The Land of Decoration (28 page)

I went up to my room and sat in the window and drew up my knees and watched the sky change from indigo to black and thought how not that long ago I had watched it turn white and fill with snow. The streets and gutters were running with yellow light. There was music coming from somewhere, and every so often I saw people going by; some were arm in arm, some were laughing, some were swaying and singing. After a while there were fireworks, and in the bursts of light I could see for miles. The fireworks stayed still for a second before they fell. I tried opening and closing my eyes so I would see only that flash of light, but most often I missed it.

At midnight, people began singing somewhere, the song about old acquaintances and cups of kindness that they always sang at the end of the year, and then I couldn’t sit there anymore and got up.

“I chose the stone,” I said out loud. I took a deep breath. “I chose to be powerful.” I swallowed. “If I think hard enough for long enough, I will be able to think of something to make things better. But I am not making anything because that always goes wrong.” I couldn’t think of anything to make anyway. I pressed my head really hard with my hands and screwed my eyes up. But I couldn’t think of anything at all.

I said: “Go back to the beginning,” and I asked myself when things had begun to get bad and thought it was actually around the time of the strike.

I had made a factory in the Land of Decoration a long time ago. It wasn’t the sort of thing I usually made, but I had seen the chimneys at the factory in town and thought how much they looked like toilet rolls, so I made them and put ladders from a toy fire engine going up the sides. I made the factory from a shoe box, with clay chimneys and cellophane windows and straws for the pipes. There was a Lego fire escape and a car park and a wire-mesh fence made out of a net that oranges had been in. I went over to the factory now and turned it round in my hands. The chimneys wobbled, but there was no sound inside, because it was empty. I’d taken the people out because I needed them for other things. And then I wondered what would happen if I filled it, if I made an inside.

“It might work,” I thought—and it was such an enormous thought I didn’t dare say it out loud.

Then I said: “But I said I wouldn’t make anything else.”

Then
I said: “But what’s the worst that could happen?” This wasn’t like making a person. The situation at the factory couldn’t get any worse. But then I thought I might be fooling myself. I walked round and round the room, thinking maybe I shouldn’t and maybe I should and trying to think what else I could do instead, but I couldn’t think of anything. I felt very excited and then I felt very scared, and then I felt tired of being excited and scared and just wanted everything to be over. “God,” I said, “is this possible?”

“Most of the time, everything is possible,” said God.

“But can I really make things better?”

“Yes,” God said, “you can.”

“All right,” I said. And for the last time I went to the trunk and lifted the lid.

I had never seen inside the factory, so I knew this was going to be the hardest thing I had made yet. All I could do was imagine how things looked and hope for the best.

I worked all night, until I saw the light coming over the top of the mountain. Then I felt more tired than I have ever felt, and hollow, like a stalk, and I turned off the lamp and got into bed. “Please, God,” I said, “make this turn out right.”

A
ND AS
I slept I had my favorite dream, the one about the two little people I made first of all, the fabric doll with the dungarees and flowers and the pipe-cleaner man with the green sweater, and they were Father and me.

Father was holding my hand and we were walking through a field, leaving a trail in the grass. Sometimes we went to the right and sometimes to the left. Sometimes I would be ahead and sometimes Father would be. I was asking him about the Land of Decoration, about what it would be like, and then he said: “We’re here, Judith; you don’t have to ask me anymore,” and I looked around and saw he was right. For the first time it wasn’t the pretend world but the real one, with real grass and real sky and real trees, and then I looked down and saw we weren’t dolls but ourselves, and it was wonderful.

The sun was pink on our faces and our shadows grew long. I was talking and Father was listening; he was looking at me, and that was wonderful too. But after a while he began to talk before I had finished and his answers weren’t making sense, and I realized he wasn’t talking to me after all. Then I looked closer and saw that it wasn’t me, and I wondered who I was, and where I was if I wasn’t there, because I could still see and hear everything perfectly clearly.

I watched the two little people go through the long grass. They got smaller and smaller, then joined hands and began to run. I called to them, but I couldn’t make them hear, I was big, and they were small and were running away from me. I wanted to be small more than anything then but saw that I wasn’t and never would be.

They went down by the river where the sun was low and the sand martins were darting, and among the water and low light I lost them.

The End of the World

O
N THE EIGHTH
of January, Father came upstairs to my room. His face looked different so I knew immediately something had happened. He said: “The strike’s over. Mike just telephoned.”

I was so astonished I couldn’t think of anything to say. He went away again and I looked at the place where he’d stood. Then I took up the loose floorboard and got out my journal. I wrote:
The final miracle has happened.
Then I wrote:
HERE IS AN END TO MIRACLES.

*   *   *

S
CHOOL STARTED
. T
HE
factory opened. When I came down to breakfast on the first Monday back to school, Father was frying sausages.

“Sausages!” I said.

He said: “I’m celebrating the return to the shed.”

I laid two places at the table. A little watery sun came through the kitchen window and fell on our hands. Father ate three sausages and I ate two.

*   *   *

I
N THE CLASSROOM
, Mrs. Pierce was putting snowdrops in a vase. She said: “Judith! How are you?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Pierce,” I said.

She said: “You look better!”

“I am,” I said. “Did you have a nice holiday?”

“Lovely. And the strike is over! Your father must be so relieved. I think everyone is; the town was quite a different place while it lasted.”

Neither of us said anything for a minute, and we could hear the drips in the bucket. Mrs. Pierce laughed. “Now if we could just sort out this roof!”

That was when I said: “Do you know if Neil is coming back?”

