LITMIR.BIZ

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the catch is merely stiff. I twist it fully and the chamber releases with a clank. The door swings open, hinges shrieking. The curtains block out the sunlight but I can make out the mound of Ma’s body upon the bed, bundled up beneath the quilt. The noise is sure to have woken her. She does not move.

      ‘Ma?’ I whisper. ‘Here’s a lovely cup of tea.’ I hold my offering at arm’s length as if its perfume might steal into her nostrils and tempt her awake. ‘It’s nice and hot. Just as you like it.’

      Nothing. My hand trembles. The china clinks.

      ‘Ma?’ I say, louder.

      Outside, the rag and bone man yells rag a’ bo’aah! loud enough to rouse a bear from hibernation. Ma does not budge.

      ‘Ma!’ I cry.

      I run to her bedside. There is not so much as the gentlest snore to be heard, not a breath. I’m seized with panic. Have women’s problems been the death of her? Hard on the heels of fear dawns the thought that if she is dead, Uncle Arthur can stay forever. I will be happy. I shove it away but it is too late: it is the worst thought I’ve ever had. Everything Ma says is true. She does know me better than I know myself. I am a horrible child.

      ‘Ma?’ I quaver. ‘Please don’t be dead. I love you.’ I try to sound sincere, but quail with the knowledge that she’ll know I’m lying. ‘I don’t want you to die!’ I wail.

      She does not answer. I don’t deserve to have a mother. I don’t deserve anything. I reach out and grasp her shoulder. It is pliable to the touch. Hardly like bone.

      ‘Ma?’ I ask, withdrawing my hand.

      There is no reply. I prod her with a timid finger. She gives way as though her body is the consistency of rag pudding. Some awful change has been wrought upon her. The ailments at which she hints so darkly are so ferocious they have rendered her boneless. Crazed with misery and terror, I shake her – hard. Something breaks off under the blankets. I freeze. The room is ghastly with silence.

      ‘Ma!’ I shriek. ‘I’ve killed you!’

      I hurl myself on to her prone form, hugging her so fiercely the headboard rattles. The cup of tea spills across the eiderdown. I must clean it right away or it will stain. I tear away the covers, revealing Ma’s body. Except it is not Ma’s body. I blink. It has to be, I tell myself. But, however many times I squeeze my eyes shut and open them, the truth is incontrovertible. Laid along the length of the mattress is a line of cushions.

      My mind reels. Where has she gone?

      I race downstairs to tell Uncle Arthur the terrible news. He nods in the chair, blanketed in the scent of baking. If I wake him, this moment will shatter as surely as if I threw a bucket of stones upon it. I dread what he may say: that Ma is a dancer in the halls, does make a spectacle of herself in a skirt of feathers and nothing else.

      But that’s not what I truly fear. I don’t know why, but somehow I’ll be the one to blame for Ma’s absence. After all, I’m the one Ma never kisses. I’m the one Ma won’t hug. If Ma goes away for three days, it’s bound to be because of me.

      I can’t bear the thought of Uncle Arthur’s face changing from love to coldness; can’t bear the thought that today’s hug may be the last. I tiptoe to my room, and do not speak a word: not to him, not to Nana, not even to the picture of Papa. If I don’t tell, no one will know what I’ve discovered. If I pretend hard enough, maybe I can convince myself it didn’t happen. Even if it’s a lie, I’d rather have a happy lie than the agonising truth.

      Two days later, Ma is in the kitchen when I come downstairs for breakfast. I run to her and bury my face into her apron.

      ‘Don’t cling,’ she snaps. ‘You’re not a baby. I can’t move for your mithering.’

      ‘Where’ve you been?’ I moan.

      ‘In bed.’

      I squeeze harder. She walks peg-leg across the kitchen, dragging me with her. I’m so relieved to see her that any determination to keep my secret disappears into thin air.

      ‘No you weren’t.’

      She grinds to a halt and grasps my shoulders. ‘What did you say?’

      ‘I brought you a cup of tea,’ I mumble. ‘You weren’t there.’

      Her features twist. She looks like a dog backed into a corner. ‘I told you never to disturb me!’ she roars, giving me a furious shake. ‘Spying on me, were you?’

      ‘I was scared you’d gone forever!’

      ‘Scared?’ Her eyes shift from cornered to crafty. ‘Yes, of course I’d gone. I can’t stand being around you with your infernal snivelling and pawing.’

      ‘Ma!’ I wail.

      ‘Don’t you come crying to me. All you had to do was give me three days’ peace. You’ve brought this on yourself.’

      This is the secret Ma and Nana argue about. I should have guessed it. I am so unlovable my own mother has to escape from me each month. This is why she is always angry. I deserve it. I must do. Ma would never lie. Of all the tasks I set myself, it was to make Ma love me. I have failed.

       GNOME

       1899

      Every night it’s the same.

      I come to, gasping, and I’m off that bed like it’s on fire. I squint at the mirror but won’t be convinced till I’ve run my hands the long and the short of what I see: head, fingers, knees and toes, ballocks and bumhole. It’s only then I can breathe easy. I’m in one piece, all twelve fine upstanding years of me.

      It’s a crying shame to cover such a splendid specimen but I can’t go outdoors in my birthday suit and that’s a fact. Nor shall I wear out this night in self-admiration when there’s adventure to be had. The moon doth shine as bright as day, et cetera, and I have merriment to attend to. A lad of my mettle can perish of cloistering cling and playlessness.

      I drag my britches from underneath the mattress where they’ve been pressed a treat and tuck my hair under my cap. With my shirt half-buttoned I’m raring to be gone, but there’s no point in doing so without a penny in my pocket. I tiptoe downstairs quieter than the mice worrying the walls and dig my hand into the sugar bowl on the mantel. If Mam will insist on stowing thruppences in such an obvious place it’s her funeral if half go missing.

      I avoid the front door. The shunt and rattle of those bolts are enough to wake the dead and I’d get what for. Out of the bedroom window is my way, the best way. I creep back up without a squeak and pound the corner of the sash: three sharp punches and it slides up, wide enough to stick out my head. My left arm follows, then the right and to round it off I wriggle my hips clear. Watch a cat ooze under a door and you’ll know how it’s done.

      I am free.

      I swing off the ledge, ripping the seat of my trousers. I’ve no time to attend to such inconsequential matters. Mam will fix it. Down the fall-pipe, hit the ground and I run, savouring that first rush of delight, heady as a pint of best bitter downed in a single gulp.

      I dance the tightrope of the pavement edge, dash between soot-faced terraces that squat low on their haunches. It matters not what I’m racing from or to; all I know is that I am alive. I am a mucker, a chancer, a chavvy, a cove. I grab life by the neck and squeeze every drop into my cup. If it’s good, I’ll take it by the barrel. If it’s bad I’ll do the same. I take it all: the world and his wife, the moon on a stick and the stars to sprinkle like salt on my potatoes. I hammer on doors for the thundering crash of it. Chuck stones at windows to hear the glass crack and the spluttering interrupted snores of those inside.

      ‘Wake up!’ I cry, windmilling my arms. ‘Life’s

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