The Land of Decoration

Waiting

UNTIL NEIL WALKED into the classroom on Tuesday, I felt sick. “There!” I said to God as Neil slouched to his seat. “Nothing! I told you so.”

“Don’t count your chickens,” God said.

That night I wrote in my journal: Nothing has happened to Neil.

On Wednesday we finished our snowflakes and hung them around the room, got to the bit in Charlotte’s Web where they are about to go to the fair, and wrote some more poetry. But this time my poem wasn’t any good at all. I couldn’t seem to do anything else either. I multiplied when I should have divided, confused nouns and verbs, pasted the wrong side of my graph to my math book, and colored my mercury red instead of silver.

Mrs. Pierce called me to her desk. She said: “Are you all right, Judith?”

“Yes, Mrs. Pierce.”

“How’s your hand?” she said. But my hands were fine, because the cuts had only been little.

Mrs. Pierce said: “Have you asked your father to come and see me?”

I flushed. “Yes,” I said.

But it was important Father never did that, because Mrs. Pierce would let him know I was still talking about God and the miracles.

My book was open in front of her. Only two sums had ticks by them. She said: “It doesn’t matter about the sums, Judith. You can do these standing on your head. I just wondered if you wanted to tell me what was worrying you.”

I shrugged.

“Is everything all right at home?”

I nodded.

“How is your father coping with the strike?”

I thought about it. When he came in from work, Father’s face was pale but his voice was calm. We ate dinner and studied the Bible. Then he went into the middle room to look at the bills on the metal spike and I went upstairs. He inspected the fence, came in, balanced an ax above the back door, and turned the electricity off. “I think he’s OK,” I said.

Mrs. Pierce said: “Remember, Judith: I’m here if you do need to talk to anyone. OK?”

“OK,” I said.

ON THURSDAY WE got a letter from the civil court, asking Father to ring them as soon as possible. He said: “They didn’t waste any time.”

“Who?” I said, but he didn’t answer. I had to look at the envelope. “What do they want you to do?”

“Take the fence down.”

“Why?”

“It’s an antisocial gesture”—he held the paper up—“a safety hazard, and aesthetically incongruous.”

“Are you going to take it down?”

“In their dreams,” he said, and dropped the letter into the grate. I took that as a “no.”

That night I dreamed of the field in the Land of Decoration and the two little dolls I made first of all. The field wouldn’t stay still, as if someone was shaking it, and the dolls clung to each other. The sun was bigger than before and seared their hands and faces. The grass was long and silken, but it was writhing as if it were alive and grasped at their ankles.

Something was coming, lolloping through the grass. It looked like a person, except there wasn’t a head, only something bobbing like a balloon on a string. The fabric doll screamed and pulled at the pipe-cleaner doll’s sleeve. It came off in her hands and she backed away.

The pipe-cleaner doll stared at his arm, then at the fabric doll. His face was blank. Suddenly his legs crumpled and he dropped to his knees. He continued to stare at her. She opened her mouth. Then the pipe-cleaner doll’s eyes turned up, his head toppled backward, and his body fell at her feet.

ON SUNDAY IT was good to see everyone. It seemed ages since we had. They were shocked to hear about the fire. “Well, are the police doing something?” said Elsie.

“It’s outrageous!” said May. She put her hands over my ears and mouthed to Father: “You could have been killed!”

Uncle Stan said: “Do you need anything? Do you want to stay with us for a while?”

Father said: “No, we’re fine. It’s all right now.”

Then Uncle Stan said: “When did this happen, John?”

Father said: “Friday night.”

Uncle Stan said: “You must be exhausted!”

“Yes,” Father said. “Pretty much.”

“Do you want us to come and give you a hand getting things straight?” said Margaret.

“No, no,” said Father. “It’s all taken care of.”

I suddenly realized everyone thought the fire had happened two nights ago and that Father hadn’t corrected them. No one knew about the fence either. Why didn’t Father tell them? Perhaps he didn’t want to worry them, I thought. But it was rather strange.

May shook her head. “Well, I hope the police find whoever did it,” she said. “They should go to prison.”

Father said: “You can’t depend on the police.”

“That’s right,” said Gordon, and everyone looked at him. If anyone knew about the police it was Gordon.

“Anyway, I know who did it,” said Father. “But apparently there’s not enough evidence.” Then he laughed. “They want me to install a security camera.”

Uncle Stan shook his head. “What’s the world coming to?”

“The Tribulation!” Alf shook his head.

Elsie hugged me. She said: “At least you’re safe.”

May shook her head. “I can’t bear to think of what might have happened.”

“Do you think it’s anything to do with the strike?” Stan said.

“Probably.” Father nodded. “I’m not exactly flavor of the month at the moment.”

I went out to the toilet and sat in a cubicle. It was cool there and quiet. I leaned my head against the plasterboard. I wondered what would happen if they knew I had done it all.

The Law

ON MONDAY EVENING a man with a briefcase and suit banged on the gate. I went and told Father, who I wasn’t sure had heard, and he said to let the man in. I slid back the bolts and turned the key and pulled the gate open. The man stared at me. I think he expected to see someone taller. “Come in,” I said. The gate crashed behind him and he jumped.

The man looked at the burned tree and the boarded-up window. He looked at the nailed-up door and the black earth and the broken bottles.

I led the way to the kitchen. Father was standing with his back to the Rayburn. The man touched his tie and said: “I expect you know why I’ve come, Mr. McPherson. You’ve received a letter from us expressing our concern about the existence of the fence and asking you to contact us as soon as possible.”

Father said: “I don’t see anything wrong with it.”

The man said: “What’s wrong was explained very clearly in the letter: It’s an eyesore. It’s also extremely dangerous. People could get hurt.”

“That’s the point,” said Father.

The man looked at Father.

Father said: “Do you have any idea what we have been dealing with?”

“That’s none of my business, Mr. McPherson. Take it up with the police.”

Father said: “I’ve tried to take things up with the police. I’ve been trying for the last two months. There aren’t many options left open to me.”

“Well, I’m just doing my job.” The man straightened his shoulders. “And I’m afraid your neighbors want the fence to go.” He picked up his bag. “I’m going to go back to the office to make a report,” he said. “If they deem the fence unsuitable to remain standing, you’ll have to take it down; if that doesn’t happen, we’ll be issuing you a summons. Then it’s up to the magistrate to decide whether it stays or not.”

Father said: “Show the gentleman out, Judith.”

Suddenly the man started. I followed his eyes to the ax above the back door. The man looked at the ax. Then he looked at Father. Perhaps it was strange to have an ax above a door. I now wondered if Father would have put it there a few months ago; I wondered if he would even have built a fence. Or whether he would just have said: “Judith, trials are stepping-stones bringing us closer to God.”

The planning man and I went back through the hall, out the front door, and down the garden path. I undid the gate and watched him walk away.

