Read Online Forgetting Foster by Dianne Touchell - Free Book Online
Authors: Dianne Touchell
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‘Malcolm! I said you’ve still got your Christmas socks on!’
Foster turned in his seat and could just see a ring of bright red sequins below the cuff of Dad’s trousers. He couldn’t understand why, but it worried him.
‘I couldn’t get him to take them off,’ Mum said.
‘Apparently!’ Aunty replied.
They were late so everyone had already gone inside. Foster was about to get out of the car when Mum grabbed the back of Aunty’s seat and leaned forward. She brought her mouth parallel to Aunty’s ear and said, ‘You think this is funny?’ There was a strange break in Mum’s voice.
Aunty turned her head slowly towards Mum. Foster noticed that their noses were almost touching. He felt a tightness in his chest. He opened his car door and was about to slide out when he realised his seatbelt was still on.
‘Yes,’ Aunty said. ‘Yes, I do. And you had better find your sense of humour too.’
‘You two look like you’re about to kiss!’ Dad said loudly, unbuckling his seatbelt.
Mum was half out of the car when she stopped and said to Aunty, ‘I know what you think of me.’
‘Maybe we should go home,’ Foster offered.
‘Fossie, get out of the car,’ Mum said as she slammed the door.
The church was cool and dark and full of whispers. Foster could smell the old wood beneath his feet. He had on his good shoes which clacked deliciously into the frigid air. He wanted to follow those little echoes all the way to the front and sit where he could see, but Aunty jostled him into a pew at the back almost immediately. Foster, taken by surprise, gripped the end of the row. It was so shiny with lacquer it made a squeaky noise as his hand skidded along it. He was plonked into place by a hand on his shoulder, Aunty blocking all escape by taking the end position anddropping her handbag on the kneeler. Foster creased his face up and emptied his lungs like angry bagpipes. Aunty leaned over and said, ‘Come on, Fossie. Don’t be a thundercloud.’
His dad leaned across him then and said to Aunty, ‘Why are we sitting way back here?’
‘Foster wants to.’
‘I do not!’
‘No, he doesn’t!’
‘ Shoosh! Both of you!’ Mum said.
It had already started but Foster couldn’t hear a thing. The people looked small from back here. Not Pillow Top Mountain small, but smaller than usual. Someone was using a microphone which only added skirling decibels to the already distorted voices from the apse.
Foster believed in all sorts of gods and wondered which one was responsible for putting fingers on babies. He’d never seen the finger of God so he knew it was either really, really small or invisible. Given God would have to be pretty big to get around as much as he did Foster assumed the whole hand of God was probably invisible. Like shrink wrap covering the leftover salad. You could only see it when the light hit it a certain way or if you wrinkled it trying to peelit off. The light in church was thick with colours so Foster looked dizzyingly hard into the dark corners on the off-chance God’s finger would be in as much of a hurry as Dad.
‘How are you? Nice to see you!’ A lady sitting two rows ahead had spun around and fired an unforgiving whisper in their direction. It carried like water in a sieve, splashing into the spaces between people and causing some to startle and shift.
‘Ruby!’ Dad’s voice, at a volume Foster recognised at once as inappropriate, a volume Mum often described as ‘an outside voice’ when Foster used it, hit the back of every head in the church like a bullet.
There was a short and distinct swishing sound as everyone spun around and then resettled. Mum placed her hand firmly on Dad’s knee.
‘ No, it’s me, Caroline! ’ the lady replied in a hissy whisper.
‘Who?’ The shifting and resettling of guests was unmistakably less tolerant this time. Some of the faces that turned lingered longer, and were thunderclouds.
‘ Shoosh , Malcolm!’ Mum said. Then to the
Foster turned in his seat and could just see a ring of bright red sequins below the cuff of Dad’s trousers. He couldn’t understand why, but it worried him.
‘I couldn’t get him to take them off,’ Mum said.
‘Apparently!’ Aunty replied.
They were late so everyone had already gone inside. Foster was about to get out of the car when Mum grabbed the back of Aunty’s seat and leaned forward. She brought her mouth parallel to Aunty’s ear and said, ‘You think this is funny?’ There was a strange break in Mum’s voice.
Aunty turned her head slowly towards Mum. Foster noticed that their noses were almost touching. He felt a tightness in his chest. He opened his car door and was about to slide out when he realised his seatbelt was still on.
‘Yes,’ Aunty said. ‘Yes, I do. And you had better find your sense of humour too.’
‘You two look like you’re about to kiss!’ Dad said loudly, unbuckling his seatbelt.
Mum was half out of the car when she stopped and said to Aunty, ‘I know what you think of me.’
‘Maybe we should go home,’ Foster offered.
‘Fossie, get out of the car,’ Mum said as she slammed the door.
The church was cool and dark and full of whispers. Foster could smell the old wood beneath his feet. He had on his good shoes which clacked deliciously into the frigid air. He wanted to follow those little echoes all the way to the front and sit where he could see, but Aunty jostled him into a pew at the back almost immediately. Foster, taken by surprise, gripped the end of the row. It was so shiny with lacquer it made a squeaky noise as his hand skidded along it. He was plonked into place by a hand on his shoulder, Aunty blocking all escape by taking the end position anddropping her handbag on the kneeler. Foster creased his face up and emptied his lungs like angry bagpipes. Aunty leaned over and said, ‘Come on, Fossie. Don’t be a thundercloud.’
His dad leaned across him then and said to Aunty, ‘Why are we sitting way back here?’
‘Foster wants to.’
‘I do not!’
‘No, he doesn’t!’
‘ Shoosh! Both of you!’ Mum said.
It had already started but Foster couldn’t hear a thing. The people looked small from back here. Not Pillow Top Mountain small, but smaller than usual. Someone was using a microphone which only added skirling decibels to the already distorted voices from the apse.
Foster believed in all sorts of gods and wondered which one was responsible for putting fingers on babies. He’d never seen the finger of God so he knew it was either really, really small or invisible. Given God would have to be pretty big to get around as much as he did Foster assumed the whole hand of God was probably invisible. Like shrink wrap covering the leftover salad. You could only see it when the light hit it a certain way or if you wrinkled it trying to peelit off. The light in church was thick with colours so Foster looked dizzyingly hard into the dark corners on the off-chance God’s finger would be in as much of a hurry as Dad.
‘How are you? Nice to see you!’ A lady sitting two rows ahead had spun around and fired an unforgiving whisper in their direction. It carried like water in a sieve, splashing into the spaces between people and causing some to startle and shift.
‘Ruby!’ Dad’s voice, at a volume Foster recognised at once as inappropriate, a volume Mum often described as ‘an outside voice’ when Foster used it, hit the back of every head in the church like a bullet.
There was a short and distinct swishing sound as everyone spun around and then resettled. Mum placed her hand firmly on Dad’s knee.
‘ No, it’s me, Caroline! ’ the lady replied in a hissy whisper.
‘Who?’ The shifting and resettling of guests was unmistakably less tolerant this time. Some of the faces that turned lingered longer, and were thunderclouds.
‘ Shoosh , Malcolm!’ Mum said. Then to the
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