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Authors: Dianne Touchell
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Ruby-Caroline, ‘ Not now,’ with a desperate, pleading smile.
The Ruby-Caroline looked annoyed. As if shethought Mum was telling her off. Foster knew Mum wasn’t meaning to tell her off. Even after the Ruby-Caroline had turned to face the front again she occasionally flicked her head around and rolled her eyes in a harrumphing way.
‘Wait! That’s Caroline!’ Dad bawled into the ceremony. Then he started to laugh. The sort of greeting-laugh you hear between grown-ups when they suddenly come across people they usually avoid and can’t think of a way to get out of it. Then to Mum, equally loudly, ‘I’ve never liked her.’
Aunty immediately got up and moved to the pew Ruby-Caroline was occupying. She scooched in next to her and started whispering in her ear. Half the room was looking at them all now. Foster was embarrassed. Mum was shoving Dad along the pew with her hip and Dad was getting cross. Foster had to anchor himself to his seat with one hand to avoid being shoved onto the floor. Mum leaned across Dad and hissed, ‘Move, Foster!’ Foster began the humiliating slide to the end of the pew, feeling the way the Ruby-Caroline had looked. Although as she spun in her seat to have a look now, her eyes were snappy with smug curiosity. Foster felt sorry for her then, even though she seemed so pleased with herself. Foster sometimes did that, puton his pride face when he was really hurt. Sometimes withholding the show of hurt was the only defence left. And here was the Ruby-Caroline being both told off and told she wasn’t liked. She leaned over to Aunty and said something then that made Aunty look like she’d been slapped with a wet fish.
Aunty appeared and pulled Foster to his feet with the same force she’d only just deposited him with. She then leaned across and took Dad’s hand to ease him to his feet. Dad looked confused and upset. Mum was sliding along the pew herself when she suddenly arced upwards as if she’d sat on a tack, a resounding Urrrgghh! flying from her squared mouth as if she were the choir soloist. She had skidded into the puddle Dad had left behind.
Foster was burning inside and out as he watched Mum ease her way over the slick spot. She caught herself mid-skid as her heel lithely slid through the urine that had dripped onto the floor. When she reached Foster her skirt was wet.
‘It’s all right, Fossie,’ she said, resting her palm on his cheek. He realised then that he wasn’t moving. His joints had locked. Aunty had already led Dad away, but Foster couldn’t stop staring at the pee on the floor. He could smell it now too.
‘You should know better!’ An old lady had appeared from nowhere, like the finger of God, and had a talon-like grip on Foster’s shoulder. Then to Mum, ‘Do you need any help, dear? It’s all just attention-seeking, you know.’
‘No, thank you, we’re fine,’ Mum said. She was easing Foster towards the door when it suddenly and sickeningly occurred to him that Mum was letting the old lady believe that he was the one who had peed. He looked up at his mum and felt a shame that rolled his bowels. He got ready to go out by himself, he made his own sandwiches, he picked up his toys. He didn’t pee his pants. In that moment he hated her.
itchy feet and isolation
When they got home Mum put Dad in the bath while Aunty put the kettle on. Foster sat on the floor in the hall just outside the bathroom door and listened to the calm talk and low laughter. It had been all quiet fury in the car on the drive home. Aunty had been angry at the Ruby-Caroline, which felt unfair to Foster. She seemed like a nice lady who just wanted to say hello. She didn’t know Dad was going to use his outside voice in the most inside of inside places and then pee himself. But Aunty fumed as she drove, occasionally spitting out half sentences in a kind of hiss-whinny Foster knew was the dead-end of cranky.
‘ Stupid woman! If she’d just shut the . . . Idiotic! . . . told her not
The Ruby-Caroline looked annoyed. As if shethought Mum was telling her off. Foster knew Mum wasn’t meaning to tell her off. Even after the Ruby-Caroline had turned to face the front again she occasionally flicked her head around and rolled her eyes in a harrumphing way.
‘Wait! That’s Caroline!’ Dad bawled into the ceremony. Then he started to laugh. The sort of greeting-laugh you hear between grown-ups when they suddenly come across people they usually avoid and can’t think of a way to get out of it. Then to Mum, equally loudly, ‘I’ve never liked her.’
Aunty immediately got up and moved to the pew Ruby-Caroline was occupying. She scooched in next to her and started whispering in her ear. Half the room was looking at them all now. Foster was embarrassed. Mum was shoving Dad along the pew with her hip and Dad was getting cross. Foster had to anchor himself to his seat with one hand to avoid being shoved onto the floor. Mum leaned across Dad and hissed, ‘Move, Foster!’ Foster began the humiliating slide to the end of the pew, feeling the way the Ruby-Caroline had looked. Although as she spun in her seat to have a look now, her eyes were snappy with smug curiosity. Foster felt sorry for her then, even though she seemed so pleased with herself. Foster sometimes did that, puton his pride face when he was really hurt. Sometimes withholding the show of hurt was the only defence left. And here was the Ruby-Caroline being both told off and told she wasn’t liked. She leaned over to Aunty and said something then that made Aunty look like she’d been slapped with a wet fish.
Aunty appeared and pulled Foster to his feet with the same force she’d only just deposited him with. She then leaned across and took Dad’s hand to ease him to his feet. Dad looked confused and upset. Mum was sliding along the pew herself when she suddenly arced upwards as if she’d sat on a tack, a resounding Urrrgghh! flying from her squared mouth as if she were the choir soloist. She had skidded into the puddle Dad had left behind.
Foster was burning inside and out as he watched Mum ease her way over the slick spot. She caught herself mid-skid as her heel lithely slid through the urine that had dripped onto the floor. When she reached Foster her skirt was wet.
‘It’s all right, Fossie,’ she said, resting her palm on his cheek. He realised then that he wasn’t moving. His joints had locked. Aunty had already led Dad away, but Foster couldn’t stop staring at the pee on the floor. He could smell it now too.
‘You should know better!’ An old lady had appeared from nowhere, like the finger of God, and had a talon-like grip on Foster’s shoulder. Then to Mum, ‘Do you need any help, dear? It’s all just attention-seeking, you know.’
‘No, thank you, we’re fine,’ Mum said. She was easing Foster towards the door when it suddenly and sickeningly occurred to him that Mum was letting the old lady believe that he was the one who had peed. He looked up at his mum and felt a shame that rolled his bowels. He got ready to go out by himself, he made his own sandwiches, he picked up his toys. He didn’t pee his pants. In that moment he hated her.
itchy feet and isolation
When they got home Mum put Dad in the bath while Aunty put the kettle on. Foster sat on the floor in the hall just outside the bathroom door and listened to the calm talk and low laughter. It had been all quiet fury in the car on the drive home. Aunty had been angry at the Ruby-Caroline, which felt unfair to Foster. She seemed like a nice lady who just wanted to say hello. She didn’t know Dad was going to use his outside voice in the most inside of inside places and then pee himself. But Aunty fumed as she drove, occasionally spitting out half sentences in a kind of hiss-whinny Foster knew was the dead-end of cranky.
‘ Stupid woman! If she’d just shut the . . . Idiotic! . . . told her not
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