Abomination Read Free

with a knife and fork, those big, awful eyes.
    Hey: maybe she’s a witch. Maybe she cast a spell on me by touching my ruler.

7. Martha
     
    What do you do, Sundays? Sleep late, eat a big breakfast, go for a run in the car? Most people seem to, ending up at garden centres, Sunday markets, tourist spots. A few pop into church first, but not many. Nice day anyway – something to look forward to all week.
    Let me tell you about my Sunday. My Sabbath. The Sabbath of the Righteous.
    It kicks off at six, summer and winter. Rain or shine.
    My alarm goes off. I get up, wash my hands and face in cold water, put on the brown dress Mother sewed for me, make my bed and tidy my room. If it is winter, I do all of this in the dark. At six forty-five, I go downstairs. There’s no electric light, no heat, no breakfast. Just a candle burning at Father’s end of the table, where he sits with the big Bible. At the other end, in darkness if it is winter, sits Mother. Good morning, Martha , says Father. Good morning, Father , I reply. Good morning, Martha , says Mother. Good morning, Mother , say I, and sit down. The floor is of quarry tiles, and I take care not to make a screeching sound with the legs of my chair. The Bible is open at the page Father wants. After leading the two of us in a short prayer, he reads a story from the Old Testament. It might be the story of Esau and Jacob, or Gideon, or Samson, or Jonah, or some other story. I know them all. When he’s finished he says, The word of God , and closes the Bible. By this time it’s about seven fifteen. We can hear Abomination making noises in the cellar because there’s been no food, but nobody mentions this.
    We get ready for church. It’s a mile away and we walk. We’ve missed only once since I was born. It had snowed all night and there’d been a high wind. Some of the drifts were five feet deep. I was six years old. We set off, but had to turn back. Father had sent Mary away just a few days before. He said the blocked road was God punishing him for raising such a daughter. I remember thinking it might be God punishing him for turning her out of the house, but of course I didn’t say anything. Perhaps I didn’t think it – not at six. Maybe it occurred to me when I was a bit older. Anyway.
    Meeting starts at eight fifteen and usually goes on till eleven. Yes, that’s right – two and three quarter hours solid of praying and listening. The building is cold and bare. The seats are hard wooden chairs and we mustn’t fidget. Even the youngest kids have to sit absolutely still and pay attention. You want to try it sometime, in midwinter when you’re hungry and your feet are wet because the snow came over your boots. Tell yourself God loves you. It won’t help.
    The walk home warms us, and when we get in we’re permitted to return to the twentieth century. Father switches on the central heating and Mother microwaves a stew she made yesterday. I’m sent down the cellar to feed Abomination, which is horrible, but then comes the highlight of my day – I get to eat.
    In the afternoon I do my homework while Father studies the Bible and Mothers sews. At five we walk to six o’clock Meeting. Those chairs again, this time for about an hour. Then the walk home (normal people whizzing past us in cars at the end of their day out), a mug of cocoa, then bed.
    There’s this text in a frame on the dining-room wall. Six days shall work be done: but the seventh day is the sabbath of rest .
    That’s what it says, so why is it that when Sunday night rolls round I’m more shattered than I’ve been all week?

8. Scott
     
    I spotted Martha Sunday afternoon. It was just after five. We’d been to Borley Water Gardens, and as we drove up Wentworth Road there she was, walking down with two wrinklies. Her parents, probably. You should have seen them. The sun was shining and it was still warm, but the guy was wearing a thick black overcoat that came nearly to his ankles and a black,