Favourites
Pearl and her brother are having a holiday with their grandmother. Her garden has winding, lavender-frilled paths and an orchard. Untended raspberry plants, weighed down with thumb-long, scarlet fruit, scrawl over beech hedges. Lettuces bolt, sending clouds of seeds adrift. Pearl loves creeping through undergrowth, curling up in the warm nests her granny’s startled cats vacate when they hear her approach. She picks the almost white roses her grandmother prefers, and nibbles tiny tomatoes. They are allowed anywhere and can eat anything they want. Nobody calls them in. No one wants them to explain what they have been doing. Long afternoons go by when sunshine turns the greenhouse air to perfume, and the beds of shaggy purple dahlias droop. It’s shaded near the pool, and Pearl and The Blob lie by the plant-spiked water, dazzled by the spangles of colour darting from the dragonflies who live between the trees and the pool’s surface. One day, their granny brings them a big, tinkling jug of ice-cold lemonade and a plate of warm sausage rolls for lunch. Pearl lies with her head in the elastic hollow between her brother’s ribs and hips. So, she says, her mouth full of crumbly pastry and delicious meat, who do you like best, Mother or Father? The dragonflies alight in unison on the tall, cerise flowers grouped about the pool. As they rise, wings whirring, and the flowers sway, her brother puts his grubby hand on Pearl’s head. I like you best, he says. Pearl smiles at the drowsy garden. And I like Mother best, Pearl says. ’Course you do, her brother answers.
God
Pearl isn’t afraid of God. The other kids in Junior Endeavour learn Scripture texts and practise Sword Drill with white Bibles, jumping up to answer questions. They can recite the books of the Bible backward, and always learn the verse of the week. Fee especially. The two of them walk through grassy evening air to the meeting, past the graveyard, amongst the trees where birds whistle so perfectly. Pearl dawdles until they reach the village. She’s dragging one foot in the gutter. Fee has been showing her full reward book of Bible-scene stickers. You get a prize, she says. Pearl makes a bored face. But you should care about God, my love, Fee says. Why? Pearl asks. They look at Pearl’s ruined shoe. He’s dangerous, that’s all, Fee says. They go into a side room of the chapel. Children gallop and shout. The smell of God is everywhere, and Pearl sniffs it. A boy collides with Fee, knocking her down. Pearl makes a note of who he is, but now she’s got something to do. She slips through a door into the chapel. It’s gloomy in the enormous space; silent but vibrating, as if an invisible thing with vast wings is hovering overhead. Pearl walks to the front pew. Before her a table rears up. On its tawny surface is an oversized bowl of cream roses, their faces open. Pearl takes a deep breath, cups her hands to her mouth and shouts out a terrible word. It feels as if the wings above have frozen mid-flight. Then she peers forwards. The rose stems start to quiver and, finally, one petal drops onto the burnished wood with the softest tap. Is that all? Pearl says, under her breath.
Overnight
Pearl’s father tells her she has to go and stay with her cousin Mim for the night. Something is wrong with her mother again. Yes, Daddy, she says, and hugs him round the waist. But really, Pearl thinks, no one has to tell me, I know more than anyone in the world about my mother. I love you, Daddy, she says, and waits to hear him say my good girl. Then he unwinds her arms and is not there. Someone drives Pearl to her cousin’s. From the back seat of the car she watches, but her father doesn’t wave goodbye. Her aunt Betty has laid a place for her at the table, even though Pearl won’t eat or speak. She keeps hold of her overnight bag and curls up behind a chair in the lounge, singing her two-note la-la, la-la, la-la song. Her aunty says, not to worry. I’m putting out a little plate of things you may like later. Her cousin Mim sits on the chair arm and plays with Pearl’s hair until it’s time to go upstairs, but Pearl refuses to meet her soft glance. They share a bed, and Pearl hugs and kisses Mim with concentration in the dark. She has rough skin behind her knees that sometimes cracks and bleeds, and Pearl likes to rub those places, but not tonight. So what else do you want to do? her cousin asks. Don’t know yet, Pearl says. She listens to Mim breathing beside her, and wonders where The Blob is. One bright star trembles through a gap in the curtains and sends a beam of crystals straight into Pearl’s head. She grips Mim between the legs, squeezing the mysterious, folded layers of skin there. Stop, she whispers furiously when Mim makes a noise. It has to be silent.
