by Tabitha Bird
Grammy pauses. I reach for her across the table, marvelling at the strength still in her hands. ‘Maybe I was afraid,’ she says. ‘My own father was tarred with the same brush. Always coming home late smelling of the pub, violence under his skin.’
She pauses again, and I wonder if I should stop her, if this is too upsetting for her to speak about. I decide not to. For now, she is here with me, and I’m beginning to think our stories might be important. One day I’ll lose her story from beginning to end.
Grammy tightens her hold on Eli. ‘That was the night I got my first dachshund. Have I told you this?’
I shake my head.
‘The dog was called Tuppence. That’s what I bought her for, tuppence from the lady I worked with when I was only a girl. My father saw the dog that night and pulled the tablecloth out from under dishes. That night he kicked the dog to make my sister cry. Maybe he thought I would cry, too.’
I push down memories of Frog Dog as I listen.
‘The next day I gave Tuppence away because I promised myself I wouldn’t let him do that to another creature. How does a child face that reality? They can’t, and that’s why we tell stories, Willa. A way to understand what is otherwise too difficult to comprehend. So, yes, I think the stories you told were real.’
She stares off into the night, her eyes misty, and I snuggle her hand. Images of my Grammy as a young girl stay with me. She was something other than my Grammy once. She was a big sister, someone’s daughter. Her name was Grace. Only she never was that, not to me. She’s always been my Grammy. I’m the oldest grandchild so I performed the magic of making her a grandmother, and it has always been a most special enchantment between us.
‘Oh, I made so many promises back then. You know, when I left England, I promised myself this country would be a new beginning. It was and it wasn’t.’ Grammy is quiet for a moment. ‘Your mother and I never got along. Different people.’
For the first time tonight, neither of us knows what to say. I have my own battles with Mother. The way she cared for the bathrooms, which were always bleached. Bedsheets taut. Clothes pressed to within an inch of their life. That was her way of coping with her world, no doubt. But two little girls were lost in all her pulling and ironing straight.
There were nights with bruises, when she told me what my father had done, what he’d said. She would ask me what she should do. All I had to offer were stories. Words she didn’t hear when I tried to speak. She still cannot hear the words coming out of my mouth.
Then a thought that knocks breath from me. Am I doing the same to my boys? My shamelessly white tiles, the way I won’t tell stories anymore? I swallow hard, then say, ‘Perhaps people should tell stories because we are all a bit messed up and stories are how we try to figure it out.’ I whisper, because speaking any louder might break the evening in two.
She sniffs. ‘Exactly. Anyway, I don’t trust straightened-out people. I don’t think they’re real.’
Count on Grammy to like messy things. ‘No wonder you love me. I’m about as messed up as they come. I’ve been talking to people from my childhood stories.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely, poppet. And what do they say?’
My mood lightens. ‘It’s only Super Gumboots Willa.’
‘Ah. Yes, I remember that’s what you called yourself. That girl had many stories. Perhaps you stopped listening? Maybe you forgot how important she was?’
I pause. ‘I’ve forgotten lots of things, it seems. Do you ever feel like you’re making yourself up and you’ve got no idea who you are?’
Grammy’s quiet, and when she speaks her words are shy. ‘I think I’m still making myself up. We’re all stories, Willa. How else do you tell a story if you don’t make it up? Sometimes, when everything else seems lost, you simply have to keep inventing.’
‘What if I’ve forgotten how? What if I don’t tell stories anymore?’
I’m not sure if Grammy understands my question until she speaks again. ‘Willa, you told me when you were a child that you met your older self. Perhaps you don’t tell stories anymore because remembering that child who used to tell stories is painful?’
I nod, unable to speak.
‘Regret is expensive in ways you can’t imagine.’
My voice is choked. ‘What if remembering also costs too much?’
Grammy hands me my bundle of sleeping Eli. Few things are sweeter to hold. Grammy looks at me the way she did the first time we baked jam drops. ‘Ah, Willa. That’s always the question when we’re faced with a challenge. What will it all cost? Remembering your past and dealing with it will no doubt be expensive. But I’m telling you, forgetting costs more.’ There’s such a deepness in Grammy’s eyes, a loss or hurt from so long ago that it seems outside of time itself.