The farther he went, the stranger I felt. “Wait!” I shouted, and ran after him.

He turned.

“Please let my father keep the fence!”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He began walking again.

“Can’t you make an exception?” I panted. “It’s not really dangerous, because no one climbs up it. If it gets taken down, I don’t know what Father will do!”

The man said: “I’m sorry, I can’t discuss this any further.” He began to walk faster.

“It’s so much better with the fence! We don’t get anyone knocking at the door anymore!” I said. “And no one starting fires! And no one vandalizing the cherry tree or putting things through the letter box. Can’t you let it stay?”

The man repeated: “I’m sorry.” He unlocked his car and swung into the seat. He slammed the door, looked over his shoulder, and pulled away from the curb.

“It’s not fair!” I shouted.

The car disappeared round the corner. The man had forgotten to put on his seat belt.

The Seventh Miracle

I SAT IN my window. “How much longer, God?” I said. “How much longer till Armageddon? I want it to come and put an end to everything.”

“It’s close,” God said. “Closer than you think.”

“You always say that,” I said. “They’ve been saying that for years.”

“Well, this time it really is,” God said. “If you could see the timetable I’ve got drawn up here, you’d see it truly is just round the corner.”

“Imminent?” I said.

“Exactly,” God said.

“But it’s been imminent forever!” I drew my knees into my chest. “I want it right now, right now—today! I don’t want to wake up in this world anymore.”

“Well, you might have to be a little more patient than that,” said God. “But I’m not joking: It really is very close.”

I took a deep breath. “What will it be like, God?” I said. “I mean afterward?”

“Oh, wonderful,” said God. “Everything you’ve always imagined.”

“No more sickness or hunger or death?”

“That’s right,” said God.

“And you’ll wipe the tears from people’s eyes?”

“Yes.”

“And Father and I will see Mother and everyone will live forever and it will be like it was in the beginning?”

“Yes.”

“And will I have a dog and will there be fields and trees and a hot-air balloon?”

“Oh, all of that,” said God.

“And will my mother like me?”

“I should think so.”

“Tell me how long, God!” I said. “Give me a clue, just a little one.”

“No one knows the day or the hour,” said God.

“Except You.”

“Yes … but it’s variable. I really couldn’t give you an answer on that at the moment.”

“Well, I’m ready for it,” I said. “Whenever it comes. It won’t be a moment too soon.”

WE WERE SITTING in the kitchen that night, reading about the end of Jerusalem, eating kippers and peas, when something thudded at the front of the house. Father’s eyes stopped moving in the middle of the page. They stayed where they were for a moment. Then they began moving again.

A minute later there was another bang, only this time it sounded as though someone had driven a car into the fence. We heard laughter—high-pitched, husky, and broken. Something passed through Father’s face and he pushed back his chair.

“Don’t go!” I said, and jumped up. I don’t know why I felt so afraid.

But he did. He went out of the back door. A few seconds later I heard the back gate swing to, a shout go up in the street, and running feet.

I sat for a while on the settee and then I began walking. I walked into the hall and around the front room. I walked into the middle room and back out again. I walked upstairs and along the landing and into each of the bedrooms and downstairs again.

When the hall clock chimed nine, I went upstairs and lay on Father’s bed and breathed in the smell of him. I pulled his sheepskin over me. Perhaps I should have gone next door to Mrs. Pew and told her what had happened. Perhaps I should have phoned the police. But I didn’t want to move. I watched the minutes go by on Father’s little alarm clock in faint green numbers and thought how he must look at it every morning when he got up in the dark. Thought about him sleeping here, curled on his side, his head on this pillow where I could smell his skin, and there was a tugging in my stomach that wouldn’t go away.

WHEN THE HALL clock chimed ten, I went downstairs and phoned Uncle Stan. “I don’t know where Father is,” I said when he picked up the receiver.

“Who’s this?” said Uncle Stan’s voice. It sounded sleepy.

“Uncle Stan?”

“Judith! Is that you?”

“Yes,” I said, and I began to cry.

“What’s happened? Where’s your dad?”

“He went out chasing the boys. He told me to stay in the house. I don’t know what’s happened to him.”

“How long ago?”

“Hours.”

“OK. Now—stay where you are,” said Uncle Stan. “Stay right there and I’ll be with you in ten minutes, can you do that? I’m going to come right over and I’m going to phone the police. Don’t worry, sweetheart, your dad can take care of himself. Just hang on and I’ll be there.” I heard him say something to Margaret. Then he said to me: “All right?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Put the phone down, pet. I’m on my way.”

As I hung up the phone, it began to ring again. “Judith.” It was Father.

“Where are you?” I said.

“I’m at the police station.”

“You’re all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

My knees bent and I sat down on the floor.

Father said: “Judith, I’m sorry. There’s been an accident. I just have to give a statement and then I’ll be home.”

Father said: “Judith? Are you there?”

“Yes,” I said.

I wiped my face. “An accident?”

There was a pause.

“Neil Lewis got knocked down by a car. It happened as we were coming down the hill.” Father’s voice sounded strange. “He’s going to be all right.”

The receiver was in my hand and my hand was in my lap. A distant voice from the receiver said: “He hurt his back. He’s going to be all right.” It went on talking. Suddenly I heard it say: “Judith?”

I lifted up the receiver. “Yes.”

“Look, just sit tight. I’ll be home soon, all right?”

“OK.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone out.”

I heard voices in the background then, a man shouting and doors slamming. Father said: “I have to go now. I’ll be home very soon.”

When Father had gone, I phoned Uncle Stan back to tell him not to come, but Margaret said: “Oh, he’s on his way, Judith. You say your dad’s all right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, thank goodness for that. Don’t worry about Stan. Are you all right?”

Uncle Stan arrived a little later. I heard him knock on the gate and went out to undo it.

Stan said: “What on earth—”

“It’s a fence,” I said. “Father built it to keep the boys out.”

“Boys?”

“Yes, the ones knocking on our door. Remember I told you?” Uncle Stan shook his head. “Uncle Stan,” I said, “Father’s called. He’s all right.”

His eyebrows shot upward. “He’s all right?”

“Yes.”

“Thank goodness! Where is he?”

“At the police station.”

“The police station?”

I nodded.

“Yes,” I said. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right, pet, I’m just glad he’s safe.” Stan’s eyes were glassy. I saw his pajama trousers underneath his coat.

We went into the kitchen. Uncle Stan’s hair was sticking up. He passed his hand over his face and said: “So why is your dad at the police station?”

I explained how he had been chasing the boys. “He said one of them ran across a road and got knocked down.”

“Dear me!” said Uncle Stan. “And this is the boy who’s been giving you trouble?”

“Yes.”

I wondered if he remembered how I had told him about punishing Neil, but he didn’t appear to, which was fortunate. He said: “How long has that fence been there?”

