Read Online Whispers Through a Megaphone by Rachel Elliott - Free Book Online
Authors: Rachel Elliott
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She takes it off and wanders into the kitchen. From here she can see Boo’s legs and feet. He is halfway up a ladder, cleaning her windows with his new squeegee, whistling the theme tune from The Littlest Hobo . Two cloths hang from his back pockets, one to remove the dirt, the other to polish the glass. Boo is taking this seriously because he takes Miriam seriously. She isn’t used to it. It is peculiar.
“Can I get you a cup of tea, Mr Boo?” she asks, through the kitchen window.
“Miriam, that’s most kind.”
“Not really. What’s kind is you cleaning my windows.”
“Do you have any herbal tea?”
“No. Just normal tea.”
“That’ll be lovely, thank you.”
While she is making tea, Miriam hears the letterbox open and close. It’s another postcard. On the front, a photo of a black cat stretched out across a wooden floor. On the back, in handwriting that has now become familiar:
WHEN SOMEONE SPEAKS LOUDLY, IT DOESN’T
MEAN THEY HAVE FOUND THEIR OWN VOICE
Instead of putting this one on the noticeboard with the others, Miriam stands it beside the kettle so that she can look at it every time she makes a hot drink.
The ceramic cow. It’s also there, near the kettle. She picks it up, runs her fingers along the cracks sealed with glue.
“Imagine that your buttons are your friends,” said Frances.
“Why are we always imagining?” said Miriam. “What’s wrong with ordinary things?”
“No one wants an ordinary life.”
“I do.”
“No you don’t, you just think you do. Wouldn’t you rather have buttons with voices and personalities than boring buttons with nothing to say?”
“Not really, I like my buttons as they are. I think they’re beautiful.”
Frances slapped her daughter’s face. “Beautiful? Really?”
Miriam didn’t cry. Not any more. She fastened herself up tight, held on to her tears. One day they would all come out in a great hysterical flood, a great historical flood, but not now, not in front of her mother. She gritted her teeth, curled her fists, focused on the ceramic cow on the mantelpiece. It was the only ornament in the house. I don’t care what you like and don’t like, Mim, we will not be weighed down by dusty objects, do you hear me? Don’t you look at me like that—I let you keep your buttons, don’t I? Not to mention all the stamps for your precious little letters to my dreary mother. I don’t know what you see in her, I really don’t.
Stamps instead of pocket money. Letters instead of visits.
Miriam picked up the ceramic cow, carried it to the bottom of the garden and threw it on the ground as hard as she could. Fragments of a fake cow, reimagined in clay, scattered all over the patio. “You were never actually a cow,” she whispered. “You were just dotty pottery.” She giggled, then picked up one of the pieces. It was sharp. It made her finger bleed. The sight of her own blood surprised her. She was alive .
Dear Granny,
I cant remember what you look like. This is a postcard I bought from the corner shop. Do you like the dog on it? I like the dog.
love from Miriam
xxXXxx
Dear Miriam,
I have enclosed a photograph of myself, taken by my friend Doris on the pier at Weston-super-Mare, so you can’t forget what I look like. I am wearing new glasses in this picture but am not at all sure I like them and Doris is not sure either. I have also enclosed a postcard of a dog. This one is a Westie. Shall we call him Bill?
I am always here, Miriam.
With fondest love,
Granny
Miriam shakes her head. The silence of the past three years has made things louder than ever. That’s what silence does.It amplifies the sound of what was here and what was never here. Hibernation has turned this house into a cinema and every room has its own screen. The snacks are poor, the intervals short.
She opens the kitchen window and passes Boo his tea.
“Oh lovely,” he says.
“Would you like to drink it indoors?”
Boo looks surprised. Miriam
She takes it off and wanders into the kitchen. From here she can see Boo’s legs and feet. He is halfway up a ladder, cleaning her windows with his new squeegee, whistling the theme tune from The Littlest Hobo . Two cloths hang from his back pockets, one to remove the dirt, the other to polish the glass. Boo is taking this seriously because he takes Miriam seriously. She isn’t used to it. It is peculiar.
“Can I get you a cup of tea, Mr Boo?” she asks, through the kitchen window.
“Miriam, that’s most kind.”
“Not really. What’s kind is you cleaning my windows.”
“Do you have any herbal tea?”
“No. Just normal tea.”
“That’ll be lovely, thank you.”
While she is making tea, Miriam hears the letterbox open and close. It’s another postcard. On the front, a photo of a black cat stretched out across a wooden floor. On the back, in handwriting that has now become familiar:
WHEN SOMEONE SPEAKS LOUDLY, IT DOESN’T
MEAN THEY HAVE FOUND THEIR OWN VOICE
Instead of putting this one on the noticeboard with the others, Miriam stands it beside the kettle so that she can look at it every time she makes a hot drink.
The ceramic cow. It’s also there, near the kettle. She picks it up, runs her fingers along the cracks sealed with glue.
“Imagine that your buttons are your friends,” said Frances.
“Why are we always imagining?” said Miriam. “What’s wrong with ordinary things?”
“No one wants an ordinary life.”
“I do.”
“No you don’t, you just think you do. Wouldn’t you rather have buttons with voices and personalities than boring buttons with nothing to say?”
“Not really, I like my buttons as they are. I think they’re beautiful.”
Frances slapped her daughter’s face. “Beautiful? Really?”
Miriam didn’t cry. Not any more. She fastened herself up tight, held on to her tears. One day they would all come out in a great hysterical flood, a great historical flood, but not now, not in front of her mother. She gritted her teeth, curled her fists, focused on the ceramic cow on the mantelpiece. It was the only ornament in the house. I don’t care what you like and don’t like, Mim, we will not be weighed down by dusty objects, do you hear me? Don’t you look at me like that—I let you keep your buttons, don’t I? Not to mention all the stamps for your precious little letters to my dreary mother. I don’t know what you see in her, I really don’t.
Stamps instead of pocket money. Letters instead of visits.
Miriam picked up the ceramic cow, carried it to the bottom of the garden and threw it on the ground as hard as she could. Fragments of a fake cow, reimagined in clay, scattered all over the patio. “You were never actually a cow,” she whispered. “You were just dotty pottery.” She giggled, then picked up one of the pieces. It was sharp. It made her finger bleed. The sight of her own blood surprised her. She was alive .
Dear Granny,
I cant remember what you look like. This is a postcard I bought from the corner shop. Do you like the dog on it? I like the dog.
love from Miriam
xxXXxx
Dear Miriam,
I have enclosed a photograph of myself, taken by my friend Doris on the pier at Weston-super-Mare, so you can’t forget what I look like. I am wearing new glasses in this picture but am not at all sure I like them and Doris is not sure either. I have also enclosed a postcard of a dog. This one is a Westie. Shall we call him Bill?
I am always here, Miriam.
With fondest love,
Granny
Miriam shakes her head. The silence of the past three years has made things louder than ever. That’s what silence does.It amplifies the sound of what was here and what was never here. Hibernation has turned this house into a cinema and every room has its own screen. The snacks are poor, the intervals short.
She opens the kitchen window and passes Boo his tea.
“Oh lovely,” he says.
“Would you like to drink it indoors?”
Boo looks surprised. Miriam
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