“WHAT, THIS ONE?” said God, and it was like being wiped out in a flash of light.
“Sorry,” said God in His normal voice. “Better?”
I leaned up against the railings. A woman on the opposite side of the road was staring at me. I felt like crying. “Was that really You?”
“Who did it sound like?” said God.
I shuddered. “The Devil,” I said.
Trouble Begets Trouble
FATHER CAME HOME late from work that evening. I knew he was going to, but it seemed an awfully long time anyway. I peeled the vegetables for dinner and put them in the saucepan. I set the table and I watered my mustard seeds. Though I didn’t know why I was bothering, as there was still nothing to be seen. Then I wrote in my journal and I told a story in the Land of Decoration about a dragon who loved roses and whenever he passed a rose tree would have to stop and sniff it but his breath charred the flowers. I couldn’t finish it. In the end I just sat on the stairs and waited.
At five to six I heard the bus and ran to the front door. Through the stained-glass picture I could see the bus. It had grates on the windows, and some were slipping off. A tomato was caught in one and what looked like egg was smeared on the window. There were six men on board. Father came down the steps, and even through the colored glass I could see how pale he looked under the streetlight. He waved to Mike, then came through the gate and I ran into the kitchen; I didn’t think he would have wanted me to see.
Father switched the kettle on. He said: “How was school?” He didn’t look at me but began lighting the fire in the Rayburn. I knew then that I mustn’t ask about work. I said: “Mrs. Pierce got cross with Neil Lewis because he tried to put my head down the toilet. But I don’t think I’ll have any more trouble with him.”
Then Father did look at me. He said: “Are you all right?”
“Oh yes,” I said. “It was nothing.”
Father frowned. He said: “Is Neil Doug’s son?”
I tried to think quickly. “I don’t know,” I said.
“Were you having trouble with him?”
“Sort of—but not anymore.”
Father said suddenly: “That’s not the kid who knocks on the door, is it?”
I looked at him and then at the fridge. “I don’t know,” I said.
Father straightened up. “Judith, you haven’t been aggravating him in any way, have you?”
“No,” I said, and my heart beat once, very hard.
“Are you sure?” Father said.
“Yes.”
“Good,” Father said; he turned back to the fire, “because trouble only begets trouble.” He stood up and closed the Rayburn door to a crack to let the air in. “And there’s more than enough of it to go round now lately.”
WE READ THE Bible while we had tea instead of clearing the table first. The study was about God being jealous. It wasn’t the way we thought of the word, Father said. It meant that God wanted people to serve only Him, that He exacted Exclusive Devotion.
My head was all tangled. I didn’t know if I was being stupid or asking a proper question, but I said: “Why must God have Exclusive Devotion?”
“Because He knows what’s best for us,” said Father.
I thought again, but for some reason what Father said still didn’t make much sense. I said: “Why?”
Father didn’t get angry as he usually does if I say “why” too much. In fact, it looked as though he was thinking about something else. He was frowning and holding his breath. And then suddenly the frown went away and he blinked and said: “What?”
Then I, too, had to think to remember what we were talking about. “Why does God know best?” I said.
“Because He knows everything,” Father said. And then he said quickly: “And He made us”—as if I should know this—as if
“Nothing.”
I looked at him, but he didn’t say any more, and he began to read again.
WHEN I WENT to bed, Father was sitting by the Rayburn in his overalls. After I had been in bed a little while, I crept back downstairs. But the kitchen light wasn’t on, the middle room one was, and through the keyhole I saw Father at his desk, sifting through bills he kept there. I was pleased he wasn’t staring at nothing like he used to and went back to bed.
But later, quite a lot later, when I was just dropping off to sleep, I heard the front door open, and when I peeped through the curtains he was standing on the pavement, the wisps of his hair catching the light. He stood there for a long time, though the street was empty.
Four Photographs
FATHER IS NOT the person he used to be. I know this because of four photographs. The first is in the album in the cupboard in the middle room. In the cupboard photo, Father is standing against a sign that says JOHN O’GROATS. He has jeans on and a belt that says LEVI’S and a T-shirt. He is smiling and his whole face seems to be shining. I have never seen Father’s face like that. This was taken on Mother and Father’s honeymoon, and Mother was taking the photo.
The second photo is in a silver frame and is a photograph of Mother and Father lying in grass. Mother is wearing blue dungarees and has long, curly brown hair, and the sun is in her eyes and all around her so that her hair looks like a halo. She is laughing so hard, all her teeth are showing. Father is holding the camera above them at arm’s length and making a funny face.
The third photo is in the album again, and they got someone to take the picture for them and are standing on a pier against some railings. Mother’s tummy is stretching her T-shirt; she has her arms around Father’s waist and her head on his shoulder, and he has his arm around her neck, and both are smiling and look as if they have caught the sun, and their hair looks like it has been blown all day long in the wind.
I don’t look at these photos often, because it feels so bad. It isn’t just knowing Mother isn’t here now but knowing she isn’t here because of me.
The last photo is the worst of all. It’s in another album and is quite different. Father is holding me in a white blanket. I am bound up like a little grub and all you can see is my face, which is crumpled and red because I am screaming. In the bed behind us is my mother. Her face is white and her eyes look very small and she seems to be in another place altogether, looking back at us. Father’s face is dark and his eyes are blazing. And this is the Father I know.
The Snowball Effect
THAT WEEK FATHER came home at six o’clock on the bus every day. It was strange being in the house on my own. I didn’t think it would be much different from when Father was there, because I am in my room and he is in his, but it was. May and Elsie offered to come and sit with me, but I asked Father not to let them, because it
