Page 15 of Pyg
THE CHANCE TO ESCAPE
D aylight lasered through the split in the mothy brown curtains and I buried my face into the pillow, inhaling my own smell. Over the last few months I’d noticed a change in my scent; sometimes musty, sometimes sour, never particularly pleasant. Upon further examination, I discovered clusters of wiry dark hairs sprouting under my armpits and, more disturbingly, in other places. When I’d asked Mum about it, she just chuckled her soft, buttery laugh, kissed my forehead and said, “Georgie-boy, you’re nearly fourteen. You’re turning into a man. A little extra hair will soon be the least of your worries.”
And she wasn’t wrong.
Pyg stirred at the foot of my bed. I patted the blanket, and she crawled low, like a ninja, along the bare floorboards and hopped up next to me. Her wet nose nuzzled at my arm until her head poked through from under my smelly armpit.
“Morning, girl.” My voice rasped with sleep, but at least it came out low and not squeaky like it often did lately. Pyg leaned in as I scratched her ears, her bushy tail thumping on the bedspread like a bass drum.
Propping myself up on my elbows, I frowned at the empty, unmade bed across the room.
“Where’s Bernie, eh?” I whispered.
Pyg cocked her head.
I swung my legs out of bed, stretched and yawned.
As if her strings were being pulled by an invisible puppeteer, Pyg sat up straighter, as I poked my head around the doorframe. All the doors along the hallway were shut, so I tiptoed along the landing with ninja-Pyg silent in my wake — we’d taught her well. To the right, right, left, right again , and every third floorboard until the clock. Then four, six, two and breathe .
We made it to the top of the stairs without a creak. I looked down at Pyg and double-blinked for ‘well done’. She double-blinked back; smarter than half the kids in my class at school, but that wasn’t hard.
I pointed to my temple. Focus. I gestured for Pyg to take the stairs first. At least that way she wouldn’t be blamed if I miscounted and made a sound, like the last time.
I clicked the kitchen door to a close behind us. Pyg ran to the French doors, so I let her outside. Still no trace of Bernard. He must be in the studio with Mum.
Stretching up, I reached for a glass from the shelf. Only a month ago, I’d had to stand on a chair. I winced as I turned the tap and the old pipes rattled into life. The cold water spluttered out, as it always did, and I drank, relishing the coolness on my dry throat. I wiped the glass with the front of my vest and placed it back on the shelf.
No trace means no trouble. Mum’s words underscored our mouse-like existence inside this house.
Following Pyg into the garden, I hunched and rubbed my goose-fleshed arms; my vest and briefs were not the most practical attire to face the autumnal morning. I should’ve thought to grab a sweater, but I couldn’t think of everything. The long dewy grass glittered in the pale sunlight and whipped my bare ankles as I quick-stepped down the path towards the studio.
As I neared, I stopped in my tracks because unusually, the wooden door was ajar, and an odd scuffling sounded from inside. I waited, angling my ear to the gap until the scuffling morphed into the timid sniffs of Bernard crying. I pushed through the door, and Bernard lay on the rug with Pyg now curled around him.
“Hey, what’s up, Bernie?” I dropped to my knees and stroked Bernard’s hair back from his forehead.
“She’s… she’s—” A sob choked Bernard’s words, and he covered his eyes with his forearm, as if it might dam his tears. I rubbed his back.
“Hey, c’mon. What’s this all about, lad?”
Pyg whimpered.
“Look, you’re upsetting Pyg. It’s alright, girl. He’s alright.”
“No, I’m not,” Bernard roared, and he thrust a balled-up sheet of writing paper at me.
Frowning, I smoothed out the scrunched paper on the rug. Between the creases and splodges, presumably tears, I struggled to decipher the intricate swoops and loops of our mother’s handwriting until an impatient Bernard found his voice again.
“She’s left us, George. She’s fucking left us.”
With greater urgency, my eyes dropped back to the crumpled missive on the floor, scanning the scrawl. I picked out snippets from the jumble of words.
I can’t live like this any more… it feels like poison ivy, choking the life out of me… A wonderful opportunity has finally presented itself… the chance to escape all this… We’ll be able to start a new life… I promise, promise, promise I’ll send for you as soon as I can… It’ll be a fresh start, for all of us… money is tight, so it may take a while… Boys, please don’t be angry with me x
Then my gaze snagged on a word; a name in the ink that suddenly made sense of everything.