‘Now, let me have a look at this eye,’ Gran said.
Gary turned his face away from her and wrinkled his nose as she eased the bandaids off his eyebrow. The cut was swollen and jagged and oozing thick, yellow pus. Mum gasped.
‘Gary, why didn’t you tell me it was like that? You said you were cleaning it every day!’
‘Because he wants a big, nasty scar,’ Jimmy called from the end of the line. ‘He told me.’
‘Get to the bathroom,’ Gran ordered. Gary sauntered away, poking at the cut with his little finger. Gran turned and looked at Mum, who started to follow Gary as if she was the one who had been ordered to the bathroom.
‘Sit down and relax, Libby,’ Gran said to Mum. ‘I’ll look after this.’
Gran stamped off to the bathroom. Mum sat down at the kitchen table. She pulled a tea towel off the table, tucked it into her skirt, then folded her hands in her lap, leaned against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. I’d seen her do it a million times. She’d say, ‘You’re making my blood boil,’ and send us out of the room. I had to stand guard at the door and tell the other kids they couldn’t go in until Mum’s blood stopped boiling.
Gary told me later what Gran did. She opened the bathroom cupboard, reached up, and took out my dad’s old razor. It was a cutthroat razor with a long blade and a wooden handle. Gary waited while she ran the hot tap and washed and rinsed the blade. She told him to kneel down. When he was kneeling in front of her, she lifted the razor to his eyebrow, but Gary was frightened and started shuffling backwards on his knees.
‘I thought you were trying to be a tough boy?’ she said, reaching around and clasping the back of his neck with her free hand. ‘Can’t you take a little pain?’ She cut open the wound and swabbed the pus out with a face washer, then dabbed the cut with mercurochrome. From the kitchen we heard Gary yowling.
Gran told him that the wound was too far gone to heal properly now.
‘You won’t get blood poisoning at least, but you’ll have that scar you wanted, young man. And when men see that scar and decide you’re a fighter, the pain of their fists will be a lot worse than the pain you’re feeling now. One decision, just one small decision can alter the whole course of your life. Like that.’ She snapped her fingers and mercurochrome spattered over the front of her blouse.
Gary never admitted to crying, but when he came out of the bathroom he was rubbing his hand backwards and forwards hard against his nose. He walked straight out the back door, and I heard the thunk and scrabble as he climbed the back fence, then the soft thump as he landed on the other side.
‘Oh no, look at this,’ Gran said, hurrying out of the bathroom and dabbing at her red-stained blouse. ‘I’ll have to put this in to soak straight away. I’ll borrow a blouse if you don’t mind, Libby.’ She pulled out the front of her blouse and looked down inside. ‘And a singlet.’
Mum didn’t know the kittens were in her wardrobe. She slowly unfolded her hands and stood up to take Gran to her room.
‘I’ll get them for you, Gran,’ I said.
I raced to beat the two of them to the door of the room. When I reached the doorway, I thought I heard the kittens mewing. They sounded so helpless. Gran advanced on me, her bosom speckled blood red, Mum trudging behind, head down, to the slaughter.
‘No,’ I shouted, ‘I’ll get them.’
‘Are you shouting, Anne? Ladies don’t shout,’ Gran said. She stopped in front of where I was barring the doorway. She smelled like disinfectant, sterile, hard as stainless steel.
‘Annie, get out of the way,’ Mum said. ‘Your Gran needs to change in there.’
Gran walked straight to the wardrobe, opened the door, then stopped still. Muffled high-pitched squeals greeted her. She pulled out the drawer and five kittens pushed up their blunt heads, mewing and scrabbling over each other to get out. Mum sat down on the bed and started wrapping her left hand in the tea towel. When Gran stepped back the stink wafted past her and hit me. The kittens must have been sick. Gary had put them right on top of Mum’s underclothes, and now the singlets and petticoats were covered in poo and vomit. Gran was staggering backwards, her hand over her mouth.
She lined us up in the kitchen again. Gary was still out.
‘Who put those kittens in your mother’s drawer?’