‘I’m going to tell you something. I took me too long to deal with the hurt my father caused me. Your mother was grown and married to your father before I could see how little I knew about letting shame go and loving myself. Instead, I gave all these wounded lessons to your mother as a child and she in turn gave them to you. Oh, what a marvellous job we all do of passing brokenness down through the generations. Maybe you don’t want to keep that particular tradition?’
My backyard in early dawn appears naked, perhaps even ashamed. The fog a cover for the earth. Eli is in bed after the tea party, and Seb has long been tucked up, but I am standing in front of the ocean-garden. A mango tree knotted into the soil stands before me, an unspoken dare between us. Will I water the ocean-garden and confront what it brings? I dare to think I could still ignore it. I shiver even under my coat, threads of me hanging out here and there.
Eli has been burying the jar behind the mango tree and so I dig it out, take it inside and return with it full of water. It sloshes in my hand. As I water the garden, two small girls come into view.
Chapter Twenty-two
1965
Willa Waters, aged 8
When I wake up the air smells like fish and chips. A woman stands over us. I think it’s Mummy at first, but it’s the woman with the boys who play on my swings.
‘You watered my garden?’ I ask, rubbing my eyes.
Lottie mumbles in her sleep. She’s still inside the jumper with me.
‘What are you doing here so early in the morning?’ the woman asks in return.
Daddy doesn’t like carrots and potatoes. It’s my fault I made him mad wearing this stupid jumper. That’s what I don’t say. Instead, I say, ‘What are you doing here?’
She bends down, closer. ‘Oh, god. Tell me you’re not real.’ Her voice is wobbly.
‘Pretty sure I am.’ I don’t move.
I’m too tired to work big people out. The sky is all dark and smudgy ’cause of the fog and I know we should be in bed and that last night our beds weren’t safe, so I say, ‘This is my magic garden. I planted it when the ocean arrived in a box.’
I don’t know what she wants, this woman who drops forwards to her knees, shaking her head. ‘What do you want from me?’ she asks.
Big people always ask me questions. Now it’s my turn. ‘Are you like Mummy, who always wants me to tell her what to do? And when I tell her what to do she won’t do it and now Lottie and I are stuck out here under a mango tree and it’s cold and I want a hot chocolate and some jam drops, please, thank you and goodbye.’
‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’
I kick at the sand. Lottie moves, waking up. ‘Gee, let me think. Did someone hit you? Did he throw plates across the room? Do you want to know what you should tell your pastor so he will listen and help you or some other dumb question that I don’t know the answer to? ’Cause all I know is that there is an old lady and Lottie wants to keep her for a pet, and you should get out of my garden or get me a blanket!’ I wasn’t going to yell, but the yelling words sound so good out in the night air. I’m thinking about more yelling, but I see Lottie is awake, her head popping out the top of my jumper and new puddles in her eyes.
‘Come on, Lottie
. Let’s go.’ She climbs out of the jumper.
‘Wait! You call her Silver Willa,’ the woman says before we can walk out of the ocean-garden. ‘Because of her grey hair.’
I stare now, all the yelling gone suddenly. ‘Willa is my name, too.’
The woman nods, slowly. ‘Yeah, I know. I tried to believe that all this’ – she waves her arms wide – ‘the ocean, the jar, everything, was a story I made up and only I remember meeting the old lady, but then you showed up, and Lottie, and now I have memories of meeting you when I was a little girl, well, when I was you, and –’
‘Lady, are you okay?’
She sighs. ‘No, probably not. I think I’m going mad. You can call me Middle Willa if you like, the one in the middle of you and Silver Willa. Why not, hey?’
Lottie pulls at my arm, shivering. ‘Wanna go inside.’
‘Mad like Alice in Wonderland? Or mad like Daddy, who is two people stuffed inside one daddy, and you never know if –’
‘Daddy?’ The woman says his name like a whimper.
