Hot metal scorches her bum through her denim shorts. Below the frayed cut-offs, her thighs are turning pink.
I’ll get really burnt, then they’ll be sorry.
She looks back over her shoulder towards the house. Her aunt drains the vegetables and watches through the steam.
Just a sulky teenager - that’s what she’ll be thinking.
Her dad walks across the yellow grass. She draws her finger through the gritty dust on the car boot, writing her name. She wants him to get mad, so he will lay down the law. Tell her to grow up or stop behaving like a brat.
“What’s up?” The frustration of his kindness, of needing to explain, makes her throat ache. “You’re getting burnt. How about putting on a skirt to stop it getting worse?”
It’s a nice try. She’s almost grateful.
“What difference does it make to her what I’m wearing? It’s just stupid. She won’t even see my shorts when I’m sitting down.” She turns her head again and catches a glimpse of her grandmother’s white hair. “Anyway, I didn’t bring a skirt.”
She can feel the pout in her lower lip; she bashes the tail-light with her heel.
Her father sighs and returns to the house. She knows she'll be blamed if the 70th birthday is ruined. Attention will be drawn to her cousins’ good behaviour, to their matching floral skirts and pink blouses. New, just for the occasion.
Her uncle steps outside and whistles for the wee kids. They come running from behind the hen house and he barks at them to wash their hands. He walks towards her, carrying something. It’s a skirt. Indian print, wrap around. He drops it on the boot and, lighting a cigarette, leans his elbows on the roof of the car. He squints his eyes against the glare of the paint work.
“I remember my granddad getting cross twice.” So quiet, like he’s talking to himself, and she has to strain to hear. “Both times with me. Once I scratched his car with my bike handle. The other time I had an argument with Mum and made her cry. The thing is, that’s what I remember first when I think of him. Makes me sad, that’s all.”
He drags on his cigarette and she smells the sweet smoke as he exhales. She waits for him to speak again but all she can hear is the chatter of the wee kids and chairs scraping on the kitchen floor. Someone drops a piece of cutlery.
“Dinner’s up,” her aunt calls from the window. She stares and her mouth is grim.
The car rocks as he pushes himself upright, dropping his cigarette on the dusty ground and grinding it with his shoe.
“Up to you. Worth an upset? It’s just a skirt.”
He punches her lightly on the arm and walks back to the kitchen. Her aunt looks at him and he shrugs.
Inside, cutlery clatters against plates. A cork pops and her grandmother shrieks.
She slides off the boot and wraps the skirt over her shorts.
Rosemary McBryde
I’ll get really burnt, then they’ll be sorry.
She looks back over her shoulder towards the house. Her aunt drains the vegetables and watches through the steam.
Just a sulky teenager - that’s what she’ll be thinking.
Her dad walks across the yellow grass. She draws her finger through the gritty dust on the car boot, writing her name. She wants him to get mad, so he will lay down the law. Tell her to grow up or stop behaving like a brat.
“What’s up?” The frustration of his kindness, of needing to explain, makes her throat ache. “You’re getting burnt. How about putting on a skirt to stop it getting worse?”
It’s a nice try. She’s almost grateful.
“What difference does it make to her what I’m wearing? It’s just stupid. She won’t even see my shorts when I’m sitting down.” She turns her head again and catches a glimpse of her grandmother’s white hair. “Anyway, I didn’t bring a skirt.”
She can feel the pout in her lower lip; she bashes the tail-light with her heel.
Her father sighs and returns to the house. She knows she'll be blamed if the 70th birthday is ruined. Attention will be drawn to her cousins’ good behaviour, to their matching floral skirts and pink blouses. New, just for the occasion.
Her uncle steps outside and whistles for the wee kids. They come running from behind the hen house and he barks at them to wash their hands. He walks towards her, carrying something. It’s a skirt. Indian print, wrap around. He drops it on the boot and, lighting a cigarette, leans his elbows on the roof of the car. He squints his eyes against the glare of the paint work.
“I remember my granddad getting cross twice.” So quiet, like he’s talking to himself, and she has to strain to hear. “Both times with me. Once I scratched his car with my bike handle. The other time I had an argument with Mum and made her cry. The thing is, that’s what I remember first when I think of him. Makes me sad, that’s all.”
He drags on his cigarette and she smells the sweet smoke as he exhales. She waits for him to speak again but all she can hear is the chatter of the wee kids and chairs scraping on the kitchen floor. Someone drops a piece of cutlery.
“Dinner’s up,” her aunt calls from the window. She stares and her mouth is grim.
The car rocks as he pushes himself upright, dropping his cigarette on the dusty ground and grinding it with his shoe.
“Up to you. Worth an upset? It’s just a skirt.”
He punches her lightly on the arm and walks back to the kitchen. Her aunt looks at him and he shrugs.
Inside, cutlery clatters against plates. A cork pops and her grandmother shrieks.
She slides off the boot and wraps the skirt over her shorts.
Rosemary McBryde
No comments:
Post a Comment