‘Gary did.’
‘Gary.’
‘Gary did it.’
‘It was Gary.’
‘I did,’ I said.
Gran had found a cardboard box and put the kittens in the hallway ready for Pop. From the kitchen we could hear the scratching of their claws trying to climb the inside walls of the box.
‘I did, and they’re my kittens, and I’m looking after them, and...’ I ran out of things to say.
‘Well, look at the job you’re doing,’ Gran said. ‘They’re half dead.’
When Pop came in to collect the kittens, I was leaning against the wall, crying.
‘They couldn’t help being born,’ I cried at Gran. ‘They can’t help it. They’re just babies, they can’t help it. It’s not fair.’
‘Fair?’ Gran said. ‘Fair, she says!’
The hessian bag Pop held was already squirming. He had found the box of kittens under the house as well. I started to sob.
‘Why do you have to kill them, Pop?’ I cried.
‘Oh no, we don’t kill them. No, we take them to the cat home, don’t we, love?’ He nodded at Gran.
For a moment I almost believed him.
‘Don’t lie to the girl,’ Gran said. ‘Look around, you silly girl. Does it look like your mother has money to throw away? She’s struggling to feed and clothe all of you, and you want to saddle her with a litter of kittens?’
‘I’ll use my pocket money to feed them. I’ll give them away when they’re old enough.’
‘I know perfectly well what will happen. You’ll love them for a day, then you’ll neglect them. They’ll end up on the streets, fighting and scavenging–vicious wild things. These poor animals are better off dead.’
Mum stood up. Her eyes were red.
‘Your Gran’s right,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got time to look after pets as well. I’m too tired, Anne. It’s too much.’
Mum put her hand over her eyes. She went back into her room and shut the door. Gran frowned, then picked up the hessian bag, gathered the kittens from the box and dropped them squealing into the bag.
‘Like that father of yours,’ Gran muttered. ‘He’s happy enough to father the children but now where is he all day and night? Gary’s running wild and your father does nothing. The social services are knocking on the door. You children don’t realise...’
‘Gran, please. I’ll look after them. I promise!’ All I could think about were the screams of fear from the blind kittens as they were laid on the cold concrete.
‘Have you been listening to me at all?’ Gran swapped the bag from one hand to the other as if she was about to smack me.
I stepped back against the wall and hunched my shoulders. I was still sniffling. Gran sighed loudly.
‘Here,’ she said to me. She pulled the largest kitten from the bag, the only one with its blue eyes fully open, and held it by the scruff of its neck in front of me. The kitten, curled into a foetal ball, stared unseeing past my shoulder.
‘Keep this one for a week. See what it’s like to be responsible. It’s a lot harder than you think.’
After Gran gathered up the clothes that needed mending and bleaching, we all followed her and Pop out to the Humber to wave goodbye. Gran took Mum’s hand and held it for a second. She ordered us all to behave, threatened to bring the scissors the next week and cut off all of Pauline’s hair, pointed out a smeared handprint on the bedroom window facing the street, and finally got into the passenger seat and was driven away.
As soon as the sound of the engine had died away and Mum had climbed the steps and gone inside, Gary ran around from the side of the house, brandishing a hammer.
‘This is it!’ he said. ‘Come and look. This is the hammer she uses to kill the kittens. I stole it from Pop’s toolbox. Come on, look. See, it’s got dried blood on it.’
I looked at the hammer smeared with mercurochrome, and felt the purring kitten shift in the crook of my arm. I reached down and stroked its ears.
‘What’s that?’ Gary said, astonished, and dropped the hammer on his foot.
Having something none of my brothers or sisters was allowed should have made me gloat. All of my toys and books and clothes, even hair ribbons, had been used before I got them, but this was no hand-me-down cat. This was my own kitten, something no one else was allowed to have, and I should have been ecstatic.
‘Here, you can pat it,’ I told Pauline.
She looked down at the kitten and made a face. ‘No way–it’s filthy!’
