and even sang carols, sometimes, until it was my bedtime. And then there was the business with the Christmas stocking, and leaving a glass of sherry for Father Christmas and a carrot for the reindeer. Mama had decided that I could have a stocking this year, but it was to be the last. And in the morning, as always, Auntie May would be fetched after breakfast by Bob, who would look strangely formal in a collar and tie, and then there’d be the presents and the feasting and the crackers – and the games.

  I was trying hard to be excited, but there was a dullness over it all for me, like a darkish film. Perhaps I had courted it at first, what with my anger with Mama and Bob, what with their lies. I had wanted to feel separate, to see them as foolish little people, to see them and all they did as trivial. But now I wanted to go back. I wanted to peel away the film and see everything in bright simple colours again. I wanted Father Christmas to be red and white and jolly and make-believe; not dismal and greenish and – quite possibly – real. I wanted to retreat from the fright I had given myself, to step off the thin ice onto solid ground that I could never, ever fall through.

  ‘You must come round over Christmas,’ Bronwyn said. ‘Mum insists. Not on the day, we have all my boring cousins over then. But after Christmas. You could even stay the night. Would you like that? Oooh, you’ve got glitter on your nose.’ Bronwyn licked her finger and pressed it on the end of my nose to remove the sparkle. ‘Would you be allowed to?’

  ‘I could always ask,’ I said.

  On the penultimate evening of the school term, the carol service was held in the school hall. We had already had one service for the rest of the school, this one was for parents and the public. I was in the choir, and I sat at the front of the stage, conscious of the way my rough knees poked out from under my skirt. At the back of the hall, behind the rustling rows of the audience, was the tall Christmas tree. Candy-bright lights glistened amongst the darkness of its boughs. I loved to sing, but I was nervous with all the eyes, watching. Bronwyn was there, with her mother, and Mama and Bob sat just behind them, and then there were the parents of the popular girls, in their smart clothes with their styled hair and make-up. Mama looked terribly old and wispy beside them. I was angry with her. She could at least have put on a bit of lipstick, or a hat to cover the greyness of her hair. Bob wore his Christmas collar and tie and looked all wrong too, seedy and shiny-faced. Everyone else was talking, and looking round and acting naturally, but Mama and Bob sat in silence, looking humble, staring down into their laps, or searching me for my eyes. But I would not look back at them. I stared straight over the tops of their heads at the Christmas tree, thinking that not long ago it had been a wild live thing, with roots fanning far down into the earth. I wondered what it would think, if it could think, of the way its roots had been lopped off and the stump stuffed into a decorated dustbin, of the irritating prickle of the lights. I was ashamed to look at Mama and Bob, and I was afraid to look at Bronwyn, for fear that she would make me laugh.

  At last the headteacher made her speech, and the audience settled down. The girls with the loudest, clearest voices read the lesson, a few verses each, and at first I couldn’t concentrate, my mind flocked with irrelevancies, silly awarenesses, but once the choir had sung a carol and then everyone had risen for ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ and shuffled back into their seats, I forgot myself and listened to the popular girl called Susan, who was in my class, reading:

  ‘And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone about them, and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you: ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men.’

  And as I listened I felt a lump in my throat because they were beautiful words. The star on top of the tree was there to represent the star that guided the three wise men to Bethlehem, Miss Clarke said. And I thought of a hot star in the sky and imagined the enormous faith it must have taken to believe it meant anything at all. And as the words trailed away, and Susan sat down, and someone whispered, ‘Well done,’ to her and I had to swallow back the tears that nearly welled up for the dull sense of loss inside me, the nostalgia for something I never even knew I had. All the parents and all the school seemed suddenly so sweet and trusting and childish that I could hardly bear it. And the tree was dark behind them all. Not a Christian thing. It had a pagan dignity, and even the silly jolliness of the decorations, the trivial sparkle of the lights, could not take that away.

  The choir sang some carols by Benjamin Britten, clever things that I loved, and then everyone rose for ‘O Come all ye Faithful.’ And I was all voice. All the complicated feelings inside me flooded out in great waves, and despite my efforts my eyes were wet when a silvery voice sang the first, ‘O come let us adore him,’ and I could hardly contain myself, hardly wait for the great loud powerful rush at the end when all the voices in the hall would rise together. I felt hot in my belly, churned up, excited and disturbed. In my ears I heard a feathery beating and it was Johnny’s face I saw and Johnny’s clear eyes between the muscular angel wings. And then it was time for the final prayer and I saw Mama pretending to pray, her head bowed, but I saw that Bob at least was not being a hypocrite. He was looking at me, his head erect amongst all the bowed and mumbling heads. I smiled at him – the first time I’d smiled at him for weeks – but there was no response and I realised that he was not looking at me at all. Just starin
g straight ahead, his eyes unfocused, bored by all the ritual passion.

