The Woman and The Girl

She flies in through the door with snow on her boots.

Her face is flushed.

Her hair is a mess.

She looks around the room for me, eyes landing in the corner.

A small creature.

Her gaze softens.

She kneels down before me, her cold hands on my face.

Hello, she says through a laugh of disbelief.

I smile back at her.

Sorry, she pulls her hands from my skin. That must be cold.

I nod.

Her face has creases. Her hair is thick.

This is all rather strange, isn’t it?

I nod, again.

How old are you?

Ten, I respond, straightening my back, proud to have finally found words.

Wow.

How old are you?

She smiles. Older. There’s a funny tear in her eye now.

But not old?

No, not old.

She doesn’t say anything else. It’s strange. She is strange. We don’t have much time; I mean to say it but it stays in my head.

Is it scary? I ask the woman.

The tear spills over her cheek, she shakes her head.

I thought it would be, I say.

Why? Are you scared?

I shake my head but I am.

You don’t need to be scared, little chick.

That’s what mum calls me.

I know.

More of those tears. I hope I’m not making her sad.

Do we find a nice husband?

She laughs. Why are you worried about that?

I’m not worried, I’m just curious.

You are.

We make our way to the chairs in the centre of the room.

Are you not going to tell me?

My feet are dangling over the edge, hers are crossed over. There’s a rip in her trouser, right on the knee. I wonder if she knows.

No, I’m not going to tell you that.

Why?

Because it’s unimportant.

Is it?

She laughs again. She’s not very good at answering questions. It’s a bit annoying.

Ask me something else, she says.

Why are your sleeves rolled up? Is the coat too big?

The coat doesn’t look too big.

It fits fine. I hadn’t noticed, I guess that’s something I do.

Weird.

Don’t you want to ask me something?

She looks surprised even though it’s not very surprising. She chews her lip. A line appears on her forehead.

I hadn’t thought about it, actually.

She can’t seem to say anything else.

I’m not going to ask you if mummy and daddy live forever, I tell her. Or whether Pickles will ever find his way back home. I won’t ask what the world looks like or whether we have any elephants left by then. I know I’m not supposed to ask that. I want to know everything, obviously, but I won’t make you answer it.

Okay.

But I would like to ask one thing. I want you to answer it. I don’t want you to lie.

Okay.

Are you happy?

She doesn’t say anything at first.

I’ve upset her, I can tell.

You don’t have to answer that.

It’s okay.

I don’t want to hurt you.

You haven’t.

Then why are you crying?

Because it’s a huge question.

Because you’re not happy?

That’s not true. I have been, I am, I’m sure I will be. But not all the time. Happiness isn’t a level in a videogame that you can reach. It flexes and moves; it changes shape and colour. Does that make sense?

Yes.

Good.

But it sounds bad.

It’s not.

So, it’s something that I have to chase forever?

Sort of.

That’s bad. Why are you laughing?

Sorry.

Why won’t you tell me if we have a pretty husband? It’s because we don’t.

No, it’s because it doesn’t matter.

It does to me. I care.

Trust me, you don’t.

She thumbs the hole in her trousers. She pulls at the thread and makes it bigger.

Do I have to become you? I ask her.

I’m not what you expect.

Well, no. Not really.

I don’t want her to cry again.

What are you afraid of?

I wrinkle my brow at her. Her question is strange. I’m not afraid of her, but I sort of am. I don’t feel afraid of anything right now, but I expect I’m afraid of everything. I’m afraid of sabre tooth tigers and swimming in treacle. I’m scared of scarecrows that tap on the window and my dog not waking up.

I think. I think I’m afraid I will get it all wrong.

She drags her chair towards me and it makes a scraping noise on the tiles. She takes my hands in hers. They are so much bigger. They are hard.

That is the one thing you don’t need to be afraid of.

Really?

Everybody gets it wrong.

That doesn’t make me feel better.

I know. But one day, it will. She squeezes my hands. I want you to look at me, okay?

Okay.

Really look at me.

I am.

No, you’re not.

Fine.

Her eyes are familiar but they aren’t mine.

I want you to repeat this.

Why?

Because. Just do it, please.

Fine.

I move forward in my chair but my feet still hang.

Okay, she says, this is it: Everybody gets it wrong. Say it.

Everybody gets it wrong.

Even astronauts put salt in their tea.

What? I giggle and she smiles. Even astronauts put salt in their tea.

The sun still rises. The rain still falls.

The sun still rises. The rain still falls.

It will be okay.

It will be okay.

She gives my hands back to me. It’s very important you remember that, she says.

Why?

Because one day, it will be very useful.

But it’s silly.

Sometimes silly is exactly what you need.

I shake my head and laugh.

The buzzer goes.

I don’t want her to go.

Gosh, already? she says, getting up out of the chair. Her boots have left a wet patch on the floor.

Can’t we have longer? I ask.

I don’t think it works like that, chick.

That’s stupid.

Hey, she kneels in front of me again. You’re going to be fine. I know it. She holds out her pinkie to me. I promise you’ll be fine, she says.

I shake her pinkie with my pinkie.

Remember the astronaut.

You’re crazy, I tell her. Because she is.

I am.

Mum tells me not to listen to people who seem crazy.

She cups my face again, her hands warmer this time.

That is the worst advice I’ve ever heard.