Extract from A Swift Pure Cry

Extract from A Swift Pure Cry's second chapter.

The next day, they were up early to pick up the stones in the back field. Dad had been making them do it since the winter. He never gave a reason. If he was planning to plough it over, he gave no sign. By now, she, Jimmy and Trix had a great cairn growing in the north-east corner. Most mornings, they’d be three silent sentinels going up the hill in the half-light, stooped over with their loads.

Today, Shell picked up the old holdall they used to carry the stones. She was cold and hungry. It was spitting rain.

‘Dad,’ she said. He was sitting in his usual chair by the fire, with the poker resting loosely in his hand. He was staring into the flames as if they contained the answer to life’s riddle. ‘Why do we have to pick up the stones?’

He glanced up. ‘What’s that?’

‘Why do we have to pick up the stones, Dad?’

He frowned. ‘Because I say so. Isn’t that enough?’

‘It’s raining today, Dad. We’ll be wet through all day at school.’

‘Beat it, Shell. Go on. Double-quick.’

‘Only—’

He dropped the poker and came towards her, his hand up, making as if to strike. ‘Scram.’

‘I’m off,’ she said, scooting through the door.

Trix and Jimmy were already huddled over the soil. Shell joined them as they trudged up the hill. The stones always seemed to reappear overnight. However many they picked up, there were always more. Halfway up, Shell doubled right over and stared at the world upside down through the triangle of her white, thin legs. If anger and love went together, like Father Rose had said, it must mean that she loved her dad. She knew she had done once, long ago, when he’d swung her in his arms and let her climb up him like a tree. She could dimly recall it. She imagined all the hate pouring out of her brain, trickling out through her ears. Perhaps it worked, because when she stood up, she felt lighter. She looked over the field to the rusty gate, across the road, up the slope and into the yellow soup of sky.

‘Thank you, Jesus, for the stones,’ she said.

Jimmy threw one at her. ‘Hate the stones,’ he said. ‘Hate Jesus. Hate you.’

The stone hit her right in the belly. Shell rubbed where it hit, and then looked Jimmy in the eye. His face was twisted up. The whiteness around the freckles stood out. She’d been sharp with him of late, she knew. Just the other day, she’d slapped him when she’d caught him stealing one of her new-baked scones from the cooling rack. Then when he’d asked to go to the funfair last Saturday she’d snapped a no. She’d have liked to go herself but there’d been no money. No mon, no fun, she said, and he’d stopped talking to her ever since.

She stretched out her arms. ‘Throw another,’ she said.

Jimmy looked at Trix, Trix looked at Jimmy. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Both of you. For the love of God.’

They picked up two stones and threw them. One missed, the other grazed Shell’s cheek.

‘Go on. Don’t be afraid.’ Scones, she thought, smiling. Not stones. Imagine them as soft, light scones.

They threw again. On the road, Shell heard a car trawling up the hill. On the third throw, she yelped despite herself.

‘Go on,’ she squeaked.

‘No,’ said Trix. ‘S’boring.’ She ran off down the field, singing something. But Jimmy picked up a big stone, the size of three scones in one. He squinted, as if the devil was sneaking a peek out of his eye.

‘This’ll hurt,’ he said.

‘That’s right, Jimmy. Fine man. Throw it.’

He heaved it up to his shoulder with both hands, a miniature Superman. He grunted.

‘Ready,’ said Shell. ‘Do it.’

‘Stop.’ A voice, dark and deep, like an underground earthquake, called over to them.

Shell closed her eyes. ‘Do it,’ she whispered. A breeze fanned her fringe. Inside her eyelids, yellow rockets burst.

‘Drop it, boy.’ It was a command, urgent but not harsh.

She opened her eyes. The devil catapulted out of Jimmy in two shakes. She turned round. Father Rose had pulled up by the gate. She could hardly see him or the car in the strong early light that broke through the heavy clouds. He’d wound down the window.

‘We were only messing,’ Jimmy hollered, dropping the stone. He ran off down the hill.

Father Rose looked towards Shell. ‘What was that about?’ he asked.

Shell shrugged.

‘You’re the Talent girl, aren’t you?’

She nodded.

‘What’s your first name?’

‘Michelle. But everyone calls me Shell.’

He nodded back and started up his car. ‘So long, Shell.’ She thought he was going to add something, but he sighed instead. He let down the handbrake and took off up the hill. She blinked. The car flashed purple as he rounded the bend.

Shell sat down on the damp earth and breathed out hard. She stroked the lumpen stones of the Pharisees that had glanced off her mortal body. He who has not sinned, she murmured, let him cast the first stone. She took up the last stone, the one Jimmy hadn’t dared to throw, and cooled her cheek with it. She lay back on the ground and was still. The cold spring morning went deep into her bones.

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Last updated Feb. 2006 (c) Siobhan Dowd 2006