A Whisper to the Living Read Online Free PDF Page A

something bad, but having no real concept of what my sin had been, I toyed with the idea of standing my ground. Had my mother not been there, had I not been a witness to her lack of sympathy for me, I probably would have chosen to remain and take a whipping. But knowing that my mother would neither support nor defend me, I took one last look at her mortified expression before creeping out into the corridor to stare at the effigy in the corner.
    It was a statue of a long-haired man in a red cloak, patience and suffering etched deeply into its face. One hand lay across its chest where a heart dripping vivid red blood sat on a plain white undergarment. This was the Christ who had died for me. This was the Christ whose Body and Blood I would have to receive. I still felt sick.
    I touched an icy bare foot, tracing the toenails with the end of my finger. Well, this was definitely not body and blood. I scraped away a bit of the flesh-coloured paint to reveal chalky white plaster underneath. Then, kneeling on the cold marble floor, I took the beads from my pocket and began to count my way through the Our Fathers, the Hail Marys and the Glory Bes. My knees hurt. On the end of my rosary, another Christ figure dangled, this time crucified and made of base metal and I swung this item about a bit to relieve the monotony.
    I knew I didn’t believe in what I was doing, in what I was saying. None of it made any sense. I shut my eyes tight and fought to believe, reaching down inside myself, trying to locate my immortal soul, hoping that it would inflate and fill with grace as I prayed. Nothing happened. I shuffled about the floor, trying to ease the agony in my knees.
    When I opened my eyes and gazed once more at the dripping heart, my stomach heaved and I vomited noisily onto the clean black and white floor before sliding down into unconsciousness. They found me there eventually, cleaned me up, put me into a nursery cot and gave me sips of water and a cool cloth for my head.
    From that day on, Sister Agatha ignored me almost completely. She never seemed to look directly at me again, avoiding me whenever possible, delegating my punishments to beings lesser than herself. Occasionally, I caught her looking at me sideways, but as soon as I met her eye she would turn away quickly, leaving in the space between us an atmosphere I did not yet recognize as shame.
    My contempt for her grew then lessened as other, more pressing, events pushed her from my mind. She was, after all, a person of no importance.

4
Changes
    ‘See what Eddie’s got for you, Annie. Come on, hurry up.’
    I pretended not to hear, whipping my newly chalked top into further frenzy until it skidded to a halt among the cobbles at the pavement’s edge. Sheila Davies, my best friend for the moment, straightened from her task of marking out a hopscotch on the flagstones. ‘Yer Mam’s shouting, Annie.’
    I picked up my top and sauntered over to Sheila.
    ‘Why don’t you go and see what she wants?’ she asked. ‘I think you’re right daft not playing with all them things he’s bought you.’
    She was right, I supposed. There I was with a veritable treasure trove – a scooter, a skipping rope set in varnished wooden handles with ball-bearings for smooth turning, a dolls’ house with curtains and smart furniture, all ignored out in the air-raid shelter. I couldn’t explain, not even to Sheila, why I wouldn’t play with the things. In truth, I found it difficult – indeed impossible – to explain to myself why I couldn’t, or wouldn’t take advantage of Eddie Higson’s generosity.
    ‘Get in here now, Annie!’ The tone of my mother’s voice precluded the possibility of any further attempts to ignore her.
    On entering our kitchen, I found Eddie Higson sitting, as usual, in the big rocker, my father’s rocker. This was placed to the left of the range and sideways on to the window, a position chosen by my father because the light enabled him to read his
Bolton Evening