I debated whether to tell him. “Nearly three weeks.”

“Three weeks?”

I wished I hadn’t.

“Your dad didn’t say anything.”

I shrugged.

Uncle Stan looked around, at the dresser and the table, at the mattress Father was sleeping on propped up against the wall. Then he caught sight of the ax above the door. He flushed, and blinked quickly, as if he was trying to make something out. “Your dad been all right besides that?” he said.

“He’s been worried about work. And the boys were getting to him.”

Uncle Stan nodded. “It’s terrible what they did to the garden. Your dad planted those things for your mother. That cherry tree was beautiful in the spring. And the window, and the front door…”

“But that’s not all,” I said. “They did things outside the house and put things through the letter box and rode around him and called him names in the street. They wrote stuff on the fence. And one night I went out and—Oh, it doesn’t matter.”

Uncle Stan shook his head. “Satan’s certainly testing us for all he’s worth.”

“I thought only God tested us,” I said.

He laughed quickly. “But that fence can’t stay there, can it? Your dad’s not going to leave it like that?”

“Father thinks it’s all right. It’s the man from the civil court who doesn’t.”

“Someone’s been to the house?”

“Yes.”

“Oh dear, oh dear.” Uncle Stan rummaged in his pocket and brought out a packet of Rennie’s. I was just going to offer him a cup of tea when we heard a car pull up. A minute later we heard voices coming up the back path. A man was saying: “I know, Mr. McPherson, but chasing them like that—what were you going to do if you caught up with them?”

Father’s voice said: “I hadn’t thought that far.”

Then the back door opened and Father came in with a policeman and a policewoman, and first he said: “Judith,” and then he said: “Stan.”

I jumped up and then I stopped, because there was blood on his shirt and his sweater was rolled up in his hand.

Uncle Stan said: “John, what’s going on?” and it sounded to me as though he was angry, and it was strange because he hadn’t sounded angry till then.

Father came up to me and said: “It’s all right. I carried Neil to the ambulance. He’s going to be all right.” He didn’t say anything to Uncle Stan.

I sat down and looked at my hands.

“We’ll leave you to sort yourself out,” said the policeman. He looked suspiciously at Uncle Stan, then turned back to Father. “Keep yourself available, Mr. McPherson. We may need to take some more information in the near future.”

The policewoman said: “And by the way, that fence is a complete safety hazard.”

Father showed the police out. When he came back into the kitchen, he put his sweater in the washing machine. Uncle Stan said: “John, we need to talk.”

Father said: “I know how this looks but, believe me, there’s another side to the story.”

Uncle Stan said: “What story? Have you seen out there”—he gestured to the front garden—“and that”—he pointed to the ax—“and this child, in a terrible state? And how on earth did this boy get hurt? What’s happening, John? Why didn’t we know about any of this?”

Father said: “Thanks for coming over, Stan, but I can’t talk any-more tonight. We’ll have to have this conversation another time.”

They looked at each other. Then Uncle Stan breathed in suddenly, put his hand on my head, and said: “Well. Good night, sweetheart. Everything’s all right now.” He picked up his car keys and followed Father to the door. I heard him say again just before he went out: “We need to talk,” and Father say: “Not now.” Then I heard the gate shut, then the front door, and Father came back into the kitchen.

His eyes were very bright and very dark. He pulled up a chair and sat down in front of me and put his hands on his knees. He said: “I can see you’re upset, and I’m sorry. I was chasing Neil Lewis and the other boys when Neil ran across a road. I didn’t do anything. The police know that. Neil is being taken care of. He’s going to be all right.”

When I still didn’t look at him, he breathed in and said: “I’m sorry, Judith. I really am. I shouldn’t have gone out. But it’s done now.” He raised his hands and let them drop on his knees. Then he stood up. “Well, I think it’s time for bed.”

He made a hot-water bottle like he used to when I was little and said: “Come on.” He went upstairs with me and put the bottle in my bed and I got in. Then he sat down on the side. I looked out the window and was glad it was dark so that Father couldn’t see my eyes.

Beyond the windowpane there were millions of stars, light spilling out of them as if they were holes cut in fabric and something marvelous beyond. I wanted to speak, but I had to wait because my throat was so tight. I kept waiting. I almost gave up, but in the end my throat let me and I said: “Are we going to be all right?”

“Yes,” Father said, and he, too, waited to speak. It occurred to me that he hadn’t said: “Of course we are,” or “That’s a silly question.”

Neither of us said any more for a minute, and my throat got tighter and my jaw began to ache. “Will you go to jail?” I said.

“No.”

I said: “I was so worried about you,” and my voice was not much more than a whisper.

Father looked down. He said: “I’m sorry, Judith. I shouldn’t have gone.”

I said: “What’s going to happen now?” and my voice was just air.

“Nothing. Nothing is going to happen; what happened was unfortunate, but it’s over now.”

He sat with me a little while longer, then he said: “I have to get up for work tomorrow. Are you going to be all right?”

I nodded because I couldn’t speak anymore.

I thought for a minute he was going to kiss me, but he just brought the blanket up to my chin and said good night.

The Best Day of My Life

THERE WAS ONE day when I thought Father loved me. On that day Father and I walked hand in hand for eleven miles.

We had been preaching and it was summertime and the evening was coming. We were a ways from here in a place called the Silent Valley, where there are not many houses and lots of trees. We hardly ever go, because not many people live there, so all the houses can be covered in an afternoon once or twice a year. The Silent Valley is full of fields. They lead down to a river. We walked down there, and sand martins were going into holes in the bank. There was grass long enough to wade through and a few flowers and some trees. It was one of those days when everything shimmers.

My hand was inside Father’s and his hand was inside his trouser pocket. Father’s skin was surprising. I could feel the veins in his hand and the hairs on his knuckles. I felt his leg muscles move. I remember thinking I must remember this moment, the weight of the sun, the feel of his hand. There was a quietness inside my head and between us, and I thought of the scriptures where it says the Men of Old walked with God and thought it must have felt like this.

Cars went by every now and then on the road, and the sound they made in the air, and the way the land seemed to wash around us, the cool grassy smell and the sounds of the earth breathing and the trees and green things swaying, did something to my stomach.

I don’t know how we came to hold hands, but I know if I had spoken or if we had met someone or had to stop or cross over, or get something out of one of our shoes, we might have stopped.

Moths were in the air when we got home. We made tea and ate leftovers, sitting on the back steps and watching the stars appear one by one. There were more stars that night than I had ever seen before, and they were shooting through the sky in some sort of shower. The street was so quiet, I think everyone else must have been watching too, because there were no sounds of dustbins and dinners and people shouting and kids yelling.

