Grace McCleen - The Land of Decoration

I didn’t understand how people knew where I was, because I wasn’t leaving any footprints and I wasn’t making a noise. Then I saw there was a trail of bright dust shining in the dark, and it was coming from my pocket, the one I had put the stone in that the old man had given me, but when I put my hand in the pocket there was only a hole and, trickling from the hole, glittering dust.

I tore off my jacket and threw it away and ran faster, but still the trail continued. I stumbled and fell and got up again, and then I was running at different speeds, fast one minute—and the hills and fields around me jumping this way and that, the way they do when you are thrown around on the back of a horse or in a very old film of cowboys and Indians—and slow the next, as if everything was flowing like treacle or honey, and that was worse because I couldn’t make my legs go fast enough.

However I ran, the dust kept trickling, and I thought this stone must be enormous, bigger than the universe, and I hadn’t known it. I ran and ran, trying to remember where the land gave way to the floorboards, but where the sand dunes should have ended there were more dunes and where the hills should have stopped there were more hills. The Land of Decoration went on and on, as I used to imagine it did, only now I wanted it to end and just come to the door or the radiator or the edge of the ring.

I had to stop to get my breath back and as I bent down I saw that the reason the dust wasn’t stopping was that I was full of it, I was made of it, and there were holes in me everywhere. And as I began to run again, I knew that soon there would be nothing left of me except pipe cleaners, cotton, and a little bit of felt.

“NEIL LEWIS HAS had an accident and won’t be at school for a while.” Mrs. Pierce was standing in front of her desk.

“What happened, Miss? What happened?”

“He was involved in a car accident. Mr. Williams has told me they’re taking good care of him in the hospital.”

“When did it happen?” said Gemma.

“Last night,” said Mrs. Pierce.

“When will he be back?” said Luke.

“We’re not sure,” said Mrs. Pierce. “It’s just as well it’s nearly Christmas; it will give him a chance to get better before school starts again.”

For the rest of the day I tried to see if Mrs. Pierce was looking at me. I don’t think she was, but I couldn’t be sure.

There were Christmas lights on every one of the trees in the front-room windows as I turned in to our street that evening. The rooms looked warm. I was aching and pulled my scarf higher. I wasn’t sure if it was because I had cried so much last night or because I was coming down with something.

“How was school?” Father asked when he got home.

“Fine.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Mrs. Pierce said Neil had had a car accident. That he would be off till after Christmas.”

“Right,” he said.

“Was work all right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Absolutely” is a word Father never uses.

We were reading the Bible later when a dustbin rattled in the back lane. Father jumped. Then he went to the window, looking first to the right and then to the left. When he came back to the table, he smiled and said: “Cat.” He turned a page over, then turned back. “Where were we?”

I looked at him. “Here,” I said.

“Oh yes.”

He began to read. But before we had got ten verses further, he stopped mid-sentence, took off his glasses, and laid them on the table. He said: “I think we’ll leave it there for tonight.”

“We’re halfway through the chapter.”

“What better place to finish?” he said. “We can ponder what’s going to happen next,” and he got up from the table and didn’t come back.

LATER THAT NIGHT I woke to voices. To begin with, I thought they were coming from the street, but then I realized they were coming from downstairs, and I crept onto the landing.

Halfway down the stairs I saw light coming from under the middle-room door. Inside the room I could hear Uncle Stan. He was saying: “Taking things into your own hands like this.”

“What would you have had me do?” Father said. “If I hadn’t heard that window smash, I don’t know what would have happened. There was petrol—did you know that? I didn’t know what to expect next.”

“I understand,” said Uncle Stan. “But—”

“No, you don’t understand,” Father said. “And you won’t until you’re in a similar situation. Yes, I know what it says here, but it’s different when it comes down to it, I don’t care what you quote me.”

“A little boy has been seriously injured because of your actions,” said Alf’s voice.

“I’ve explained all that,” said Father.

“Do you feel any remorse at all?” said Alf.

“That ‘little boy,’” Father said, “is a complete hooligan. He has made my life hell for the past couple of months and—”

“I asked if you felt any remorse,” said Alf.

There was silence for a minute, and I could hear the hall clock and the wind in the gutters and my heart. Then Father’s voice said: “You know, Alf, I don’t,” and my stomach went up and down and I shut my eyes.

There were no sounds then, except for a rustle of paper and the fire crackling, until Uncle Stan said: “I’m very sorry to hear that, John,” and he sounded sorry. “I just don’t think you realize how extreme your reactions have been; you don’t seem to be thinking clearly.”

Alf said: “I think you should be marked, John. I mean, what sort of example are you giving?”

“Why shouldn’t I protect my family?” Father said. “I’ve only done what was natural.”

“But if you had faith, you’d leave things in God’s hands,” said Stan. “Faith means not doubting, not questioning, not asking why.”

It was a minute before anyone spoke. Then Father said something in a low voice that was so quiet I couldn’t hear and Stan said: “Oh, John. Why d’you bring that up?” and he sounded as though Father had hurt him.

Father said: “Well, she did, didn’t she? She didn’t doubt, she didn’t grumble, she didn’t ask why!”

There was another pause, then Alf said: “Sarah had great faith, John. No one’s denying that.” And I shut my eyes and leaned my head against the banister, because “Sarah” was Mother’s name.

“Great faith —” Father’s voice rose, then stopped short.

There was silence. Then Uncle Stan said: “Can’t you see we’re trying to help you, John, that we want the best for you?”

Father said: “D’you know, right now, Stan, right now, I’m not sure.” A wave of hot and then cold washed over me. I needed the toilet.

There was another silence. Then Alf said: “We’re going to pray for you.”

Stan said: “You know the procedure. If we haven’t heard from you in twenty days…” and Father said quietly: “Yes, I know.”

The door opened suddenly and light fell across the hall, and I nearly fell over myself trying to get back up the stairs in time. I crouched on the landing and heard footsteps going to the front door. Father went out the door with them and I heard the bolts slide back on the gate, then Father locked it, came inside, locked the front door, and went into the kitchen.

I waited for him to come to bed for over an hour, but he didn’t, so I went halfway down the stairs again. The hall light wasn’t on anymore, but there was a light under the middle-room door. I went down the outside of the stairs where the steps made no sound, and when I got to the bottom I walked over the tiles until I could bend down and peep through the keyhole. Father was sitting in an armchair in front of the fire, holding the silver picture of Mother. He was looking at the fire, not making a noise, and tears were coming down his cheeks. He was letting them come and not wiping them away.