Read Online Painted Love Letters by Catherine Bateson - Free Book Online

he’d been a soldier. Mr Chapman said my essay showed originality but he hoped next time I would choose a less morbid subject. He said, ‘Are you sure that’s just an allergy you have? You’ve been wearing that glove for an awfully long time, Chrissie’.
    â€˜Washing up liquid,’ I said, ‘and even soap, really.’
    When I got home from school, Dad was sitting at the kitchen table.
    â€˜Put the kettle on, Chrissie,’ he said, ‘and come and have a biscuit.’
    He’d put out some Iced Vo Vo’s and I scraped the pink off with my front teeth.
    â€˜So how was school?’ Dad asked, sitting down next to me.
    â€˜Okay.’
    â€˜What did you do?’
    I couldn’t think of anything we’d done that would interest him. ‘Nothing much.’
    â€˜You must have done something,’ he said.
    â€˜You know, stuff.’ He was sitting on my left hand side and every so often he seemed to look at my gloved hand. I hugged it between my knees and ate another biscuit quickly.
    â€˜Chrissie,’ Dad said, ‘you would tell me if there was anything wrong, wouldn’t you?’
    I stared at him, ‘Wrong? What do you mean?’ Hadn’t he forgotten something even asking me that?
    â€˜I meant at school,’ he said. ‘You’d tell me if there was something wrong at school.’
    â€˜There’s nothing wrong at school,’ I said, ‘nothing at all.’
    We sat quietly for a minute. The kitchen door was open and a breeze riffled through. Dad shivered but I turned my hot face towards it with relief.
    â€˜I want to see your hand,’ Dad said suddenly, ‘come on Chrissie, take the glove off.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜The glove, Chrissie, the glove comes off.’
    â€˜No,’ I hugged my knees tighter together, ‘No, I can’t.’
    Dad grabbed my wrist and pulled. I grabbed the bottom of the kitchen chair with my hand and clung on but the glove slipped on the metal and vinyl and I could see, from Dad’s face, that the effort was hurting him so I let him yank my poor dead hand. He peeled the glove off and we both looked down at my hand as though it was a small, sick animal.
    It was just a hand. A pale hand with longer fingernails than its mate but no less perfect. The unblemished skin went right up the fingers and swept down the palm side in the whirls and patterns that made my fingerprints unique in the world. The compass prick marks had gone and so had the little red dot. I pinched the skin where my palm left off and my wrist began.
    â€˜Ouch,’
    â€˜What did you do that for,’ Dad asked.
    â€˜Just checking’
    â€˜Nice fingernails,’ Dad said, taking my hand and examining it, ‘they certainly have grown under that glove.’
    He turned my hand over, palm side up and before I could stop him, he kissed me right where the spot had been.
    â€˜Dad!’ I said, snatching my hand away.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜You might still get it you know,’
    â€˜Get what Chrissie? Girl germs?’
    â€˜Leprosy,’ I said, sitting on both my hands. ‘Leprosy,’ Dad said and then he leant back in his chair and laughed and laughed until he started to cough.
    â€˜Oh Chrissie,’ he said, after I had made him sip a glass of water slowly, ‘my darling girl.’
    â€˜Father Damien got it and there were cases in Queensland at the turn of the century. They still have it in India. People die of it, I don’t think that’s funny.’
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ Dad said, ‘but what made you think you had leprosy?’
    â€˜There was this spot,’ I said, ‘honest, and that’s how it starts. And then my fingers went numb. And I had these nightmares that my nose had disappeared. It just made sense, okay?’
    Dad picked up the glove and threw it in the bin.
    â€˜I don’t think we need that anymore,’ he said.
    I threw out my