Jenny Valentine - Broken Soup

She looked up at me and said, “What’s the matter with Mummy?” and I said she was sad.

She asked me what Mum was sad about and I said, “Jack’s gone,” and Stroma carried on humming this little tune and pouring nothing out of a tiny china teapot. Then she said, “Where?” and I said I didn’t know. She picked up a cup and saucer and handed it to me. She said, “Blow on it, it’s really hot.”

I said, “He’s dead, Stroma. He’s never coming back.”

I could feel this weight, this downward pressure in my head, and I thought it was possible I could cave in or implode because I just said that out loud.

Stroma was quiet for a minute, and then she sighed and looked right at me and said, “Can I have something to eat now? I’m starving.”

And that was how it started, how I ended up looking after her.

I went into the kitchen to make some toast and there wasn’t any bread, not even a crumb. I knocked on the door of Mum’s room and got some money and I took Stroma with me to the shop. And all the time I was putting stuff into the basket and working out what we could afford, and saying no to marshmallows, but yes to chocolate biscuits, and planning what we’d have for supper and then breakfast. I didn’t have time to lose it. I didn’t have time to lie down in the corner shop and scream and beat the floor until my hands bled. I didn’t have time to miss Jack. Stroma carried on chattering away and getting excited over novelty spaghetti shapes and finding the joy in every little thing, and it occurred to me even then that she was probably looking after me too.

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