Father told me that without stars we wouldn’t be here and that everything in the universe came from them. He told me each star was a fire, and the fire burned out sooner or later and the star died, but before it did it made new ones. He said they collapse to form black holes, where the gravity is so strong that nothing can escape, not even light, so stars go from being the brightest things to the darkest of all. He said all these stars were ending and beginning all the time.

There was fire in me, and in Father, and heat all around us. We were traveling as fast as those stars, though we were sitting quite still. I was holding something enormous and my body was too small for it. I kept my eyes open so fiercely, they burned. I kept so still, my chest got too tight to breathe.

I sat still all the time those stars were flying, and we watched them cross the heavens and eventually they were gone, and after a while I could swallow again, and then I could blink, and then I could breathe.

Father and I sat on the steps a while longer and then we went inside. And that day was the best day of my life.

Dark

I HAVE NEVER liked the dark. I think if Mother were alive she would have sat with me or left a night-light on or something, but Father doesn’t believe in things like that; he believes in Common Sense and Saving Electricity.

People say they are scared of the dark, but they’re not actually scared of the dark itself; they’re scared of the things in the dark, like monsters and ghosts. But I am afraid of the darkness itself, because in the dark there is Nothing.

The night of Neil’s accident, after Father left, darkness pressed around me. It filled up my nose and my ears and my mouth. I struggled to breathe. I turned this way and that. I said to myself, I wouldn’t talk to God. I was afraid of what I would say. But the dark kept pressing, and in the end I sat up and threw back the covers and said: “I undid it!”

There was silence. I started to cry. Then God said: “You can’t undo things. I’ve told you before.”

“Why did You let it happen, God?” I said. I wiped my face. “I should tell Father it was my fault,” I said. “He should know.”

“Don’t,” God said. “He’ll hate you even more. Trust Me.”

I thought for a bit. “Don’t You ever get tired of it?” I said at last.

“What?”

“Being right.”

“One thing I never get tired of,” God said, “is being right.”

The End of Judith McPherson

JUST BEFORE DAWN I dreamed I was in the Land of Decoration: It was dark and I was running for my life, and I could hear footsteps and every so often a shout: “Over here!”

I didn’t understand how people knew where I was, because I wasn’t leaving any footprints and I wasn’t making a noise. Then I saw there was a trail of bright dust shining in the dark, and it was coming from my pocket, the one I had put the stone in that the old man had given me, but when I put my hand in the pocket there was only a hole and, trickling from the hole, glittering dust.

I tore off my jacket and threw it away and ran faster, but still the trail continued. I stumbled and fell and got up again, and then I was running at different speeds, fast one minute—and the hills and fields around me jumping this way and that, the way they do when you are thrown around on the back of a horse or in a very old film of cowboys and Indians—and slow the next, as if everything was flowing like treacle or honey, and that was worse because I couldn’t make my legs go fast enough.

However I ran, the dust kept trickling, and I thought this stone must be enormous, bigger than the universe, and I hadn’t known it. I ran and ran, trying to remember where the land gave way to the floorboards, but where the sand dunes should have ended there were more dunes and where the hills should have stopped there were more hills. The Land of Decoration went on and on, as I used to imagine it did, only now I wanted it to end and just come to the door or the radiator or the edge of the ring.

I had to stop to get my breath back and as I bent down I saw that the reason the dust wasn’t stopping was that I was full of it, I was made of it, and there were holes in me everywhere. And as I began to run again, I knew that soon there would be nothing left of me except pipe cleaners, cotton, and a little bit of felt.

At Dead of Night

“NEIL LEWIS HAS had an accident and won’t be at school for a while.” Mrs. Pierce was standing in front of her desk.

“What happened, Miss? What happened?”

“He was involved in a car accident. Mr. Williams has told me they’re taking good care of him in the hospital.”

“When did it happen?” said Gemma.

“Last night,” said Mrs. Pierce.

“When will he be back?” said Luke.

“We’re not sure,” said Mrs. Pierce. “It’s just as well it’s nearly Christmas; it will give him a chance to get better before school starts again.”

For the rest of the day I tried to see if Mrs. Pierce was looking at me. I don’t think she was, but I couldn’t be sure.

There were Christmas lights on every one of the trees in the front-room windows as I turned in to our street that evening. The rooms looked warm. I was aching and pulled my scarf higher. I wasn’t sure if it was because I had cried so much last night or because I was coming down with something.

“How was school?” Father asked when he got home.

“Fine.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Mrs. Pierce said Neil had had a car accident. That he would be off till after Christmas.”

“Right,” he said.

“Was work all right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Absolutely” is a word Father never uses.

We were reading the Bible later when a dustbin rattled in the back lane. Father jumped. Then he went to the window, looking first to the right and then to the left. When he came back to the table, he smiled and said: “Cat.” He turned a page over, then turned back. “Where were we?”

I looked at him. “Here,” I said.

“Oh yes.”

He began to read. But before we had got ten verses further, he stopped mid-sentence, took off his glasses, and laid them on the table. He said: “I think we’ll leave it there for tonight.”

“We’re halfway through the chapter.”

“What better place to finish?” he said. “We can ponder what’s going to happen next,” and he got up from the table and didn’t come back.

LATER THAT NIGHT I woke to voices. To begin with, I thought they were coming from the street, but then I realized they were coming from downstairs, and I crept onto the landing.

Halfway down the stairs I saw light coming from under the middle-room door. Inside the room I could hear Uncle Stan. He was saying: “Taking things into your own hands like this.”

“What would you have had me do?” Father said. “If I hadn’t heard that window smash, I don’t know what would have happened. There was petrol—did you know that? I didn’t know what to expect next.”

“I understand,” said Uncle Stan. “But—”

“No, you don’t understand,” Father said. “And you won’t until you’re in a similar situation. Yes, I know what it says here, but it’s different when it comes down to it, I don’t care what you quote me.”

“A little boy has been seriously injured because of your actions,” said Alf’s voice.

“I’ve explained all that,” said Father.

“Do you feel any remorse at all?” said Alf.

“That ‘little boy,’” Father said, “is a complete hooligan. He has made my life hell for the past couple of months and—”

“I asked if you felt any remorse,” said Alf.

There was silence for a minute, and I could hear the hall clock and the wind in the gutters and my heart. Then Father’s voice said: “You know, Alf, I don’t,” and my stomach went up and down and I shut my eyes.

There were no sounds then, except for a rustle of paper and the fire crackling, until Uncle Stan said: “I’m very sorry to hear that, John,” and he sounded sorry. “I just don’t think you realize how extreme your reactions have been; you don’t seem to be thinking clearly.”

Alf said: “I think you should be marked, John. I mean, what sort of example are you giving?”

“Why shouldn’t I protect my family?” Father said. “I’ve only done what was natural.”

“But if you had faith, you’d leave things in God’s hands,” said Stan. “Faith means not doubting, not questioning, not asking why.”

