Half-Sick of Shadows Read Online Free PDF Page B

hair stuck upward and out. He must have washed it. No comb could tame its rebellion at the shock of shampoo, when it had known nothing stronger than water all its young life – and in its later life, water and a blob of grease. Father had dressed in a black suit shining with age.
    Since his eyes in the hall inadvertently collided with hers through the open door to the kitchen, he mumbled Mother an aye-aye. He said aye-aye often, in preference to talking. I used to think he said eye-eye because everybody has two of them. He was confirming to whoever he said eye-eye to that they still had both.
    ‘Sleep well?’ she asked, with plainly feigned interest. Mother’s enthusiasm always sagged when Father appeared. Sometimes she spat on to his eggs – I’d seen her doing it when she thought herself unwatched.
    Nothing smelled better than the sound of frying bacon. I later went off bacon when I learned those crackle-fizzing strips of goodness were bits of cut up pig. But these were innocent times. Crispy aroma crackled out of the pan and snaked through the air. The bacon was for Father; we only received a crispy breakfast at Christmas. The rest of the time we got porridge and buttered toast – more than they got in China, Father often said, with cut up pig fat glistening in his beard.
    Mother danced with kitchen utensils for partners; she and they were as one. She brought the kettle to the boil, milked the cups, turned the bacon and scooped it on to a tray to keep warm under the grill with the soda and potato bread. She fried sausages in the pan and buttered toast. Eggs were last. Father loved his eggs and bacon. Thick farm bacon with plenty of fat. He waited by the fire, reading his bible, for Mother to place the tray and saucer of toast and mug of tea and stacked plate of breakfast upon his lap.
    Mother’s enthusiasm returned by the time she reached the top of the stairs. She existed for us, her alpha and omega, she said often, having learned the phrase from Reverend Burrows. We loved to hear that we were her alpha and omega. It sounded grand even if we had no idea what it meant. At least, I had no idea what it meant, and I’m sure Sophia had no idea either. Edgar, to the best of my knowledge, never had an idea about anything. Gregory might have known. It was hard to tell what Gregory knew because he lied so often.
    Father never missed a day at work, not even when snow reached the window sills, not even when thunder and lightning frightened our chickens to death, not even when he woke up in the morning dying from flu, or when one of us woke up dying from Plague, Famine or Ennui. He said he couldn’t afford to miss a day at work. Father pedalled through summers and winters, through darkness and light, through thunder and snow blizzards to get to Farmer Barry’s farm.
    However, he had taken a day off work today to bury his mother. Her coffin occupied the kitchen table. We were to have breakfast on our laps in the living room. Father had shoved Granny Hazel’s empty bed into a corner to make space.
    Having already eaten one breakfast, Father waited for us to arrive for ours in his armchair by the fire. We arrived one by one. When everyone had presented themselves, Mother left the living room and returned a minute later with a large tray containing six small bowls of porridge so thick it was nearly biscuit.
    Father gave thanks for the Lord’s rich bounty, bearing in mind – lest we forget – that because of the Devil’s work people were starving in China. Father always remembered the starving in China. If he kept on eating two breakfasts, Father would be unlikely to starve in China or anywhere else. I was truly thankful we had a fire on that morning; most mornings were too warm for a fire – Father said.
    After porridge, Mother brought mugs of tea so hot they lifted skin from the roofs of our mouths, and a stacked plate of toast, the black scraped off and heavily buttered to hide the scars. We were big toast people in the