Something Like Breathing

by Angela Readman

  ‘Good afternoon, girls.’ Bunny and the women streamed into the library.

  Sylvie ran after her. ‘Why you here, Ma? What are you doing?’

  ‘It’s a small matter concerning suitable reading material. Don’t worry, darling, it’s none of your concern. The Island Mothers had a meeting about it. It’s all been decided.’

  The women shook their heads and placed books into boxes. Bonnie Campbell stood by the checkout desk, still clutching her library stamp. Her hands dangled at her side, unsure what to do, the library stamp leaving ink on her skirt.

  ‘Ma, no! Please don’t, I’ll behave. I promise.’ Sylvie gripped Bunny’s arm.

  The librarian placed a hand on Sylvie’s shoulder, pulling her back, ‘It’s alright, Sylvie,’ she said. ‘I knew this was coming. The faculty approved it. No one wants the press involved. One of the women has a husband who works for the Highland Herald. The whole island will look like fools.’

  Bonnie let Sylvie cry on her shoulder. The women streamed past with full arms.

  Sylvie grabbed a book from one of their boxes. ‘What’s wrong with this, Ma? There’s no harm in this one, surely? Please…’

  One of the other women answered on Bunny’s behalf. ‘Witches, girls woken by a kiss, that dreadful girl in red shoes. It all starts somewhere, it pollutes the impressionable.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Bunny accompanied the woman outside. Sylvie stroked the clean strip on the shelves where the books had once been.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  The librarian shushed her. ‘It’s OK. There won’t be any scandal at least, since we allowed the books to be removed. It will blow over. Next month they’ll have another bee in their bonnet and we’ll be able to read whatever we want.’

  Bonnie put her arm around Sylvie, but Sylvie wouldn’t stop mumbling, ‘It’s all my fault.’

  The fire sputtered to life, smoke pluming into the air. The women huddled in Bunny’s garden waiting for baked potatoes and watching the books burn. The pages curled. The paper fumed into sepia and ash drifted into the air, quiet as snow. Bunny folded her arms, staring at Sylvie across the flames. Sylvie raced upstairs. She’d let the books burn without her. She couldn’t look. I sat in her bedroom waiting for the fire to be over. The air smelt of charred paper even indoors.

  ‘She’s only doing it to punish me.’

  Sylvie rubbed her eyes. Their colour changed with her mood, sometimes they looked blue. Other days, not so much. Today they were grey.

  ‘Punish you for what?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ Sylvie scratched her knuckles and sucked the wound.

  ‘It’s not like they were your books. The library can get more,’ I said, but it was ash in the air. Whatever I said drifted over Sylvie’s head, doing nothing to soothe whatever was going on in there.

  ‘I can’t do anything right. Even when I think I’m doing the right thing, it’s wrong.’

  The record player Seth had given her was broken. We could listen to nothing but the canary singing so loudly we barely heard the tap on the door. Seth stood outside holding out a plate of baked potatoes, a butter-filled offering for his stepdaughter who was sad for reasons he didn’t understand. Everything was rosy in his marriage, so long as they never talked about religion and he never expressed an opinion on his wife’s disciplining of the girl.

  ‘You didn’t have any supper, I thought you might be hungry,’ he said.

  Sylvie accepted the plate. It was as close as admitting he didn’t agree with Bunny as Seth would get. We sat on the bed eating potatoes, butter glossing our lips. Sylvie stared past me to the spaces on her bookshelf. All she had left were flowers and birds.

  ‘I can’t stand it here,’ she said. ‘I’ve had it. Things are going to change from now on.’

  I had no idea what she meant. I looked at her and thought her eyes looked less grey. They contained flecks of hazel bright as flames catching a page.

  ‌

  ‌13th June 1960

  Life goes on like normal, on and on. There are suppers to dollop, crusty bits of fish pie to scrape out of the pot, and pretty pastel sandwich boxes to sell. Everything looks perfect, but it’s not. Ma’s smile is rickety as a lid on a pressure cooker about to pop. So is mine. I seethe, polishing the fireplace, bringing the laundry down from my room. I’m cleaning everything so much the Virgin Mary looks bollock-naked, all the blues in her robes rubbed away.