It was a minute before anyone spoke. Then Father said something in a low voice that was so quiet I couldn’t hear and Stan said: “Oh, John. Why d’you bring that up?” and he sounded as though Father had hurt him.

Father said: “Well, she did, didn’t she? She didn’t doubt, she didn’t grumble, she didn’t ask why!”

There was another pause, then Alf said: “Sarah had great faith, John. No one’s denying that.” And I shut my eyes and leaned my head against the banister, because “Sarah” was Mother’s name.

“Great faith—” Father’s voice rose, then stopped short.

There was silence. Then Uncle Stan said: “Can’t you see we’re trying to help you, John, that we want the best for you?”

Father said: “D’you know, right now, Stan, right now, I’m not sure.” A wave of hot and then cold washed over me. I needed the toilet.

There was another silence. Then Alf said: “We’re going to pray for you.”

Stan said: “You know the procedure. If we haven’t heard from you in twenty days…” and Father said quietly: “Yes, I know.”

The door opened suddenly and light fell across the hall, and I nearly fell over myself trying to get back up the stairs in time. I crouched on the landing and heard footsteps going to the front door. Father went out the door with them and I heard the bolts slide back on the gate, then Father locked it, came inside, locked the front door, and went into the kitchen.

I waited for him to come to bed for over an hour, but he didn’t, so I went halfway down the stairs again. The hall light wasn’t on anymore, but there was a light under the middle-room door. I went down the outside of the stairs where the steps made no sound, and when I got to the bottom I walked over the tiles until I could bend down and peep through the keyhole. Father was sitting in an armchair in front of the fire, holding the silver picture of Mother. He was looking at the fire, not making a noise, and tears were coming down his cheeks. He was letting them come and not wiping them away.

The Greatest Test of All

MY MOTHER AND father prepared a room for me before I was born. Mother decorated it and made curtains and a hot-air-balloon light shade, and Father made me a bed and a trunk. They wanted a baby more than anything and when they found out Mother was pregnant everything seemed perfect. But things went wrong.

When Mother was giving birth, she began to bleed. The doctors said she must have a blood transfusion or she would die, but she knew God didn’t approve of them. She knew that it was written that we must not take blood into our body, because blood gives life and belongs to God. The doctors didn’t understand and they wouldn’t help her. Some got very angry. “Save the baby,” she said. One doctor agreed to; the others walked out.

The greatest test of faith is to give your life for it. Mother gave her life for her faith. She saw me and was happy. She told Father she would see him in the new world. Then she died. She wasn’t afraid, because God had promised to resurrect her. Father wasn’t afraid, because he also knew God had promised. But I think he was angry, and I know he was sad.

He kept the house and garden as she had left it. He watered the Christmas roses, he pruned the cherry tree and golden cane. He dusted and polished her things and kept them safe. But he stopped smiling, he stopped laughing, and he stopped making plans.

I asked God if it was my fault Mother died, and He said that it was. I knew that already though. I knew it every time Father was angry with me. “What can I do?” I said to God.

“Nothing. I told you. You can do things, but undoing them—that’s something else altogether.”

Payback

IT WAS THE last day of the term. We took down our work from the walls, ripped the spare pages out of our exercise books, and put them in a pile to be used as scrap paper. When everyone went into the hall in the afternoon to sing carols, I crossed my arms, put my head down, and closed my eyes. For the first time in my life I felt better at school than at home.

A sound made me look up. Mrs. Pierce was closing the door. She said: “Nobody will miss me for five minutes.” She sat down beside me.

“Judith, I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to have a word with you before the end of the day and I probably won’t get a chance if I don’t do it now. You don’t say much, but I’ve been very worried about you lately and wanted to check up on you. What did your father say when you asked him to come and see me?”

I swallowed. “He said he would come up,” I said, “but not for a while—because he’s busy.”

Mrs. Pierce said: “That’s unfortunate. I’d hoped he would—” She sighed and said: “Judith, here is a letter. I’d like you to give it to your father. Tell him it’s very important he reads this.” She looked at me. “All right?”

I bit my lips and nodded.

Then she took a piece of paper out of her pocket and pushed it toward me. She said: “Judith, this is my phone number. I don’t usually do this, but if you need to talk to anyone over Christmas, please call me.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“In fact,” she said, “in the new year, regardless of whether I manage to speak to your father or not, I’m going to get you some help. I think there are a lot of things going on in that head of yours, a lot we could do to help you if we knew what we were dealing with.”

“What do you mean?” I said, and I was frightened.

“It’s nothing for you to worry about,” she said, “just help from some professional people.”

I didn’t know what that meant, and I didn’t want to know.

She got up from the table and said: “They’ll be finishing in a minute. I’d better go back.”

I looked at the paper, and suddenly my eyes were full and my heart was beating so fast. “Mrs. Pierce,” I said.

“Yes, Judith?”

“There’s something I do have to say, but I don’t know if I can.”

“Stop!” said God. But I had started.

Mrs. Pierce came back to the table. “Yes, Judith? I’m listening.”

I felt dizzy. “If I told you I had done something bad…” I said.

“Yes?”

“If I told you I’d done something very bad … something unforgivable—”

“Judith—”

“No!” I said. “If this thing was very bad—”

Mrs. Pierce put her hand on my arm. She said softly: “Judith, I don’t mean to make light of what you’re telling me, but I’m sure you’re not capable of doing anything very bad.”

“I am!” I said. “It’s worse than you can imagine!” and I began to cry.

She waited and handed me a tissue and then said: “And you can’t tell me?”

I shook my head.

“Have you talked to your father about this?”

I shook my head. “He warned me about it—he told me it would lead to trouble, but I didn’t believe him.”

Mrs. Pierce was flushed. She shook her head and said: “Judith, I’m going to phone your father; the sooner I talk to him about this, the better.”

When she said that, I began to breathe very fast, and she put her hand on my arm and said: “Judith, please try not to worry. I’m sure that whatever you did, you did it with the best intentions and your father will understand that; I really do think I should try to talk to him.”

THAT AFTERNOON MRS. Pierce read the last chapter of Charlotte’s Web to us, where Charlotte dies but is happy because she has done everything she could to save Wilbur and people think what she has done is a miracle. Of course the real miracle is that it was such a difficult thing for Charlotte to do because she was dying and yet she did it anyway. Mrs. Pierce stood by her desk as we trooped out and said: “Have a lovely holiday! Don’t eat too many mince pies. I want you all in peak condition for next term.” As I passed, she said: “Remember what we talked about, Judith.” I nodded.

When I got home I burned Mrs. Pierce’s letter in the Rayburn, and I was glad I had done it before I read it, because it made me more frightened than I could imagine thinking of Father reading it. But I stuck Mrs. Pierce’s number in the back cover of my journal. Then I went upstairs to lie on my bed and ticked off the days till I could go back to school; I thought how strange it was to do that, to want to go back. Then I felt colder and got under the covers into bed.

