Read Online The Burying Beetle by Ann Kelley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ann Kelley
Ads: Link
as I could around her arms, and she had her hands up trying to hold me off, and I was screaming, ‘I hate you, I hate you!’ and I ran off into the garden screaming, ‘No, no! Not King!
I had eaten my pet. I couldn’t believe they could have done that to me.
It was soon after that that I had to go into hospital for my operation, and that’s when Grandpop died, and then Grandma died too, and I never had time to say I was sorry. And now I feel awful that the last thing they probably remembered of me was my hitting Grandma and screaming ‘I hate you’.
I don’t think I broke their hearts. Or did I?
I think they were sorry, but to them the life of a chicken was neither here nor there.
They didn’t apologise to me, if it comes to that – if it comes to that ? How on earth does a foreign person make sense of these silly phrases and expressions? How on earth? I think they are called clichés.
Grandma’s kitchen was very small, a kitchenette, she called it, and when she was cleaning rabbits or chickens I used to keep out of the way. The stench of rabbit innards and chicken innards made me retch. I remember the first time I saw the unformed eggs inside a chicken. Like a bunch of pink grapes, strung together. I think I would be interested now in the insides of animals, if I could wear a face mask, but then I was just too young for the experience.
Her dresser – that’s a wooden set of shelves above a chest of drawers and cupboards – was full of different sorts of china – nothing seemed to match, maybe a plate or two, but never more than that. I think she dropped a lot, or chipped them on the taps and then they became chicken plates, for the chicken food. She cooked the chicken-food specially – they seemed to have lots of potato skins and oats or something, cooked in the pressure cooker again. That kitchenette was more like a ship’s engine room – the steam, the noise, the activity.
She was always busy, was Grandma. When she wasn’t gardening or looking after the chickens she was making things – sewing, embroidery, knitting, crochet, even smocking. She used to make these tiny dresses with smocking on for babies. I had several, apparently. I don’t really remember them. I never saw her with her hands still. She made stuff for her local fetes and the Women’s Institute. And she was a great joiner. She was a member of everything going – the Conservative Party, the Labour Party, the Salvation Army – maybe not the Salvation Army, but she made gooseberry and strawberry jams and things for their bazaars – anyone who had dances or parties, she would be there. I don’t think Grandpa would have anything to do with her friends. She used to dance with other women, all these fat old women in flowery dresses and white curls, dancing together – weird or what? But she always said the same thing when she came back – ‘I thoroughly enjoyed myself.’
Grandpop sat at home and watched telly and did the pools. He never won anything, but you had to be very quiet for ages on a Saturday afternoon when they read out the results on the radio or TV. He did win something once – ten pounds – ‘Better than a slap on the belly with a wet fish!’ He was always saying that. (He said that when the only rent he got for Whitechapel Road was £2.) And ‘East, west, home’s best.’ I suppose if you have been a sailor and sailed the Seven Seas, you get to love your home very much.
I wish I had known them when they played cricket together.
I wish I had said I was sorry.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Note: There are loads of gannets out there in the sea this morning, diving into the waves as if they’ve been shot out of the sky. So there must be a large shoal of fish they are feeding on. Actually, I realise I can sometimes see shoals of fish below the house, directly underneath and shifting across the beach to the Hayle estuary at the other end. The shoal looks like a large blue blot. An amoeba I think it’s called. It shifts and
I had eaten my pet. I couldn’t believe they could have done that to me.
It was soon after that that I had to go into hospital for my operation, and that’s when Grandpop died, and then Grandma died too, and I never had time to say I was sorry. And now I feel awful that the last thing they probably remembered of me was my hitting Grandma and screaming ‘I hate you’.
I don’t think I broke their hearts. Or did I?
I think they were sorry, but to them the life of a chicken was neither here nor there.
They didn’t apologise to me, if it comes to that – if it comes to that ? How on earth does a foreign person make sense of these silly phrases and expressions? How on earth? I think they are called clichés.
Grandma’s kitchen was very small, a kitchenette, she called it, and when she was cleaning rabbits or chickens I used to keep out of the way. The stench of rabbit innards and chicken innards made me retch. I remember the first time I saw the unformed eggs inside a chicken. Like a bunch of pink grapes, strung together. I think I would be interested now in the insides of animals, if I could wear a face mask, but then I was just too young for the experience.
Her dresser – that’s a wooden set of shelves above a chest of drawers and cupboards – was full of different sorts of china – nothing seemed to match, maybe a plate or two, but never more than that. I think she dropped a lot, or chipped them on the taps and then they became chicken plates, for the chicken food. She cooked the chicken-food specially – they seemed to have lots of potato skins and oats or something, cooked in the pressure cooker again. That kitchenette was more like a ship’s engine room – the steam, the noise, the activity.
She was always busy, was Grandma. When she wasn’t gardening or looking after the chickens she was making things – sewing, embroidery, knitting, crochet, even smocking. She used to make these tiny dresses with smocking on for babies. I had several, apparently. I don’t really remember them. I never saw her with her hands still. She made stuff for her local fetes and the Women’s Institute. And she was a great joiner. She was a member of everything going – the Conservative Party, the Labour Party, the Salvation Army – maybe not the Salvation Army, but she made gooseberry and strawberry jams and things for their bazaars – anyone who had dances or parties, she would be there. I don’t think Grandpa would have anything to do with her friends. She used to dance with other women, all these fat old women in flowery dresses and white curls, dancing together – weird or what? But she always said the same thing when she came back – ‘I thoroughly enjoyed myself.’
Grandpop sat at home and watched telly and did the pools. He never won anything, but you had to be very quiet for ages on a Saturday afternoon when they read out the results on the radio or TV. He did win something once – ten pounds – ‘Better than a slap on the belly with a wet fish!’ He was always saying that. (He said that when the only rent he got for Whitechapel Road was £2.) And ‘East, west, home’s best.’ I suppose if you have been a sailor and sailed the Seven Seas, you get to love your home very much.
I wish I had known them when they played cricket together.
I wish I had said I was sorry.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Note: There are loads of gannets out there in the sea this morning, diving into the waves as if they’ve been shot out of the sky. So there must be a large shoal of fish they are feeding on. Actually, I realise I can sometimes see shoals of fish below the house, directly underneath and shifting across the beach to the Hayle estuary at the other end. The shoal looks like a large blue blot. An amoeba I think it’s called. It shifts and
Similar Books