“He is,” said Mrs. Pierce. “He’s a lot better.”

“Oh, good,” I said.

A little while later, everyone came into class. My stomach dipped when I saw Neil. He was on crutches. He looked very pale, even paler than usual, and he was watching where he was putting his feet so I couldn’t see his face. And then I did. And a scar ran from his eye in a long line.

He saw me looking, but his face was different from how it was before. It was blank; not sad; empty. I couldn’t even tell if he recognized me. It was as if he looked through me.

Mrs. Pierce said: “Class eight, I have some news for you. Mr. Davies has written to us to check we are all behaving ourselves. His daughter has just had a baby and he is helping to look after her.”

Gemma said: “Is he coming back?” and Mrs. Pierce said: “No, he’s decided to take early retirement.” And I was very happy because it meant Mrs. Pierce would stay for good.

*   *   *

W
HEN
I
CAME
home that evening, I spread a tablecloth and put a bottle in the middle of the table. Then I went out to the garden. It was black and dripping and the air was raw. Through the empty branches of the cherry tree, I could see the mountain and the last bit of light glowing like embers. I picked snowdrops like Mrs. Pierce had done, then went back inside and put them in the bottle in the middle of the table.

The light didn’t want to go that evening. I could hear the little kids playing on their bikes in the back lane as if it was spring already. When Father came in, he was white, but he smiled, and it was a proper smile. I asked him how work was and he said everything had gone smoothly. He said he was glad he never had to get on that bus again.

While we were having tea, I said: “Was Doug Lewis there?”

Father said: “No, he wasn’t. I don’t know where he is.”

We didn’t say anything for a minute. Then I said: “How are the potatoes?”

“Perfect,” Father said.

*   *   *

A
FTER TEA
, F
ATHER
said: “Come here.” He took a leaflet out of his pocket. It was red and white and blue and had a picture of a hot-air balloon on it and said:
The Ride of Your Life! See the world as you have never seen it before!
He said: “Would you like to go?”

“Yes!”

“Right,” he said. “That’s that.”

He lit the fire in the front room, and I sat by his feet while he sipped his beer and the flames played over everything. I thought things hadn’t been this good for a long time—Father had never offered to take me on a hot-air-balloon ride and if he could just start going back to the meetings, things would be just about perfect.

Things went on being good: The next night I cooked macaroni and cheese. Father liked it, even though it was from a packet, and afterward he lit the front-room fire again. The day after that it was sunny. When Gemma and Rhian and Keri were skipping rope in the playground, Neil came up, and Gemma pretended she didn’t see him, but they let me skip a bit with the rope.

And that evening, Father and I walked around the garden and Father said it would look better soon, the cherry tree would grow back and the golden cane and the Christmas roses. He said that in fact the fire had been good for the soil.

On Thursday I made myself go and speak to Neil, though my heart slowed so much I thought it was going to stop. (But I needn’t have worried because, after I had finished speaking, it went twice as fast). I went to his table and stood there until he looked up, then I said: “I’m glad you’re OK,” and though it wasn’t a great thing to say, I couldn’t think of a better one.

Anyway I don’t think he even heard me. He looked through me, then went back to his book. I stood there for a minute, then walked to my seat.

That evening Father did something he’d been putting off too: He began taking the fence apart. He did it with a crowbar, bending the bar backward and forward, and Mike helped him. The wood screamed and splintered, and the garden was soon full of glass and concrete and broken planks. Father saved the brass knob and put it on the mantelpiece, where it glinted gloomily. It seemed to know it wouldn’t be needed again.

That night I cooked spaghetti Bolognese for dinner and fried the onions and mince and boiled the spaghetti, and all Father did was stir it. I asked if we could pretend the sauce wasn’t from a jar, and we did, and while we were eating, Mike said: “Can I borrow the chef?” and Father said he would have to think about it, and I couldn’t remember feeling so happy for a long time.

*   *   *

L
ATER
,
WHEN
M
IKE
had gone and we were washing up, I said: “Can we invite May and Elsie and Gordon over?”

“Not now,” Father said.

I waited a minute, then said: “Are you going to go to the meetings again?”

And he said: “Judith, I don’t want to talk about this.” So we didn’t.

But later, when I was in my room, I said to God: “Please help Father.”

God said: “I can’t help him. He has to help himself.”

“He’s trying.”

“Then tell him to try harder.”

I took my journal into bed with me and turned over three pages and wrote:
Is Father better yet?
Then I turned over another three and wrote:
What about now?
I kept turning over and writing and I fell asleep with it beside me.

The last day I marked was a Wednesday. But, as it turned out, we didn’t get that far because the very next night something happened that ended all of that. It ended pretty much everything, and I didn’t even see it coming.

D. S. Michaels

The Flat

The Old Fire Station

Milton Keynes

MK2 3PB

Dear Judith,

How nice to hear from you. Of course I remember you: and our conversation that Sunday and am very sorry to hear that recently things have been so difficult for you and your father. As this world nears its end, we must expect Satan to try our integrity. I’m sure that whatever happens, God won’t forget the love your father showed for His name and will accept him back into the fold with open arms when he is ready to return. I am sure your own faithful example is an encouragement to your father. I am afraid I’m pretty busy and won’t be coming to your congregation for some time, but I will pray for both of you.

As for the mustard seeds, I didn’t know you wanted to grow them. I’m not sure how you’d go about it. I think most people just grind them up. If you want to try with some more, I got them in Tesco. Failing that, you could try a health-food shop or a gardening store.

I look forward to seeing you again when I am next visiting your congregation.

Christian love,