Berries
Will and Pearl are wading. As soon as the stream swells, flooding its own little beaches, drowning the tough, sparse grass on its margins, it’s the thing they do. Each breath they take is like a snatch of invisible, moist cloud. And on these wet days, in the stream, there’s always a moment when Pearl steps into an unknown pool and watches the water quiver at the rims of her wellingtons. She loves that wait, as the stream laps the thin rubber, before it tumbles down into her socks. She and Will stand and feel the water pour in. Now the air vibrates with rain, and the mint and submerged watercress shine; the marigolds glint with gems of liquid, and the stream’s surface is wobbling and busy. Their feet are cold and delicious inside their boots. Droplets stand on the woollen filaments of their jumpers. Blackbirds sing worm-songs in the oak trees as Will asks Pearl if he can be her boyfriend. He grasps her warm hands and kisses them with his smiling mouth. Pearl sees that Will’s eyes are the colour of the soaking sky, and his blond hair has darkened into curls. First things first, she says. They empty their boots and wring out their socks. Then Pearl leads him to a place she knows about, deeper in the woods. Every leaf and blade is glossy. She picks a handful of scarlet berries for him. Eat these, she says. Without a word he chews the berries to a creamy pulp and swallows them. Almost immediately he vomits. Pearl holds his forehead and rubs his bent back as he retches. Yes, Will, she says finally, for now I will be your girlfriend. Then she wipes his mouth with her hand.
Bird
Pearl and her brother are in the hedge, watching for their father to bring them chips and fishcakes wrapped in paper. At last Pearl sees his trousers with their brown shoes coming across the lawn. Here you are, he says, squatting down with a tray full of things for them to eat. Thanks, Daddy, they call out, and rip open the warm, clammy parcels. I know, Pearl says, we could be baby eagles. And that was our father eagle bringing us dinner. It’s what father eagles do. This sounds good to The Blob, so they eat up, enjoying each hot, squashy chip as if it were a worm. These are mice, Pearl states, biting fiercely at a fishcake. What is this apple drink? her brother asks. Just apple drink, shtoopid, Pearl says. When they’ve finished they go indoors. Pearl peeps through the lounge door and sees her father sitting alone. Grabbing her brother’s arm as he’s about to run in, she whispers, stop! I’m thinking. Her father looks small somehow, and she doesn’t like it. We’ll be birds for Daddy, she tells her brother. But her brother is unsure. Watch me, she says, and glides into the room with The Blob trailing behind her. On the rug in front of her father she does a dance. Look, Daddy, she calls. I’m a greater spotted baby eagle! Their father opens his eyes. As her brother gets up onto the settee, Pearl flies and swoops, flies and calls, all over the room until she sees her father smile. Then she flutters down and curls herself at his feet. The Blob and her father laugh out loud, Pearl is so funny. I can do this any time you want, she cheeps, out of breath.
Falling down
Pearl has been sent to bed early. She listens to the children in the street, and the ice-cream van’s tune, and the birds singing their evening songs to one another. She’s decided to wait till everyone’s asleep. Then she’s going to the park. She thinks about the empty swings swaying from their chilly chains. And the trees, with their black trunks and millions of gently moving leaves, and all the snaking branches full of huddled birds. She sees herself treading the wet grass, climbing the steps of the tall slide. Maybe she’ll sit in the cage at the top and look at everything. It doesn’t
seem long before the house is silent. Pearl looks through her curtains. The cones of light falling from the street lamps have changed from orange to lemon. She drifts through the front door and down the path. Then she’s wandering into the park. The chestnut trees are shedding crinkled petals as she passes beneath them, and the perfume of the night plants makes her stop and breathe, over and over again. Then she sees her skeleton girl waiting on a swing, so she joins her. Even though she knows they shouldn’t, they start to go higher than Pearl has ever swung before, laughing together. At the very highest point the skeleton girl loses her grip and falls from the swing with a swift, whooshing rattle. It’s terrible, and Pearl leaps off. There on the ground is a scrabble of bones. Pearl quickly scoops them all into a carrier bag she finds lying nearby. Picking the skull up last, she holds it in both cupped hands and sobs, this is all my fault, I should be taking better care of you.
