Lemon Sour
'Radgepacket - Tales from the Inner
Cities Volume 4' (Byker Books)A dark tale of
childhood humiliation and revenge involving a
pair of lemon yellow gloves. When Jenny
discovers an old glove in a drawer at home,
it brings disturbing memories - and an urge
to make her mother understand in any way she
can.
The
story has been published in 'Radgepacket
Volume 4' by Byker Books, an independent UK
publisher based in Newcastle.
"We’re
back again with yet more of our favourite
renegades and radgies.... Radgepacket Four
brings you over twenty tales of murder,
mayhem and madness from the Inner
Cities."
Byker Books
"Another
fantasic hit with a whole bunch of stories
not to be missed. Within these pages you will
find gem after gem."
Sheila Quigley
The
glove was right at the back of the drawer -
dusty, crumpled, squashed under her mother's
sewing box and half a lifetime's collection
of handbags and belts. Jenny wouldn't even
have found it if she hadn't been hunting high
and low for her mother's heart pills, which
the old dear had stashed away somewhere
'safe'. She recognised it the minute her
hands touched the leather, though, and
brought it out between two fingers with an
odd little shudder.
For
a single glove, it was a potent reminder. A
symbol of her childhood and everything that
had been wrong with it. It was faded now and
the finger pads were grubby where a child's
hands had touched things they shouldn't while
wearing the gloves. Magazine print, perhaps,
or a sticky bag of sweets, or the moss that
grew in soft green cushions on top of the
garden wall. Below the stains, though, and
inside the cuffs where the leather hadn't
seen the light of day, you could still see
the colour it had been. A pale, pretty lemon
yellow - the colour of primroses, or kitchen
units from the 1950s, before Jenny was born.
Her grandmother had had a kitchen that colour
when Jenny was very small.
"Quickly,
dear," - a wavering croak, and she could
hear her mother's breathing, harsh and
laboured, from the room next door.
"In
a minute, I can't find them," she called
back, thrusting the glove away again and
banging drawers open and closed at random.
"Where did you say you'd put them?"
"...back
of the drawer," came the wheezy reply.
Was it just her imagination or was her
mother's voice fading the way the yellow
leather had faded over the years? It had been
crystal-bright originally, with clear diction
and the Received Pronunciation beloved of
everyone of a certain age and class. Now it
was hoarse and the words were slightly
slurred, the product of last year's minor
stroke. Jenny still found it odd not hearing
the strident tones that had formed such a
cut-glass counterpoint to her childhood
years.
'Keeping
up one's standards': that had been a
favourite; along with 'doing things properly'
and 'what will the neighbours think'.
Meaningless platitudes, most of them,
designed to deflate argument and crush
teenage rebellion in its tracks. Jenny had
only to hear the words 'Now, dear, we must
all keep our standards up,' and her resolve
would fade, no matter how much she wanted to
resist. It was impossible to argue with
something so woolly and vague.
"I
know that, but which one?" she called
back. There were three chests of drawers and
two cupboards in the guest bedroom - it would
take her hours to search each and every one.
Time her mother probably didn't have. There
was no reply; she would have to do this on
her own, and do it fast.
Her
mind went back to the gloves, even as she
rattled handles and slammed cupboard doors.
When was the last time she'd worn them, the
last time she'd succumbed to the insidious
drip of her mother's voice? Cousin Jack's
wedding? A holiday somewhere? No. A hot flush
of shame flooded her limbs, even now, nearly
thirty years later, as she recalled the time
and place...
© 2010
Fiona Glass
|
