Whispers Through a Megaphone Read Free Page B

herself as usual. She worried about the safety of cats outside all day long, worried about what kind of concoction she would be given for tea, worried that other children would be meaner than ever and what that meanness might look like. Today had been the loudest day. No wonder you’re a fucking weirdo, Delaney. Your mother’s a nutter. Get your kit off, show us what you got, you both fucking nudists, is that what you are?
    She opened the front door of 7 Beckford Gardens, walked along the hallway to the kitchen.
    They were on the table.
    On it.
    Just like her boiled egg and soldiers this morning.
    Just like her colouring books and felt-tip pens.
    No amount of disinfectant would ever make this right.
    She thought about that as she stood in the doorway.
    Thought about cleaning products, wondered how many bottles there were in the world.
    And eventually they stopped grunting.
    He stumbled backwards and zipped up his trousers.
    She was still wearing her trainer socks.
    And her black bowler hat.
    “Well hello, Miriam,” the headmaster said. “Did you have a good day at school?”
    *
    Miriam has vacuumed the front room and the hallway and it’s time for a celebratory cup of tea. She dashes past the glass panels in the kitchen door and catches sight of her own body. She pauses, her eyes widen. Is that me? A woman in knickers and novelty slippers, who has just sucked up dust using a hoover called Henry as though there is nothing in the world to be afraid of.
    She remembers something Fenella once said: “The past is the past.” Stating the obvious makes Fenella happy. “It is what it is,” she often says.
    Miriam tried stating the obvious for a while, to see if it improved her well-being, but it only made her feel crazier than usual:
    “This is a packet of Weetabix.”
    “The future is the future.”
    “Death means never seeing someone again.”
    “This is a pint of milk.”
    “The present is the present.”
    “I’ve never spoken in more than a whisper.”
    “What I mean,” Fenella explained, “is no one can set foot in this house without your permission. Your mother’s gone. The past is the past. Catch my drift?”
    None of those statements seemed connected, but Miriam caught her drift. It can take a long time to believe that something is over. That’s what Fenella had been trying to say. But it is. What’s done is done.
    She sits at the kitchen table and sips her tea. For once, just for a few minutes, there is no history on her back. There is no history crawling over her skin and poking into her mouth. History will return as quickly as you can whisper Frances Delaney , but these small moments, these victories, have to be marked. They are the flags of progress. Signposts to normality.
    The letterbox rattles.
    Who gets post at eleven o’clock at night?
    It’s another postcard, the sixth one Miriam has received over the past few weeks. On the front, a photograph of an old-fashioned bike, leaning against the wall of a French cafe. On the back, written in green ink:
    YOU COULD SIT AND READ A BOOK IN A CAFE,
MIRIAM. YOU COULD CYCLE THROUGH THE STREETS WITH THE WIND IN YOUR HAIR
    Like the others, this postcard is anonymous. She sticks it on the noticeboard beside the rest and looks down at her slippers. These slippers are not sexy, she thinks. But have I ever been sexy? She flexes her toes, making the two West Highland terriers nod and say of course you have, Miriam, of course you have.
    Sex. Now that should have appeared on the list of things she is afraid of. It’s not sex itself that’s the issue, it’s the fact that it has to involve another person . She told Fenella this last week.
    “What on earth do you mean?” Fenella said.
    “Well, it’s not the act of sex,” Miriam said, wishing she hadn’t phoned. Fenella had just got home from Zumba and was disarmingly energized.
    “Right.”
    “It’s having to be with someone .”
    “So you’d be fine with a blow-up doll, is that what you’re