Crustaceans by Andrew Cowan Read Free Book Online Page B

didn’t occur to me then, nor for years afterwards, that a single case wasn’t enough to contain all that there had been.
    I kept the scarf under my bed, and added to this her camera, her sunglasses, a wallet of photos. Our house was always untidy, filled with too many things, but I would find little else that belonged to her. My father had already given her jewellery to Aunt Jeannie, her sketchbooks to my grandparents. A few of her paintings, mostly of boats, were stacked in our boxroom, signed McCrory – my grandparents’ name – and dated before I was born. But she herself had burned all her papers, the letters and notepads and report cards that she’d kept in her bureau, whilst her paints, she had told me, were too dry to use, her brushes worn out. She had tipped them into the bin and hadn’t allowed me to retrieve them. When she’d been angry she’d smashed things – her vases and bowls, the blue-hooped mugs she’d collected, whatever was closest to hand. A photograph of my parents on holiday had gone from its place in the hall. Their wedding album, white-bound and boxed, had disappeared from its shelf in the living room – though this, I felt sure, hadn’t happened until Zoë had come.
    In my mother’s absence I frequently dreamt of her. Sometimes she would be there in our kitchen, searching the cupboards and drawers, unable to find what she wanted, and I would take her upstairs to my bedroom and show her what I’d kept of her things, not merely her scarf but all of her clothes, her jewellery, her papers. Whatever she’d destroyed or discarded was restored; her life had not ended and nothing had changed. She is still your mum, Aunt Jeannie had told me; and she’ll always be that. You only get one. And in my games I continued to speak to her. Her face would come to me often, her gestures, the sound of her voice. I pretended she watched as I drew things, or practised my writing, or got myself dressed in the morning. In my imagination she became all patience and sympathy, happier than she had been, and prettier – like Zoë – and when my father shouted at me now, or hit me, I no longer cried for my mother but ran to Zoë instead. And in time it was Zoë that I took to my bedroom. I revealed to her what remained of my mother’s belongings; together we looked through her photos. I showed her the suitcase on top of the wardrobe and the paintings of boats in the boxroom. Downstairs I pointed to my mother’s place on the sofa, and told Zoë she could sit there now if she wanted. I repeated to her whatever stories I’d heard in my relatives’ houses, and made up what I couldn’t remember, for Zoë always seemed interested. She asked questions – about my mother, my father, their marriage – far more in the end than I knew how to answer. They just argued, I told her; they shouted.
    Zoë and my father didn’t have arguments – not like I was used to – but increasingly our meals passed in silence. My father began drinking earlier each day. In the evenings he stared at the television; often he returned to the barn with a bottle. Zoë never went after him, and gave no sign that she’d noticed his leaving. Whatever his mood, she remained cheerful with me. His work, she explained, wasn’t going too well, so we mustn’t upset him. But it seemed she couldn’t find enough things to do, and her visits became shorter, less frequent. My father had no use for her now in his studio. Why waste your time? he shrugged. Why waste yours? she replied; you can’t force it. She pressed him to come out with us, and suggested places we might go to. But still he said nothing – he wouldn’t be persuaded – and I was glad when Zoë stopped trying. I sensed he was becoming impatient; soon enough he’d get angry.
    Then finally, in February, she bought me a budgie. It was there in the