A little later a car pulled up. I heard a door slam and then the gate swing open and a man’s voice say: “Steady.”

I got up and peered through the window, but whoever it was was now opening the front door, and I jumped because it banged against the wall. Someone said: “I’ll get it,” and it sounded like Mike.

I ran along the landing and down the stairs. And then I stopped halfway down, and so did my heart, because it was Mike. He had his arm around someone who looked like Father but I couldn’t be sure: The person who looked like Father had his arm across Mike’s shoulders, and his face looked like it had been pushed sideways, and there was blood on it, and his eye was puffed up and closed like a fetus.

Mike said: “Whoa!” when he saw me. Then he said: “It’s all right, pet. Your dad’s just fallen down some steps. He’s going to be fine. Run and get some cold cloths, will you?”

I must have still been standing there, because Mike said: “Go on, there’s a good girl.” But I still couldn’t move until the person who looked a bit like Father picked up his head and said: “I’m fine, Judith,” and the voice sounded a bit like Father’s too, except that the person’s mouth sounded full of something.

I went back upstairs to the bathroom and began soaking a flannel under the tap. Halfway through soaking it my legs sat down on the side of the bath, because I knew Father hadn’t fallen down steps and I knew it was something to do with what had happened to Neil, and I was pretty sure that a person had done this to Father and that person was Doug Lewis.

I got up and turned the tap off and took the flannel downstairs. Father was sitting at the table and the washing-up bowl was beside him. Mike was touching his eye with some cotton and Father’s head was going back whenever Mike touched him. I put the flannel on the table and Mike said: “Good kid. Your dad’s going to be as right as rain. Go and make us a cuppa, will you do that?”

I went to the sink and heard Mike say in a low voice: “You should have let me take you to the hospital.” Father said something back and spat into the bowl.

I brought two cups of tea in and put them on the table, but Mike seemed to have forgotten he wanted them. He finished bandaging Father’s eye and said: “Lift your shirt,” and when Father did, I saw blood on his stomach and a red mark that looked like the sole of a shoe.

Father put his hand to his eye and touched it. He took it away then touched it again, as if he had forgotten he had done it the moment before. When Mike had finished bandaging him, Father lay on the sofa. His face was white and his arms and legs lay any old how like a rag doll. Mike said: “I’ll call on you tomorrow after work with some groceries.” Father raised his hand but Mike said: “John, I’m telling you, not asking,” and Father let his arm fall again. Mike said: “For once you’ve got to give in and let someone else take over.” Then he put his arm round my shoulder and squeezed. Then he said: “See that he doesn’t get into any more trouble, will you, Fred?”

Then he said in a different voice: “He’s going to be all right, Judith; your dad’s a toughie.” But Father didn’t look tough. He looked dead.

THERE WAS NO sound in the room. Beyond the window, street light spilled over the black garden and the broken cherry tree. My jaw was too tight to speak. I said in my head: “It’s because of Neil, isn’t it? It’s because of what I made happen to him.”

“An eye for an eye,” the voice said. “A tooth for a tooth. A life for a life.”

I began to cry. “But Father isn’t dead,” I said. I began to shake, my whole body. “Why didn’t You protect him?”

God said: “My ways are unsearchable.”

I said: “It’s convenient being unsearchable, isn’t it?”

Fish and Chips

WHEN I CAME downstairs the next morning Father was in front of the Rayburn. That day he got up to get dinner and that was all. I asked: “Shall I call May or Elsie to help?” but he shook his head.

The next day he sat in front of the Rayburn again. He hadn’t shaved and he hadn’t changed his clothes and he didn’t seem to have slept much, because his eye—the one I could see—was bloodshot.

I couldn’t ask him if he was going to phone Uncle Stan without letting him know I had heard the conversation, but when he unplugged the phone I felt shaky and said: “What if we need to call anyone?”

“We plug it back in.”

I was pleased because now Mrs. Pierce wouldn’t be able to get through, but I was worried that Father wasn’t going to phone Uncle Stan. “But he will,” I said to myself. “Now that Neil isn’t knocking anymore, he’ll calm down. He’ll make the phone call to Uncle Stan anytime now,” and all that day I didn’t go far from Father in case he made the call when I wasn’t there.

Over the next few days, the rest of Father’s body turned all shades of blue and yellow, and green. A doctor came and looked at his eye and said Father was lucky, that he wasn’t going to lose it but that he should have gone to the hospital. Mike came by every day after work and sat with Father. On Thursday he left an envelope on the table, and Father saw it as Mike was going out the door and told me to run and give it back to him, but Mike wouldn’t take it.

The days were long without school. I wrote in my journal. I fed my mustard seeds some Baby Bio that Mrs. Pew gave me. I didn’t dare touch the Land of Decoration. One morning I was so tired of nothing happening with the mustard seeds that I dug them up and spread the soil out on a plate and tried to find them. The ones I did find looked exactly the same as when Brother Michaels gave them to me.

I went round to see Mrs. Pew a bit. She showed me photographs of her and Mr. Pew on a tandem and taught me how to play “Chopsticks” on the piano and I held Oscar in a blanket while she gave him his worming tablets, but all the time I had a pain in my stomach thinking about Father, and though I was glad to get out of our house, I was more glad to get back.

He slept or sat with his eyes closed—in front of the grill, I wasn’t sure which. He didn’t say: “Don’t slam the door,” and didn’t say: “Are you playing with that food or eating it?” and didn’t notice when I was loud, which I was on purpose, just to test him. His eyes passed over things as if he didn’t recognize them. He went to bed at eight o’clock. When I came down in the mornings, he was still sleeping. All he did was get up to make tea or stare at the open mouth of the grill, with its black tongue and the black space crusted with char and the black elements, as if there was some great secret in there.

We ate potatoes and bacon or sausages every night. I cooked them, because Father said I could, and didn’t get them right once, but he didn’t notice. There was no more praying and no more reading the Bible and no more pondering, though I did enough pondering for both of us. On Sunday, Father took his eye patch off and began reading the newspaper, so after dinner I took away the plates, then fetched the Bibles. I said: “We’ve been forgetting.”

Father looked at the Bible for a few minutes, then sucked in breath through his nose, as if he was waking. He said quietly: “I can’t do this right now, Judith.”

I felt a flash of heat as though I was falling. “But it’s important!” I said. “It’s Sunday and we didn’t even go to the meeting! We haven’t done the study for ages!”

Father raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “I can’t get my head round it at the moment, Judith.”

It made me feel terrified when he said that. I said: “What do you mean?”

“I just need … a bit of space.”

“Space?”

He sighed. “Sometimes things are too complicated for children to understand.”

“I can understand,” I said. “Tell me!”

But he got up and sat with his back to me.