Bump
Honey tells Pearl about the baby she used to take out. I love babies, she says, making a thumb-sized mud child and giving it to Pearl. You can do stuff with them, and they can’t tell anyone. Pearl crushes the friable brown baby between her palms. Apart from with The Blob, she hadn’t thought of that before. Honey puts lumps of mud on each of Pearl’s toes, then flattens them out to cover her nails. Pearl shapes a huge, hanging mud nose and fits it on Honey. They stare at each other in the hedge gloom. Honey’s wide smile looks odd curving out behind her rough, earth nose. We have a baby in our street, Pearl says, so they clean up and knock on the baby’s door. The baby’s mother is a friend of Pearl’s family. Keep to the paths, she says, tucking a blanket in. We promise, they say. Inside the buggy the pink baby is propped up on a frilly pillow. Pearl and Honey take turns to push. Soon they come to a stile in the hedge. I know, says Pearl, we could easily get this thing over. They manage to lift the buggy up to the top bar of the stile. I’m puffed, Honey says, and sits down. Pearl thinks she can do it alone, but suddenly everything upends. The baby flies out and lands in some nettles like a knot of washing. The trees lean in and a bird trills while they stand, transfixed. Then Pearl vaults the stile, pulls the baby up by her talcy shawls and plonks her back in the righted pushchair. The baby is quivering; about to yell, covered in scarlet nettle stings and dead leaves. Its soiled bonnet is askew. Pearl and Honey hold hands; worst of all, there is a greeny-grey lump growing above the baby’s right eye.
The rules
Earlier, Fee turned pale and sobbed as Pearl told her she couldn’t go with the gang. It’s because of Honey, isn’t it? Fee asked. You like her best now. Pearl looked at Fee’s sweet eyes and sticky-out teeth. You won’t keep up, that’s all, she said, scrambling out of the hedge. Pearl’s impatient to be gone. She’s been kept in for two weeks, and cloud-boats are skimming along the endless sky; there are birds darting like arrows across its surface. The gang walks up through the houses until they reach a lane. This is where the mountain starts to grow. They are making for a secret way through the ferns called The Slippery Path. Eventually they stand on its steep, shaggy surface. Branched ferns tall as people tower on either side. They plunge in and battle through until they find a suitable space. Fern stalks squeak as the gang take off all their clothes. Pearl tells each one to stand up in turn. No one is allowed to move. She whacks them with a long stalk on their bottoms and bellies. She smacks Will harder than the rest. Then she tells him to wee. The sound of splashing makes them all smile. Good, Pearl tells him, her face flushed, now everybody eat. The gang swap sandwiches and drink warm squash, eating quietly. The air is humming drowsily with insects, and they find a slow-worm. Leave it alone, Pearl commands, standing up, naked but for her sandals. She swishes her stalk just above the gang’s heads, and looks at each of them in turn. Right, you lot, now it’s time for a special game, she says. It’s called Kiss, Kick, or Torture. And I will explain the rules.
