Open Writing

"You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear."

"I don't want to make a silk purse out of Cinderella's ear, she's too beautiful."

"How can a pig be beautiful, they are stupid and disgustingly dirty, especially Cinderella."

I lash out at my brother, but he is too quick for me and skips away yelling back at me, "She'll make good bacon though."

The thought of Cinderella actually being killed and turned into bacon stops me in my tracks: they couldn't do such a thing; surely they wouldn't; they being my dad and Reg the farm hand.

I rush over to the sty to make sure my pet is still there. She trots over to the fence and 1 scratch her back. We have great affection for each other, Cinderella and I. When you are a little kid growing up on an isolated farm, with only a pesky brother for company, you make friends with all the animals, but Cinderella is my favourite. Every day after school I rush out to see she is still safe and sound and weekends are spent watching over her in case the grown-ups do anything dreadful.

Nothing happens. I expect it was just my beastly brother trying to scare me.

The golden summer day's slip away, filled with all the self-important things little children enjoy. Playing outside one day I hear the most awful squealing. It goes on and on, and then suddenly stops. I rush towards the sheds and see Dad and Reg heaving a pig, blood pouring from its slashed throat, into a bath of scalding water. The steam rises; water sloshes over the sides as they drop the carcass.

It cannot be, it must not be, but I can see it is Cinderella. Convulsed with sobs and disbelief I seek out mum: She is in the kitchen, cooking as usual.

"Mum they've killed Cinderella, and what's she doing in the bath?"

"The hot water helps when they scrape off the bristles," my mother explains matter-of-factly.

"But Mum, she was my friend, I loved her, how could they kill her?"

"Darling, we need the pork and bacon, you know how much we rely on all the animals to provide food for us all."

I cannot believe what she has said. I rush outside again and climb up into the loft of the old barn, my treasured secret hiding place. Its warm, sweet smelling straw offers comfort and security, and muffles my sobs.

I must have cried myself to sleep because when next I look it is quite dark, and I hear my name being called. Looking through the slats I see blobs of light moving along the road and the creek bed; hurricane lanterns throwing long shadows of grown-up legs walking purposefully - voices calling for me. Even my brother is there. I watch the pantomime of light and sound for a little while, and then come down from the loft, slipping into the cool night air.

"Mum, I'm here. I'm OK, I fell asleep."

"Oh my God, child, where have you been? Thank goodness you are safe. Don't ever run away again, it's very naughty, and very dangerous"

"I didn't run away, Mum, I just fell asleep.

"Don't answer back," says my mother, "Now, into the house and straight to bed." "But I'm hungry Mum." Again she says "Don't answer back, into bed at once, and think about all the trouble you have caused."

I curl up on my bed, feeling hungry and misused, and try to make sense of the world of adults. Surely I am the one who has been betrayed and misjudged, but instead of hugs and kisses and nice hot things for tea I am banished to the dark, left alone with my tears; and no Cinderella.

All this happened so long ago. There have been many more reality checks since then. Mum and Dad are gone, the farm blown away, and pesky brother Bill gave his life for us on the Burma Railway, so I wonder why Cinderella's squeals still echo down the years.

Perhaps it was those pork chops I ate for lunch.