“Well, I’m going to read,” I said. “I’ll read for both of us.”

Father said loudly: “I don’t need anyone to read to me!” I thought for a minute he was going to get angry, but the look left his face as quickly as it had come and he said: “I just need some peace.”

I did read, and it was all about the Nephilim and the flood and how God destroyed everything. Because it was such a long time since we’d done the reading I’d forgotten where we were and began reading wherever I opened the Bible, which happened to be Genesis, though the flood wasn’t a very good subject at all, and I wished I’d never started halfway through. I was glad—though astonished—when Father interrupted and said: “Do you fancy fish and chips?”

“What?” I said.

“I said, would you like some fish and chips?”

I wondered if this was some sort of test, but he kept looking at me, and he didn’t look like he was trying to trick me, he only looked incredibly tired.

“Yes,” I said at last.

We put on coats and walked through the rain down the hill to Corrini’s. It was the first time Father had been out of the house, and he kept pulling his coat collar higher and shivering.

He blinked beneath the lights in Corrini’s and people stared at him. He said: “Cod and chips please” and the woman dug into the metal tray, filled the cone, wrapped it, and said: “Three pounds.” She had to wait to use the till and while she was waiting, the man using it looked up at Father, then back down again.

Father bought four cans of beer from the package store and then we went home. I held the fish and chips in my arms, and the rustling and the smell and the weight of them were almost too much to bear. When we got in, I ate them from the paper so quickly that a lump formed in my chest, and I had to wait for it to go before I began again. The chips were fluffy and squidgy, and the fish fell apart in little moist flakes. The batter crunched and then it oozed. It was so delicious that tears came to my eyes.

Father didn’t tell me to slow down or get a plate or use a knife and fork. I was halfway through before I realized he wasn’t eating. I said: “D’you want some?”

“No, they’re for you,” he said.

But I suddenly didn’t feel like eating anymore. “Look at this,” I said, and put two chips under my top lip and made an evil face. He took a sip from his can and smiled, then went back to looking at the grill. I wished he would tell me off for playing with my food.

I took the chips out of my mouth and looked down at the newspaper. I said: “Are you all right?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

There were lots of reasons why he might not be but none that seemed possible to talk about. “I don’t know,” I said. I looked at the clock. It was past ten o’clock; he hadn’t even realized it was bedtime.

“Look at the time!” I said.

“Oh yes.”

I stood up. “Thank you for the fish and chips.”

Still he didn’t look at me. “You’re welcome.”

I said: “I’d better go to bed, hadn’t I?”

“Good idea.”

“Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

I went to the door, but when I got there I laughed and turned round. “You are all right, aren’t you?”

Something flickered in his face. He said: “Of course I’m all right!” and looked almost like himself again.

“Oh, good,” I said, and I felt better than I had done all day.

Visitors

TWO DAYS BEFORE Christmas, Elsie and May came and tapped on the fence. I wouldn’t have heard them unless I had been in the garden, but it was sunny and I didn’t want to be inside.

“Cooeee!” May called.

“Hellooo!” called Elsie.

“Hey!” I shouted.

“Judith!” they cried. “Are you all right, my lovely?” They sounded a bit unsure; I forgot they hadn’t seen the fence.

“Yeah!” I said. “Hang on, I’ll get the key.”

“We missed you!” said Elsie.

“Hang on!” I said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Can I have the key?” I said to Father when I got into the kitchen. “Elsie and May are out the front.”

“Oh.” Father touched his eyes. Then he shook his head and said: “I can’t handle that at the moment.”

I stared at him. “It’s Elsie and May,” I said.

“I know who it is, and I said I can’t handle it. Just say I’m not well.”

I looked at him. “But you are,” I said suddenly. A white-hot light flashed on in my head. “You’re fine.”

Father said in a low voice: “I’m not going to argue with you: Tell them it’s very kind of them, but I don’t want to see anyone at the moment.”

I was breathing fast. “But we haven’t seen anybody for ages!” I said. My voice was shaking and it was getting too loud. “What if I want to see them? I live here too!”

Father jumped up from the chair. “I don’t want to see anyone at the moment, Judith, all right? I don’t want to see anyone!”

I stood there, then ran out of the room. In the hall I got my breath and wiped my face. Then I opened the front door and went to the fence and called to May and Elsie and said Father wasn’t feeling well.

“Oh dear … But are you all right, sweetheart?” they cooed.

“Yes.” I leaned my head against the fence.

“Oh, well…”

There was silence for a minute or two. “Can we get you anything?”

“No. Thank you.” I closed my eyes.

“Well, all right … we’ll be off then—we’ll see you soon, though, at the meeting.”

“Yes.”

“Give your dad our love.”

“Tell him we’re thinking of him.”

“Goodbye, sweetheart.”

I heard them go down the road, and then I slipped down the fence and sat on the soil.

I DIDN’T SPEAK to Father for the rest of the day, but he didn’t notice because he wasn’t speaking much either. Late that night he came up to my room and sat on the bed. He didn’t seem to care whether I was asleep or not, but I pretended to be; he smelled of beer and I was afraid.

“We’ll win in the end,” he said. “They think they’ve beaten us, but they haven’t!” He put his hand on my head and it was heavy and clammy, like being touched by a dead thing. I felt him sway on the edge of the bed, then he farted.

He said: “What have I—”

Then he made a noise that sounded like: “Gah!” and put his head in his hands and rubbed his hands back and forth over his hair and groaned. Then he began to laugh, and all the while he laughed he rubbed his head.

When he had gone, I didn’t move for the longest time. I didn’t want to breathe, but I had to. I suppose I had thought that once Father’s body began to get better he would be himself again, but he wasn’t, so something else must be wrong, and I didn’t want to think what that was. I thought for the first time that perhaps Father had the Depression. Depression was a sin, because it meant someone despaired of God.

And I decided knocking on doors and smashed windows and heads down toilets and fires and even getting beaten up were nothing to this, because whatever this was couldn’t be seen and couldn’t be got at and couldn’t be mended. It couldn’t be fixed like a door, or an eye, or a tooth, or a house.

Christmas

THE NEXT DAY, we got a Christmas card from Auntie Jo. She had made the card herself, as usual, and stuck a photo on the front. In the photo she had her hair cut very short and was wearing enormous double-clef earrings and grinning, with a party hat on her head. She had her arms around two other women, and it looked like they were in someone’s back garden at night. She looked as though she had been in the sun.

The card said: Happy Christmas. Thinking of you both. Would love to see you. Come and visit. Love, Jo. There was a long line of kisses. I sniffed the card but it didn’t smell of anything. But I thought how Auntie Jo’s fingers had been all over it. I imagined Auntie Jo smiling at me as she was on the front of the card. I asked Father if I could keep this card and he said that I could, so I stuck it on the wall above my bed. It made the whole room seem different, as if a window had been opened and fresh air had come in.