‘Look, Lottie’s cold. We’re going inside.’
‘Honey, I am you. The ocean brought us together.’
‘Nope.’ I turn to walk away.
‘I am you, but … older.’
I stop. ‘Oh yeah? Where are your gumboots and have you walked on the moon yet?’
‘Um …’
‘Do you build Viking forts under your bed?’
‘Well, no.’
‘Are you a picture-book-maker?’
‘A what?’
‘Stories. Ya know? Do you write stories for all the scared little kids to make them not be scared anymore?’
‘I … no.’
‘You’re not me, then!’
‘Wait! I know about your Frog. “I have a little dog, not much of a dog, but she’s a brave little thing called Frog.”’ The woman sings, just the way I sing it. ‘And you called her Frog because she snorts like a bullfrog.’
I stumble backwards into Lottie. The woman knows my Frog Dog song. Only I know that song. Now I’m thinking real fast. Maybe she can help? Maybe if I bring Mummy to the garden now she’ll believe me and we can pack our bags and go through the garden without Daddy …
I want to save Lottie and Mummy. But what if I only want to leave the nasty part of Daddy behind?
‘Have you told your mummy about the garden?’
I nod and run towards the house.
‘Wait!’ the woman says.
The ocean breeze starts to blow and a letter falls from the tree.
Dear Super Gumboots Willa,
You must be sad, but I know what to do. Sing. Dance with gumboots on. And make carrots that taste like ice cream.
From Silver Willa. (You know, ’cause I have silver hair.)
P.S. Did you plant the ocean? Isn’t it fabulous?
The door to Mummy’s bedroom is closed. No matter how much I bang on it, there’s no sound. I press my ear to the door, waiting. Lottie presses her ear, too.
‘Let me handle this. You go pack some stuff.’ I push her away. ‘Go!’ Lottie slouches off to her room. She’s got damp pyjamas and a dirty face. I’m not doing a very good sister job.
Remember the plan, Willa.
When I find Mummy, she’s a lump on the floor near her open wardrobe, her high-heel shoes on, but crooked. She looks like she was eaten by something and spat out. Her hair is sticky-up and her shirt is ripped and has sauce stains on it. I hope they are sauce stains. Her lips and her nose look funny, too. Puffy.
‘He hit me again. Tell me, what should I do?’ Her shirt is wet with tear puddles.
‘I know what to do, okay? I’ve got a plan. We can pack our bags and –’
‘And leave? You want me to leave? I’ve been married for over ten years. You want me to throw that all away?’
‘No. Yes. I don’t know.’ But I want to throw something away.
‘It’s my fault. I said terrible things. If I wasn’t so emotional, so pathetic … Look at me, I’m pathetic.’
Something is dripping on my face. I wipe at it, but it comes again. Is Mummy crying or am I?
‘Oh, you wouldn’t understand. You’re just a little girl.’
‘But there’s this ocean and a woman came and told –’
Mummy sits up. ‘Who have you told? You better not be talking about our family, Willa. What have you done, you silly little –’
‘No! I didn’t tell her anything.’ This isn’t going well. Think harder, Willa. There are two kinds of Daddy, really. The Daddy you want to look at the stars with and the Daddy you don’t. When Daddy’s here you can’t move him someplace else. He’s too big. And when he’s gone it’s safe, but Mummy won’t make him stay away. What can I do about that?
I swing the hanging clothes in the wardrobe, thinking, and twist the end of a belt around my finger.
Grammy says you can’t take away tears and all that, so I just stay with Mummy. But then … This question is an idea, but I think it might work. Grammy says books are loyal friends, and I know the right one. The Magic Faraway Tree. Mummy will understand how you can creep through into other worlds and be safe.
‘Can we read?’ I say.
‘Later. Tomorrow, maybe.’
I wait. ‘What about now?’
‘Willa!’ She flicks her heels off.
I scurry out. Mouse, mouse, where are you going now?
She is surprised when I come back. I set up pillows on the floor. The book is still warm from being so close to me when I hand it to her.