  Ma won’t raise her voice when her husband’s around. Neither do I. Zach glances at Seth for answers to the silence hanging between us. Seth shrugs. It’s a women thing. Best not to ask.

  ‘Oh look, a letter off your grandmother.’ The ivory paper flaps in Ma’s hand. ‘We should visit one weekend soon, Sylvie. Won’t that be fun?’

  ‘I’m not going,’ I say.

  ‘Of course you are.’ She pours pork crackling into a bowl and puts it on the occasional table for the boys. Everything’s so light in their presence, so sweet and just as it should be. I could scream.

  I’m not even going to read the letter. I reckon I know what it says. Nan’s got arthritis, a cough, bunions on her toes, a cold she caught off that foul boy in the post office. So off we’ll go to an island even smaller than ours. We’ll take rat traps and jars of rowanberry jelly, and wild flowers that will be wilting before we even arrive. Ma will take a bag full of knitting to finish like she always does. She can cast on, knit and purl as well as anyone else, but she can never cast off without getting it wrong. Nan has to do it for her every single time. There are loads of women here on the island she could ask, but she won’t. She’s convinced they’ll see she doesn’t know everything and judge.

  Seth never joins us when we go to Nan’s and Ma never asks. It’s a place where no one gets to eat unless they say their prayers. The cottage is all nooks and crannies filled with portraits of saints and psalms embroidered on tea towels. It’s nowhere Seth wants to go, but, sometimes, I reckon it’s not only that. Ma doesn’t want him to come and see who she was before she was Bunny, just a lanky wee lassie with knees like sandpaper from dropping to her knees to say her prayers all day long. She couldn’t wait to get out of there, stop being called Theresa and start calling herself by her favourite pet name.

  ‘That swear box of yours must be full about now,’ she’s saying to Seth. ‘The church could do with the gutters replacing. You’re so busy, I suppose it’s a trip for us girls again.’

  ‘I think Seth and Zach should come,’ I say.

  Ma looks daggers at me. Only one person needs to come. And I know it. We clear out Ma’s new fridge while the boys watch a movie about Spitfires and guns. I pick a pot of cream off the counter and hand her it to place on the shelf.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I whisper. ‘I’m not doing you a favour again. Not that kind.’

  The sound of an aeroplane is droning through the living room. Panic crosses Ma’s face like she knows I mean what I’m saying. She wipes the cheese drawer and says, ‘You have to come, it’s your own flesh and blood.’

  I have a bunch of fond memories of Nan buried in the back of my head somewhere. Sitting on her knee and being shown how to finger-knit. Her hand clutching mine, guiding a wooden spoon around a bowl, showing me the secrets of fruit cake. And it doesn’t matter. I’m done. There’s no memory strong enough to wipe out the stink of the burnt books and the sight of Ma in the library in front of everyone. I’m done. I’m done. I’m done. I think it like the chorus of a song, closing the fridge. I watch for the light going out.

  ‌

  ‌Lorrie

  There was a moment my mother forgot everything, when she was serving dinner. I saw her bring out a plate for my father, place it on the table, blink, and put it back on the shelf without saying anything. Other than that, we forgot nothing. We cringed at the slightest sound, all prepared for the same thing: a police officer knocking on the door, removing his hat, holding the battered briefcase my father always carried his lunch in, sopping wet and covered in sand.


  The phone rang as the distillery closed for the day. My mother picked it up with her keychain in her hand. I pressed my ear to the other side of the receiver. We gathered around it holding our breath.

  ‘You might want to come over. I’ve got your husband here… No. No, he’s not injured, not that I can see anyway. I found him outside, feeding the ducks,’ a man said.

  I sensed something restraining him from telling the whole story. He sounded ashamed.

  ‘That was Mr Fletcher. Your father’s fine.’ My mother set down the phone.

  ‘Where’s he been? Where did he go? Why?’ Toby asked.