The Saturday after Christmas, Uncle Stan came to see Father. He came straight after dinner. Father offered him a cup of tea, but Uncle Stan didn’t want one. They went into the front room and closed the door. I couldn’t hear anything, so I went to my room and sat on the floor and took out my journal, but I just sat and looked at the page.

Then I heard the door downstairs. Uncle Stan said: “The announcement will be made tomorrow,” and Father said: “Thank you.”

About half an hour later Father knocked at my door. I scrambled up and put the journal under the floorboard and said: “Come in!”

He perched on the edge of the chair by my desk and said: “Judith, I’ve got something to tell you; I’m sorry about it but there it is. Uncle Stan has just been here and we’ve had a long talk: At the meeting tomorrow there’ll be an announcement made saying I’ve been Removed. I want you to know I’m in agreement with it.”

“Oh,” I said. I didn’t look up.

“I know this will come as a shock to you, but I can’t in full conscience do anything else right now. What I came to say is this: It doesn’t mean you have to stop going to meetings: I’m more than happy to take you and drop you off. I want you to do whatever you want to do.”

I don’t know how long he went on talking, I heard him say: “Judith?”

I swallowed. “Is it because you chased the boys?” I said. But it didn’t really matter why now.

“That—and other things,” said Father. He sighed. “I suppose I’ve been doing things my own way for quite a while.”

I was feeling hot and thought I might faint. I said: “But you still believe in God, don’t you?”

Father gave a very small laugh. “I don’t know what I believe,” he said. He stood up. “But if you want to go tomorrow, I’ll drop you off.”

I shook my head.

“You don’t want to go?”

I shook my head.

“OK.” He went to the door. Then he stopped and said: “Oh.” He rummaged in his pocket. “Stan said to give this to you.” I opened the piece of paper. On it was written:

The Last Day of the Year

IT WAS THE last day of the year. It was a Sunday but not like any Sunday I had ever known. There wasn’t any lamb and there weren’t any bitter greens and there wasn’t any meeting or preaching. The house was so cold, things felt wet to touch, and it seemed to get dark right after lunchtime. I sat by the kitchen window and thought that I had hated Sunday before but this was a thousand times worse. The one good thing was that I didn’t have to wear Josie’s poncho, but the more I thought about it, even that didn’t seem a bad thing now.

“What can I do about Father?” I said to God.

“He’s lost faith,” said God. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“He hasn’t lost faith,” I said. “He’s just confused.” But I looked at Father, at his neck jutting forward, at his hands flat on the arms of the chair, at the mug of cold tea, at the mattress on the floor and the curtains half drawn, and I wasn’t so sure.

I went up to my room and sat in the window and drew up my knees and watched the sky change from indigo to black and thought how not that long ago I had watched it turn white and fill with snow. The streets and gutters were running with yellow light. There was music coming from somewhere, and every so often I saw people going by; some were arm in arm, some were laughing, some were swaying and singing. After a while there were fireworks, and in the bursts of light I could see for miles. The fireworks stayed still for a second before they fell. I tried opening and closing my eyes so I would see only that flash of light, but most often I missed it.

At midnight, people began singing somewhere, the song about old acquaintances and cups of kindness that they always sang at the end of the year, and then I couldn’t sit there anymore and got up.

“I chose the stone,” I said out loud. I took a deep breath. “I chose to be powerful.” I swallowed. “If I think hard enough for long enough, I will be able to think of something to make things better. But I am not making anything because that always goes wrong.” I couldn’t think of anything to make anyway. I pressed my head really hard with my hands and screwed my eyes up. But I couldn’t think of anything at all.

I said: “Go back to the beginning,” and I asked myself when things had begun to get bad and thought it was actually around the time of the strike.

I had made a factory in the Land of Decoration a long time ago. It wasn’t the sort of thing I usually made, but I had seen the chimneys at the factory in town and thought how much they looked like toilet rolls, so I made them and put ladders from a toy fire engine going up the sides. I made the factory from a shoe box, with clay chimneys and cellophane windows and straws for the pipes. There was a Lego fire escape and a car park and a wire-mesh fence made out of a net that oranges had been in. I went over to the factory now and turned it round in my hands. The chimneys wobbled, but there was no sound inside, because it was empty. I’d taken the people out because I needed them for other things. And then I wondered what would happen if I filled it, if I made an inside.

“It might work,” I thought—and it was such an enormous thought I didn’t dare say it out loud.

Then I said: “But I said I wouldn’t make anything else.”

Then I said: “But what’s the worst that could happen?” This wasn’t like making a person. The situation at the factory couldn’t get any worse. But then I thought I might be fooling myself. I walked round and round the room, thinking maybe I shouldn’t and maybe I should and trying to think what else I could do instead, but I couldn’t think of anything. I felt very excited and then I felt very scared, and then I felt tired of being excited and scared and just wanted everything to be over. “God,” I said, “is this possible?”

“Most of the time, everything is possible,” said God.

“But can I really make things better?”

“Yes,” God said, “you can.”

“All right,” I said. And for the last time I went to the trunk and lifted the lid.

I had never seen inside the factory, so I knew this was going to be the hardest thing I had made yet. All I could do was imagine how things looked and hope for the best.

I worked all night, until I saw the light coming over the top of the mountain. Then I felt more tired than I have ever felt, and hollow, like a stalk, and I turned off the lamp and got into bed. “Please, God,” I said, “make this turn out right.”

The Field Again

AND AS I slept I had my favorite dream, the one about the two little people I made first of all, the fabric doll with the dungarees and flowers and the pipe-cleaner man with the green sweater, and they were Father and me.

Father was holding my hand and we were walking through a field, leaving a trail in the grass. Sometimes we went to the right and sometimes to the left. Sometimes I would be ahead and sometimes Father would be. I was asking him about the Land of Decoration, about what it would be like, and then he said: “We’re here, Judith; you don’t have to ask me anymore,” and I looked around and saw he was right. For the first time it wasn’t the pretend world but the real one, with real grass and real sky and real trees, and then I looked down and saw we weren’t dolls but ourselves, and it was wonderful.

The sun was pink on our faces and our shadows grew long. I was talking and Father was listening; he was looking at me, and that was wonderful too. But after a while he began to talk before I had finished and his answers weren’t making sense, and I realized he wasn’t talking to me after all. Then I looked closer and saw that it wasn’t me, and I wondered who I was, and where I was if I wasn’t there, because I could still see and hear everything perfectly clearly.

I watched the two little people go through the long grass. They got smaller and smaller, then joined hands and began to run. I called to them, but I couldn’t make them hear, I was big, and they were small and were running away from me. I wanted to be small more than anything then but saw that I wasn’t and never would be.

They went down by the river where the sun was low and the sand martins were darting, and among the water and low light I lost them.