smoked, you sat on a red seat.
Claire walked awkwardly, hands pushed into her pockets, bag bumping against her back. Her jaw was tight, her shoulders high. She kept her eyes out of focus, did not turn her head at all. She was aware that the room was populated, did not want to see if she was being watched. A soft uninflected murmuring, the high shriek of a child, the hiss and trickle of a hot drink being made. The far corner was empty. She sat down, slid the backpack off her shoulder, dropped it at her feet.
The sky was greying outside. The pot plants were plastic. A crumpled metal ashtray had a cold dead filter in it. She slumped deeper into her coat. Going home, she thought. Trying to get home.
Sitting on their new concrete doorstep. She pregnant and miniskirted, he moustached and smoking a cheroot, reaching out to grab the dog, to turn its attention to the camera. Faded to a pinky-orange now, as if turning, as the years passed, from colour into sepia. There were two copies. One in a clipframeon Claire’s shelf, the other in one of the photograph albums at home.
The photograph albums. They shuffled them quietly out from amongst the shoes and shoeboxes at the bottom of the wardrobe. Her mother lifted one up onto her knees. The sharp edge pressed into her soft round belly. They turned the pages cautiously, speaking in whispers. Dad mustn’t know what was going on.
Her mother pressed a finger down onto the dimpling clear plastic. A little girl, her knees showing beneath a short green dress, a thick fringe across her dark eyes, frowning. Standing on the sun-hot pathway, in front of the doorstep.
“That’s the day we took you to the Butterfly House,” Claire’s mother said. It was a familiar story, warm. Claire drifted along with it. “A great big blue butterfly, the size of a swallow, landed right on your nose. You went cross-eyed trying to look at it. I wish we’d got a photo, but we’d left the camera in the car. The old Instamatic was no good indoors.”
Claire remembered blue-green iridescent eyes blinking at her, the tickle of tiny feet printed on her nose. She saw the untaken picture. A leafy archway above, the glass dome of the Butterfly House. Shiny ferns brushing against bare arms. A round nub of a chin, forehead creased, frowning with concentration. The rest of her face unseen, covered with the dark, papery, unfolded butterfly mask.
And when the butterfly blinked and was gone, Dad had scooped her up, his big hands meeting round her ribcage, holding her up towards the misty glass dome. And, exhilarated, laughing, her red shoes dangling in the air, she had stretched out her arms towards the butterfly. It flew stiffly away, bobbing along as if powered by a wound-up rubber band.
Alan had been good with Dad, and it seemed as if he hadliked Alan. Did he realise Alan wasn’t coming back? She wondered whether it bothered him, whether she could ever know. When he spoke, his intonation was perfect. He mumbled familiar skeins of sound, in phrases, statements, questions. The rhythms told you what kind of thing he was trying to say: there were no longer any words. Bubbles formed at the slack corner of his mouth, spittle gathered behind his lips. He held tissues to his face with thick, shaky fingers. Claire had, for years now, kept a clean tissue folded in her pocket.
When Alan had come to stay that one time, the rowan berries had been bright red, peppering the hillsides. The first sign of the end of summer, they always made Claire feel sad. She’d picked Alan up from the station in her mother’s buoyant battered Fiat 128, and she tried not to be irritated when she saw him flinch at the sight of it.
“Don’t worry. No one round here to see you.”
While Claire peeled carrots, she kept half an eye on Alan through the open kitchen door. He lowered himself into the chair beside her father. He made some low, meticulous observation. She could not see her father, but heard his reply, a fluttering, wordless, quiet
Claire walked awkwardly, hands pushed into her pockets, bag bumping against her back. Her jaw was tight, her shoulders high. She kept her eyes out of focus, did not turn her head at all. She was aware that the room was populated, did not want to see if she was being watched. A soft uninflected murmuring, the high shriek of a child, the hiss and trickle of a hot drink being made. The far corner was empty. She sat down, slid the backpack off her shoulder, dropped it at her feet.
The sky was greying outside. The pot plants were plastic. A crumpled metal ashtray had a cold dead filter in it. She slumped deeper into her coat. Going home, she thought. Trying to get home.
Sitting on their new concrete doorstep. She pregnant and miniskirted, he moustached and smoking a cheroot, reaching out to grab the dog, to turn its attention to the camera. Faded to a pinky-orange now, as if turning, as the years passed, from colour into sepia. There were two copies. One in a clipframeon Claire’s shelf, the other in one of the photograph albums at home.
The photograph albums. They shuffled them quietly out from amongst the shoes and shoeboxes at the bottom of the wardrobe. Her mother lifted one up onto her knees. The sharp edge pressed into her soft round belly. They turned the pages cautiously, speaking in whispers. Dad mustn’t know what was going on.
Her mother pressed a finger down onto the dimpling clear plastic. A little girl, her knees showing beneath a short green dress, a thick fringe across her dark eyes, frowning. Standing on the sun-hot pathway, in front of the doorstep.
“That’s the day we took you to the Butterfly House,” Claire’s mother said. It was a familiar story, warm. Claire drifted along with it. “A great big blue butterfly, the size of a swallow, landed right on your nose. You went cross-eyed trying to look at it. I wish we’d got a photo, but we’d left the camera in the car. The old Instamatic was no good indoors.”
Claire remembered blue-green iridescent eyes blinking at her, the tickle of tiny feet printed on her nose. She saw the untaken picture. A leafy archway above, the glass dome of the Butterfly House. Shiny ferns brushing against bare arms. A round nub of a chin, forehead creased, frowning with concentration. The rest of her face unseen, covered with the dark, papery, unfolded butterfly mask.
And when the butterfly blinked and was gone, Dad had scooped her up, his big hands meeting round her ribcage, holding her up towards the misty glass dome. And, exhilarated, laughing, her red shoes dangling in the air, she had stretched out her arms towards the butterfly. It flew stiffly away, bobbing along as if powered by a wound-up rubber band.
Alan had been good with Dad, and it seemed as if he hadliked Alan. Did he realise Alan wasn’t coming back? She wondered whether it bothered him, whether she could ever know. When he spoke, his intonation was perfect. He mumbled familiar skeins of sound, in phrases, statements, questions. The rhythms told you what kind of thing he was trying to say: there were no longer any words. Bubbles formed at the slack corner of his mouth, spittle gathered behind his lips. He held tissues to his face with thick, shaky fingers. Claire had, for years now, kept a clean tissue folded in her pocket.
When Alan had come to stay that one time, the rowan berries had been bright red, peppering the hillsides. The first sign of the end of summer, they always made Claire feel sad. She’d picked Alan up from the station in her mother’s buoyant battered Fiat 128, and she tried not to be irritated when she saw him flinch at the sight of it.
“Don’t worry. No one round here to see you.”
While Claire peeled carrots, she kept half an eye on Alan through the open kitchen door. He lowered himself into the chair beside her father. He made some low, meticulous observation. She could not see her father, but heard his reply, a fluttering, wordless, quiet
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