scar. I could think of only one thing it could be â¦
It takes ages to die of leprosy. That is one of the horrible things about it, gradually all of you thickens, and goes numb, the way my finger was. I was sad about that finger.
Mum sometimes wore turquoise and lapis lazuli rings from India and I had tried one on and worn it for a whole weekend.
It wasnât possible that the rings, even though they came from India, could carry leprosy germs. And I hadnât worn it on my ring finger anyway, but on my thumb.
I found one of my motherâs old cotton gloves that sheâd worn back when sheâd tried to look after her hands. The idea was that you smeared moisturiser over your hands and then slept with the gloves on and when you woke up your hands were softer than a babyâs bottom. It was too hot, though to sleep with your hands in gloves, Mum said and anyway, what with the washing up at the bistro, hardly worth it.
I didnât think it was too hot. I put the left hand glove on and then I couldnât see the hardening skin and the give-away red dot and no one else could, either.
âAllergies,â I told Mr Chapman at school and he didnât question me any further.
âAllergies,â I told everyone in class, âI have this cream, see, and the glove helps it soak in. I have to wear it even in bed.â
âGrowing your fingernailsâ Dad asked at breakfast, âor is this a new fashion?â
Mum was on morning shift at the bistro. While we were eating our Weet Bix she had been working already for three hours, serving bacon and eggs easy side over to the American business men who tipped so well .
âOh, you know,â I said, tucking my gloved hand under the table, âjust a school thing.â
We had to write an essay called âYour Heroâ for Mr Chapman. I chose Father Damien. I said he was my hero because he had worked with the lepers even though he knew he would eventually get leprosy and die. I said he was my hero because he had died young and had kept working right up until his death. I wrote the essay with my gloved hand in my lap. I traced the picture of Father Damien from our history book and put it up in the top left hand corner of the paper. It was a picture from before he had leprosy. He wasnât particularly handsome, his mouth was too big and he wore daggy glasses and clutched a crucifix in his hands.
I wondered if it was really heroic to die when you didnât have to. Was my father not heroic, because he didnât have a choice about dying? Would he be more heroic if, instead of making art, heâd taken us all to live in Africa, where people starved every day? Would I be considered a hero, dying so young and terribly of the leprosy which must be slowly, very slowly, spreading from my left palm to the tips of my fingers?
The more I thought about Father Damien, the more I began to dislike him. What made him think the lepers wanted to hear about God, anyway? If your fingertips had crumbled away and your nose had caved in, would you be that interested in praying? Would Dee still go to church if her father was dying? Why did you have to want to die before you were a hero?
I didnât take off my glove at all, even to wash my hand. It didnât get dirty, so what was the point? Anyway, I didnât want water on it, that might speed up the rotting process. I didnât prod it anymore, either. I knew what was going on under the white, ladylike glove and it was terrible.
I handed my essay on Father Damien in to Mr Chapman. I had included detailed descriptions of how at first he had slept in the open air to avoid the smell of decaying flesh but then heâd overcome his revulsion and even eaten with the lepers, eaten out of the same bowl with his bare fingers. And how he had washed the lepersâ sores, heedless of his own health.
Most of the other kids did sporting heroes or movie stars. One kid even did their grand-dad,
It takes ages to die of leprosy. That is one of the horrible things about it, gradually all of you thickens, and goes numb, the way my finger was. I was sad about that finger.
Mum sometimes wore turquoise and lapis lazuli rings from India and I had tried one on and worn it for a whole weekend.
It wasnât possible that the rings, even though they came from India, could carry leprosy germs. And I hadnât worn it on my ring finger anyway, but on my thumb.
I found one of my motherâs old cotton gloves that sheâd worn back when sheâd tried to look after her hands. The idea was that you smeared moisturiser over your hands and then slept with the gloves on and when you woke up your hands were softer than a babyâs bottom. It was too hot, though to sleep with your hands in gloves, Mum said and anyway, what with the washing up at the bistro, hardly worth it.
I didnât think it was too hot. I put the left hand glove on and then I couldnât see the hardening skin and the give-away red dot and no one else could, either.
âAllergies,â I told Mr Chapman at school and he didnât question me any further.
âAllergies,â I told everyone in class, âI have this cream, see, and the glove helps it soak in. I have to wear it even in bed.â
âGrowing your fingernailsâ Dad asked at breakfast, âor is this a new fashion?â
Mum was on morning shift at the bistro. While we were eating our Weet Bix she had been working already for three hours, serving bacon and eggs easy side over to the American business men who tipped so well .
âOh, you know,â I said, tucking my gloved hand under the table, âjust a school thing.â
We had to write an essay called âYour Heroâ for Mr Chapman. I chose Father Damien. I said he was my hero because he had worked with the lepers even though he knew he would eventually get leprosy and die. I said he was my hero because he had died young and had kept working right up until his death. I wrote the essay with my gloved hand in my lap. I traced the picture of Father Damien from our history book and put it up in the top left hand corner of the paper. It was a picture from before he had leprosy. He wasnât particularly handsome, his mouth was too big and he wore daggy glasses and clutched a crucifix in his hands.
I wondered if it was really heroic to die when you didnât have to. Was my father not heroic, because he didnât have a choice about dying? Would he be more heroic if, instead of making art, heâd taken us all to live in Africa, where people starved every day? Would I be considered a hero, dying so young and terribly of the leprosy which must be slowly, very slowly, spreading from my left palm to the tips of my fingers?
The more I thought about Father Damien, the more I began to dislike him. What made him think the lepers wanted to hear about God, anyway? If your fingertips had crumbled away and your nose had caved in, would you be that interested in praying? Would Dee still go to church if her father was dying? Why did you have to want to die before you were a hero?
I didnât take off my glove at all, even to wash my hand. It didnât get dirty, so what was the point? Anyway, I didnât want water on it, that might speed up the rotting process. I didnât prod it anymore, either. I knew what was going on under the white, ladylike glove and it was terrible.
I handed my essay on Father Damien in to Mr Chapman. I had included detailed descriptions of how at first he had slept in the open air to avoid the smell of decaying flesh but then heâd overcome his revulsion and even eaten with the lepers, eaten out of the same bowl with his bare fingers. And how he had washed the lepersâ sores, heedless of his own health.
Most of the other kids did sporting heroes or movie stars. One kid even did their grand-dad,
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