Page 22 of Pyg

WORMS DON’T HAVE FEET

L ight flickered as my eyelids shuttered; black to grey, black to grey, to ankles. A pair of women’s ankles in the thick swirling smoke. Mum?

No, too skinny. Matchstick ankles with black church shoes and thick tights, all bunched at the bottom. Bernard’s cries filtered in and out of my consciousness.

“Bernard!” I tried to call out, but my chest lurched violently. I coughed then dry-retched, my eyes burning and bulging with so much pressure I thought they might pop. A searing pain shot through me and then I was on my back with gravel ripping into my flesh and clawing at my spine. It felt like I was being dragged into hell, yet the air grew cooler and clearer, and the sound of Bernard’s cries grew stronger.

I reached out a hand and Bernard grasped it, then hugged his arms around me and sobbed into my chest.

Time to be strong, George. You’re all he’s got left, not that he knows it yet.

The voice in my head sounded like my mother’s, and pain spasmed in my abdomen.

She’s not here, it isn’t her. She’d never wear shoes like that. All that was left of her was the voice stitched into the fabric of my mind.

I promise, promise, promise, she’d sworn in her letter. I’d read it and hoped.

New life. Fresh start, for all of us. But the letter was burnt and gone, as good as the promise.

“George. Can you stand?” A soft voice spoke, and a bony hand prodded into my armpit. “Bernard, can you help on the other side?”

Bernard tugged under my other armpit, and I struggled to my feet. We moved at a snail’s pace along the garden path, every step making my head spin with a dizzying whoosh.

“Let’s get him into the kitchen. I’ll heat the water and we’ll draw him a bath.”

“Will he be alright, Miss?”

“He’ll be fine. It’s just the shock. I’ll fix us all some sugary tea.”

In the kitchen, they flopped me into a chair; my body lolled, unresponsive to my brain’s commands. I felt boneless and breathless, confronted with a wall of pain I couldn’t begin to scale.

A while later, the woman knelt in front of me, her eyes magnified by the thick glasses perched on her beaky little nose.

“George, you’re going to have to stand and lean on me so that we can get you into the bath.” Her tiny voice sounded shrill as her cardigan-clad arms flapped around me like a frenzy of wings, pulling at my jumper, unbuttoning my shirt and tugging off my vest.

“Are you a bird?” Laughter crested in my throat, and I hiccupped.

She peered into my face and frowned. “What?”

“You’re a big bird and I’m a little worm.” I laughed again, hiccupping as my limp arms flopped at my sides.

“George, stop fooling around. Bernard?”

Bernard stepped out from behind the bird-woman, his soot-smeared face rumpled in concern. Tears had tracked white lines down his cheeks, and he looked like a clown. I giggled.

“Can you help me get George to the tub?”

“Shouldn’t we call for a doctor, miss?”

“No.” Her shrill voice pecked the word into the air.

“But miss, he seems to think you’re a bird. I think he might’ve hit his head or something.”

The bird-woman fixed her bug-eyed gaze back on me for a moment. “No need for a fuss. I can handle this.” She muttered something under her breath. “Come on, or the water will be cold.”

She pulled me into a standing position and tugged off my remaining clothes, but thankfully leaving my underpants in place. Even though she was a bird, and I was a worm, I didn’t want her to see me in the nude. What if she pecks off my little pecker? I giggled again.

With my head still whooshing, I eased my weight onto their shoulders, and they guided me into the small utility room off the kitchen, which doubled as a washroom.

Steam rose from the tarnished copper tub in the centre of the room. Rarely did I get fresh hot water for myself — I was usually second or third in line, after Grandmother and Bernard. Mum would top the tub up with a fresh pan of hot, but the water was always slick with soap and grime and, at best, tepid.

At first, the hot water stung my bare feet and ankles and jolted me back to myself. I’m not a worm because worms don’t have feet. But the water soon soothed me, and I wanted to immerse myself to feel the relief all over my body.

“George, now that you’re in, I’m going to leave. Take off your underpants. Bernard will help you.” She left, and soon enough, I submerged my entire body. A gentle, muffled silence enveloped me as the water revived my numb flesh. The heat warmed me through to my bones, because I had bones and was most definitely not a worm.

I held my breath and opened my eyes under the clear water. A bare lightbulb shimmered overhead.

