Chapter Nine #2
After lunch, the adults moved into the tiny sitting room and drank coffee. I hovered in the doorway, wondering when the best time to approach Dad was. He caught sight of me.
“Give me half an hour,” he mouthed.
“What are you doing?” Marcie appeared at my shoulder, and I jumped.
“Just waiting for Dad to be finished,” I said.
“I’ll come outside with you.”
I looked at her skeptically. She hated the outdoors usually.
“You can show me what I’ve been missing,” she said, and she linked her arm through mine.
We ran up to the room together and pulled on our Wellies. Marcie smiled at me as she shrugged into her coat, and I felt my chest warm. It had been a long time since she’d shown an interest in anything I was doing.
Though it was April, there was still a cold nip in the air, and the recent rainfall had turned the yard into sludge.
I led the way, picking out the least muddy route I could find, in case the mire dissuaded Marcie from accompanying me.
She didn’t complain, though. As we reached the field dotted with cows, she pointed things out and asked questions I was thrilled to answer.
We started at the hedgerow. I flipped logs and showed her the treasures underneath: the beetles and worms and nasty-looking orange centipedes that scuttled for cover as soon as the light hit them. We’d only been looking for five minutes when I noticed Marcie’s attention waning.
“I was talking to Dad the other day,” she began slowly. “He was telling me something really gross.”
I dropped the log I was peering under and looked at her, swallowing the small spark of jealousy that she and Dad had had a private conversation without me. “What was it?”
“He was saying that sometimes worms live in cowpats. They help turn it into compost.” She looked at the cows grazing to our right. “Told you it was gross.”
Secretly, I thought so, too, but if Dad thought it was worth mentioning, I was willing to set aside my true feelings.
“Shall we have a look?” I said, and Marcie nodded.
I found a large stick in the hedgerow, and we approached the cows slowly.
Several fresh pancakes steamed in the cold air.
As we drew nearer, Marcie close at my shoulder, hundreds of yellow flies took to the air.
I held my breath and poked at the mass on the ground with the stick.
It happened in a split second. One moment I was on my feet, leaning over just enough to catch a glimpse of the writhing mass of worms. The next, there was a hard push at my shoulder, and I was tipping forward, straight toward it.
I didn’t have time to break my fall with my hands.
I landed heavily on my shoulder and felt it spatter upward, onto my face, into my mouth, which was open in surprise.
I could feel the cool dampness seep through my jumper as I sputtered and tried to extract myself from the mess, which only made it worse.
I tried to raise myself on my hand and accidentally pressed it right into the center of the dung.
I felt it squelch through my fingers and my stomach turned.
“Marcie Jones, you come here right now.” It was a tone I had never heard Mum use before, and certainly not with Marcie, but it rang out across the field with so much force even I quailed.
I felt strong hands under my armpits as Dad lifted me from the cowpat.
Mum had grabbed Marcie by her upper arm.
Her jaw was set with anger. A few feet away, Grandpa and Granny stood, mouths ajar.
“You’re OK,” Dad said softly. “It’s just a bit of muck. We’ll get you cleaned up in no time.”
I realized I was shaking. I felt sullied. Disgusting. Betrayed. I stood with my arms at right angles to my body, spitting onto the grass. I thought I felt something—a worm perhaps—slither down my back, and then the tears came, and they did not stop.
“You will never behave like that again.” Mum was marching Marcie back toward the house, dragging her by the arm, voice carrying on the wind. “In front of your grandparents, too. Are you trying to embarrass me? You can forget about having your friends over next weekend, that’s for sure.”
I waddled back to the house with Dad and his parents.
They tried to make me feel better with vacuous comments—“At least it wasn’t dog or badger poo.
That really stinks!” And, “It’ll wash out and you won’t even know.
I’ll put the washing machine on as soon as we get in.
” But they couldn’t know how my skin itched, how it burned with the thought of those worms and those flies.
How it tasted: earthy, just a little bit bitter.
I continued to spit until we reached the front door.
Dad offered to sit with me as I showered, but I shook my head and locked the door behind me. I stood under the weak, lukewarm water and scrubbed at my skin until it burned. Until it was red and raw. Still, I did not feel clean.
After my shower, I gave my soiled clothes to Granny and went to my room to change. Marcie was hunched on the side of her bed, shoulders shaking with tears. She glared at me, puffy-eyed.
“It was an accident, Iris. Tell them! This is so unfair. You know Mum’s said I can’t have anyone over for the rest of the holidays? It was only a joke. You found it funny, didn’t you?”
Her tone was pleading. It was the first time she’d ever been the sole recipient of Mum’s anger. The first time she’d been perceived as anything less than perfect.
I ignored her question and instead spread a puzzle over the floorboards.
I spent most of the rest of the week in that bedroom.
Dad tried to tempt me outside again, but each time I shook my head vehemently and refused.
Each time I finished the puzzle, I broke it up and started again.
The encyclopedia lay, deliberately forgotten, on my bedside table.
And, by the end of the week, it was as though nothing had ever happened. Marcie had managed to worm her way back into Mum’s good graces, where she stayed until she died.