  ‘I don’t know the details. He’s on the mainland, on our old street. Safe. That’s all that’s important. We can bring him home.’

  She left the room to collude with Grumps in the hall. Someone had to drive out and collect my father, casually as a parcel. It didn’t occur to any of us he’d return to England. He’d been so willing to leave it. It was rare to hear him speak about the life we’d left behind. None of us really did any more. Whenever I thought of it, I found more and more of the details had disappeared. I visualised my old bedroom and saw only the wardrobe in my current room, the yellow paint on the walls. There was too much living going on to cling to the life that was gone.

  If my father still had any friends in the city, he didn’t so much as send them a Christmas card. Grumps pumped up his tyres for the journey and Mum called the baker for more information.

  ‘He’s OK? Can I speak to him? Will you put him on?’

  ‘You should really get down here. I don’t want to talk on the phone.’

  Grumps finally pulled up with insects splattered on the windscreen and my father slumped in the back seat asleep. The journey had taken almost two days. It was barely morning.

  ‘Here he is,’ Grumps whispered. ‘Longest drive of my life. He sat in the back like a lady with a chauffeur, didn’t mutter a word the whole way.’

  My father stood in the kitchen in his socks, looking around, a visitor in his own house. There was no sign of his jacket. He wore only a grubby shirt, splashed with gravy.

  ‘Where have you been? The kids were worried. You could have let us know.’

  My mother hugged the relief out of herself and pulled away from him. The look on her face reminded me of when Toby or I used to wander off at the zoo; she’d hug us for a second and then scold us for so long we wondered why we hadn’t stayed away. Grumps waved her to come to the hall to speak about something he didn’t want to be overheard.

  ‘He was hanging around the bakery. The baker said he gave him this.’

  Grumps produced a cheque from his breast pocket.

  ‘That’s our savings. It’s pretty much everything we have.’

  My mother inspected the cheque and glanced towards the door, unsure who the man on the other side was.

  ‘It was decent of the fella not to cash it. When I arrived, he had no shoes on his feet, Cora. There was no sign of the car.’

  She looked at her husband sitting in the same place as always, cutting a slice of bread at the table and buttering it to the edges.

  ‘You’re back!’ Toby raced downstairs in his pyjamas, and stalled. He couldn’t quite hug his father. None of us could. Our arms had dangled at our sides our whole lives, strained by tense situations, unsure how to dive into deep waters we weren’t prepared for. Ours was a family who cared at a distance. My mother served food and swept up the crumbs. Grumps opened whisky and offered a glass. How my brother and I showed how we felt was less clear. We hadn’t figured it out yet.

  ‘Everything’s OK, son, I’m fine.’

  Dad sliced more bread. Toby sat opposite him, matching him chew for chew. I remained by the pantry, eavesdropping on the conversation in the hall.

  ‘Where’s the car?’ My mother stroked her collarbone.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Grumps said. ‘The baker saw him give the keys to some homeless fella and point to it across the street. Keep an eye on him, Cora, if you’re not careful he’ll give your whole life away. What was he thinking?’

  ‘I have no idea. I only live with him.’ My mother returned to the kitchen to boil milk and honey. ‘You’re alive, anyway, that’s all that matters,’ she repeated.

  ‘Where’s your shoes?’ Toby asked. Someone had to. We glanced at my father’s socks under the table – holes in the heel, an oval of black on the sole.

  ‘Oh, that.’ He looked down at his feet. ‘I gave them away.’

  ‘Who to? Why?’

  ‘Someone who needed them more than I do. I never caught his name. Nice fella. He was looking for a job.’

  Grumps poured a whisky, shaking his head. My mother accepted a glass, took out a jar of marmalade and placed it on the breadboard. My father ate and ate. He ate for so long we wondered if he’d ever stop. We looked at him waiting for his mouth not to be full, wanting him to explain. He didn’t offer another word.

  ‘Now, Toby, Lorrie, time to get dressed. We have to get back to normal around here.’ My mother looked at my father, wondering if we’d ever get there. She had no idea if the journey would take days, weeks, or years.

