Emma Richler - Feed My Dear Dogs

A few words on horror. So far, I have seen the beginnings of three horror films only, as I am always sent to bed before things get too grim. Here are reasons why. I am too young for horror films and will have bad dreams and get hysterical. Horror films are not much good or educational, and so there are no loopholes regarding bedtime the way there are with good films and/or documentaries. Fine with me. Horror films are frustrating and give me a headache, due to the endless screaming and the lack of daylight, requiring a lot of squinting to make out what the bejesus is going on, usually just endless screaming and silly things such as people going walkabout in graveyards way past their bedtime when everyone knows there are killers and/or wild beasts on the rampage. Why? Why not stay home until it blows over, or go for a saunter in a more populous area where there are bobbies and lamplight and means of transport for hire in case of emergency? Because it is a horror film, that’s why. So there is screaming in the dark when characters are getting murdered, screaming in the dark when characters are stumbling across maggoty murder victims in graveyards, and in two out of the three films I have seen the beginnings of so far, there is screaming in the dark from raving maniacs in loony bins and it is no wonder so many people are losing their marbles, what with the high rate of murder and all that strolling about in graveyards, etc.

I would quite like to go in for some screaming in plain daylight right this minute because of the maggot before me, but I do not. I am not a baby. I am seven going on eight and have a fair grasp of language, and decent manners, and screaming and howling is not fashionable behaviour in a person my age who is not in a horror film. I do feel sick though, and ask to be excused. I step out into the courtyard for a deep breath or two, a remedy of Mum’s, and extremely useful, according to her, in all walks of life and eventualities of a trying nature. It is something I recommend for characters in horror films.

Oh no. Here comes Mean Nun, flapping my way.

‘Weiss!’

Mean Nun has a big thing for calling my name out, ever since I corrected her pronunciation one time, informing her as gently as possible about the V sound in the W, so that now she hits the V sound real hard and lingers over the double SS at the end. It’s annoying and it is her revenge on me for correcting her for the second time in my life. What is the problem here? Some grownups correct kids about every little thing, blaring hasty hints and instructions before you touch anything or go anywhere, so sure you are going to slip up or do some destruction, and that your mind is merely an empty place with breezes blowing through it, but the moment you correct a grown-up of that type, it’s a criminal act, worse than sticking your tongue out and swearing which can usually be chalked up to insanity, whereas correcting is close to a capital offence, i.e. deserving of death. Jude says capital comes from the Latin word for head, and denotes beheading by axe, sword or guillotine and even though there are many kinds of capital punishment that do not involve having your head chopped off necessarily, the word capital still applies for all methods, and I can see why. Let’s face it, when a person is killed, his head is no good to him, attached or not attached, but this has me thinking again about graveyards and screaming, so I try to concentrate instead on deep breaths and recovery from the sight of that maggot poking its white head out of Susannah’s banger.

‘Weiss! Where are we?’ demands Mean Nun.

This is a trap. What does she want? The month, the country? Is it a nun-type question, a matter of catechism? Right near me in the courtyard is a statue of the Virgin Mary, Mother of God with the Baby Jesus in her arms. Mary has a dreamy limp look, like Jesus is just a bunch of flowers or something. Maybe Mean Nun does not like me standing so close to the statue, due to my Jewish side. Is that it?

‘Well, child? Are we indoors or outdoors?’

‘Sort of half-half,’ I say, wondering about covered courtyards and what category they are in. I don’t want to make a mistake.

‘Sister!’

‘Sister! Sorry.’

‘We are outdoors. What shoes are you wearing?’

Oh. It’s a shoe crime. Bloody. ‘Indoor shoes, Sister. Thing is, I feel sick and I need deep breaths, I had to rush out here!’

‘Outside, we wear outdoor shoes. Inside, indoor shoes. Plimsolls for PE. If you are poorly, see Sister Martha. You are a very rude girl, Weiss.’

I want to tell her that she wears the same type shoes all over the shop, indoors, outdoors, the same hard noisy black nun shoes, and that I am not rude, my mother knows I am not rude, and then I think about something Jude told me, because of my new big thing for knights and chivalry, he said not all knights are good, and Crusader knights were downright dodgy, going in for massacres of Jews, or else selling them into slavery and this is very depressing news for me, how being a knight is not necessarily good, and wearing a big red cross on your knightly tunic, like on an ambulance, is not always a sign of hope and rescue, and therefore, perhaps, seeing a lady flapping your way dressed in nun clothes and wearing a cross around her neck does not always mean you are safe. It’s confusing and I want to see Sister Martha now, but I need to do some crying first. Not in front of Mean Nun. Go away, Mean Nun.

At my convent, it is important to wear the right shoes in the right places, no matter what emergency situation you are in, such as on the night of the Nativity the year of the big idea, when Directing Nun sent girls on a long march outdoors in the dark and back indoors, and all the way down the aisle through the audience in an embarrassing procession of kings and shepherds, Drummer Boy (girl) and innkeepers, and up the little wheely front steps, no tripping on garments allowed, up on to the stage to kneel in our specially organised places around the angels and Mary and Joseph and baby, kneeling so as to indicate Adoration and also, so as not to hide the angels and blessed family from plain view because angels and blessed family are more important, they are the stars.

I am looking for my shoebag. Where is my shoebag? Oh-oh. I scramble about in heaps of costumes and stuff and my shepherd hat is slapping at my cheeks and it’s dark back here and pretty quiet all of a sudden. Hey. Where is Mrs McCabe? Mrs McCabe is a non-nun teacher and Irish and she wears a great white cardigan with brown leather buttons and bumps in the knitting. Mrs McCabe is quite lively and jovial and prone to short sharp hugs, which is an Irish custom, I believe, as Sister Martha is prone likewise, though a Sister Martha hug is a less hazardous experience than being in the grip of Mrs McCabe who mashes me against her so I can feel all the knitting bumps digging into my temples and eye sockets. I like Mrs McCabe very much, but I make a note never to wear bumpy apparel in my lifetime, in case I am prone to doling out hugs also, and hugs ought to be all good, with no risks involved, no smothering or bruising. I take note. Smooth apparel is better and less hazardous. OK.

Where is Mrs McCabe? On Nativity night, she is supposed to be here, she is always here in the offstage regions, cracking jokes and larking about in a lively Irish manner and all the while doing her important job of snapping on angel wings and haloes and shoving us onstage at the right times, and she is not here, she has already shuffled off outside with the shepherds and kings, etc. They have left me behind. This is a bad feeling. I am hot and I cannot think straight and I wish I were in bed, waking up on a Saturday with nothing to do but play with Jude all day.

There is my shoebag, glowing white with a red F embroidered on it, the bag Mum gave me, hers, and now mine, old, not new, and very nice indeed with the first letter of Mum’s name there-upon, better than J for Jem, a gift to me from her, and a fine thing, a bag made especially for shoes, and I never knew there were such things, bags made especially for footwear with fancy embroidered letters standing proudly for the name of shoebag owners upon them. Whoa. I fumble with the drawstring and haul out my shoes but they are the wrong shoes. Indoor, not outdoor, and yikes, I know who is in the cloakroom ready to receive shepherds and kings coming in from the cold and send them down the aisle in the assembly hall, making sure all our bits are on just so. Sister Teresa. Mean Nun. Now I am having a nightmare of epic proportions as Ben would say. Epic, a short sharp word to do with gravity and size.