‘The Magic Faraway Tree?’ she asks. ‘But we both know this book inside out.’
‘But this time you’ll get it. Read it again?’
She holds it closed. ‘I can’t.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ll explode.’
I wiggle closer. ‘No mummies exploding, please.’
She opens the book and runs her hand over the first page. I wait. As she starts reading I tuck under her arm. Her voice is a wobble. With my head on her, I listen some more. When they come, Mummy’s words are singsong and gnome gruff, and then round like Moon-Face. I see bears with booming steps. Oomph! Oomph! Franny swooshing down tree slides and a Roundabout Land dancing to circus tunes. For a little while, I am safe. Remember the plan, Willa.
It’s afternoon and I can’t believe I snoozed away most of the day. There’s too much to do now. Stuff on top of stuff. Things to pack: Frog Dog. (You can’t really pack her, but I want her on the list so she doesn’t get left in the house like last night). Stuff to wear. Stuff for Lottie to wear. Lottie’s doll. A blanket. (I always forget the blanket.)
Lottie walks into my bedroom, rubbing her eyes. She’s been sleeping, too. ‘Did Mummy say we can go?’
I don’t say that when I told Mummy about the ocean-garden she threw me out of her room.
‘How do you know this is gonna work?’ Lottie says.
‘’Cause.’ I poke her in the belly. ‘Go get some stuff you want to pack.’
Lottie comes back with a purple tutu that Grammy made her, all her beads, three socks and a set of plastic play food from her shopping game.
‘In case we need something to eat.’ She drops a plastic tomato into my bag.
We pack and tuck and zip then shove it under my bed for when we’re ready.
We even clean before we go so Daddy won’t be mad. I start up the vacuum cleaner. Frog Dog follows me about, even though it’s loud and I tell her to go away. The vacuum cleaner sucks up bits of carrots, but it makes a funny whirr-sluuuck sound when I get to the potato pieces. Then it stops working altogether. Lottie dances around touching everything with a dust cloth like it’s a droopy fairy wand, saying, ‘Ah-La-Be-Cleaned!’ She suggests sticky-taping the broken dishes back together, but there are too many pieces.
Then I hear it. Lottie hears it, too. Daddy’s truck. He’s home early!
Mummy rushes out of her bedroom, quick-quick, feet down the hall. She’s been in her room all day, but now I’ve got a plan fo
r how to help.
She almost trips on the vacuum cord. ‘Get that thing out of here, Willa.’
‘Mummy!’ Lottie clings to her waist.
Remember the plan, Willa. I shove the vacuum cleaner back in the hallway cupboard. ‘Everything’s ready, Mummy. Our bags are packed.’
Mummy wipes the dining table like it’s a mission.
‘Leave it – we have to go!’ I say.
Boots thump as Daddy kicks them off by the front door and I know bits of mud and farm are all over the deck.
The door opens. Slams. He’s in the doorway and it’s too late.
His words are low, a thunder building. Big footsteps march through the dining room to the living room. Mummy’s heels behind him. Clip, clop, clip.
‘Go get our bags.’ I try to push Lottie out of the kitchen and down the hallway to the bedrooms. But she clings to my shirt.
Mummy stands right up in his face. He walks past her, down the stairs. His rusty old beer fridge is down there. Down in the laundry.
‘Leave me alone, Ebony. Do you have to start in on a man as soon as he gets home?’ Daddy thuds down each stair away from her.
Mummy follows. Clip-clop down. Words stacking on top of each other.
I decide to take Lottie and get our bags, then we can run out the back door, but before I can Lottie’s gone. Down the stairs. With our bags.
‘Lottie!’ I whisper-shout from the landing, but she’s already standing next to Mummy at the bottom.
I’m big, I’m big. Okay, me. Brave me, not-scared me. Grab Lottie’s hand and don’t let go.
When I get to the bottom, Lottie scratches my arms, pulling out of my grip. My legs become floppy bones that forget how to walk. I’m this useless, soppy, floppy thing. All I can do to get Lottie back up the stairs is stand there.
