Where Bones Dance: An English Girlhood, An African War

Mother

159 Mother W hen I come back she is asleep. She lies on her back with no bikini top, one hand on each breast, sleeping . I stand on her left where my shadow will not cross her. I can see her nipples. They have little bumps and in the middle the little bumps make a cluster. Instead of sticking out the nipple sinks into her breast like a puddle in damp sand. There is a freckle on the left one. Her belly spreads out on either side of the towel. Black curly hairs make a line from her bikini bottoms up to her belly button, a column of ants marching up her, I want to sweep them away. A Jacob’s ladder she calls it. A Jacob’s ladder is a ladder they hang over the side of a ship so sailors in rowboats can climb on board. Her mouth is open a little like it always is when she sleeps. Through the waves I can hear her snore. Quietly, as if she is dreaming of the quince tree heavy with gold fruit, or pickingmushroomsearlyinthemorning ,orridingaroundIrelandonher chestnut mare, which she did when she was seventeen. She slept in barns and ate duck’s eggs for breakfast. I look at her nipples again. They are like greedy brown hands. I shake my head. The 160 idea won’t go away. They don’t belong to her. They are holding on. Parasites. In the sun she smells of mushrooms. I look at the sea, the light and the water moving together, like breathing. It never stops. Sometimes it makes me crazy, breathing all the time, in out, in out. Except when you die. The sea doesn’t die. She looks a long way below me, on the towel on the sand. People say I look like her. Her eyes, her nose, her forehead. Straight nose and big eyes. Bug eye, they say at school. A wide forehead, a widow’s peak pointing down. Her hair is black, mine is brown like my father’s. Her hair is thick and wiry. Italian, she says. The Italian in me. A drop of sweat runs down the middle of her forehead. It reaches the bridge of her nose, dodging her eyebrows. I move my hand over her face, just with one finger pointing out to wipe it away. She opens her eyes. I take my hand away. “A mosquito,” I say, “was about to bite you.” “Oh.” She smiles and looks at me. Her eyes are green and grey and flecked with gold. “Thank you.” She sits up and looks along the beach. She looks puzzled. “What time is it?” “About four.” “Where are Dad and Bill?” “Flying the kite. Look.” High up in the blue the yellow tail of the kite flicks and curls, the red diamond making lazy circles. She smiles some more. “Sit down.” I sit on the sand. It burns my thigh. I wriggle my toes down to where it is cool. “You’re going to be a beautiful young woman.” I look at my legs. The hairs are shining gold in the sun. “You are. You have beautiful eyes.” “Everyone says they’re like yours.” I can feel her smiling. “When you were in Ireland did you eat duck’s eggs?” C y c l e 3 “Oh yes. And milk fresh from the cow still warm, with the cream floating on top. I slept in barns in the hay. Even when the farmer offered me a bed I slept in the hay. I can smell it now. It was so sweet, and Boadicea my horse munched away at it all night.” “I want to do that one day.” “Perhaps you will.” She reaches for the Ambre Soleil and hands it to me. She is lying on her belly now on the towel. I squeeze the cream onto my hands and let it sit there for a moment. I rub it into her shoulders, first one then the other, my hands making circles on her skin, the flesh moving like ripples of water on either side of my hands as I rub the cream down her spine and off to each side. “Mmmm,” she says. Ikneelandruballthewaydowntoherbikinibottoms,tothebulge on either side and the snoring starts again. I carry on rubbing until I have used almost the whole tube. I sit back down, wiping my hands on my thighs so...