The Weight of Water (3 page)
Read The Weight of Water Online
Authors: Sarah Crossan
She isn’t afraid of him,
As I am;
She’s shaken
By his ignorance.
‘No noises,’ she repeats quietly.
As Mama starts to put away
The sheet music
I say,
‘No, Mama, sing quietly.
For me.’
And I sit up on the kitchen counter
To hear her soaring Rosina,
And remember Mama as she was,
Poised and powerful,
Lungs that could cut glass.
Before Tata left.
Before Coventry.
We hear nasty people every night
Cursing Christ and
All the Saints In Heaven.
Mama blesses herself,
Showers the room in holy water
And insists I say my prayers,
Which I do,
Hiding underneath the feather duvet
Hoping God will hear me
Here
In Coventry.
Mama pitched a coffee cup
At the wall.
Tata shouted:
‘Are you crazy?
Are you? Crazy!’
Babcia picked up the pieces
As usual,
And mopped up the coffee.
Mama stamped her way
To the pantry to
Knead dough.
Tata turned up the television.
I had two parents then,
But I couldn’t be in two places,
So I sat with Babcia,
Away from them both.
Mama showed me the note from Tata
The day he disappeared.
Ola, I have gone to England
Is all he wrote.
I got no note.
And no mention in the one to Mama.
Mama cried for two whole years.
And Babcia held her all this time.
I didn’t cry, even though Tata forgot me,
Even though I had a right to cry.
Babcia said, ‘He didn’t leave you, Kasienka,’
Which was a lie.
Because he didn’t take me with him.
She just meant,
Behave yourself
–
I’m dealing with your mother.
Then a cheque came from Tata,
In an envelope
With a clear postmark.
And Mama knew what to do.
Now we share a damp bed
In a strange place.
Mama is still crying.
But Babcia isn’t here to hold her.
And my arms are too short for the job.
It rains relentlessly.
Rain
Rain
Rain.
All.
Day.
Long.
It is in my knuckles and my knees –
The damp.
And I’ve no galoshes
Or welly boots to wear.
So I wear my snow boots to school
To keep my feet dry.
The other children stare.
But I don’t care.
At least my feet are dry.
Mama says, ‘Don’t worry, Kasienka,
They have summers here too.’
But I don’t know
About that.
Mama pays,
Reluctantly:
Presses two coins into my palm
As though she’s passing me a secret.
Tata taught me to swim.
Taught me to be strong.
It was no good grumbling
Or wrinkling my nose
Or crying – like a girl –
Tata didn’t care about that.
‘Kick your legs
From the hip,
Not the feet.
Now climb towards me
With your arms.’
After swimming Tata
Bought me ice cream:
Blueberry in a cup,
‘For my Olympian.’
I never want to
Paddle and play in the pool.
I’m here to work hard.
Do lengths.
Up and
Down,
Up and
Down,
The power of my own body
Fluent, fluid,
Propelling me forward
Like a pebble from
A catapult.
A boy from my school is here.
A boy from Year Nine,
I think.
He is perched on the edge of the diving board watching me.
Up and
Down,
Up and
Down.
And when I am below him
At the deep end,
He gets up, raises his arms,
And like a hunting hawk
Plunges into the water
Effortlessly.
Surfacing, he bobs about
Gazing again.
So I swim fast,
To outswim his stare
And make Tata proud,
Even though there’ll be no
Blueberry ice cream
Today.
I don’t know the diving boy,
The gawking hawk boy.
But he is in Year Nine.
And he is older than me.
A poster in the classroom
Announces a dance.
A disco.
For Year Seven.
Everyone’s excited.
And
Everyone’s
going.
Everyone but me.
For three reasons:
I’m twelve.
Almost thirteen.
Not eleven.
In the City Arcade
There is a shop where
Each item is one pound.
They sell everything
In that shop
For one pound.
Just one pound.
There are bags of chocolate for one pound.
And orange Halloween decorations.
They sell fairy wings
And cricket sets.
It’s astounding:
Everything one pound!
Mama picks up a box,
Turns it over in her hands.
It is just one pound.
But after inspection Mama
Puts it down, slowly,
And moves to the cashier
To pay for my socks and knickers.
It is a box of make-up –
Creams and powder shades:
For eyes and lips and cheeks.
In my pocket I have a five-pound note
Babcia gave me
Before I left.
And I want to buy Mama
The big box of make-up
She can’t afford
Or pay for my own socks.
But I want the five pounds too.
I want the five pounds more.
I make a fist around the note in my coat pocket.
‘Good girl, Kasienka,’ Mama says.
Mama says, ‘Good girl, Kasienka,’
Every day.
Even when I’m not so good.
Mama found a map
In a shop called
The British Heart Foundation.
She says:
‘Tata is somewhere in this city,
And we are going to find him.’
She speaks like an officer
Commanding a line of troops –
Forgetting we are only two
And presuming I wish to enlist.
She unfolds the map
Across the floor
To prepare a plan of attack,
Flattens it carefully
And says:
‘This is where we live,’
And points, with a pencil,
To an empty space.
‘How lucky we are,
Kasienka, love.
So close to Tata.
He
is
here. Somewhere.’
Mama looks up and I clap gently,
Fraudulently applaud her project,
While my insides tighten at one question:
What happens if we find him?
Mama waves the pencil over the map
And it flutters from the movement in the air,
As her heart must flutter
Whenever she thinks of Tata.
I wish my heart did that
When I thought of him.
Or anyone.
But there is no space
In my belly for butterflies.
I
Mama makes me knock and
I inch forward
To tap lightly –
Once.
But when Mama tuts
I knock again.
Once.
Twice.
Harder
This time.
A round man in a string vest appears.
He shakes his head, wags a furious finger.
‘No,’ he growls. ‘Whatever it is you want.’