The Land of Decoration Read Free Page B

got his stomach ulcer, though some people say he got it because of Auntie Margaret. Stan put his arm round Auntie Nel and said: “How’s my favorite Sister?”
    Nel said: “That carpet looks like it could do with Hoovering.”
    Uncle Stan stopped smiling. He looked at the carpet. He said: “Right.”
    Stan went to find the Hoover and I went to find Father. He was in the book room, sorting out last month’s surplus magazines with Brian. There are small white flakes on the shoulders of Brian’s jacket and in his hair. “H-h-h-how are y-y-y-you, J-J-Judith?” Brian said.
    “Fine thanks,” I said. But I wasn’t. The pain in my stomach was coming back. I’d stopped thinking about Neil for a minute, only to remember again.
    Alf came up. His tongue was flicking in and out at the corners of his mouth like a lizard. He said to Father: “Report cards in?” Father nodded. Alf is what Father calls “Second in Command.” He’s not much taller than me but wears little boots with heels. He is almost bald, but his hair is combed over and sprayed in a lid. I saw it lift once in the wind when we were preaching, and he jumped into the car and said: “Run and buy me some hairspray, kid!” and wouldn’t get out until I had.
    Uncle Stan appeared, lugging the Hoover. He looked gray. “The speaker’s not here,” he said. “I don’t feel like giving the talk if he doesn’t turn up.”
    “He will,” said Father.
    “I don’t know,” said Alf. He hoisted his trousers. “The last speaker we were supposed to have got lost.” Suddenly he saw me and stopped frowning. “Josie’s got something for you.”
    I didn’t like the way he was grinning. “What is it?” I said.
    Father said: “It’s polite to say, ‘Thank you,’ Judith.” He frowned at me as if he was disappointed, and I flushed and looked down.
    But Alf said: “I couldn’t tell you what it is, could I? That would spoil the surprise.”
    Josie is Alf’s wife. She is very short and very wide, has a long white ponytail and a mouth like a slit, where creamy saliva collects in the corners and stretches like a concertina when she talks. She wears funny clothes and likes to make them for other people. So far she has made me: a crocheted dress with blue and peach roses, which she asked about until it shrank in the wash, a turquoise skirt with ribbon around the edge, which reached to the ground, a crocheted Cinderella-doll toilet-roll holder, which Father refused to have in the bathroom so I made it into a hill for the Land of Decoration, a toilet-seat cover, which now keeps drafts out at the foot of the back door, bright blue leg warmers, an orange bodysuit, two cardigans, and a balaclava. Josie must think either that we are very poor, that I am much bigger than I am, or that I am very cold. One day I will tell her that she is wrong: that we aren’t rich but we have enough money to buy clothes, that though I may appear to be older because I read the Bible well and talk to the grown-ups I am ten, and four foot four, and that most of the time I am just the right temperature.
    I scanned the crowd but couldn’t see any sign of her. To be on the safe side, I went to stand behind the sound equipment with Gordon. There isn’t anyone my age in our congregation, so although Gordon is a lot older than me, I chat to him. Gordon was testing the microphones, making a pock-pock sound.
    I looked at the clock. There were now exactly twenty-three hours until Neil Lewis put my head down the toilet. There was nothing for it. Gordon was setting up the microphones. I said to him: “Have you got a mint?” Gordon rummaged in his pocket. He unrolled the top of a packet and dropped a dusty white tablet into my hand. “Thanks,” I said. I only ask for Gordon’s mints in emergencies. Gordon took two and went back to untangling cables.
    Gordon has not long come off heroin; he got hooked on heroin because he Got In with the Wrong Crowd. He Battles Depression, so he does very well