Friday reading
In which Uncle Mark shares his experience of being a runaway with Deb
Oh boy, Pearl is very grizzly this morning. I’m not sure why but she’s lying across my lap while I try to write. Every so often one of her arms shoots out and knocks the biro from my hand. It’s like she’s telling me to stop writing and just look at her. So I do.
Her little fists are bunched tight yet her face is serene. There are moments when I think she looks like you, or at least how you looked when I last saw you. Then her head twists to one side and the resemblance is lost. Sometimes when she’s sleeping in her cradle I take out an old sketchbook and try to trace the lines of her face, the slight furrow in her brow as if she’s pondering some deep question, and her chiselled upper lip. As if she knows what I’m at, she wakes up suddenly and her eyes fix me with a slightly offended expression and I put the book aside. Funny little thing.
It’s at least ten days since I last sat down to write this. When I look back the days all merge in a blur and I couldn’t tell you what I did yesterday, let alone last weekend. So where was I? Yes, now I see. I had stepped into Mark’s library. The word makes the room sound a bit grander than it was. Cubby-hole might be a better description. The walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling, except at the chimney breast where a thick wool hanging in a black and white geometric pattern hung.
Ostrich legs, Mark said, seeing me look at the tapestry.
I nodded, not quite sure what he meant.
Running.
Yes, I see them now, I smiled.
Sit, he gestured to the only other chair in the tiny room. He pushed the newspaper off his lap onto the floor beside him. Only when I was inside the room did I hear the grave murmur of a newsreader coming from the transistor on the mantelpiece.
Enough, he said, switching it off. One can get too much news. He leant forward and, using a tongs, lifted a piece of coal from a tall scuttle, paused, then placed it on the dying fire. He repeated the movement a couple of times, always pausing to choose the best spot for the glistening black lumps. Now, he said sitting back. That should take in a few minutes.
I perched on the edge of the chair, still holding my glass of water.
Would you like something stronger? He indicated my glass.
No thanks, I said. I think I had too much wine at dinner.
I didn’t think we had that much.
I’m not used to it, I said. To hide my embarrassment at sounding naïve, I leant over and placed the glass on the floor.
I don’t suppose you got any alcohol in that mission of yours.
It wasn’t my mission. I mean . . . I just wound up there.
Kidnapped I would say.
I don’t know about that because in the end I was able to walk away.
Very well, let’s say brainwashed. He sighed. Whatever they did it was wrong. Tomorrow you can give me details of the place and I’ll make some enquiries.
Oh no, please. Panic surged inside me. Please. I don’t want to make any trouble. Just to get away. That’s all.
We’ll see. They had no right to do what they did and continue to do. Look at you, poor child. You’re terrified of them. That’s not right.
I drew the kimono tighter around my body trying to suppress my shudders, which were less a reaction to the cold than to the fear Mark’s words had provoked.
Yes, he said, resting his elbows on the frayed arms of his chair and steepling his fingers at his chest. Running. Running. Ostriches can move fast when they need to.
An image flashed across my mind of the Road Runner in the cartoon, and I wanted to blurt out Beep, beep! I decided not to.
There must have been a grin on my face because Mark smiled and said, They do look comical when they’re on the move. And by the way they don’t stick their heads in the sand.
So what do they do when they’re in danger? Just run?
Exactly, he said. Like you and me. But when you run from something you don’t necessarily have a destination in mind. The first time I didn’t get far. The second time I was luckier.
Something soft brushed against my bare feet. I yelped in fright, yanked my feet back and knocked over the glass of water. Oh sorry, I jumped up, landing in the puddle on the rug. I’m sorry. I felt something . . . I’ll get a cloth. Sorry.
Don’t worry about it, Mark stood. I’ll go. It was only Phantom, and it’s only water. Phantom is as phantom does, he laughed. You sit down.
I obeyed, this time tucking my legs under me on the chair.
Mark returned with a floor cloth which he laid on the puddle of water, pressing it down. Then he handed me a soft rug to wrap myself in. For extra warmth, he said, returning to his seat.
Now, where were we? He looked at me, eyebrows raised.
Running away.
Ah yes, precisely. Running. Well, it was a long time before I stopped. He leaned back and half-shut his eyes. As you probably know, we grew up in Africa, me and my sister, Heather – Rose’s mother. My father was appointed to manage a mine. I was five and Heather was eight. Dad settled in easily to the role of master and tyrant. Mum found it more difficult to adapt.
She didn’t relish life in a colonial outpost. Not enough stimulation and with servants to do everything in the house she was bored. However, she soon cured that by setting up a school for the children of the mineworkers. Her sister came to help her and gradually they found other volunteer teachers. Heather and I started our schooling there, making friends with the local children. Until Dad decided I should come to school in England. He packed me off at the age of eight to a public school here. I went home only for the summer holidays. The other holidays I spent with my grandparents in Woking.
Eight! I exclaimed. That’s cruel.
It was. When I was twelve I tried to run away but I only got as far as the sports pavilion. I didn’t really have a plan, just took off one day in the direction of the village. The headmaster gave me a dressing down and contacted my parents. Dad sent a snorter of a letter telling me how lucky I was to be going to such a good school. An opportunity he never had. Pulled himself up by his bootstraps. And all the rest. Cue the violins.
I tore it up and stamped on the pieces. Next day, I got a softer letter from Mum, saying she missed me but that Dad was right to want me to have the best education possible. Kindly as she meant it I tore that one up too. Mark shrugged. She was siding with him.
What about Rose’s mum? Did they not send her away to school too?
He shook his head. She was luckier, in a way. Dad didn’t see the need to spend too much money on her education. She went to a boarding school in Capetown and got home for all the holidays. Happily for me, when I was sixteen I was expelled for smoking pot.
Really? I laughed. Mark seemed so proper, I couldn’t imagine him smoking a joint. I bet your Dad didn’t like that.
No. When I got home he told me I was a disgrace, drew his arm back and hit me full force on the cheek. Damn nearly broke my jaw. Mark rubbed his face at the memory. Mum hovered behind him, crying but saying nothing. Even through my pain I saw that she was terrified of him.
Surely . . . he didn’t . . . ?
Oh yes he did, Mark nodded. I only learnt that much later. To keep an eye on me he brought me to work with him at the mine office. Big mistake, he laughed. I quickly learnt where the cash for wages and sundries was kept. And here I am, he spread his arms.
Didn’t he come after you?
Mark shook his head. By then I think he had written me off as a bad job. After he died Mum came here and lived with me for a few months of the year, then went over to Ireland to live with Heather. Queen Lear we called her.
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