Grace McCleen: The Land of Decoration

“What?”

“How long could someone survive underwater?” I said. “I mean, I expect they’d last longer if they were used to it. At least until someone found them. But if it was their first time. If the person holding them down wanted them to die—which they would—I mean, if their head was held down.”

Father said: “What are you talking about?”

I looked down. “How long could someone survive underwater?”

He said: “I have no idea!”

I swallowed the rest of the bitter greens without chewing; then Father took away the plates and got the Bibles out.

We read the Bible every day and then we ponder what we have read. Reading the Bible and pondering are also Necessary Things. Pondering is necessary because it is the only way we can find out what we think about God. But God’s ways are unsearchable. This means you could ponder forever and still not know what to think. When I try to ponder, my mind slips to other things, like how I make a swimming pool and steps from an embroidery loop for the model world in my room or how many pear drops I can buy with my pocket money or how much more pondering there is still left to do. But afterward we always talk about what we have pondered, so there’s no way you can pretend you have been pondering when you haven’t.

It was getting dark outside the window. I could hear boys riding their bikes in the back lane. They were going up a ramp, and every time they came down it the board clanked. I looked at Father. I could tell by the way his eyebrows jutted that I must pay attention. I could tell by the way his glasses glittered that he must not be interrupted. I looked down, took a deep breath, and held it.

“In the ninth year, in the tenth month, on the tenth day, the voice of the Lord came to me: ‘Son of man, remember this date, this very day, because the king of Babylon has laid siege to Jerusalem.’…”

At twenty-five seconds the room began to pulse and my breath escaped in little puffs. I waited a minute, then took another.

A dog barked. A dustbin lid clattered. Seconds dripped from the clock on the mantelpiece. At twenty-five seconds the room began to pulse again and I had to let my breath out again. I must have done it quite suddenly, because Father looked up and said: “Are you all right?”

I opened my eyes wide and nodded.

“Are you following?”

I nodded again and opened my eyes even wider. He looked at me from under his eyebrows, then began to read again.

“‘Now your impurity is badness. Because I tried to save you but you would not be saved, and you will not be saved again until my wrath against you has subsided. I the Lord have spoken.’”

I waited two whole minutes, then I took another breath.

I held it. And held it.

I said: “I am going to do this. I am not going to drown.”

I hung on to the arms of the chair. I pushed my feet into the floor. I pressed my bottom to the seat. I got to twenty-four seconds when Father said: “What are you doing?”

“Pondering!” I said, and my breath came out in a rush.

A vein in Father’s temple flickered. “You’re very red.”

“It’s hard work,” I said.

“This isn’t a game.”

“I know.”

“Are you following?”

“Yes!”

Father blew a little air out of his nose, then began to read again.

I waited three whole minutes. Then I took another breath.

I filled each bit of my body with air: my stomach, my lungs, my arms, and my legs. My chest hurt. My head pounded. My legs jumped up and down.

I didn’t notice that Father had stopped reading. I didn’t see him looking at me till he said: “What’s going on?”

“I don’t feel well.”

He put down his Bible. “Let’s get something straight. I am not reading this for your entertainment. I am not reading this for the benefit of my health. I’m reading this because it will save your life. So, sit up, stop fidgeting, and start paying attention! ”

“OK,” I said.

He waited a minute, then began to read again. “‘ The time has come. I will not hold back; I will not have compassion, nor will I relent. You will be judged according to your actions,’ declares the Sovereign Lord. ”

I tried to follow, but all I could think about was the toilet bowl, all I could hear was the cistern flushing, all I could feel were hands pushing me down.

“Then the people asked me, ‘Tell us, what do these things have to do with us?’ And I said to them, ‘The voice of the Lord came to me, saying: “Say to the house of Israel, Judith!”’”

Father read it just like that, without stopping and without looking up.

“What?” My heart snagged on my cardigan.

“Carry on reading please.”

“Oh.”

I looked, but the page teemed with ants. I turned and my face got hot. I turned back and my face got hotter.

Father closed his Bible. He said: “Go to your room.”

“I can do it!” I said.

“No, you obviously have better things to do.”

“I was listening!”

Father said: “Judith.”

I stood up.

My head felt very hot, as if there were too many things going on in it. It was jumbled too, as if someone had shaken it up. I went to the door. I put my hand on the handle and I said: “It’s not fair.”

Father looked up. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

His eyes glittered. “It better be.”

THERE IS A world in my room. It is made from things no one else wanted and it is made with things that were my mother’s, that she left to me, and it has taken most of my life to make.

The world stretches from the second floorboard by the door to the radiator underneath the window. There are mountains by the wall, where the room is darkest, and great cliffs and caves. There are rivers running down from the mountains to hills and pastures, and here is where there are the first houses. Then there is the valley and the fields and the town, and after the town there are some more farms and then there is the beach and the beach road and a forest of pine trees and a bay and a pier, and finally, right by the radiator under the window, there is the sea, with a few rocks and a lighthouse and some boats and sea creatures. Strung from the ceiling on short strings there are planets and stars, from longer strings there is the sun and the moon, and from the longest strings of all, clouds, airplanes, and the light shade is a paper hot-air balloon.

The world is called the Land of Decoration. In the Book of Ezekiel it says God swore to bring the Israelites out of captivity to a wonderful country. It was flowing with milk and honey. It lacked nothing, it was a miracle, a paradise. It was so different from everything around it that it stood out like a jewel and was called “the decoration of all the lands.” When I close the door of my room, the walls fold back and there are planets and rainbows and suns. The floor rolls up and there are fields and roads at my feet and hundreds of small people. If I stretch out my hand I can touch the top of a mountain, if I blow I can ripple the sea. I lift my head and look right into the sun. I feel happy when I go into my room. But that Friday night, I didn’t notice any of those things.

I closed the door and leaned against it. I wondered if I should go back down and tell Father why I had been holding my breath. But if I did he would only say: “Have you told the teacher?” and I would say: “Yes,” and Mr. Davies had said: “No one is going to put anyone’s head down the toilet,” and Father would say: “Well, then.” But I knew that Neil would just the same. And I wondered why Father never believed me.

I sat down on the floor. A wood louse was crawling out from underneath my knees, flicking its antennae and strumming its feet. It looked like a tiny armadillo. I watched it climb the sand dunes in the Land of Decoration and wondered if it would ever find its way out again. We did an experiment with wood lice in school. We built a plasticine maze and counted the number of times they turned left or right. They nearly always turned left. This is because they cannot think for themselves. I wondered if this meant the wood louse would come out eventually or would just keep going round in circles until it died in a little crusty ball.