for a long time, smoking one cigarette after another. I could hear Maria behind me, folding up the newspapers on the table, clearing space. Then quietly laying out plates and cutlery.
I turned and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. This is how life must be from now on, I thought. I decide on the next action I need to perform and do it. Step, step, step to the kitchen sink. Bend down, open the cupboard door, take out the dustpan and brush. Back to the front door. Crouch down. Sweep, sweep, sweep. The front step, be careful not to miss under the stone lip. Sweep, sweep, sweep until it’s clear.
18
The sound makes me stop still by the gate and my hair does a strange thing which is lifting off my head and going straight up.
Ting, ting, ting.
What is it? Not Grandad and Dorothy because their car is gone. I’ve been looking for them for ages and thinking, getting scared, about what would happen if they get squashed on the road like Mum. Thinking I’ll have to eat grass until I die. That I’ll be a ghost and trapped here forever.
Being on your own is terrible, especially when there’s noises and you don’t know what they are – though maybe it’s just a bird or an animal. Quiet as anything I creep round the back where it’s coming from and crawl behind some bushes on the corner and peep through the green stalks.
Then my hair floats down to where it normally is because it’s just Grandad there. He’s got his shirt sleeves rolled right up and he’s nailing a metal lock to a door and that’s what’s making the sound. He grunts as he works – the way old men do – and mutters something under his breath. I’m so pleased to see him I nearly jump up and say hello to surprise him. But then I remember what I’ve told myself – that I want to keep an eye on him and the best way to do that is when he doesn’t know he’s being watched, and then he can’t pretend anything.
I crouch, spying on him, until my feet start feeling pinsand needlely. And I’m glad I do this because he starts singing a very weird song that could tell me a lot about him. It goes:
Are you washed in the blood,
In the cleansing blood of the lamb?
Are your garments spotless? Are they white as snow?
Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?
Ting, ting, goes his hammer as he sings. He’s got a lovely voice, he really has, but the words make me think of people washing in lamb’s blood and getting it in their eyes and up their noses and how it would smell and stick to you all over.
I must have moved because Grandad stops working and his arm – the one with the hammer – gets stuck in mid-air above his head.
‘Carmel?’ His head turns and his eyes are staring right into the bushes through his round glasses. ‘Is that you?’ His arm’s still up.
I stay put.
‘Carmel, I know it’s you. I can see the red of your coat.’
And I remember what I was going to do earlier so I jump up and throw out my arms. ‘Ta-da. Surprise,’ I say, to make him think I’m just playing a silly trick.
He frowns. ‘Child, it’s very naughty to spy on people. It’s a sign of a very untrustworthy character.’
I feel guilty then because I know he’s right – and I don’t like the sound of being an ‘untrustworthy character’. So I go and sit on the step and say, ‘Sorry. I really am.’ Then to change the subject I ask him what he’s doing.
He looks at the hammer in his hand as if he’s forgotten about it.
‘I’m securing this door. Thieves and intruders are everywhere in this world, child, and we have to keep them out.’
He carries on hammering with his face tight and turned away. I think he’s showing me he’s still cross.
‘I thought you’d gone out and left me alone.’ I feel like crying when I say that.
‘Of course not, we wouldn’t do that.’ He does one last bash with his hammer. ‘I phoned the hospital again this morning.’
This makes me jump and go ‘Oh’ because I didn’t know he was going to
I turned and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. This is how life must be from now on, I thought. I decide on the next action I need to perform and do it. Step, step, step to the kitchen sink. Bend down, open the cupboard door, take out the dustpan and brush. Back to the front door. Crouch down. Sweep, sweep, sweep. The front step, be careful not to miss under the stone lip. Sweep, sweep, sweep until it’s clear.
18
The sound makes me stop still by the gate and my hair does a strange thing which is lifting off my head and going straight up.
Ting, ting, ting.
What is it? Not Grandad and Dorothy because their car is gone. I’ve been looking for them for ages and thinking, getting scared, about what would happen if they get squashed on the road like Mum. Thinking I’ll have to eat grass until I die. That I’ll be a ghost and trapped here forever.
Being on your own is terrible, especially when there’s noises and you don’t know what they are – though maybe it’s just a bird or an animal. Quiet as anything I creep round the back where it’s coming from and crawl behind some bushes on the corner and peep through the green stalks.
Then my hair floats down to where it normally is because it’s just Grandad there. He’s got his shirt sleeves rolled right up and he’s nailing a metal lock to a door and that’s what’s making the sound. He grunts as he works – the way old men do – and mutters something under his breath. I’m so pleased to see him I nearly jump up and say hello to surprise him. But then I remember what I’ve told myself – that I want to keep an eye on him and the best way to do that is when he doesn’t know he’s being watched, and then he can’t pretend anything.
I crouch, spying on him, until my feet start feeling pinsand needlely. And I’m glad I do this because he starts singing a very weird song that could tell me a lot about him. It goes:
Are you washed in the blood,
In the cleansing blood of the lamb?
Are your garments spotless? Are they white as snow?
Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?
Ting, ting, goes his hammer as he sings. He’s got a lovely voice, he really has, but the words make me think of people washing in lamb’s blood and getting it in their eyes and up their noses and how it would smell and stick to you all over.
I must have moved because Grandad stops working and his arm – the one with the hammer – gets stuck in mid-air above his head.
‘Carmel?’ His head turns and his eyes are staring right into the bushes through his round glasses. ‘Is that you?’ His arm’s still up.
I stay put.
‘Carmel, I know it’s you. I can see the red of your coat.’
And I remember what I was going to do earlier so I jump up and throw out my arms. ‘Ta-da. Surprise,’ I say, to make him think I’m just playing a silly trick.
He frowns. ‘Child, it’s very naughty to spy on people. It’s a sign of a very untrustworthy character.’
I feel guilty then because I know he’s right – and I don’t like the sound of being an ‘untrustworthy character’. So I go and sit on the step and say, ‘Sorry. I really am.’ Then to change the subject I ask him what he’s doing.
He looks at the hammer in his hand as if he’s forgotten about it.
‘I’m securing this door. Thieves and intruders are everywhere in this world, child, and we have to keep them out.’
He carries on hammering with his face tight and turned away. I think he’s showing me he’s still cross.
‘I thought you’d gone out and left me alone.’ I feel like crying when I say that.
‘Of course not, we wouldn’t do that.’ He does one last bash with his hammer. ‘I phoned the hospital again this morning.’
This makes me jump and go ‘Oh’ because I didn’t know he was going to
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