Interpreters by Sue Eckstein Page A

The few that exist show a slim young woman, smiling reluctantly with her mouth closed or holding up her hand to deflect the camera’s gaze. Her hair is back-combed, her dresses knee-length. The pictures are black and white, but I’m pretty sure that most of the dresses are various shades of blue. I am certain, however, that there is not a false eyelash, string of big plastic beads or floppy purple velvet hat in any of them. And as for Love and Peace and all that, I don’t remember much of it going on in our house. At least not after Roland went away.
    Catherine’s bed is in the same position as mine used to be, the headboard under the window, one side pushed up against the wall. I move her rumpled combat trousers, a large pink teddy bear and a notebook with gilt lock and fluffy red cover to the end of the bed. Then, like Goldilocks, but older and greyer and less inclined to compare the quality of the furniture, I lie down and shut my eyes.
     
    We have been driving for hours and hours. My bare legs are sticking to the plastic seat; my plaits are damp with sweat. Insects splat against the windscreen, leaving trails of pale pink blood and creamy entrails. My father switches on the wipers and the viscera are marshalled to either side of the glass. The hedges are high, the roads narrow.
    ‘Slow down,’ says my mother grimly from time to time, gripping the edge of her seat.
    ‘Yes, dear,’ replies my father.
    I see the needle of the speedometer move slightly to the right, not the left, and am relieved that my mother is staring at the road ahead.
    ‘Carry on, then,’ I say to Max.
    For the past couple of hours, Max and a piece of used grey chewing gum fashioned into a small insect-like creature have been entertaining me with their extraordinary adventures. Eddie Flea has been out on raids with the head-hunters of Borneo, has clung on between the horns of an angry bull in the grandest bull ring of Madrid, has sneaked into Apollo 11 and landed on the moon, undetected by Neil Armstrong and his fellow astronauts.
    ‘And now,’ continues Max, holding the piece of gum above his head, ‘Eddie Flea’s plane is landing at Heathrow, his adventures finally over. The landing is smooth. Everyone applauds. Eddie is the first off the plane.’
    Max walks the piece of gum up his leg towards the hem of his grey shorts.
    ‘He stands at the carousel waiting for his teeny little rucksack to appear. Then, just as he steps forward to pick it up, someone treads on him.’
    ‘What?’
    Max squeezes the piece of gum between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Someone treads on him and that is the end of Eddie Flea.’
    ‘You can’t do that! Bring him to life again.’
    ‘Poor Eddie Flea is as flat as a pancake and dead as a dodo. And that’s the end of the story. For ever and ever. Amen.’
    ‘No, it isn’t! That’s not fair, Max. Make him recover.’
    ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible.’ Max opens the window and throws the broken body on to the road. ‘Eddie Flea is no more.’ 
    I shove my elbow into his ribs very hard.
    ‘Ouch! What did you do that for?’
    ‘What’s the matter now?’ sighs my father.
    And then we are driving up a narrow farm track. Two small brown and white dogs come rushing towards the car. They race behind it up to the house. One of them has only three legs but it’s still pretty fast. As the track widens into a courtyard, they tear round and round the car, snapping at the tyres.
    ‘Watch out for the dogs!’ I scream.
    My father is not a lover of animals. He is not someone who swerves to avoid squirrels and pheasants. Or even cats. When he switches the engine off, I open the door with my eyes squeezed tight, my ears buzzing with fear, dreading the sight of the bloody, smashed bodies. But when I cautiously open my eyes there are the little brown and white dogs, barking and lunging at us like over-enthusiastic fencers. The door of the farmhouse opens and the dogs dash in past a woman who strides out towards