Hieroglyphics And Other Stories. Anne DonovanЧитать онлайн книгу.
Clare, you’re no a baby, it’s time you grew up and showed some consideration for other folk. Get back in that room and put on your school skirt and sweatshirt and your navy-blue coat. And ah don’t want to hear another word aboot this.
In the bedroom ah threw masel intae a corner and howled ma held aff. The tears kept comin and comin till ah felt ah wis squeezed dry and would never be able tae shed anither tear. Ah took aff the red claes and changed intae ma grey school skirt and sweatshirt and pit ma navy-blue coat ower it. Ah looked at masel in the full-length mirror in the middle of the wardrobe and saw this dull drab figure, skin aw peely-wally. Ma daddy would have hated tae see me like this but ah didnae dare go againsts ma auntie’s word.
The only bit of me that had any life aboot it wis ma eyes fur the tears had washed them clean and clear. A sunbeam came through the windae and ah watched the dustspecks dancin in its light. There was a hair on the collar of ma coat and it lit up intae a rainbow of colours. As ah picked it up and held it in ma fingers, an idea came tae me. Ah went tae ma schoolbag which had been left lyin in the corner of the room since Friday, took oot ma pack of glitter pens and unwrapped them. Ah took the gold wan, squeezin the glitter on ma fingers then rubbin it intae ma hair, then added silver and red and green. The strands of hair stood oot roon ma heid like a halo, glisterin and dancin in the light. Ah covered the dull cloth so it wis bleezin wi light, patterns scattered across it, even pit some on ma tights and ma shoes. Then ah pressed ma glittery fingers on ma face, feelin ma cheekbones and eyebrows and the soft flesh of ma mouth and the delicate skin of ma eyelids. And ah felt sad for a moment as ah thought of the deid flesh of ma daddy, lyin alone in the cold church. Then ah stood and looked in the mirror at the glowin figure afore me and ah smiled.
Subtle, daddy?
Aye, hen, subtle.
Even through the blanket and layers of warm clothing, Anna felt the cold penetrate her skin. Stretching across the horse’s back, she reached her arms along its neck, gouging into the ice with a metal scraper. Her arms ached. A chunk of ice snapped off, revealing the misted glass body of the horse. After only a few seconds, the coating renewed itself, a frosting of icing sugar this time which wiped off as easily as dust but kept forming and re-forming. Tired of her work, she slid off the horse’s back, and stood at its head. She started to polish its face, rubbing her cloth into the furrows of its curly mane and the carved detail of flared nostrils. Tentatively she touched its left eye and the film peeled off like a cataract.
Immediately the crystals of ice re-formed and the eye dimmed, though tiny sparks of light shot from the white mask. Anna knew it was pointless to continue, since it was so cold that it would keep icing over, yet she could not stop. She wanted to see the horse in his true magnificence, to rock back and forth on his broad back. Most of all she longed to look into his eyes and hold their gaze.
The door of the shed creaked open and her mother entered. A blue mohair scarf was wound tightly round her neck, almost covering her face, and she pulled it away to speak.
‘Are you still trying to clean up that old thing?’
‘It’s no use. It’s too cold in here. Can we not bring him into the house?’
‘No.’
‘But he’s so beautiful. He would work properly if he didn’t have to stay in this freezing old shed.’
‘I’ve told you. He has to stay here.’
She touched Anna’s shoulder, her hands cocooned in quilted gloves, clumsy as oven mitts.
‘Come into the house. It’s tea-time.’
Anna followed her across the yard. The light had faded but snow cast a reflected brightness and the path glittered. Pausing at the doorway, Anna turned to look back across the yard to the shed.
In the kitchen, heat blasted them from the open fire. Grandfather’s house was old-fashioned, very different from the one where she lived with her mother. When they came to visit, their lives were different too, following his ways.
‘He’s an old man,’ her mother would say. ‘It costs you nothing to please him.’
Grandfather was already in his place and Anna slid into the chair next to his. Her mother lifted the big pot from the stove and placed it on a metal trivet in the centre of the table. She filled bowls with soup while Anna passed round a basket of bread. When everyone was served, they began to eat.
‘What have you been up to this afternoon, Anna?’
She’s been out in the shed playing with that old rocking-horse.
‘I’m not playing with him. I’m trying to clear the ice from him, but it keeps coming back.’
‘You’ll need to wait till this big freeze comes to an end,’ said Grandfather.
‘They said on the radio it won’t get warmer till next week.’
Her grandfather smiled. ‘And you can’t wait till then?’
Anna dipped her spoon into the bowl and took a mouthful of soup. It was too hot and she could feel the roof of her mouth burning as she tried to hold the liquid there to cool before she swallowed. She knew that later the skin would come off and leave a ragged feeling in her mouth.
In her dream the horse was silver, his ice-coat shot through with a million stars. Anna swept a cloth across his side and the shell melted in an instant. She climbed on his back and lay there, felt the surface beneath start to prick like pins and needles in the rising warmth. His carved mane was transformed into soft strands, which she gripped as the horse began to move. He picked up speed and they galloped across a huge expanse of sand, ghost-white under a clouded moon. Anna clung to his back. She could hear his harsh breath, see steam issue from his nostrils. Suddenly he stopped dead and she shot over his neck, the mane wrenched from her fingers, damp sand burning her limbs as she slid along the beach; then she woke, sitting up in bed, soaked with sweat.
For a moment she could not move because of the pain, a sharpness stabbing her chest, then it grew less intense, shifting to lower down, in her belly. The edges blurred till it was an ache, dull and heavy, leaving a sick aftertaste. She pulled her pale blue dressing gown from the edge of the bed, hugging herself with it. The roof of the shed was visible through the window, patched with snow. She crept downstairs, holding her breath as she passed her mother’s room, pulled on her coat and shoes, then lifted the heavy latch which secured the door. Cold air chafed her skin as she stepped outside, hurried the few steps to the shed, and opened the door.
The horse faced away from her and she waited apprehensively, expecting him to move, to speak even. But he radiated stillness, like an actor who knows that he will move, not now, but when his part requires. Anna stepped closer to look at his face, but his eyes were veiled by blinkers of ice. She put her arm round his neck, touching the side of his cheek and her fingertips stuck to its surface. She tried to pull them away but the ice clutched her tightly, then she blew hard till reluctantly it released its grip. Anna spread her hands out, examining them. Each person’s fingerprints were unique. Could ice burn them off?
‘Anna, what on earth? Anna. …’ Her mother’s arms were round her, holding her tightly, almost dragging her up the path to the house. She pushed her down on the rug in front of the fireplace, rattling the poker in the embers, trying to raise them to life.
‘You’ll catch pneumonia. What on earth were you doing?’
She held Anna’s hands in hers, rubbing them hard.
‘I don’t know, I had to see him.’
‘Why, what’s so important about this horse?’
‘You tell me. Why can’t he come in the house?’
Her mother stopped, released Anna’s hands.
‘What are you talking about? The horse is just a toy, a dirty old toy.’