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Authors: Nadia Wheatley
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don’t have silver at home.’
Never sure if the child was mocking her, Nobby’s mother would let her in, and there she’d sit singing and chattering in the kitchen as if she had a right, making Nobby be noisy and laugh.
They used to play Crusaders.
‘This roast plate’s the king, and the teapot’s the queen, and the dishes and stuff are knights, and the vases are the squires, and all the cuttle-ry is the swords and lances . . . And these two rings,’ Lizzie would reckon, ‘they’re our crowns.’ Balancing Nobby’s mother’s serviette ring on her head as she polished, she’d giggle at Nobby whose head was too flat or something, and Nobby’s crown would fall off with a dull clunking sound.
Nobby smeared polish over the ring, turning the silver to dull white, obliterating the
N
.
Or they’d be invading armies sometimes, sitting at opposite ends with equal battalions, and as each soldier’s armour was cleaned he could advance on the enemy’s camp. The serviette rings were the cannon balls, and the trick was to flick them down the table when the other commissar wasn’t looking, and kill him dead.
One day, Lizzie had had this ring of Nobby’s, and she’d flicked too hard, and it’d gone spinning off in a helix of flashing silver and apparently disappeared into thin air. They’d searched and searched, and hadn’t found it, and Nobby’s mother had muttered about light fingers and said Lizzie couldn’t come and do the silver any more.
Six months later, Nobby had found it, in a dark corner beneath the dresser, but by then it was too late to get Lizzie back, for she’d turned fourteen and started work and she didn’t get off till after dinner-time on Saturdays.
Nobby rubbed hard at the ring, wondering as he often did why the white polish turned to black upon the rag. A phrase of his mother’s came into his mind:
‘Too late!’ she cried, as she waved her wooden leg!
Too late. Even if she could come now, they were too old to play Crusaders.
Rubbing at the ring now white turned to black and Nobby’s mother came in and the row continued.
...And continued through the night and every night for eight more nights till the morning of the 25th came, and Mrs Weston put on her velour hat and went up to the courthouse and informed the magistrate that her tenant Padraic Fergus Cruise had not paid the back-rent, and so the magistrate ordered an ejectment warrant to be issued at any time between that day and June 22nd.
9
That first week of the school holidays was bad for Evie. Sammy still went to the play centre, because it was an all-year-round place for working mothers to leave their kids at; but Maria and Jodie were home all day, dropping crumbs where Evie had just vacuumed, slopping drinks when Evie had just cleaned the kitchen, following after Evie if she tried to go up the CYSS place, sneaking into Evie’s room if she forgot to lock it, and taking her hairbrush and using up the battery in her radio and looking in her drawers. The only time she got any peace was around four o’clock, when the three of them would usually creep off somewhere, but by then it was too late.
By Friday Evie had had it. She washed her hair and put on some faded jeans that fitted well and a yellow sweatshirt that was like Roger’s, but without the writing, and sneaked out the back way.
Noel was up in the despot’s room delivering lunch and heard the slight creak of the gate, saw the despot immediately go tense and look – a cat and its prey – and Noel looked out too.
‘Where are you going?’ he yelled.
‘For a walk!’ Honestly. Wasn’t there such a thing as privacy? She tried to yell quietly so the girls wouldn’t hear.
‘Hang on. I’ll come too.’
‘I’m okay, thanks.’ What a stupid thing to say. Why wouldn’t I be okay?
‘I’ve got to go out anyway!’ (You’re pushing it, Noel.)
‘Look, I want to be by myself.’ Stormy then, but not quite knowing why, Evie ran along the lane and off down the
Never sure if the child was mocking her, Nobby’s mother would let her in, and there she’d sit singing and chattering in the kitchen as if she had a right, making Nobby be noisy and laugh.
They used to play Crusaders.
‘This roast plate’s the king, and the teapot’s the queen, and the dishes and stuff are knights, and the vases are the squires, and all the cuttle-ry is the swords and lances . . . And these two rings,’ Lizzie would reckon, ‘they’re our crowns.’ Balancing Nobby’s mother’s serviette ring on her head as she polished, she’d giggle at Nobby whose head was too flat or something, and Nobby’s crown would fall off with a dull clunking sound.
Nobby smeared polish over the ring, turning the silver to dull white, obliterating the
N
.
Or they’d be invading armies sometimes, sitting at opposite ends with equal battalions, and as each soldier’s armour was cleaned he could advance on the enemy’s camp. The serviette rings were the cannon balls, and the trick was to flick them down the table when the other commissar wasn’t looking, and kill him dead.
One day, Lizzie had had this ring of Nobby’s, and she’d flicked too hard, and it’d gone spinning off in a helix of flashing silver and apparently disappeared into thin air. They’d searched and searched, and hadn’t found it, and Nobby’s mother had muttered about light fingers and said Lizzie couldn’t come and do the silver any more.
Six months later, Nobby had found it, in a dark corner beneath the dresser, but by then it was too late to get Lizzie back, for she’d turned fourteen and started work and she didn’t get off till after dinner-time on Saturdays.
Nobby rubbed hard at the ring, wondering as he often did why the white polish turned to black upon the rag. A phrase of his mother’s came into his mind:
‘Too late!’ she cried, as she waved her wooden leg!
Too late. Even if she could come now, they were too old to play Crusaders.
Rubbing at the ring now white turned to black and Nobby’s mother came in and the row continued.
...And continued through the night and every night for eight more nights till the morning of the 25th came, and Mrs Weston put on her velour hat and went up to the courthouse and informed the magistrate that her tenant Padraic Fergus Cruise had not paid the back-rent, and so the magistrate ordered an ejectment warrant to be issued at any time between that day and June 22nd.
9
That first week of the school holidays was bad for Evie. Sammy still went to the play centre, because it was an all-year-round place for working mothers to leave their kids at; but Maria and Jodie were home all day, dropping crumbs where Evie had just vacuumed, slopping drinks when Evie had just cleaned the kitchen, following after Evie if she tried to go up the CYSS place, sneaking into Evie’s room if she forgot to lock it, and taking her hairbrush and using up the battery in her radio and looking in her drawers. The only time she got any peace was around four o’clock, when the three of them would usually creep off somewhere, but by then it was too late.
By Friday Evie had had it. She washed her hair and put on some faded jeans that fitted well and a yellow sweatshirt that was like Roger’s, but without the writing, and sneaked out the back way.
Noel was up in the despot’s room delivering lunch and heard the slight creak of the gate, saw the despot immediately go tense and look – a cat and its prey – and Noel looked out too.
‘Where are you going?’ he yelled.
‘For a walk!’ Honestly. Wasn’t there such a thing as privacy? She tried to yell quietly so the girls wouldn’t hear.
‘Hang on. I’ll come too.’
‘I’m okay, thanks.’ What a stupid thing to say. Why wouldn’t I be okay?
‘I’ve got to go out anyway!’ (You’re pushing it, Noel.)
‘Look, I want to be by myself.’ Stormy then, but not quite knowing why, Evie ran along the lane and off down the
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