and silky
and soft. I handed the water over, careful not to spill any. She smelled of raspberries, and washing powder and, ever so faintly, smoke.
My skeleton felt like chocolate mousse, and I hoped that she would say something quick because words had escaped me forever.
Gold bracelets on her arm jangled against her narrow wrist as she took the bucket. She cocked her head to one side.
‘You’re a kind girl,’ she said, and she put her empty hand out and squeezed my shoulder. ‘A good girl, I think. So don’t you be telling our Patrick I’ve been
up to see you. He won’t like that. Proud like his daddy that boy . . .’
I shook my head. I tried to think of something to say.
‘Come to think of it, you’d better be getting back before
any
body sees.’
She turned and carried the water towards her caravan, and I stood mute, my shoulder tingling where her hand had been.
The girls had come to the bottom of the steps at some point, and had their hands in front of their mouths, giggling, and the noise of their laughter snapped me out of it, and sent me running
back towards Silverweed.
Seventeen
Dad had gone back to playing Mum’s music. In the daytime, when he was working or doing stuff around the house, he had a lovely voice, but at night when he’d been
drinking it got all broken and raspy.
He sang ‘These Arms of Mine’ and ‘Stand By Me’ and I knew he was going through the CDs she’d left in a shoebox by the telly, the ones she used to play when he was
at the pub. I twisted loo roll into my ears, and put my head under the duvet, but the tissue fell out and under the covers got all hot and sweaty, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was
living in some kind of damaged animal shelter instead of a loving family home. It took a long time to get to sleep.
That night, Dad was watching nature programmes in the living room, making his way through a four-pack. This was his new habit. Instead of going to The Stag, he watched telly until he was drunk
enough to play Mum’s music. Sometimes I watched stuff with him, but mostly I read in my room. He looked too sad when he drank.
My eyes felt scratchy from lack of sleep as I made us both hot chocolate. Taking a mug, he almost smiled at me, then remembered how I’d disappointed him. I saw it on his face.
I drank my chocolate quickly, then took myself off to my room.
I lay on the bed with my book, but couldn’t concentrate on reading. I’d microwaved the hot chocolate too long, and it had burned my mouth. There was a mosquito in the room and it
kept shrieking past my ear. I was never going to get to sleep. My twisted toilet roll earplugs waited on my bedside table. I kept looking out the window. Was Trick in the corn den waiting for me
right now? My room was on the ground floor. It would be so easy to open the window and climb out.
The mosquito screeched by again, and I jumped up to hunt it, but it had disappeared. The opening bars of ‘Stand By Me’ came out of the living room, and I couldn’t take it. I
was on my desk, out the window and in the front garden before I’d even decided.
A breeze blew the rose bush outside my bedroom window as I crouched on the ground there, listening. It was almost eleven, and I was so glad I didn’t have to listen to Dad’s broken
singing, but guilt was like a little animal curled up in my stomach.
I couldn’t get to the paddock without passing the side of the house where Dad was, and the moon meant it wasn’t quite dark enough to make a run for it safely. If he stood up for any
reason or looked out the window, he’d see me in a second.
The grass was cool against my fingertips as I made my way along the front of the house, spider-like. It was about ten metres from the end of my window to the living room. Twelve of these strange
spindly steps should do it. I counted them to keep calm. The daisies had closed their heads for the night, and the air was sweet with grass and roses, but Dad was singing in
and soft. I handed the water over, careful not to spill any. She smelled of raspberries, and washing powder and, ever so faintly, smoke.
My skeleton felt like chocolate mousse, and I hoped that she would say something quick because words had escaped me forever.
Gold bracelets on her arm jangled against her narrow wrist as she took the bucket. She cocked her head to one side.
‘You’re a kind girl,’ she said, and she put her empty hand out and squeezed my shoulder. ‘A good girl, I think. So don’t you be telling our Patrick I’ve been
up to see you. He won’t like that. Proud like his daddy that boy . . .’
I shook my head. I tried to think of something to say.
‘Come to think of it, you’d better be getting back before
any
body sees.’
She turned and carried the water towards her caravan, and I stood mute, my shoulder tingling where her hand had been.
The girls had come to the bottom of the steps at some point, and had their hands in front of their mouths, giggling, and the noise of their laughter snapped me out of it, and sent me running
back towards Silverweed.
Seventeen
Dad had gone back to playing Mum’s music. In the daytime, when he was working or doing stuff around the house, he had a lovely voice, but at night when he’d been
drinking it got all broken and raspy.
He sang ‘These Arms of Mine’ and ‘Stand By Me’ and I knew he was going through the CDs she’d left in a shoebox by the telly, the ones she used to play when he was
at the pub. I twisted loo roll into my ears, and put my head under the duvet, but the tissue fell out and under the covers got all hot and sweaty, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was
living in some kind of damaged animal shelter instead of a loving family home. It took a long time to get to sleep.
That night, Dad was watching nature programmes in the living room, making his way through a four-pack. This was his new habit. Instead of going to The Stag, he watched telly until he was drunk
enough to play Mum’s music. Sometimes I watched stuff with him, but mostly I read in my room. He looked too sad when he drank.
My eyes felt scratchy from lack of sleep as I made us both hot chocolate. Taking a mug, he almost smiled at me, then remembered how I’d disappointed him. I saw it on his face.
I drank my chocolate quickly, then took myself off to my room.
I lay on the bed with my book, but couldn’t concentrate on reading. I’d microwaved the hot chocolate too long, and it had burned my mouth. There was a mosquito in the room and it
kept shrieking past my ear. I was never going to get to sleep. My twisted toilet roll earplugs waited on my bedside table. I kept looking out the window. Was Trick in the corn den waiting for me
right now? My room was on the ground floor. It would be so easy to open the window and climb out.
The mosquito screeched by again, and I jumped up to hunt it, but it had disappeared. The opening bars of ‘Stand By Me’ came out of the living room, and I couldn’t take it. I
was on my desk, out the window and in the front garden before I’d even decided.
A breeze blew the rose bush outside my bedroom window as I crouched on the ground there, listening. It was almost eleven, and I was so glad I didn’t have to listen to Dad’s broken
singing, but guilt was like a little animal curled up in my stomach.
I couldn’t get to the paddock without passing the side of the house where Dad was, and the moon meant it wasn’t quite dark enough to make a run for it safely. If he stood up for any
reason or looked out the window, he’d see me in a second.
The grass was cool against my fingertips as I made my way along the front of the house, spider-like. It was about ten metres from the end of my window to the living room. Twelve of these strange
spindly steps should do it. I counted them to keep calm. The daisies had closed their heads for the night, and the air was sweet with grass and roses, but Dad was singing in
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