The kitten drove me mad. It followed me everywhere, piddled on my bed, wanted to be fed and patted, mewed pitifully in the laundry at night. The way it depended on me was frightening. When Gran visited the next week she asked me how it was.
‘It’s all right,’ I said.
‘Show me,’ Gran demanded.
Even before I put the kitten down in front of her I knew she would be angry. Jimmy had daubed the tip of its tail with fluorescent green paint, and I hadn’t had time to clean it off. Jimmy’s left ear was fluorescent green too, but Gran didn’t notice. She stared down at the kitten.
Apart from giving it food and playing catch-the-string with it a few times I hadn’t taken much care of it. I suppose the kitten was too young to know how to clean itself–besides having paint on its tail, its fur was matted and dull. Yellow stuff was leaking from its left eye and it was a bit shaky. I wished that I’d never opened my mouth about the kittens.
Gran’s eyes were squeezed tight, and they were wrinkled and red and old. She picked up the kitten and held it to her breast. When she turned her head to me, her eyes were watery. I wondered why she would be crying.
‘You careless, careless child. I’m taking this kitten away,’ she said.
‘Yes, Gran,’ I answered, relieved.
Still clutching the kitten like a baby to her breast, she turned to Mum.
‘I have to take it, Libby.’
Mum’s face had flushed and she had two crimson spots high on her cheeks. She stood up, wiped her hands on her apron, untied the strings and pulled the apron off as she walked over to Gran and me.
‘Come here,’ Mum said to me.
‘Where’s that tea towel?’ she asked Gran, handing her the apron.
Gran’s lips parted as if she was about to speak, but instead she passed Mum the tea towel from its hook on the wall. Mum, holding the tea towel in both hands, tugged a couple of times at both ends like she was trying to stretch it. So quickly that I only realised what had happened when the sting brought tears to my eyes, she bent over and flicked the tail of the tea towel across the back of my knees. I looked up and, through the wobbly film of tears in my eyes, I saw that my mother and my grandmother, standing side by side, had the same kind of square face.
‘I’ll take that cat,’ Mum said to Gran. She reached over and grasped the kitten from Gran’s hands. ‘We shouldn’t have expected a child to know how to look after an animal.’ She wheeled around to face the corner I had slunk into. ‘But you should be ashamed, Anne. Look at the poor thing. Does it look like someone cares for it? Does it?’
‘No,’ I whispered.
‘Well get that bowl from under the sink and fill it with water, and bring some rags from the top cupboard,’ Mum said.
‘It’s all right, Libby, I’ll look after it,’ Gran said. She reached for the kitten, but Mum stared into Gran’s eyes. I couldn’t move. I felt sick, imagining the struggling kitten held down by Mum’s hand in the enamel bowl, and bubbles breaking on the surface of the water.
Mum looked down at the kitten in her hand. ‘Where’s that bowl, Anne? We have to wash this kitten and give it some food.’
‘Libby, as if you haven’t got enough on your plate. Don’t be silly. The animal’s sick.’
‘We’ll keep the kitten, thank you.’
‘Libby, I can’t stand it when you’re obstinate like this. This isn’t a fit place for a pet. You have too much to do, too many children to look after already.’
Mum picked up her apron from where Gran had draped it over a chair. She arranged the apron like a nest in the empty washing basket on the floor, placed the kitten in the nest and crouched beside it for a long time, stroking its tiny head with her finger. Gradually the kitten began to purr, until the throaty sound filled the quiet room like a heartbeat.
Mum murmured to herself, ‘The little thing just needs to know it’s wanted.’
Gran had already marched out of the kitchen, and was slamming the iron on some clothes in the laundry.
When Mum called, the rest of the kids came running to the kitchen.
‘Everyone out on the street,’ she said. Gran heard us thundering down the hall and followed as we spilled out on to the road. Pop stood up on the roof where he was patching the corrugated iron.
‘Be careful of cars,’ Gran cried after us. ‘Don’t run on the road! Jimmy, come back here.’
Jimmy hesitated, but Gary walked up behind him and put a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder.
