Open Writing

The heat is overpowering, even though it is the middle of the night. I slip out of bed and lie on the cold lino, where I would like to take my nightdress off, but I know I must not, and I must always keep my singlet on, as I had promised my grandmother I would always wear it. So I pull up my nightie, and my legs feel the cool of the lino. When I start to feel hot again I move over a little to a cooler part. I stretch my bare arms out above my head, and drift off to sleep. When I wake up, I am in bed again. I don’t remember getting back in. My mother must have lifted me in; no doubt I would be told off in the morning.

There is a heat-wave in Melbourne. The temperature is expected to reach 42 degrees. My sister and I are kept at home for the day. She, because of her red hair and freckles, and me, because I am delicate. My sister is sensitive about her freckles. She won’t believe she is beautiful, with her red hair and blue eyes. She only sees the freckles when she looks in a mirror, and puts lemon juice on them.

The mirror I always gravitate to is in my grandparents' bedroom. There are two doors with inset mirrors in the huge carved wardrobe; the carved bits on top reach nearly to the ceiling, and that is where there are stored hat boxes, and other things that are not used regularly. I sneak in to look in the mirror, which is just inside the door, where I can’t see them, because their clothes are hanging over the high rail at the bottom of the bed. There is one at the top as well. They are talking, but I don’t listen. They are usually reading the Bible, or at night, kneeling, one each side of the bed, saying their prayers. I am not allowed into their room then, but I can hear from outside the door. It all sounds a bit boring to me, like going to church every day. It’s bad enough on Sunday. Sunday School, the first part of church for children, then again at night. I don’t go at night, but my grandparents do, and sometimes my mother. But she is embarrassed the minister will ask after our father, who will be at the bowling club, or some other 'not suitable for Sunday' activity.

I don't know why I must always look in the mirror. Perhaps I hope that some kind fairy will have waved a magic wand in the night, and I will be blonde and beautiful, and not have to wear glasses to see anything. And not have to remember to keep my back straight, as I slouch, and am continually told to straighten up. Suddenly a voice thunders, 'Watch out, you’ll crack the mirror one of these days.'

I jump, as always. I imagine that they don’t see me, but I suppose this has become a joke to them, to decide to give me a fright, when I am least expecting it.

'I haven’t cracked it, Grampa,' I say.

'Won’t be long before you do. Be off with you now, we’re getting up.'

'Can I brush your hair, Grandma?' I ask. She always brushes her long, greying, dark hair 100 times every morning. I like brushing her hair.

'Later on,' she says. 'I’ll call you when I’m dressed.'

I go. I don’t want to watch them getting dressed anyway. I hope they don’t ask me to empty the po. It has to be put on the ground by the lemon tree, and we have the best lemons in the street. I wouldn’t tell anybody what makes them so yellow.

Later on, I sneak back to look at the mirror, searching for cracks. It looks perfectly all right to me. Then, I notice, right down in the bottom left-hand corner, a very slight crack, so small I have to kneel on the floor to see it. I decide that they must have never noticed it, and that I couldn’t have made it, just by looking in the mirror. But everytime I looked in the mirror after that, my eyes automatically went to the crack to see if it had become bigger. I waited for the day I would be accused of cracking the mirror, and what my punishment would be.

© Shirley Henwood

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Shirley writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au