I was whole-hearted, I was extreme. I was filled with rage when I saw the missionary’s daughter cheat in the exam. I was horrified when school rules were broken (not wear hats, eat in street, talk to boys). I was disgusted to find the grown-up book in the children’s section (tongue kisses, skin like silk) at the library.

My rage bore witness to my weaning from the real world; gave proof of the passion locked away.

Twenty-Six

TWENTY-SIX

I HAD fits.

They were not the hot ecstasies of Puffing Billy, of the girl who fell down in the lavatory at school and was carried home in a blanket. They were colder, more contrived, and left me numb. When I sat before the fire — neat little girl in a pinafore — they dissolved to a nightmare vagueness, locked out behind the window and the night and the tapping tree. When I was carried in their icy wake, they alone were real.

I tried to explain them, excuse them, belittle them. I thought perhaps they were linked with the excitement mark on my cheek, the birthmark on my neck. I thought perhaps they were traces of some exotic degeneracy — I thought of Willie, Reece, my father’s moods.

My fits threaded my life like the cord on my petticoat. They surfaced suddenly, blazed brightly — then disappeared. They illumined all my ages.

I lie in the passage. I am very small. My mother is dressed to go out (long white gloves, cartwheel hat, red and white silk spots). I cannot bear that she should go. I roll and scream on the carpet. I taste fluff and see last year’s nose droppings under the table. My mother goes, but I hug my victories close. I have scratched paint from the skirting-board, made my voice hurt. I have made my mother shout; destroyed her calm perfection; tainted the beauty she wears for others.

As I grew older the fits materialized perversely when I was happy — about to taste a desire. They came when we were ready for the Odeon and Barbara Stanwyck and Robert Taylor. They came before the football match, and I was still crying when the cheers began — we got there by half-time.

It was always the same. A pure child stood aside and watched another’s hate; but the one who hated watched too — saw pure child destroyed by flaming rage, self-pity’s fumes (the voice goes on and on — I am bored — will it never stop? — but she can’t say she’s sorry — they must — she would like to be touched — but they must — hurry up and get it over, can’t you?). The hate went on and on. When it was over pure child was spent and wasted, empty and weak; ready to beg forgiveness for something she never did.

As I grew older, stranger things happened.