Half-Sick of Shadows Read Online Free PDF Page A

words. I came second best. Sophia used to be as good as me, but then she stopped, as if her head held enough of everything and had no space for anything new. By the time Granny Hazel fainted under the table, I had an ocean liner for a word boat and Sophia had a tug. Nevertheless, there were words I thought I knew but discovered, when called upon to use them, that I didn’t. Words like posy. Edgar displayed as much talent as anyone when the words could go with pictures, but he was hopeless at non-picture words, like precocious.
    He’s a precocious child, Mother occasionally said. I, for my sins, held the dubious honour of being the precocious child in question. This invisible stamp, this identity, became all the heavier to bear because Gregory and Sophia were never referred to as precocious, and Edgar was its opposite.
    When Father said precocious it sounded wrong, like a walrus performing a capriole. He said precocious as if he had a taste in his mouth like sour milk. He always directed his words to Mother, or the air; he seldom spoke to my face. He never punished me for being precocious, although his scowl was disapproval enough. I didn’t like being precocious. I never knew if my precociousness leaked out like dribble.
    When Mother called me a precocious child, however, precocious sounded special rather than warped. When I learned to read, and discovered how to use the dictionary, I trawled through the pris, the pros and eventually the pres. The word I sought remained elusive. It even managed to evade the encyclopedia. The meaning came to me some time later, as most words do to all people, by magic.
    Suddenly, my eyes opened in pitch darkness. I had a space behind them where sleep had been. Morning had arrived, but not dawn.
    ‘Are you awake?’ I called across the gap between our beds.
    ‘Where have you been? I’ve been awake for ages and ages and ages and ages,’ replied my other half.
    ‘You should have woke me.’
    ‘I did, but you didn’t wake. I dreamed. Did you dream it too?’
    ‘I don’t think so. What was it about?’
    ‘I can’t remember,’ said Sophia. We often dreamed the same dream. Dreaming the same dream was like having four arms, four legs, and one head. ‘Sometimes I can’t remember my dreams, but I know I’ve had them. There’s a big space where they were in my head … Mother’s been up for hours and hours. Why hasn’t she come?’
    Not a clue on earth did I have appertaining to Mother’s absence. Nevertheless, ‘She’s gathering eggs for breakfast,’ I said.
    I couldn’t wait any longer. I needed to wee, which meant sitting on the edge of the bed, exposing myself to the Cold. While I went, Sophia went too. I went in my bottle; she went in her pan. It’s a wonder our pee didn’t freeze solid on the way down.
    When we had done what needed doing, we jumped back into bed with shivery noises and wrapped our blankets tight against our necks. Just as our shivery noises stopped, Mother stormed our rooms and opened the curtains, first in the bedroom shared by Gregory and Edgar, then in the bedroom I shared with Sophia. If Mother stopped starting our days in this way none of us would have got up ever except to wee.
    Mother had a sunny word for each of us as she shook us to life one by one. Gregory first – he took most shaking. ‘Morning, dreamer.’ Then, Edgar, ‘Rise and shine, sleepyhead.’ Sophia next, ‘Come along, my angel.’ And, finally, me, ‘Hurry up, precocious one.’
    Precocious was a Mother word, like reduce (over saucepans) and obligatory (over Gregory doing his homework). Sin and punish were Father words. Mother’s words were prettier, in my opinion.
    … and, last, Gregory again, ‘Come on, you; shift your arse.’
    On this particular morning, she echoed something she said last night: ‘Don’t forget what day it is.’ As if we could!
    None of us spoke much first thing in the morning. Mother said it was because we Pikes slept like the dead. I don’t know