peck at the bag of nuts on the bird table. She squeezes my sticky fingers. ‘Oh, Klaudia. It makes me happy to see a pair in the garden again. Such clever little birds. And so loyal to each other.’
She goes back to the washing-up and I begin to dry, but the music pulls at me, and I step away to dance around the kitchen table with the tea towel in my hand, exaggerating my movements to match the grand sweep of the singer’s trills and soaring high notes. Each stretch of my arm, each bend and dip feels like a relief. I take my memories of school, of Shane, and throw them out into the warm kitchen, flatten them with the push of my hands. Those girls who smile at me and then turn their backs, they too are caught up in the swing of my arms, sent spinning towards the ceiling as I pirouette round and round. The music crashes and blazes, and the cloth flaps like a flag. All that matters is this moment, the smells of baking, robins in the garden, and being warm and safe with Mum.
She laughs, rubbing her soapy hands on her apron. ‘You’re making me dizzy.’
Breathless, I push the hair from my eyes. ‘Can’t I have dance lessons?’
It isn’t the first time I’ve asked. I’ve looked through the window of the Catholic church hall when the ballet class is on: pupils in pink shoes and black leotards doing exercises while an old lady beats out time with her walking stick. I want to be there with them, moving my feet on the chalky floor. I dance outside, on the pavement, copying what they do, holding my arms out to the side as if I’m lifting up enormous petticoats.
She shakes her head. ‘There isn’t the money, love. And you know what your father thinks of the idea.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘There isn’t a but,’ she says. ‘Nothing to stop you dancing at home whenever you like, cariad.’
She glances up, over my head, and her expression changes, mouth pulling down. I follow her gaze and see the tom from next-door balancing in our apple tree, his tail thrashing. He’s climbed higher than the bird table. Every fibre of his body twitches with desire. Mum rushes to the door and yanks it open. ‘Shoo!’
She’s too late. The Perkinses’ cat has something in its mouth. Other birds flutter and call in a fever of terror and rage. The cat has dropped to the grass, and slinks low at the edge of the garden, a growl in its throat, tail thrashing, feathers between its teeth. My mother runs unsteadily through the wet grass after it, flapping a tea towel. The cat, turned to liquid and shadow, slips through the bushes and disappears.
My father stalks into the kitchen, the creased newspaper under his arm, and hurries out to her. He accompanies her back into the house, guiding her by her elbow, his face set. ‘I’m sorry, Gwyn. The bugger got away this time.’
‘It’s killing them for fun.’ She closes her eyes, her voice flat. ‘That’s what I can’t bear. It’s not for food. Just for amusement.’
He puts his hand on her shoulder. The music in the next room rolls to its conclusion, swirling voices and a crisis of strings.
It was later in the day that I saw it again. It was crouching in the shade of the rose bed, gazing at the bird table with a quivering mouth. My mother was upstairs putting a pile of ironing away, so I called to my father quietly, ‘The cat’s back.’
Minutes later there was an explosion. A single crack: shocking in the suburban air, making every bird in the garden swoop high on beating wings. I caught a glimpse of fur where the cat had been, the outlines of its body half-hidden in grass. My mother, breathless from her dash down the stairs, pulled me to her, hiding my head in her breasts as my father went past. Despite my mother’s dress bunching against my mouth, her flesh folded into my face, I saw the pistol in his hand.
The glow of my bedside light falls across the open book on my lap, illuminating pages. But I can’t concentrate. My eyes are sore from crying. I can’t stop
She goes back to the washing-up and I begin to dry, but the music pulls at me, and I step away to dance around the kitchen table with the tea towel in my hand, exaggerating my movements to match the grand sweep of the singer’s trills and soaring high notes. Each stretch of my arm, each bend and dip feels like a relief. I take my memories of school, of Shane, and throw them out into the warm kitchen, flatten them with the push of my hands. Those girls who smile at me and then turn their backs, they too are caught up in the swing of my arms, sent spinning towards the ceiling as I pirouette round and round. The music crashes and blazes, and the cloth flaps like a flag. All that matters is this moment, the smells of baking, robins in the garden, and being warm and safe with Mum.
She laughs, rubbing her soapy hands on her apron. ‘You’re making me dizzy.’
Breathless, I push the hair from my eyes. ‘Can’t I have dance lessons?’
It isn’t the first time I’ve asked. I’ve looked through the window of the Catholic church hall when the ballet class is on: pupils in pink shoes and black leotards doing exercises while an old lady beats out time with her walking stick. I want to be there with them, moving my feet on the chalky floor. I dance outside, on the pavement, copying what they do, holding my arms out to the side as if I’m lifting up enormous petticoats.
She shakes her head. ‘There isn’t the money, love. And you know what your father thinks of the idea.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘There isn’t a but,’ she says. ‘Nothing to stop you dancing at home whenever you like, cariad.’
She glances up, over my head, and her expression changes, mouth pulling down. I follow her gaze and see the tom from next-door balancing in our apple tree, his tail thrashing. He’s climbed higher than the bird table. Every fibre of his body twitches with desire. Mum rushes to the door and yanks it open. ‘Shoo!’
She’s too late. The Perkinses’ cat has something in its mouth. Other birds flutter and call in a fever of terror and rage. The cat has dropped to the grass, and slinks low at the edge of the garden, a growl in its throat, tail thrashing, feathers between its teeth. My mother runs unsteadily through the wet grass after it, flapping a tea towel. The cat, turned to liquid and shadow, slips through the bushes and disappears.
My father stalks into the kitchen, the creased newspaper under his arm, and hurries out to her. He accompanies her back into the house, guiding her by her elbow, his face set. ‘I’m sorry, Gwyn. The bugger got away this time.’
‘It’s killing them for fun.’ She closes her eyes, her voice flat. ‘That’s what I can’t bear. It’s not for food. Just for amusement.’
He puts his hand on her shoulder. The music in the next room rolls to its conclusion, swirling voices and a crisis of strings.
It was later in the day that I saw it again. It was crouching in the shade of the rose bed, gazing at the bird table with a quivering mouth. My mother was upstairs putting a pile of ironing away, so I called to my father quietly, ‘The cat’s back.’
Minutes later there was an explosion. A single crack: shocking in the suburban air, making every bird in the garden swoop high on beating wings. I caught a glimpse of fur where the cat had been, the outlines of its body half-hidden in grass. My mother, breathless from her dash down the stairs, pulled me to her, hiding my head in her breasts as my father went past. Despite my mother’s dress bunching against my mouth, her flesh folded into my face, I saw the pistol in his hand.
The glow of my bedside light falls across the open book on my lap, illuminating pages. But I can’t concentrate. My eyes are sore from crying. I can’t stop
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