  ‌

  ‌16th June 1960

  I know where to find him. I’m dead sure. I reckon some folk never change. Their habits run right through them like knots in wood. They can get dead tall, grow sideys and a fuzzy wee moustache, but really they’re just the same.

  I find him on his own in that spot near where he lives. He’s nestled into that crack in the oak tree a fork of lightning made into the perfect seat. Clutching his guitar. The fingers on his busted hand are wrapped around its neck, struggling with a chord.

  ‘Do you want to play that thing? Seriously?’ I say. ‘Why?’

  Joe looks so surprised to see me I start laughing. I’m always surprising to him.

  ‘It’s the only thing that makes me feel like someone else,’ he says. ‘Someone better.’ He’s lowering his head and his hair’s going all floppy over his eyes ‘I wish something else made me feel that way, anything. When I’m not playing I’m nothing. Or I feel it, anyway.’

  I look at him and it’s crazy. I can sorta see a boy on the sidelines, watching folk race by. He drags that kid he used to be about everywhere. Other than when he’s making music, he’s always there.

  ‘You happy when you play?’ I say.

  ‘As happy as I know how to be.’

  ‘Close your eyes’ – I take a step towards him – ‘and put down the guitar.’

  ‘What…? Why?’

  ‘Trust me. Stand up. Just close ’em.’

  Joe closes his eyes and his eyelids flicker like candles at Christmas. He’s twitchier than a wee lad waiting for Santa, faking sleep, listening to his stocking being filled with oranges and tin cars. I put my palm on his chest and think of a sparrow that once flitted into the kitchen, flapping for a window. I kiss him and see broken wings. I raise my hands to his shoulders. And cling. The flick of his tongue in my mouth stops in a heartbeat. I’m staggering all over. Fingers curled, I’m grabbing his shirt so tight a button flies. It’s a struggle to keep standing up.

  ‘Sylvie? Are you OK?’ Joe holds me by my shoulders. I’m floppy as soggy washing on a line.

  ‘I’ll be fine in a wee bit. I just have to sit for a minute.’

  ‘You sure you’re alright?’ He gets on his knees to meet my eye. I sit and he sits beside me, stroking his lips like the kiss I gave him was Braille.

  ‘How’s that hand of yours?’ I say. Mine’s aching as if I punched a flipping wall. Joe curls his fingers.

  ‘Better. Wow, so much better.’ He’s wriggling his fingers, straightening ’em up, wriggling them some more. He’s trying them out like something new. They dance over the strings of his guitar. I close my eyes, jolt awake. I can’t fall asleep here.

  ‘Wow.’ Joe keeps moving his fingers. ‘I feel like I could throw a ball to the moon.’

  I smile with my back to the oak. Joe leans in to kiss me. Just kiss me. Not becau
se he’s wounded, just because. I turn my head.

  ‘You won’t kiss me again, will you?’ he says. ‘Ever?’

  ‘I don’t think I can kiss anyone,’ I say. ‘Not for fun anyway.’

  Our knees are barely touching as we sit on the ground, side by side.

  ‘If you could, though, would you?’ he says.

  We look at each other, knowing things we won’t say.

  ‘If I could kiss anyone, Joe Clark, it would be you.’

  ‘And I’d let you, Sylvie Johnson,’ he says.

  Neither of us move. For ages and ages, we sit side by side, one knee against another saying hello and goodbye. We won’t kiss again. And we know it. We’ll barely speak. This, sitting here, knee to knee, is the closest to an admission of something we’ll ever get. We’re letting go of it at the same time. Joe Clark kinda likes me. I kinda like him. And it’s over before it even begins.

  ‌

  ‌Lorrie

  The dead owl thumped into the bin. Grumps clanked on the lid, shaking his head.

  ‘I can’t look at an owl without thinking of my cousin. We weren’t supposed to knock about together. Our fathers hated each other, but we’d meet up sometimes in the woods. That kid’s wild bird calls sounded so convincing he could call the owls out of the trees. He was a decent kid before he was a crazy old man.’