(6yrs old 1980)
She has been sitting by the backdoor for most of the day, moving only to peer around the side of the house to see the front gate.
The day is warm, and the garden surrounding the girl is alive with Cabbage Whites and Red Admirals that dart carelessly across the August sky. Sometimes the girl and her brother trap them with their brightly coloured fishing nets attached to cheap bamboo poles. Then they keep them in jam jars with grass inside for food and holes poked in the lids with a compass. The girl, feeling ashamed, will always free them before bedtime.
Her mother promised they will go swimming when she returned home that afternoon, and the girl cannot wait. The mother, who has many jobs and is often tired, has rough hands with furtively bitten nails. White-edged cracks split her skin along the soles of her feet, ending abruptly at the top of her heels. The daughter wonders if this is because of the flip-flops she always wears or if her mother is ill. In the evenings, her mother works as a barmaid in a pub, a mysterious place where the girl is not allowed. Sometimes they walk past it on the way back from the river, and the girl stares at the white stone building, whose windows are dark. She longs to go inside to experience the unknown. It is in her nature to seek out the wild things, and she yearns to start a rumpus of her own.
She and her brother are often looked after by their nan, a soft doughy woman whose left arm has been rendered useless by polio and who walks awkwardly in her special, soft leather shoes. Sometimes her dinner soils her ugly-patterned dresses, but she doesn't notice. The girl loves her and knows her love is returned, but they never hug.
As she waits, the girl plaits the long plastic strips hanging from the kitchen door frame fluttering gently to fluster the flies. Maypole bright, they both fascinate and soothe the girl whose fingers deftly manipulate them into different designs.
She is becoming impatient and wonders whether she should pull on her red swimsuit under her clothes so she can jump straight in when they get to the pool. Everything about the promised trip excites her, the journey on the top deck of the bus, turning their imaginary steering wheels, the clean, almost bleach-like smell of the pool, and the warmth of the water as they are lowered in. Yet what she yearns for most is her mother holding her tightly against her warm body, helping her move seamlessly through the water, protecting and encouraging her, showing her that she is loved in such a way that the girl cannot dismiss it.
Upon hearing the gate swing open, she rushes bare feet over the grass and grabs her mum's hand. 'Shall I put my swimming suit on now? You've been ages.'
Her mother sighs and pulls away, 'Anna, it's been a long day.'
'But you promised. You said we'd go.'
'I didn't promise.' She retorts, moving past her.
'You did! I want to go. Please, Mum, please.'
'Oh, stop shouting, Anna. I said no.' She snaps, going inside to make a cup of tea. She shuts the door against her daughter's persistent cries. They exhaust her.
Outside, the girl clenches her fists, unable to calm herself. Anger stiffens her body, and frustration forces tears from her eyes. She is angry at herself most of all. She should have known they wouldn't go. She draws her sleeve roughly across her eyes, scrubbing away her tears because no one can see them, and returns to her seat by the backdoor where the colourful strips that once danced in the breeze now hang lifeless.
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Waiting
by Anna Mirfin
Bio- Anna Mirfin recently completed an MA in Creative Writing as a way to discuss her past and struggles with mental health. She lives in Chesterfield in Derbyshire. She is a teacher, mother, and writer, not necessarily in that order.
