The Scrapbook Read Online Free PDF Page B

why I’m crying, or for whom, so I settle on Granny Ivy. I conjure up her voice, the smell of her apron, the bony clasp of her hand, and let myself miss her.
    The phone starts to shrill from its place on the sideboard, pulses of sound that fill the pauses between sobs. Impatience filters through from the front room and I stagger to my feet, call out to forestall any appearance.
    â€˜Just rescuing a moth, mum, be through in a minute.’
    I can hear her muttering to herself as I splash water on my face and then collect the glasses. She’s at least two drinks past the mellow stage.
    â€˜It’s okay, panic over. There you go.’
    I sit down in the armchair and put her drink on the coffee table. Her mouth’s twisted in on itself like a poisoned rosebud, but then she peers at me and takes in the swollen eyelids and the rose blooms and blossoms.
    â€˜Oh, Fern. What happened?’
    â€˜It died. The moth. It was caught up in a cobweb and I crushed it trying to get it free.’
    â€˜I’m sorry to hear that,’ she says slowly. ‘Was that the phone I heard? Who was it? Was it Rick?’
    I shake my head and reach for my glass. We sip for a moment in silence and she watches me as if she’s about to say, or ask, something else. I’m in no mood for a heart to heart. I pick up my cards, look them over, and nod towards her purse.
    â€˜I think you’d better crack open the notes, mum. I’m upping the stakes and coins just aren’t going to cut it.’
    She fumbles through the worn compartments and starts to count her remaining funds. ‘You’ll have the shirt off my back, you evil girl. We’d better go to the bank tomorrow after you’ve taken me to the hospital. Replenish my supply.’
    But she’s smiling.

A Clipped Square From The Top Of A Cigarette Box
    Afterwards. After you’d lain on me in the back seat of your car, covered me with your hands, blocked out the moon and the stars until the night narrowed to just the skin of your neck – afterwards – I remembered my mother’s words.
    Drowsy with joy and desperate to prove her wrong, so sure that she would be wrong, I laughed as I asked you if you were married, and didn’t understand why you weren’t laughing too.
    You hissed smoke out between your teeth and glanced at me. Glanced away.
    I think other women would have wanted to know everything then. Every detail of every aspect of this other life. Gorged themselves on the pain of it until they were plump and ripe with its awfulness. Carried it around with them forever afterwards, so carefully, like a vase too big and too heavy, too full of water. Dripping its load no matter how delicately they cradled it.
    They’d have wanted to know everything.
    Do you wind her hair into a rope, to cling to as you climb her body? Did you buy two sets of camisoles in silver satin, one for each of us? When you see me wearing mine, in the subtle confusion of night, do you mistake me for her?
    Does she cover her mouth when she laughs, or does she throw her head back and show the world her teeth? Do you watch her when she sleeps, and will yourself into her dreams?
    Does she stride across the earth with long, confident steps, dance beneath the hectic sky during a summer storm, or does she take your arm and lean into you? Does she believe in ghosts, and fairies, and monsters?
    Does she know about us? Does she?
    Does she ever think about me?
    I slid onto your knees, took your chin gently in the palm of my hand, and turned your head. We looked at each other and I peeped between your parted lips, saw the confession squatting on your tongue. The need to press words like bruises onto me. I kissed that need from your mouth, and then I smiled. I laughed. And I felt so tremendously happy.
    You wouldn’t understand that. The elation. The relief. So crooked, so twisted, when I say it aloud. But that kiss was a farewell to all the harsh mornings that