“George?” came the sound of Mum’s voice, crystal clear. I turned my head and tiny bubbles floated up, catching the light like miniature silver beads. Then the blackened face of Bernard came into view.

“George?” The sound bubbled into my ears. I yearned to stay submerged in this tranquil realm where I could still hear Mum, but Bernard’s worried face tugged me through the surface, and I gasped for air.

* * *

Consciousness trickled into my mind, along with an uncomfortable awareness of my very full bladder. Hushed and hurried voices whispered on the landing, and daylight shone through the gap in the curtains. The blankets on Bernard’s bed had been tidied, and there was no indication of when he’d last been in the room. Turning to the wall, I gathered my own musty blankets around myself. I curled into a tight ball, hoping my bladder might settle for a while longer and the voices would grow mute.

Seconds later, the door creaked open. Someone entered and stepped on all the wrong floorboards, clearly untrained in stealth, thus not Bernard. Or Pyg. And, therefore, I wasn’t interested in speaking to them.

A hand pressed on my blanketed shoulder.

“George,” a woman’s voice said softly.

I held my breath and lay as still as possible.

She said my name again and her hand gently pulled at my shoulder, trying to tug me out of my cocoon. If I resisted too much, it would give the game away, but if I didn’t resist at all, she would see I was awake anyway. I groaned, and it came out as a rasp. I tried to swallow, but my throat felt dusty.

“George, come on now.” The soft voice grew stern. “You’ve been in bed for nearly two days. You need to eat and drink something.”

The persistent pressure of my bladder suddenly overwhelmed everything else.

“I need to pee.” I whipped around, fighting my way out of the blankets and clambering to my feet, which weren’t fully working. Holding my groin, I stumbled like a drunken sailor to the toilet at the end of the landing. After the pain subsided, relief flooded through me.

But now to face that woman… and everything else.

She waited for me, blocking the entrance to my room, and my chances of climbing back into bed. At only thirteen, I already stood taller than her, but despite her bird-like appearance, she didn’t seem intimidated.

“Why don’t you put on some clothes, and I’ll fix you something to eat?”

“Where’s Bernard?”

“He’s left for school.”

“You sent him to school without me?” I scratched my neck, trying to push away thoughts of Bernard dealing with the bullies on his own.

“Well, you’ve hardly been fit, but there was no reason for Bernard not to go.”

How did this odd little woman not understand that our world had been upended? Our mother had abandoned us. Then our bitter, twisted grandmother had burned all we had left and, in the process, murdered our dear Pyg. Our lovely, soft girl, with her bright eyes and clever tricks.

My face must have said it all. As she touched an icy hand to my bare shoulder, I fought the urge to shrug it away.

“Come on now. I know you must be worried about your grandmother.”

“You don’t know anything.”

She removed her hand and gripped her pale fingers on the crucifix hanging around her neck. “Father Sutherland said you might be… difficult. He said, if you give me any trouble, then?—”

“Then what? I don’t care if you leave as well. I don’t care if we get sent somewhere else. Anywhere has to be better than here.”

“I’d be very careful if I were you, or you might lose that little brother of yours as well as everything else. Exodus.”

I frowned.

“Chapter twenty, verse five. God will punish the children for the sins of their parents. It’s no small coincidence that some of us have a lighter cross to bear.”

Ironic, given the size of the one swinging from her neck.

I swallowed what little saliva I had left in my dry mouth against the sickening churn of my stomach grumbling for food. I didn’t want to need this woman, but…

“You’d do well to reflect on this little chat.”

I flinched as she touched her freezing fingers to my arm again.

“Get yourself dressed and I’ll fix you something to eat. We can start afresh.”

She flapped her tiny wings and twittered downstairs, humming a churchy tune as she went.

I tugged a scratchy wool jumper over my white vest and a thick pair of socks onto my cold feet. Treading the usual pattern of floorboards, my heart wrenched at the absence of Pyg leading the way. I sniffed and squeezed my eyes shut against the urge to cry.

In the kitchen, I pulled out a chair and sat at the table as the woman busied herself.

“Now then, eat up.” She placed down a bowl of creamy porridge with a sprinkle of brown sugar melting on top.

I clasped the spoon and forced a smile.

I would eat my breakfast. I would keep my head down and my mouth shut, because I knew a threat when I heard one, and I wasn’t prepared to lose the only thing I had left — Bernard .