I’m swimming across the dark blue carpet. It’s deep. Cold. Dark. I can hardly move against the current. Stuck in this big, strong sea, carried up and down. I’m not sure if I’m going to make it.
In the distance, when I’m at the top of a wave, I can see a tall cliff, the wardrobe, towering ominously over the sea. Waves break at its base, bright white against the darkness. Leaping, splashing, almost happy in the night time. But there’s no help there. I’m caught. And when I go down again all I can see are walls of water around me. It’s really strong this water. I’m probably not going to make it to the chair. It’s still a long way away.
I stretch up, try to catch Lorenzo’s eye, but he doesn’t notice, he’s staring straight ahead, glassy-eyed, expressionless. I call out, but still he doesn’t hear me. I’ve been suspecting this. His hearing has been a problem for some time now. Strange little bits of stuff come out of his ears from time to time. Perhaps he’s got an infection.
I’m probably just going to disappear. I’m probably just going to get smaller and smaller and smaller until I’m just a dot on the horizon and then nothing. Nothing. Just darkness.
It’s the darkness that’s scary. The darkness that grips at your heels when you turn off your light and run down the hall to the stairs, only a dim light shining from far away. The hall seems so long. It’s sure to get me before I reach the light. And it’s even worse when they’ve forgotten to put on the upstairs light and there’s only the distant sound of the television, some man or other talking very seriously, and a very faint glow seeping from under the sitting-room door. Then I’ve got to make it up the stairs as well. And it’s sure to get me then. The darkness. From behind. Taps you on the shoulder. Whispers in your ear. I’m gonna get you. And no-one will hear me scream. The serious man will go on talking and everyone will just listen. And nod. And we already know about Lorenzo. He won’t be able to help. Not really. He tries. He tries to listen. Tries to hear. But really, he is getting on. Recently I even spruced him up with a new hair do, a bit of a trim, neatened up the edges. It wasn’t my fault. If I’d been allowed to use the proper scissors I would have been able to do a much more professional job. Anyway he likes it. He says he looks a bit like Grandpa. And he does. Kind of wonky. But wise.
They’ll stand together probably, on top of the cliff, watching me disappear, watching me be sucked away by the darkness. Wisely nodding. Mmm. They’ll say. The darkness. Scary. They’ll wipe away a tear. From their eye. Scary. Nothing to be done.
They’ll probably get a handkerchief out of their pocket and then they’ll make that honking sound that only old people can make and Lorenzo will have to be careful because his left eye might fall out because it’s been a bit loose for a while now. I wonder if Grandpa’s eye ever falls out. At night, when no-one’s looking. And he just holds it gently in his hands looking at the world in a different way and then he has to put it back because otherwise it will dry up.
You do need to be careful. The darkness eats you up. It eats up everything. You open your eyes and everywhere you look it’s dark and you wait and wait for your eyes to work again properly because apparently that’s what meant to happen and I don’t know if it’s got anything to do with needing glasses but I don’t think so and anyway it just doesn’t happen. It’s actually all dark. All of it. And you don’t know anything. You don’t know where you are, you don’t know what’s there. A ship? A shark? A dead body floating towards you and probably the arm will fall off and all I’ll be able to do is hold tight and try to stop screaming because if I don’t I’ll never ever ever make it to the chair.
The chair used to belong to one of the aunts. It’s round and warm and smells like soap and lavender. You can curl right up inside it. Actually, it’s a tub chair. The owl and the pussy cat would be really happy in it. And so would I. Especially with the honey.
Because I’m starting to get cold. Really cold. I think the dark is coming into my bones. The darkness is hiding in the water as well. Not even the talking is helping very much any more. And Jesus won’t be able to help me either. He was taken away after the time he jumped down from the wall and started turning over the tables in the tabernacle. He strode through the pillars, past the beggars and the cripples. He was so angry, nothing could stop him. He was like a whirlwind, furious, strong and white. It was so loud. I didn’t even know I was screaming until Mama was holding me and telling me that it was all going to be alright. But I couldn’t sleep until she took him away. And read me a story. Something nice to help me to forget. Twelve pairs of dancing shoes ruined each night. And then the princes who had to climb the glass mountain in order to win the princess’ hand in marriage. Although I did worry about the horses hooves being cut on the glass and about what happened when they fell. Because they did fall. Some of them. And lay all broken at the bottom. It was in the picture.
I don’t think Mama was ever really friendly with Jesus. He was banished actually. After that incident. To the ironing room. Which actually isn’t the ironing room. It’s more the washing room. Well, actually it’s the dry washing room. That’s quite hard to understand. I think that’s why it’s still called the ironing room. She was pretty angry with him for frightening me like that. Even though he was very right.
They often say that. That Jesus was right. He cries a lot too. He wept. That’s what they do when they cry. They weep. I think that’s nice. I’d like to be like that when I’m old. Weeping and right. And I want to be like Mama too. Mama will be sad when I’m gone. When the darkness has taken me away. She would be like Jesus then. She would weep and she would be right.
Mama and I are just like the mother and daughter in the story about the letters. They’re dressed the same too. In the story. And they go through the day and do things together. They do the dishes and they do the washing and they do the shopping and they send the letters at the post office. And she’s just a smaller version of her. We’re like them. Except for the skirts. And the aprons. And the long hair. And the blonde hair. And the curls. Because Mama and I wear trousers. I wear red trousers and a red skivvy. She wears green. Green slacks and a green jumper. And we have short hair. And we go to the butcher’s together and they all smile when we come in, me and Mama, and the lady will give me some cabana and despite all the cold, white marble, everyone’s cheeks will be red. Like mine. I love cabana.
And then we get home and the bricks in the back yard are warm and still and sometimes there’s something crawling between them and then we plant flowers and lettuces and I play on my tractor and then we start to make dinner and sometimes I don’t even remember and I go to bed and I read my story and I think about the cabana and the smell of the dirt and the painting I did at my Aunt Ruth’s place and I fall asleep and I don’t wake up until morning.
And I don’t fall into the water.
And the morning is beautiful. Because in the morning the sun rises. And the hot milk gets warmed on the stove and my place mat gets put in its place and I am in my place and I have my place and from my place I can see my mama moving back and forward in the kitchen and my father who is reading the newspaper, serious, nodding. And I see the orange and yellow donkey on my place mat and the blue birds who fly around him and tease him because they are much quicker than he is and I see the lady in the bar who looks over me from the wall of the dining room and I try to work out once and for all if she is surrounded by people in a huge circular bar with all the people in hats and coats and gloves and there is sure to be music there somewhere, or if she has a mirror behind her and she’s looking over the room like a queen. She could be a queen. In disguise. I wonder if she likes dancing? I wonder if she knows Jesus?
And I try not to look at the marks on the table near my place where I banged on the polished table with my spoon and did a bad thing and destroyed something that was very precious even though we still have it and use it every day which is a bit like the ironing room which is not the ironing room and in fact the banging was a bit of a Jesus moment in the morning and my father started to turn loud and white and I was scared right inside me and maybe I was screaming because I certainly wasn’t weeping and after that things didn’t sit so easily in their place anymore.
I try to hang on. That’s what they all want. They want me to be a girl who wears trousers. I have to be fiery and tall and strong. Like the lady in the bar. Like Jesus. I have to fight it and not give in to it, be strong and tall and not let it in and not be weak and if I fight and fight, fight against the blackness of the darkness and the bigness of the darkness one day I won’t be scared any more. One day I won’t be stuck in this big dark ocean and it won’t be cold with the darkness and the blackness all around. One day I will make it to the chair and then I will walk tall. One day it will be a calm, still morning. One day. One day.