  After the service, as I went to find Mama and Bob, Susan caught my arm. ‘I like your voice,’ she said. ‘I could hear you above everyone else. You should have had a solo.’ I thought at first she was mocking, that I’d been foolish, that I’d sung too loudly and made myself a laughingstock. I looked round for her friends who would be ready to laugh. But there was nobody in particular there, just a jumble of people putting on their coats.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  Her father claimed her then, and I looked enviously after them as they left. He was a smart man in a suit with a silky tie and he put his hand gently on her shoulder to guide her through the crush.

  I found Mama and Bob further down the corridor, in a shabby huddle with Bronwyn and her mother. Bronwyn caught hold of me, and pulled me a little way away. ‘That went on for ever,’ she complained. ‘Were you all right? I thought you were going to cry.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ I said. ‘Why should I?’

  ‘My mum’s asking if you can come to tea on Boxing Day,’ she said. ‘Would you like to … we’ll have a special tea. I hate Boxing Day normally, it’s such a let-down, but if you were coming round …’

  ‘Jenny,’ Mama said, smiling over at me. ‘That was beautiful. I do like to hear a carol or two at Christmas. Of course, there’s always the radio, but it’s not the same, is it?’ She looked at Mrs. Broom.

  ‘I wish my Bronwyn could sing,’ Mrs Broom said, looking fondly at her daughter. ‘She’s like a foghorn. No ear at all.’

  Bronwyn grinned.

  ‘Would you like to stay with Mrs. Broom and Bronwyn for a night?’ Mama asked me. ‘It might be rather fun.’

  I looked at Bob. I was surprised that he was in agreement. He usually liked us all to be together, and Christmas was one of his favourite times. He was busy studying a collage on the wall and gave me no sign either way. ‘All right,’ I said.

  ‘Jennifer!’ Mama warned.

  ‘I’d love to. Thank you for inviting me,’ I said to Mrs Broom.

  ‘That’s that settled then, God willing,’ she said. ‘Come along, Bronwyn.’ She took Bronwyn’s hand. ‘Merry Christmas, and we’ll see you on Boxing Day.’ They walked together, holding hands, although Bronwyn was half a head taller and from the back it looked as if she was the mother and Mrs Broom the child.

  ‘Off we go then,’ Bob said, relieved to see them go, for he was never easy in company. ‘We thought a surprise was in order, didn’t we, Lilian? We thought a nice bag of chips would round off the evening.’

  For once we didn’t rush the food home to be reheated in the oven and eaten properly at the table, but wandered along eating the chips out of the newspaper, hot and golden and gorgeous, and as I licked the grease and vinegar off my fingers I was almost happy for a moment, happy in a simple physical way, relaxed in the amicable silence as we concentrated on our chips. And I was puzzled and surprised by Susan’s friendliness. That was an extra gift. I had always thought her tiny neatness intimidating. She had frothy red curls cropped short in a way I longed for, and a nose so small that the shadow her profile cast on the classroom wall was almost flat. I had always been excluded from the shared secrets and unexplained laughter which I saw behind her marbly green eyes. But not tonight. I breathed pleasurably and my breath was a soft white blossom of joy. But then as soon as I became conscious of my happiness, I was seized again by the terrible fear. It was like a fear of falling off, or through something into nothing. Or perhaps it was a fear of happiness, a fear of being taken in by happiness. It was a sort of fierce nostalgia for the present.

  Bob and Mama murmured to each other about how chips always tasted better out of a newspaper and I dropped behind, my mouth full, counting the Christmas trees that dazzled from between curtains all the way down the street. Then I stopped and looked up into the sky at the tiny far-away stars that had no meaning, outside their own existence, that pointed the way to nowhere. I stood, my head tilted back, staring upwards through millions of years until I was dizzy. I felt as if I was falling into the blackness. A sliver of moon hung frostily, a tilted smile – or frown, depending on which way you looked at it.

  ‘Come along, Jennifer,’ Mama called, and I saw that they were waiting for me at the corner, and I hurried to catch them up.

  ‘Mrs Broom seems nice,’ Mama said.

  ‘A nice type,’ agreed Bob. ‘That Bronwyn’s a big girl for her age. My goodness she is,’ he added with relish.

  ‘It must be difficult for Betty – Mrs Broom,’ Mama mused.

  ‘What must be?’ I asked.

  ‘Being alone with a child while her husband’s … you know … absent. I must say, I was surprised by the way she came out with it, just like that.’

  ‘She probably thought we knew,’ Bob said. ‘That’s my impression of the matter. She probably assumes Jennifer’s told us. She probably assumes Jennifer talks to us.’

  I didn’t reply. I’d finished my chips and dropped back again in order to lick the vinegary salt, and the tiny crispy bits of batter that had been in with the chips, from the paper before screwing it up into a ball.

