Housework
“They creep in when no-one’s looking. Foreigners. Thieves.” He sucked in his tea through his front teeth, choked on a cough, and spat a yellow glob onto the floor. It splatted by her foot. There was only one chair: she was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall and her arms folded tight across her chest.
“They’re crafty! I notice things going missing, you know. I count the dust. We’ll set up a little trap tonight. Say - you didn’t come across the sugar bowl, did you, when you were stealing that tea from me?”
“No, and I didn’t -”
“Good job. T’aint sugar, it’s powdered glass.”
“What? What for?”
“Burglars, you idiot! Haven’t you been listening? They’ll come for the set and they’ll see the tea and they’ll think….” He crumpled over. Mariposa thought he was choking, and scrambled to get up, but he was only laughing. Eyes streaming, he regained control and wheezed. “How about a nice cup of tea? One spoon or two?” He stumbled to his feet, stubbing his cigarette out on the table, ignoring her horrified face.
“Well, clear it up, clear it all up!” He gestured with the whip at the mug and the ash. He staggered off towards the small door, took a big key from his pocket and unlocked it. Behind it, she heard creaking and tramping, heaving and grinding and coughing. It struck her that the rest of the house might be as packed with things as the front room. She imagined him crawling like a rat through tunnels bored into compacted furniture, old clothes, bric-a-brac, knick-kacks, junk and jumble.
She slowly began to tip the ash into the bin. The water was cold and greasy. As she put the mug in, it slipped from her hand and cracked in two on the ceramic sink.
“I heard something break!” the old man roared from somewhere above the ceiling.
“It wasn’t anything!” shouted Mariposa. “I - I banged my elbow!” She put her hand over the pieces.
“Hah!”
He appeared at the door, and she turned, frightened, expecting the whip to come sizzling down through the air, but he was carrying a big dark wooden chest, almost buckling under the weight. He heaved it onto the kitchen table, and stood back, getting his breath.
“Cloth in the drawer - clean one - lace.”
She turned and looked in the drawer he pointed to. There were three spotless white, lace tablecloths. She took one of them out, confused, and turned back to the table. She drew in her breath in amazement. He had opened the box, and was bending over it lovingly, his rough voice sunk to a deep cooing, wordless murmur, as if he were talking to a flock of doves. The box was lined with deep green velvet. Inside it was crystal, a whole dinner service of crystal. There were glasses, champagne flutes, round bowled glasses, slim wine glasses, tumblers, three sizes of plate - all of cut, flashing, ice-clear crystal. It was like a box of diamonds, cold and fiery. She gazed in amazement at fragile fish knives and dessert forks of crystal, steak knives and soup spoons, all pure as tears and alight as candles, glittering white.
“Now wouldn’t you stop for a thing like this, if you was burglars?” cackled the old man, laying the forks lovingly back in the box. “Hurry up and spread that cloth. We’ll trap some tonight, I’m sure of it.”
“You mean - you’re going to try and catch burglars? This is b-bait?” Another word she had not known she had forgotten, born onto the tip of her tongue.
“I’ll teach them a lesson with my whip. Yes, they’ll sit down like princes. They’ll think they’ve caught the bunny. Delighted, they’ll be. And then - crack! Smack! Whack!” He pumped his arm excitedly. The whip flew here and there, wild shadows whirling on the walls. “They say I don’t exist. Say I died! Take that, sneerers!”
She pressed herself against the wall.
“Why do they say you don’t exist?” she whispered. She thought of the darkness, swallowing up people, licking them up with a tongue of wind and grass. “Who are they?”
He scowled at her, his thin arm shaking from the effort of wielding the whip.
“No one you need to know about. Curiosity’s a worm, gets under your tongue, speaks out of turn. I likes a crystal silence. No arguing! Lay that cloth!”
She shook up the cloth and it fell like snow settling onto the table, the edges draping to the ground. The old man laid out the plates, the knives, the forks, the glasses. He found white candles in the same drawer as the tablecloth, and silver sconces, and put candles around the room. Then, with careful fingers, he straightened the cloth as gently as if he were straightening the sheets on the bed of a dying lover. The candle-light flickered on the silver and the crystal, light trapped in the cut glass, leaping from surface to surface.
“What do we do now?” she asked, awed by the stage he had set.
“We hides. Under the table is favourite. But there ain’t room for both of us. You get under the sink.”
Mariposa almost giggled, as she opened the cupboard under the sink, and crawled in among the smell of stale detergents and old food. But then she thought of the whip, and the burglars, and powdered glass, and she was no longer sure if it was funny.
The old man lit a candle and crawled under the table, his lungs creaking as he carefully folded his thin body up.
“Now,” she heard him mutter, “what I likes at a time like this is poetry.”
Mariposa crouched down in the dark on the cold kitchen floor.
“I don’t know any poetry,” she said.
But he did not answer her. He had lapsed into silence. Now and then he chuckled and repeated a word aloud, to himself. His breathing came heavy and wheezing as a broken-down machine.
If anyone really breaks in they’ll know he’s there immediately, she thought. He breathes so loud!
“mmm…. mmm… ha ha… yes, good…. faithless arm…. yes…. mmm.” He broke into a fit of coughing. “Yes, hmm…. time and fevers… good, good.” He mumbled on, and Mariposa lay silently, lulled by the words. After a while, the coughing shifted slightly, into snores.
Mariposa bit the sides of her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. He’s mad! she thought. There aren’t any burglars here. There’s nothing out on those plains but wind and darkness and monsters. No one’s going to break in for his precious crystal. And even if they did, they’d know he was there, and he wouldn’t have a chance to use his stupid whip. Why, I could get it off him now, I bet. But she did not really want to. She realised that he could have hit her when she had broken the mug, or when she had tried to run, and he hadn’t. In a funny way, she could only feel sorry for him.
She quietly pushed open the door of the cupboard, put out her hand and lifted the edge of the tablecloth. The old man lay curled on the floor, a snoring suit of clothes, liquid dribbling from his mouth and his nose. On the floor by his hand was a blue book, face down on the floor. The candle was burning down quietly and without fuss on the floor boards.
She put out her hand and pulled the book towards her across the floor. Turning it face-up, she read a few lines:

