Snake Ropes by Jess Richards Read Free Book Online Page B

garden, draw a bucket of water from the well and carry it to the door. I lift the grille off the drain, pour the water in and it flows away. The rice has gone down. It’s not blocked. Another day, I’ll block it up. Stuff something thicker than rice down there. A bedspread, maybe. A tablecloth. Some of her clothes. Or his. Not the twins’.
    Another day soon, I’ll annoy Mum much harder. Get her to
want
to unlock the padlock and send me away. But not today. Not with these cramps settling in. I put the bucket on the floor in the kitchen, stand at the back door and look at the pink paint peeling on the fence.
    Mum stood in this garden and stared at her fence when she’d finally finished building it.
    Dad said to her, ‘Come inside.’ He waited. He touched her arm.
    She didn’t move.
    He put his hand on her shoulder.
    She didn’t speak.
    The stars came out.
    ‘You’re safe,’ he said. ‘Please stop running now.’
    The moon shone down.
    ‘I’ll go to bed,’ he muttered, and disappeared into the house.
    I stood here in this kitchen doorway and watched her. She stood there and the sun rose. Dad came back, watched her for a while, made himself some tea and went away. The sun set again and still Mum stood there, her back to me and her face to the fence. The wind blew, her brown hair whipped into tangles, but still she said nothing. Not a word, till the moon was at the highest point in the sky, and she finally spoke: ‘That’s just perfect. Just right. I think I’ll have a nice cup of tea. Can someone make me one please? I have blisters on my hands.’ And she pushed past me into this kitchen, blisters outstretchedand sat at the table to wait for the tea to be put down in front of her.
    Of course, I made it. Just the way she likes it. Nettle tea. Three spoons of honey, not too strong but just strong enough.
    I wrapped up her hands with an oatmeal poultice and white linen bandages.
    She said she didn’t like the colour of the bandages and tore them off.
    I don’t like the colour of my rags either. Blood on bright red cloth is difficult to see to soak off. Mum gave me these rags, after she’d finished building the fence. When it was just the two of us in the kitchen in the middle of the night, drinking tea in silence.
    She glanced at me. Nodded. Stood up, went off to another room and came back in with the red squares of fabric flapping in her blistered hands. Her cheeks were almost as pink as the fence. She said, ‘Stuff these in your knickers and keep yourself clean.’ I hadn’t started my periods yet, I was too young. But I knew about them. My parents brought a lot of books with them. I read about mythology, psychology and biology, as well as picture and storybooks. I’ve learned what I need to. I know that snails don’t have periods, nor do young girls or old women, toads or moths or spiders.
    I asked her, ‘Does it hurt, bleeding?’
    She told me about her first period and how she’d come home from school because she’d been in so much pain she thought she was dying. Her mother had said that all wounds bleed, and she must shake off the pain and get back to school. Mum said she thought she was wounded then, that she had to bandage it and not let the pain show. She said, ‘I felt so much, so much …’ She searched for the word, her eyes wandering over her blistered hands. I said, ‘Shame?’ and she flashed her sharp eyes at me and said, ‘No. Not that, never. I was
never
ashamed.’
    I didn’t believe her. After a long glaring silence, her eyes were shining and she said, ‘Even now, my periods aren’t any easier.’ I swallowed hard. She glanced at me and when she spoke her voice was quieter. She said, ‘You’re pale. Yours won’t be as sore as mine. Mine were always the most painful, more than anyone else.’ I felt hopeful, because I thought she’d noticed I felt scared. I wanted to have my period then and there all over the kitchen chair, just so she might keep noticing how I felt. I