Cut
Pearl only has to look at her front door to know how it will be inside. The oval window above the letterbox changes colour. Like an eye that’s sometimes vacant, sometimes terrified, sometimes blind with rage, the bluey-green glass subtly alters. It’s a language Pearl can understand. Once or twice even the brass door handle has told her things. Today, standing at the gate, she notices the colours in the window are almost bleached out. The garden path stretches for miles before her. When she eventually reaches the porch and touches the door handle, it is so cold her skin melds to it for a second. Pearl pushes the door wide and leaps in, calling for her brother. She feels the air pulsing with a sort of static. In the kitchen, she sees him standing alone. She drops her bag and goes to him. Splayed on the table are her mother’s huge black-and-silver scissors. The Blob is silent, but from his eyes tears drop steadily. What’s happened? Pearl asks, her voice businesslike. She can see soft mounds of chestnut curls all around him on the floor. His scalp shows through, pink and raw in places. Pearl starts to shake. She strokes his bristly head and sees his ear is bleeding. The neckline of his jumper is ragged and chopped at. Pearl walks to the sink and turns on the tap. Sit down now, she says to her brother. I’ll clean you up. He stiffly folds himself onto a chair, hardly blinking. I’ll say I did it, he states. Promise you won’t tell. She tries to answer, but her mouth won’t work. Quickly she locks the back door; through the window she can see her mother running towards the house. You’re next, Pearly! she’s shouting.
All better
Pearl strides out, counting the steps it takes to get away from the house. Soon they are at the canal. This is a good idea, my love, Fee says, linking arms. They arrive at a stretch of brambles twice their height. The sun hits the bushes each afternoon, so it’s studded with hundreds of glossy black fruit. Orange butterflies rest on the topmost branches. Beneath, spears of cuckoo pint are unfurling in the shade. Inside each tender sheath Pearl can see a column of jade-green berries ripening. Don’t touch those, she says. When Fee finds a nice blackberry she calls, look at this beauty! and Pearl pulls the thorny stems down for her. The way Fee darts about is calming. Even when she scratches her arm, she still smiles her crooked smile. Let me look, Pearl says, examining the red-dotted weal on the inside of Fee’s freckled arm. As she sucks the broken skin she hears Fee’s snatched intake of breath. Pearl straightens, and, turning slowly, she sees a man on the other side of the path; she’s not sure how long he’s been there. He’s mouthing strange words at them. What do you want? Pearl asks, shielding Fee. From the mess of his grey trousers the man fishes out his erect, sore-looking penis and steps nearer, thrusting with his hips so that its wet, stretched tip bobs from side to side. Pearl watches for a few seconds, then she starts to purse her lips. Really? she thinks, raising her eyebrows. Her unimpressed gaze acts like a pinprick on a red balloon, and his penis shrivels. He covers it with his coat and shuffles away. It’s okay now, Fee, Pearl says, hugging her. I’ve made it all better.
Beans
Even though Honey’s parents have forbidden them from seeing each other, she and Pearl walk home together in the rain after school. No more babies for us, Honey says. Maybe, says Pearl, tilting her mouth to the fat drops falling from the trees. They begin to imagine a delicious meal waits for them. What will you really be eating? Honey asks. It’s stew night, Pearl says. I’d love to stuff a bowl of stew, Honey says. I doubt that, Pearl says, and thinks about the parsnips she always mistakes for potatoes, the thready meat and swede nubs she retches over. If I could just have bread and gravy, she says, I’d be a happy girl. Why don’t you, then? Honey asks, taking her hand. Pearl thinks about stew fumes in the kitchen, and her tight-lipped mother dishing out. She looks at Honey with her glossy hair and pink nails and realises she has no idea about stew, or fish and parsley sauce, or liver and onions. Want to come to mine? Honey asks. Dropping their wet things in the hall, they go to the kitchen. Honey opens a cupboard full of crisps and biscuits. Help yourself, she says. Pearl gazes and gazes at the lovely treats. No
, she says. Ice-cream then? Honey offers. But Pearl is silent. I know, Honey says, waffles and syrup. Not for me, Pearl says. I’d better go. But still she stays, watching as Honey opens a tin of baked beans. They’re delish cold, she tells Pearl, offering her a spoonful. Astonished, Pearl opens her mouth, takes the beans and runs out into the rain without her coat. The beans are savoury and sweet. To Pearl they taste like food from another country.
Reasons She Goes to the Woods Page 5