And you, my father, there on that sad height
Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The old man snored and coughed in his sleep, and she hastily laid the book down again by his hand.
Sad height, she thought, that’s the sky, all gloomy and terrible. And rage, rage against the dying of the light: that‘s how I feel, I hate this darkness, I wish it were a clear night with stars and moonshine, or day. But I don’t think I have a father. I don’t remember one, anyway.
She got up and went to the door, down the narrow corridor of piled and shadowy objects. At the front door she stood on the hard dust and watched the motion of the clouds. It seemed to be night behind them. Stars glinted here and there, reminding her of the candle flames in the crystal.
She thought of the distant City on the Deep River, the trees, the parks, the place where it was safe.
That is, she thought, if he was telling the truth. He lied about there being other policemen. He left me here. Maybe there is no City…But Jack said there was. I must try to get there. I have to.
She made as if to step away from the house, but she could not. The darkness crouched around her like a watching monster. She began to tremble.
Later, she thought. People will come down the road. There must be other travellers. I’ll leave with them. Then I won’t be alone.
Outside the kennel, on the long chain, the dog lay with his head on his paws, not sleeping, his eyes bright and open.
“Hello, boy,” she said to it. “What are you thinking about? Do you want to get out of here too? You can’t like being chained up.”
The dog lifted its wrinkled forehead, a look of deep sadness on its face. It was a handsome dog, she thought. Like a lost prince, like a prince in exile and slavery, far from home.
“What’s your name?” she asked it. “Shall I call you Prince?”
It ignored her, turning away with a deep sigh that stirred the dust on the ground. When she went closer it showed a narrow line of teeth, and crawled into its kennel, tail curled around it, closed and unforgiving.

When she woke up the old man was gone, and so were the dog and the dog cart. The crystal too was gone and the door that led upstairs was locked again.
“No burglars, then,” she said out loud. She looked around at the kitchen. There was nothing to keep her there, but nowhere to go either. And he hadn’t whipped her when he’d said he would. Perhaps there was a chance things would be okay. Today, or tomorrow, someone would come down the road, and they’d take her with them.
That day - or those hours - she swept the kitchen and she cleaned the kitchen. She scrubbed the wooden boards until her hands were red and swollen. At first there was something satisfying in it. This was something she could do, housework. It stopped her from thinking of all the things she couldn’t do. Like walk out of the house, alone, into the raw darkness…
But everything seemed to go wrong. The fire she lit smoked, choking her out of the house and blackening the walls. She poked a broom handle up the chimney and dislodged an old bird’s nest, but it made no difference. The cupboards would not come clean no matter how much she washed them. The water from the tap was brown and muddy, and she could not bear to drink it, even though she was thirsty. She began to feel like Gaby, tearful and angry, clumsy and dirty and tired and ugly.
Nothing works, she thought. There’s no day and no night. No one knows what they’re doing and no one seems to care, and if they do care they can’t do anything about it. Everything breaks, or spills, or turns sour. What’s wrong with this place?
She still felt no need to eat, and the thirst did her no harm. She didn’t feel ill. She just felt light, light as a bird. Perhaps here, you can live on air, she thought.
And no one came down the road.
At last, she could bear it no longer. Her heart beating fast, she went out of the house and started walking down the road. The light faded and faded until she was walking into nothingness, into a red dim blankness. When she turned she could not see the house any more. There was nothing in any direction but darkness, and above the toiling clouds. She could barely feel the paving slabs beneath her feet. Fear claspped her limbs. Her own heart beat faster, and the answering heart-beat came quicker, as if it partnered her in a dance.
I’ll go on, she thought. I’m not alone. There’s someone with me. She convinced herself it was true. She imagined her feet were not her own, but that other person’s. They went on, crushing the grass beneath them, step by step. She pretended that she couldn’t stop them, couldn’t turn around at any moment, and leave the terrible silent emptiness behind. The City on the Deep River, she thought. All you have to do is keep going.
But then she heard it again, the terrible howling laugh she had heard in the forest. She clenched her fists and stood stock still. Then she turned and ran, back towards the house. When she finally got there she was reeling and panting for breath. She went in and slammed the door and sat at the kitchen table and felt as if she wanted to die.

