Where Bones Dance: An English Girlhood, An African War

Aunt Elsie

208 Aunt Elsie I have to see Aunt Elsie again. I fetch my bucket and spade. “Mum,” I say, “I want to go and dig bait on the beach.” “Wait until we’ve finished breakfast and we’ll go with you.” “But they’re better early in the morning. I’ll be careful crossing the road. Dad promised I could go fishing this evening.” She looks at my father who nods. “Alright, but stay near the pier.” “O.K.” I am gone before she can say anything else. The pavement feels long and grey under my feet. The air is thick from the brewery. Under the malt smell is the seaweed and tar smell of the harbor. The low stonewalls and picket fences of the front gardens look as if someone dipped a brush in light and painted around them. The houses are little and pale pink and green and blue. Mostly the curtains are open but nobody is out on the street except the milkman. He drives a blue and white electric van. It has three wheels and it hums as it goes from door to door. On the doorsteps, sparrows peck through the silver tops of the milk bottles and drink the cream. I look in each garden as I walk. I don’t look ahead. I see roses and hollyhocks and foxgloves and giant blue and pink hydrangea bushes. I see gnomes with fishing rods and red and white spotted mushrooms and stone bridges with pink and green fairies sitting on them. And then I see the pansies. There is a big black cat sitting in the middle of them. He blinks. I lean on the fence. Most of the pansies are smiling and nodding but some of the dark purple ones and the crimson ones with black in the middle and no yellow look sad. I want to stroke them but I am afraid it will hurt them, like touching a butterfly’s wing. The cat looks at the window. Aunt Elsie is standing there watching me. In front of my eyes I see a thought. “I want Aunt Elsie to be my mother.” I read it before I knew what it said. Aunt Elsie is smiling and nodding. I keep looking at her until I am on the step and she is standing in the doorway. I pick up the bottle of milk and hand it to her. The top is pecked through. “That cat,” she says, and she blinks just like the cat. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes eight o’clock. She is wearing trousers with the zip up the front. They are black and baggy. At the bottom her feet are very small in black boots which lace up above her ankles. She is wearing a bright blue cardigan the same color as the one Granny knitted for Bill. In the kitchen she says, “Would you like a cup of tea?” I nod. “You don’t have time to go for a walk, do you?” I shake my head. I am glad she knows I can’t. Out of the window I can see a pear tree and a quince tree and lots of gooseberries . I move my hand into the square of sunlight on the table. “Did Granny knit your cardigan?” “Yes.” When she smiles, everything in her face moves. She is as 209 C y c l e 3 210 wrinkled as a dried apple. A butterfly flies through the window and lands on the geranium. It has eyes on its wings. “Do you know what kind of butterfly that is?” “A peacock.” “It’s called a peacock because peacocks have eyes like that on their tails. Most people think peacock feathers are unlucky. Your grandmother won’t have them in the house but I love them.” The butterfly is opening and closing its wings so the eyes look like they’re opening and closing. “Do you know where butterflies come from?” “Caterpillars, and then the caterpillars turn into chrysalises and then the butterflies come out.” The butterfly flies away. Aunt Elsie nods. “It’s almost like dying when a caterpillar turns into a chrysalis. They lie there in the dark for a long time. They’re changing but they don’t know what they’re becoming. Then one day they start to move. They have to struggle to break...