‘It’s OK, Gran. I’ll look after him,’ Gary said. His hand slid off Jimmy’s shoulder. He was staring at the front door, where Mum had appeared. She wore a pair of Dad’s trousers, tied at the waist with a stocking, and her hair was pulled up in a ponytail. She looked almost young enough to be one of us kids. We all ran toward her, wanting to touch her, but she shooed us away and tossed the ball to Pauline and the bat to Gary.
We played street cricket until twilight started to fall. Mum ran after the ball and took silly girly swings with the bat. Jimmy and Moira, who were too little to have seen Mum do anything like this before, kept grabbing at her trousers and jumping up and down with excitement. Gran stood watching beside the gatepost for a while, then she climbed back up the stairs and inside.
As it was getting too dark to see the ball, Gran and Pop came out of the house. We stopped the cricket game and walked over to the Humber.
‘I’ve got all the torn clothes and the ones that need bleaching,’ Gran said to Mum. ‘And I baked some scones. I’ve left them to cool on top of the stove.’
‘Thanks, Ma,’ Mum said. ‘Thanks, Pop.’
Gran and Pop got into the car. Gran wound down her window and stuck out her head as the car pulled away from the kerb.
‘I’m only trying to—’ Gran said, but the engine roared and we couldn’t hear the rest.
Mum put one hand on the gatepost and lifted the other hand to wave goodbye. She let her arm drop across my shoulders.
‘You were very cruel to that kitten, Annie.’
I hung my head. I didn’t want her to see my face in case she realised how much I wished Gran had taken the kitten.
‘You wish the kitten was gone, don’t you?’
I sniffed. I wasn’t crying, but I hoped Mum would think I was.
‘Imagine if I decided I wasn’t going to look after you anymore. What if I let Gran take you away, Annie?’
My head wouldn’t go any lower so I lifted my eyes and told Mum I was sorry. I hated being told off, especially when Mum said stupid things like that. As if she would let anyone take us away.
Glass Heart
I first met Kirsti at the restaurant where she was waitressing. She spilled coffee on my leather jacket.
‘It’s all right,’ I said.
She brought the wrong order.
‘It doesn’t mat
ter,’ I said.
She plonked herself in a chair at the side of the table where Craig and I sat facing each other, and picked up one of the pieces of bread from our bread basket. She examined it, turning it from side to side, before stuffing it whole into her mouth and chewing slowly and loudly.
‘Do you mind?’ I asked.
When she started to cry in funny little snorts I realised that Craig knew her. All night he had been wiping his hand across his upper lip, that nervous gesture that showed he was expecting to sweat.
He reached over to touch her hand, and in reply she spat her piece of half-chewed dough on his plate, where it sat soaking up beef bourguignon gravy and slowly turning blood red. Kirsti, although I didn’t know her name at the time, scribbled something on a piece of paper and slammed it on the table between Craig and me before stalking off. For a moment I wondered if it could be a threat. It was the bill, with a fifty dollar surcharge labelled ‘porkage’.
‘What does she mean, porkage?’ I asked, but even before the words were out of my mouth I understood. And as though Craig had opened his chest to show me his true self, I saw that his heart, the heart I had once pictured glowing like polished rosewood, was a sponge, a grubby, grey kitchen sponge.
I was in the habit, in those days, of imagining a shape and colour and texture for the heart of everyone I knew. In the restaurant, I stared down at the chewed bread and an image came to me of Kirsti’s heart shimmering as brightly as her white hair. The heart was crystal: pure and innocent. I had always imagined my own heart as glass–anyone could see through me–and now I thought I had found someone just as transparent, just as gullible.
She stood by the register, watching us and wiping her eyes with a blue and white napkin. Another waitress, dark-haired, put her arm around Kirsti’s shoulders, leaned close to her ear, and spoke. Kirsti laughed. She looked straight at me and laughed loudly, offensively, so I stuck my finger in the air at her and walked out, leaving Craig to deal with his porkage levy.
The End of the World Page 12