The old man came back at last, driving the dog into the yard at a furious pace, and climbing down from the dog cart. She could see at once that he was in a black mood. She waited, desperate to know where he had been, until they were setting out the crystal again, and he seemed in a better humour.
“It’s the weather for burglars,” he told her. “Yes, I taste ‘em in the wind. They’ll come creeping in, testing the latch, rattling the door… Oh, we’ll have them. This time, for sure.”
“Where did you go?” she asked him.
“Around. About.”
“What about the devils? Weren’t you afraid?”
“I told you there aren’t none,” he said angrily.
She did not answer. Instead, she asked: “Can I come next time?”
He laughed mockingly.
“But what do you do? Are there other people here?” She kept questioning him, even when he shook the whip at her.
At last he said: “I goes off to compose, alright? Pastures new. Inspiration. You can’t let yerself get stuck. Now drop it.”
“Compose?”
“Poetry,” he said angrily.
“Oh.” She was startled.
Later, as she lay under the sink, listening to him mutter words, she said: “Won’t you read me some of your poetry?”
His face went dark and hard as a closed door.
“Shut it, girl, or you’ll get the whip,” he snarled.
That night he slept very little. She heard him moving around, and the growling of heavy furniture being moved upstairs, or thunder, or anger.

Sometimes when he fell asleep she was still awake, and she was able to take the blue book from him and read a few lines in it, before he stirred and snored, and she quickly put the book back. Here and there a line stood out, lodged in her memory like grit under a nail, gathering beauty like a pearl.
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas
she read once. Then he snored and his eyes glinted open, and she had to push the book back. She never saw the rest of the poem, but the strangeness of the words clung to her. Was it a kind of tight desperation she could hear in them, or resignation? What did he mean, should have been? She heard the scuttle and the silence in the words, they haunted as she slipped into a dreamless sleep.
The next night, as she read, one other line hooked her like a thorn:
O rose, thou art sick
She stared at that one line, forgetting to read on. She tasted the words like a sudden bitterness. Sick with a devil? she wondered. Or with loneliness? Forgetting? She thought of the land like a closed fist, a carved dark jewel, a clasped rosebud or shell, something contained and complex and hardened, and sick, sick at its heart.
He turned and coughed and snorted, and she hastily pushed the book back and retreated under the sink.
And once there were some loose leaves at the back of the book. They were covered with scratchy writing. Every other word was scrubbed out furiously, so hard that the page had often torn under the pen.

Why fig fig flop tree not to be better
How in the sweat world the unwritten letter
Now love, dove, dove, love, lover.

It was as if the meaning was trying to fight its way through a caul of words. It doesn’t make any sense, she thought. Why would he write nonsense?
She thought of Jack and his broken pipe. Maybe he can’t write anything else.
She cleaned the kitchen every day, and it never got any cleaner. She was not allowed to clean the front room, and he locked the small door, only unlocking it in the evening when he needed help carrying the set of crystal to the table. The dust blew in from the front room and coated everything she had just cleaned in the kitchen. She was so tired of it she thought she could cry.
“Let me clean the front room,” she said, at last, fed up and disgusted with it all. “It’s making your cough worse, anyway, all that dust.”
“You’ll only break something.”
“Does it matter? I mean, you never use any of that stuff! I bet you can’t even remember what’s in there.”
“Shut your trap, girl. That stuff is my memories.”
“Well, you should treat them better,” she said, surprised at herself. “Think how you’d feel not to have any, like me.”
“Wish I hadn’t any, for all the good they’ve ever done me.”
“You could entice more burglars, if you had the front room clean and tidy,” she said, inspired.
“If they ain’t coming for my crystal they ain’t coming for anything.”
“It sets the scene, don’t you see? A man with a smart front room, he’s going to be worth robbing. Then they’ll come through into the kitchen - “
“And maybe they’ll have a little sugar with their tea!” he chuckled, and coughed. “Alright, you give it a go. But break anything and it’ll be the whip for you.”
Mariposa doubted that he meant it. He had never even hit her with his hand. The worst thing he did was spit in her direction, and cackle when he hit her with a gob of yellow-green phlegm. But he seemed to do that more out of mischief than cruelty. She was almost getting attached to him. Sometimes she saw him standing outside, looking down the road with the same hopeful, desperate look she had seen in Jack’s eyes when he asked her to find out what was wrong. But I don’t see how I’m going to make it to the City now, she thought, hopelessly.