Egypt and one foot on Algeria. “There’s the Great Rift Valley,” I said, in case Father missed it.
Father said: “Very good.” Then he said: “Why are both the angel’s feet on the land?”
“What?”
“One of his feet is supposed to be in the sea.”
“Is it?”
I turned to Revelation, Chapter 10. Father was right. But if I colored over Algeria with blue, then it would end up purple and it would be the wrong shape. I said: “Does it matter a lot?” But I knew that it did, because the angel wasn’t just a parable but symbolic, which meant it had a larger significance, like Prefiguration, and even the smallest detail had much bigger meaning. So I picked up the eraser. And then our letter box crashed. Three short bangs.
Father went to the door. He opened it, but I didn’t hear any voices.
“Who was it?” I said when he came back.
“No one.” He put some more wood on the fire and took a sip of beer.
“No one?”
“No.”
“Oh,” I said.
I began to erase the angel’s foot, but the drawing underneath just got messy.
I sighed. “Maybe the angel moved around a bit. Maybe his foot got cold in the sea.” And as I spoke, the letter box crashed again, three short bangs.
This time, just before Father opened the front door, I heard the gate click and laughter. I peered through the curtains but couldn’t see anyone.
When he came back I said: “Who was it?”
“Boys playing games.” He put more wood on the fire.
“Oh,” I said.
Father was being very calm but I knew he was angry; he hated people knocking on the door hard or even slamming it, because the door had a beautiful picture of a tree in the colored glass, which Mother had restored. He often commented on how pretty it was.
I took a new piece of paper and drew the angel’s head. I didn’t want to think anymore about what Father had said, I had just begun coloring the face when the letter box crashed again.
This time Father went to the back door. I heard a shout and the sound of running feet, then the garden gate clicked.
A minute later Father came into the front room, laughing. He said: “I surprised them!”
“Who?”
“The kids.”
A wave of heat passed over my body. “What were they doing?”
“Making nuisances of themselves.”
“Have they gone?”
“Yes. They ran off when they saw me. They didn’t expect me to come up the lane.”
I looked down at the angel. “What did the kids look like?” I said.
“Boys. No older than you, I should think. One had blond hair. Big kid. D’you know anyone like that?”
I had felt hot but now I felt cold. The angel’s blue eyes looked back at me. “No,” I said. “I don’t know anyone like that at all.”
Sunday
S OME THINGS EVEN miracle workers can’t get out of. Today I discovered Josie has knitted me a poncho.
May said: “No, it’s a shawl.”
“No, no,” said Elsie. “It’s a poncho.”
“Orange with shells and tassels,” said May.
“Were they shells?” said Elsie. “I thought they were pearls.”
“Shells,” said May. “The small ones you can thread.”
“Anyway, she’s looking for you,” said May.
“Aren’t you lucky?” said Elsie.
I spent the rest of the time before the meeting hiding in the toilets.
* * *
A LF GAVE THE talk. His tongue was in fine form, flickering at the corners of his mouth. “What is God asking us to do, Brothers?” he said. He glared around, his face red, his eyes bulging. After half an hour it made my head ache to listen to him, but it could have been the fumes coming from Auntie Nel; they were stronger than usual this morning. Even the yellow plastic roses were looking the worse for wear.
Alf’s voice got louder. His arms thrashed. I thought he was going to get them tangled in the microphone cable. “What is God asking us to do ?” he repeated. When he said it a third time I couldn’t bear it any longer and stuck up my hand and said: “Fill in our report cards?” because this is
Father said: “Very good.” Then he said: “Why are both the angel’s feet on the land?”
“What?”
“One of his feet is supposed to be in the sea.”
“Is it?”
I turned to Revelation, Chapter 10. Father was right. But if I colored over Algeria with blue, then it would end up purple and it would be the wrong shape. I said: “Does it matter a lot?” But I knew that it did, because the angel wasn’t just a parable but symbolic, which meant it had a larger significance, like Prefiguration, and even the smallest detail had much bigger meaning. So I picked up the eraser. And then our letter box crashed. Three short bangs.
Father went to the door. He opened it, but I didn’t hear any voices.
“Who was it?” I said when he came back.
“No one.” He put some more wood on the fire and took a sip of beer.
“No one?”
“No.”
“Oh,” I said.
I began to erase the angel’s foot, but the drawing underneath just got messy.
I sighed. “Maybe the angel moved around a bit. Maybe his foot got cold in the sea.” And as I spoke, the letter box crashed again, three short bangs.
This time, just before Father opened the front door, I heard the gate click and laughter. I peered through the curtains but couldn’t see anyone.
When he came back I said: “Who was it?”
“Boys playing games.” He put more wood on the fire.
“Oh,” I said.
Father was being very calm but I knew he was angry; he hated people knocking on the door hard or even slamming it, because the door had a beautiful picture of a tree in the colored glass, which Mother had restored. He often commented on how pretty it was.
I took a new piece of paper and drew the angel’s head. I didn’t want to think anymore about what Father had said, I had just begun coloring the face when the letter box crashed again.
This time Father went to the back door. I heard a shout and the sound of running feet, then the garden gate clicked.
A minute later Father came into the front room, laughing. He said: “I surprised them!”
“Who?”
“The kids.”
A wave of heat passed over my body. “What were they doing?”
“Making nuisances of themselves.”
“Have they gone?”
“Yes. They ran off when they saw me. They didn’t expect me to come up the lane.”
I looked down at the angel. “What did the kids look like?” I said.
“Boys. No older than you, I should think. One had blond hair. Big kid. D’you know anyone like that?”
I had felt hot but now I felt cold. The angel’s blue eyes looked back at me. “No,” I said. “I don’t know anyone like that at all.”
Sunday
S OME THINGS EVEN miracle workers can’t get out of. Today I discovered Josie has knitted me a poncho.
May said: “No, it’s a shawl.”
“No, no,” said Elsie. “It’s a poncho.”
“Orange with shells and tassels,” said May.
“Were they shells?” said Elsie. “I thought they were pearls.”
“Shells,” said May. “The small ones you can thread.”
“Anyway, she’s looking for you,” said May.
“Aren’t you lucky?” said Elsie.
I spent the rest of the time before the meeting hiding in the toilets.
* * *
A LF GAVE THE talk. His tongue was in fine form, flickering at the corners of his mouth. “What is God asking us to do, Brothers?” he said. He glared around, his face red, his eyes bulging. After half an hour it made my head ache to listen to him, but it could have been the fumes coming from Auntie Nel; they were stronger than usual this morning. Even the yellow plastic roses were looking the worse for wear.
Alf’s voice got louder. His arms thrashed. I thought he was going to get them tangled in the microphone cable. “What is God asking us to do ?” he repeated. When he said it a third time I couldn’t bear it any longer and stuck up my hand and said: “Fill in our report cards?” because this is
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