  ‘But she does seem nice, all the same,’ Mama continued. ‘And it’s good for Jennifer to have a friend at last. I don’t think we need worry about …’

  ‘About what?’ I called.

  ‘Influences,’ Mama said.

  ‘It’s not their fault,’ I said. ‘I feel sorry for them.’

  ‘And so do I,’ soothed Mama. ‘That’s just what I mean. Most families have a skeleton of some sort …’ She tailed off uneasily. ‘And as I say they do seem a very nice type.’

  I lay in bed that night thinking about what Mama had said. It seemed a terribly cruel way to put it – every family has a skeleton. It made me imagine poor Mr Broom just bones – handsome bones – in a long box under the frozen earth. Although whether it was English or American earth, I didn’t know. The carol tunes still beat in my ears as I drifted off to sleep.

  I dreamt that night that the church had wings, branched and flapping, extending from its roof. It flapped as if it meant to take off while Johnny watched, smiling and whittling away at a stick and whistling ‘Waltzing Matilda’ – although only in a dream could a person both smile and whistle at the same time. Then I was in a house and on the floor was a locked box that I knew I must open. I had to find the key. Bob was in a corner, in a playpen wearing a nappy. The key was hanging on a book out of my reach. Something suddenly crashed to the floor and I picked it up and saw that it was the church, tiny now like a sparrow. It had a broken wing. I fed it on crumbs of sponge cake and wrapped it in my school beret. Mama said that the cake would kill it, it must have worms. Johnny said she’s right, that she’s a wise woman and used to be a dancer. Johnny reached me down the key but it was soft and sticky like toffee and melted in the keyhole.

  On the last afternoon of term we had a party in the classroom, with fizzy lemonade and crisps and mince pies followed by a general knowledge quiz. Susan was the captain of one team. She had to pick her team and I slumped into my chair, certain that I would only be chosen last, or possibly next to last, before Bronwyn. When Susan said my name straight after the names of the popular girls it gave me a jolt. A sharp pleasurable shock. I was chosen. And before many others. I felt envious eyes on me as I crossed the classroom to take my place in her team and just for a moment the air was full of sparkles and the only darkness was the scowling of Bronwyn’s eyebrows. Because Susan chose me, I was able to answer questions. ‘Who wrote Alice in Wonderland?’ was my one question and of course I knew that better than anything. And it felt like a sign, a good omen.

  After the quiz I was shy of Susan, but she said, ‘Happy Christmas, see you next term,’ and I waved and watched her go, admiring her little ankles and the way she walked – as if she was just on the verge of dancing.

  I turned round to find Bronwyn waiting behind me. ‘What’s up with you?’ I asked, knowing perfectly well why s
he frowned.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, and I let her walk beside me, and even tuck her arm in mine, although I was contemplating the beginning of a miracle and didn’t listen to a word she said.

  16

  On the morning of Christmas Eve, Bob brought the cardboard box of Christmas decorations down from the loft. It was my job to sort through them, dust them off and untangle the lights, before Bob tested them. I’d always relished that job. Every year I’d find that I’d forgotten quite how many baubles there were, and how pretty. I loved the string of lights. They were ancient – lethal, Bob said – and always caused trouble. Every lamp was different. My favourites were sugared like fruit pastilles, some were shaped like old-fashioned coach lamps, some were like tiny apples and oranges and pineapples, and some were plain bright orbs of colour. There was only one of the originals left, a tiny electric candle with a little clear wisp of glass that lit up like a flame. However carefully they had been packed away on the previous Twelfth Night, they were always tangled up by the following Christmas Eve, as if they’d been snuggling together in the box. One of the glass baubles had broken in the bottom, and the shards glittered dangerously. There were almost too many decorations for one tree, what with all the paper things Mama made, and the gold and silver paper-covered chocolates that Bob always produced with a flourish as the finishing touch. The finishing touch before the fairy, that is, for the fairy was always last.

  For the first time I wondered what the fairy meant. It didn’t have the same significance as a star. The Christmas tree fairy had been one of my favourite things in the world when I was small. I took her carefully out of her shoe box. She was a true fairy, not an angel, definitely not a hermaphrodite. She was dressed in a white and silver ball gown, fringed with tinsel. Around her waist was a girdle of pearls and she wore a circlet of the same, like an expensive halo, around her golden head. Her wings were made of chiffon sewn with sequins into a spiral pattern. She held a glittery wand, tipped with a starburst of tinsel, like a puff of magic. She was the same fairy we’d had every year since I could remember, and yet every year I’d thought she looked as fresh and new as if she’d just been made. Mama said it was Christmas magic, but this year I could see that her bare shoulders were lightly faded and her stiff hair was caked with dust.