Grace McCleen - The Land of Decoration

4. Give the man mohair hair (yellow, cowlick). Give him a mood (a frown, tears).

5. Wrap wool around the pipe cleaners. Measure the wool, then cut it off.

6. Paint the man’s shoes (or trainers). Give him trousers (or warm-up pants: black cotton and Wite-Out stripe). Give him a coat (or Puffa jacket: umbrella material).

7. Breathe into his lungs and stand him up.

I PUT THE man I had made in the middle of a group of people. The people stood around and pointed. The man tried to break through the ring, but the people didn’t let him. He walked around, but the people wouldn’t let him pass. He sat down and put his hands over his ears. I felt better just looking at him. I had no idea what was going to happen yet, but whatever it was, I didn’t think Neil Lewis was going to like it.

Then I wrote up my journal. When I heard the front door shut I hid it under the loose floorboard and ran downstairs. My legs felt like I had just run a race and my heart was beating in my ears.

THAT EVENING FATHER lit the fire in the front room, which meant he was in a good mood. The front room is where all of Mother’s things are: the black piano with the gold candleholders, the Singer sewing machine with the pedal underneath, the three-piece suite she made white-and-pink covers for, the lupine and hollyhock curtains, the cushions she embroidered. I will be allowed to use Mother’s sewing machine when I am older.

It was nice in the front room, like being in a boat. Dark and rain buffeted the windows but couldn’t get in. The wind clamored and the waters rose higher and spray spattered the sides, but we were safe and dry. Father sipped his beer and poured me a lemonade and listened to Nigel Ogden while I lay on my belly in the half circle of firelight.

I was drawing the angel standing on the earth from the Book of Revelation who gave the apostle John the little scroll that was sweet and then bitter. That was what the old man in the dream said about the stone I had chosen, and I still didn’t know what he meant. I wondered if it mattered whether the sweetness came first or the bitterness did and tried to remember which way round it had been but couldn’t.

I liked Revelation. It was mostly about the end of the world and the last few chapters were about what it would be like afterward, in the Land of Decoration. “What will Armageddon be like?” I said.

“The biggest thing the world has ever seen,” Father said, and his voice was calm and good-tempered. He was settled deep in the chair and his legs were stretched out.

I sat up on my knees. “Will there be thunder and lightning?”

“Perhaps.”

“Earthquakes?”

“Maybe.”

“Hailstones and balls of fire rolling down streets?”

“God will use whatever He sees fit.”

“But it’s strange though, isn’t it?” I said. “Killing all those people…”

“Not really,” Father said. “They will have been warned for years, remember.”

“But what if one or two didn’t get the message,” I said, “and it couldn’t be helped? Like—what if they didn’t listen because someone had told them not to? Would God let them off?”

I looked at my drawing. The angel’s face was stern. Muscles bulged from his arms. He didn’t look like he would let anyone off.

“God can read hearts, Judith,” Father said. “We have to leave these things to Him.” I felt better when I remembered that and went back to drawing the angel.

When I had finished, I showed it to Father. The angel had blue eyes and hair like the sun. He had one foot on Egypt and one foot on Algeria. “There’s the Great Rift Valley,” I said, in case Father missed it.

Father said: “Very good.” Then he said: “Why are both the angel’s feet on the land?”

“What?”

“One of his feet is supposed to be in the sea.”

“Is it?”

I turned to Revelation, Chapter 10. Father was right. But if I colored over Algeria with blue, then it would end up purple and it would be the wrong shape. I said: “Does it matter a lot?” But I knew that it did, because the angel wasn’t just a parable but symbolic, which meant it had a larger significance, like Prefiguration, and even the smallest detail had much bigger meaning. So I picked up the eraser. And then our letter box crashed. Three short bangs.

Father went to the door. He opened it, but I didn’t hear any voices.

“Who was it?” I said when he came back.

“No one.” He put some more wood on the fire and took a sip of beer.

“No one?”

“No.”

“Oh,” I said.

I began to erase the angel’s foot, but the drawing underneath just got messy.

I sighed. “Maybe the angel moved around a bit. Maybe his foot got cold in the sea.” And as I spoke, the letter box crashed again, three short bangs.

This time, just before Father opened the front door, I heard the gate click and laughter. I peered through the curtains but couldn’t see anyone.

When he came back I said: “Who was it?”

“Boys playing games.” He put more wood on the fire.

“Oh,” I said.

Father was being very calm but I knew he was angry; he hated people knocking on the door hard or even slamming it, because the door had a beautiful picture of a tree in the colored glass, which Mother had restored. He often commented on how pretty it was.

I took a new piece of paper and drew the angel’s head. I didn’t want to think anymore about what Father had said, I had just begun coloring the face when the letter box crashed again.

This time Father went to the back door. I heard a shout and the sound of running feet, then the garden gate clicked.

A minute later Father came into the front room, laughing. He said: “I surprised them!”

“Who?”

“The kids.”

A wave of heat passed over my body. “What were they doing?”

“Making nuisances of themselves.”

“Have they gone?”

“Yes. They ran off when they saw me. They didn’t expect me to come up the lane.”

I looked down at the angel. “What did the kids look like?” I said.

“Boys. No older than you, I should think. One had blond hair. Big kid. D’you know anyone like that?”

I had felt hot but now I felt cold. The angel’s blue eyes looked back at me. “No,” I said. “I don’t know anyone like that at all.”

SOME THINGS EVEN miracle workers can’t get out of. Today I discovered Josie has knitted me a poncho.

May said: “No, it’s a shawl.”

“No, no,” said Elsie. “It’s a poncho.”

“Orange with shells and tassels,” said May.

“Were they shells?” said Elsie. “I thought they were pearls.”

“Shells,” said May. “The small ones you can thread.”

“Anyway, she’s looking for you,” said May.

“Aren’t you lucky?” said Elsie.

I spent the rest of the time before the meeting hiding in the toilets.

ALF GAVE THE talk. His tongue was in fine form, flickering at the corners of his mouth. “What is God asking us to do, Brothers?” he said. He glared around, his face red, his eyes bulging. After half an hour it made my head ache to listen to him, but it could have been the fumes coming from Auntie Nel; they were stronger than usual this morning. Even the yellow plastic roses were looking the worse for wear.

Alf’s voice got louder. His arms thrashed. I thought he was going to get them tangled in the microphone cable. “What is God asking us to do ?” he repeated. When he said it a third time I couldn’t bear it any longer and stuck up my hand and said: “Fill in our report cards?” because this is usually the right answer. But everyone laughed. Father explained afterward that Alf was asking what is called a rhetorical question, which is just meant to hang there and no one is supposed to answer.