She wants to yell out the whole thing. But she doesn’t. Because she knows he’d never understand. And she knows he wouldn’t want her to live with him and Lisette because Lisette has her own children. Undifferent children.
Dad sits in silence like you do when you don’t feel like wearing a suit. But just as Elsa opens Audi’s door to jump out, he turns to her hesitantly and says in a low voice: “. . . but there are moments when I sincerely hope that not ALL your best traits come from Granny and Mum, Elsa.”
And then Elsa squeezes her eyes together tightly and puts her forehead against his shoulder and her fingers into her jacket pocket and spins the lid of the red felt-tip pen that he gave her when she was small, so she could add her own punctuation marks, and which is still the best present he’s ever given her. Or anyone.
“You gave me your words,” she whispers.
He tries to blink his pride out of his eyes. She sees that. And she wants to tell him that she lied to him last Friday. That she was the one who sent the text from Mum’s phone about how he didn’t have to pick her up from school. But she doesn’t want to disappoint him, so she stays quiet. Because you hardly ever disappoint anybody if you just stay quiet. All almost-eight-year-olds know that.
Dad kisses her hair. She raises her head and says as if in passing, “Will you and Lisette have children?”
“I don’t think so,” Dad replies sadly, as if it’s quite self-evident.
“Why not?”
“We have all the children we need.”
And it sounds as if he stops himself from saying “more than we need.” Or at least that’s how it feels.
“Is it because of me you don’t want more children?” she asks, and hopes he’ll say “no.”
“Yes,” he says.
“Because I turned out different?” she whispers.
He doesn’t answer. And she doesn’t wait. But just as she’s about to slam the door of Audi from the outside, Dad reaches across the seat and catches her fingertips, and when she meets his eyes he looks back tentatively, like he always does. But then he whispers: “Because you turned out to be perfect.”
She’s never heard him so nontentative. And if she’d said that aloud, he would have told her that there’s no such word. And she loves him for that.
George stands by the gate looking sad. He’s also wearing a suit. Elsa runs past him and Mum catches hold of her, her mascara running, and Elsa presses her face against Halfie. Mum’s dress smells of boutique. The cloud animals are flying low.
And that’s the day they bury Elsa’s granny.
21
CANDLE GREASE
There are storytellers in the Land-of-Almost-Awake who say we all have an inner voice, whispering to us what we must do, and all we must do is listen. Elsa has never really believed it, because she doesn’t like the thought of someone else having a voice inside her, and Granny always said that only psychologists and murderers have “inner voices.” Granny never liked proper psychology. Though she really did try with the woman in the black skirt.
But, in spite of all, in a moment Elsa will hear a voice in her head as clear as a bell. It won’t be whispering, it will be yelling. It will be yelling, “Run!” And Elsa will run for her life. With the shadow behind her.
Of course, she doesn’t know that when she goes into the church. The quiet murmuring of hundreds of strangers rises towards the ceiling, like the hissing of a broken car stereo. The legions of smartasss point at her and whisper. Their eyes are oppressive.
She doesn’t know who they are and it makes her feel tricked. She doesn’t want to share Granny with others. She doesn’t want to be reminded of how Granny was her only friend, while Granny herself had hundreds of others.