Michele Forbes - Ghost Moth

She feels it is the strangest experience in the world, amid the perfumed heat, among the folds of warm cloth that wrap around them both in the crimson-edged light. A part of herself she has never known before, now discovered, now occupied, now made transparent.

I SABEL ARRIVES IN ELSA’S BACK GARDEN wearing bright yellow hot pants. She stands with a bold composure and a slender hand on her hip beside the small three-legged table, which has been covered with a green checkered tea towel. There are three plates on the table and a handwritten card saying “Home Baking.” Isabel is eyeing the roughly cut rectangles of boiled cake on the plate nearest Elsa, who is sitting politely on a little stool on the other side of the table. Elsa is looking at Isabel.

The Bedford girls have organized a summer fair in their back garden. Maureen and Elizabeth, in particular, had begun pestering their mother early that morning. Elsa’s sunburn had tempered her enthusiasm a little — she was still feeling hot and sore — but when Katherine agreed, Elsa had immediately drawn a sign in purple crayon on a piece of cardboard saying SUMMER FAIR IN BACK GARDEN — ALL WELCOME and had hung it on their front gate. The money they would raise from this humble affair, the girls had decided, would go to the Black Babies of Africa. Katherine, however, had persuaded Elsa not to add this to the bottom of her sign, but just to put FOR CHARITY instead. The Black Babies was, after all, a Catholic charity, Katherine had patiently explained to her daughters, and so — as she had phrased it—“they had to be careful not to put their Protestant neighbors out a little.” Despite struggling to understand this, Elsa had nevertheless followed her mother’s advice. Katherine had also suggested to Elsa that she change the prize for one of the games that was being planned for the fair at the far end of the garden. Elsa was intending to place three buckets upside down beside the apple tree. Whoever could hit all three of the buckets blindfolded with a rubber ball would win a holy picture of Saint Francis of Assisi. The picture, Katherine had suggested, should be replaced with a small bag of toffees. Elsa had understood this suggestion perfectly. Of course, she had thought, everybody in the world would much prefer to win a bag of toffees than win a picture of a solemn-looking saint.

Despite the beautiful day, Katherine feels tired and cold, as though still in shock since her encounter with the seal the day before. The cuts on her legs from the rocks are beginning to sting, perhaps because they’re beginning to heal, she thinks. She wants to keep her mind on the summer fair. She wants to have a lovely day with her children.

Elsa is looking at Isabel. Isabel lives the next road up from Elsa, smokes Benson & Hedges in the back field on her way home from Sunday school, and once chased Elsa down the street, waving a pair of her father’s underpants. Elsa had felt frightened of the underpants, as though they held some sinister secret of the grown-up world, and had then felt stupid for feeling frightened. Isabel’s father was a dapper, fervently religious man who made lampstands out of seashells and empty wine bottles, disapproved of having a television in the house, and never cut his grass on a Sunday. But Elsa thought that underpants were underpants no matter whom they belonged to.

The boiled cake that had been made for the fair had not been boiled. It had been baked in the oven like any other cake. But its generous quantities of sultanas and raisins had been steamed gently so that they were plump and soft before being folded into the mixture of cinnamon, flour, eggs, and sugar. Katherine had made this cake with her mother when she was a child and now made it regularly with her own children. Elsa and Elizabeth, that morning, had slipped their girlish fingers around the insides of the deep ceramic bowl as Katherine was putting the cake into the oven and had lifted the remains of the fruity mixture to their mouths and licked their fingers clean.

Isabel knows how nice boiled cake tastes. She has tasted it before. There are eleven slices on the plate.

“Your hot pants are lovely,” Elsa says to Isabel, feeling somehow that only a compliment will be worthy of a reply.

“They’re from my half cousin. She lives in Canada. She also sent me a purple pair. I could’ve worn them today, but I didn’t want to.”

“They’re lovely,” Elsa repeats meekly.

“I suppose so.”

Isabel looks at Elsa with a charged disdain. “You know yous are the only Catholic family in this street.”

“Yes, I know.” Elsa lowers her head as though she has been found out.

“In this whole area. ” Isabel says the word area as though she has just overheard it from a couple of whispering grown-ups. She tilts her chin skyward.

“Well, there’s also Mr. and Mrs. McGovern—”

“Just sayin’.”

“And really we’re half and half, ’cos Daddy was a Protestant and only turned Catholic when he married Mummy.” Elsa pushes her finger into a piece of boiled cake as she speaks.

“You go to a Catholic school, so yous are Catholics, so yous are.”

Elsa looks at Isabel and has nothing to say.

“I got caught smoking in the back field,” Isabel continues, suddenly impressed with herself. She nods her head slowly and widens her eyes at Elsa to denote just what serious trouble she is in.

“Did your mum catch you?”

“No, Mrs. MacAllister from our Sunday School did. She’s a big pig! She should mind her own business. What was she doin’ in the back field anyway? How much is the cake?”

“A penny a slice,” Elsa replies.

“And how much is that?” Isabel points at the one home-baked cherry iced bun that has survived since yesterday.

“A penny a bun.”

“There’s only one bun.” Isabel adjusts the seat of her hot pants.

“It’s a penny.”

“And how much are those?” Isabel fingers some custard creams that have been placed hastily onto a paper napkin.

“You get three for a penny.”

“How much did ye say the cake was?”

“A penny a slice.” Elsa begins to grow more and more nervous during this exchange, as if Isabel’s haughty tone has the power to reveal Elsa as a liar.

“The cake looks r-e-a-l-l-y-n-i-c-e.” Isabel spreads her words like lemon curd on warm bread, a cue for ingratiation.

“My mummy made it.” Elsa wants to stay Isabel’s friend.

“ My mummy makes a chocolate and lime Victoria sponge cake for the Sunday School prayer meetings every third Sunday. The vicar always says it’s the nicest cake he has ever tasted. He says that every time.”

The sun is now shining directly into Elsa’s face, making it crinkle like paper.

“Your face is really red,” continues Isabel.

“I know.”

“And you got white patches of stuff on your chin.”

Elsa strokes her chin to see if she can feel the remains of the calamine lotion. “I got sunburn.”

“But I’ve no money with me.” Isabel talks now in a strange, tiny voice, adjusting the seat of her hot pants again. Elsa wishes she did not feel a compulsion to placate Isabel. Despite herself, despite how Isabel makes her feel, Elsa finds herself picking out the biggest slice of boiled cake to give to Isabel.

“You can have this for nothing if you like.” Elsa is smiling on the outside.

Isabel curls her top lip away from her teeth and then quickly pokes the air with her index finger just in front of Elsa’s face by way of a thank-you. Elsa feels unsettled by the gesture but finds herself smiling once again at Isabel. Isabel then sidles off to peruse what the fair has to offer her, nibbling superciliously at her slice of boiled cake.