The sign on the gate reads MEMBER’S ONLY. The boy and his aunties puzzle at the glossy black lettering. Which member’s only what, they ask with feigned amusement, each aware that nothing is missing save a rudimentary command of language. They laugh recalling PEACHE’S, last summer’s prize find. They reminisce about their late night sortie to right small wrongs. The boy, the aunties and Mr Feyyaz, with a list, fine brushes and a rainbow of tiny paint pots. They recall the boy balanced on the man’s shoulders to execute his artistry: a vermillion-loaded brush for KEBAB’S, a black brush and stencil for DONNYS CAR SALES.
The boy places his foot in an aunty’s cupped hands, and with a grunt and a lift, scales the gate and drops to the ground on the other side. You’re heavier than last year, she says. A tossed bag drops beside him. Enough for a pie, but don’t be greedy. He runs the length of the bowling green, around the back of the clubrooms, pushing through creamy toetoe to reach the lemon tree. It’s stealing, he had said to the aunties that first summer, when feeling robbed was fresh and raw. The aunties let him speak, then asked what he meant by stealing. Is it stealing to use what otherwise rots where it falls? Can you steal something that no one possesses? Wasps crawl over the fallen fruit. He fills the bag, warily avoiding the pests. A pest. That’s what his mother used to call him. Stop being a pest. The memory of the cadence of her voice is slipping away.
He pisses on the roots of the tree for luck then, throwing the bag over his shoulder, hurries back to the gate, shimmying up and over the frame. The aunties help him down, one on each side. They walk home for Lemon Meringue Pie night. Mr Feyyaz will arrive, bringing dolma and cards. He has promised to teach the boy to play Türk Pokeri. And they will write MEMBER’S ONLY at the top of a new list.
Rosemary McBryde
The boy places his foot in an aunty’s cupped hands, and with a grunt and a lift, scales the gate and drops to the ground on the other side. You’re heavier than last year, she says. A tossed bag drops beside him. Enough for a pie, but don’t be greedy. He runs the length of the bowling green, around the back of the clubrooms, pushing through creamy toetoe to reach the lemon tree. It’s stealing, he had said to the aunties that first summer, when feeling robbed was fresh and raw. The aunties let him speak, then asked what he meant by stealing. Is it stealing to use what otherwise rots where it falls? Can you steal something that no one possesses? Wasps crawl over the fallen fruit. He fills the bag, warily avoiding the pests. A pest. That’s what his mother used to call him. Stop being a pest. The memory of the cadence of her voice is slipping away.
He pisses on the roots of the tree for luck then, throwing the bag over his shoulder, hurries back to the gate, shimmying up and over the frame. The aunties help him down, one on each side. They walk home for Lemon Meringue Pie night. Mr Feyyaz will arrive, bringing dolma and cards. He has promised to teach the boy to play Türk Pokeri. And they will write MEMBER’S ONLY at the top of a new list.
Rosemary McBryde
No comments:
Post a Comment