Hooting and whistling, billowing steam, pungent smoke shunting into our faces. Such was the atmosphere of railway stations when my father worked for British Rail. I liked the sound of the carriage doors that slid sideways and closed with a clunk; and I loved sitting near a window so I could puff my breath on a cool pane and play noughts and crosses with my finger.
Sometimes we’d travel north to the Lake District in Cumbria, a place of mountains and rising mists, a place of inspiration for writers like Wordsworth and Beatrix Potter. When I was nine, and thin as a splinter, our family of four climbed one of those peaks and sat near the top to munch on sandwiches and enjoy the picturesque landscape below. Lake Windermere glittered between emerald, U-shaped valleys and the sun shifted shadows around making sharp angles everywhere.
After polishing off Mum’s picnic, my brother and I asked if we could venture downhill to feed the ducks. My father adjusted his horn-rimmed spectacles and studied the slope between our position and the lake below. “It’s very steep,” he warned. “You must not run. I mean it, both of you.”
We promised to walk carefully but before I’d had the chance to uncross my ankles and stand up, my big brother set off.
“Wait for me,” I yelled. But he strode downhill on his lanky legs, oblivious to what I was saying. Determined to catch up, I decided a quick trot between the heather and rocks wouldn’t hurt. I was so wrong. I gathered speed, gaining momentum like one of the little toy, plastic ponies, with jointed legs, that we used to send galloping down a sloped board.
Screaming, I whizzed past my brother with no hope of stopping. After flying through the air, my body hit the hard ground. Propelled forward, I rolled like a log – faster and faster – all the way to the grassy bank where the cold Derwent waters awaited. Just in time, at lake’s edge, the force driving me ran out of steam. And although I stopped rolling, the trees and sky and clouds carried on spinning.
“Are you alright?” My brother’s voice echoed in my ears, like it came from inside a tunnel. “Your head just missed a massive rock,” he said.
In my peripheral vision, I sensed our parents approaching. Would they yell at me for running? Ground me? Withhold pocket money? There would be no more cinema on a Saturday, no sherbet, or gobstoppers from the sweet shop. The fear of punishment made my shaky bones quake even more. When my father examined my grazed forearms, scratched legs, blood-stained socks, my scared reflection peered back at me from his horn-rimmed glasses. My chin wobbled as I tried to make excuses.
He shook his head and said, “You are very lucky, young lady; could have done a lot more damage.”
Mum helped me up and, on the train home, I lay across a seat, my head resting on her lap. The carriage rocked and swayed, sometimes jolting me from my dreams. But it didn’t matter, by some amazing miracle I was still alive …
… Soon after, I turned 10 and told my friends and teachers at primary school some big news. Our family were going to live in Australia. I had no idea how many watery miles swam between Australia and England. I only knew there’d be 23 days at sea before reaching Perth and meeting the aunts, uncles and cousins who had gone there before us. For years, one Aunty had been sending us cartons of food that we loved diving into to discover Australian cakes and lemony lattice biscuits. Those sweet treats were always there, nestled among the boring tins of soup and sardines.
In return, Mum sent packets of henna to her sister; some of that henna hair colour occupied a spot in one of the tea chests packed with our belongings to send to Australia.
Grandma’s house became our pit stop for the last night in the UK. To get there we walked to the local railway station. We were on time but the train wasn’t so Mum found a seat along the platform and my brother began studying departures on a timetable fixed to a wall. Dad lit a cigarette and the smoke billowed away to mingle with vapours from the cafe and the morning breath of many travellers.
Perched on a suitcase, I focused on Dad’s black, leather shoes as they paced backwards and forwards along the platform. He paused here and there to check his watch, peer along the railway line. Waiting around caused him to inhale deeply and frequently on his cigarette. He didn’t waste a puff and when it shrank to a fragment, forcing him to clutch it between the tips of his index finger and thumb, I cringed. Would the last shred of burning butt scorch his flesh? Just when I thought it might, he dropped it and crushed the red glow beneath his right sole. Both black shoes turned, he strode towards me and tapped my left shoulder. “Young ladies shouldn’t sit like that.”
Like what? Once again, I saw my face reflected in his spectacles. My eyes were unblinking because he had me bamboozled. I was simply sat on a suitcase; what could be so wrong with that?
My father knew his way around words; he owned loads of books and had a great love of language, not just English. He always buried his head in a book or newspaper and completed crossword puzzles in record time. Cryptic clues never fazed him either. The man was a walking dictionary yet now he was stuck for words. He glanced in Mum’s direction obviously wanting her to explain, but she was locked in conversation with my brother. Then Dad spotted a young woman, across the railway line, on the platform opposite. “Ah. Yes. That’s it. That’s how you should sit.”
I still wore ankle socks, that lady wore high heels and a pencil skirt. Her legs were so closely positioned that her stockings could have been stitched together at the knees. When she tucked one ankle behind the other, Dad turned to me and praised her ladylike behaviour. That’s when he delivered his sermon on posture and modesty, two words I’d been blissfully unaware of. Two new words for my vocabulary. I sat up straight, yanked my kilt forwards to cover my thighs then pressed my knees together and imagined them joined by invisible glue. It would be strange getting around though; how would I climb trees or jump onto walls?
Lady Grandma, upright as her piano, welcomed us that night with a hot dinner and home-made apple pie coated in custard. After the dishes were done, Gran stepped into the living room, looked at me and said, “It’s bath time.”
We stepped up the staircase, me following. She switched on her bathroom light and told me to start undressing. While she knelt on the mat and dipped her elbow into the water to test the temperature I stood at the end of the big tub, watching. When she turned and saw me still fully dressed, she spoke faster. “Come along child, the bathwater will be getting cold.”
I wanted to be alone. I’d never been in her bath before, and never stripped off in front of Grandma. I’d been washing myself for years and valued my privacy, especially with the morning’s sermon on posture and modesty still fresh in my mind. Slowly, I removed one shoe … one sock … then the other shoe.
Grandma, growing impatient, tut-tutted at my dilly dallying.
I changed my focus to the six, small buttons down the front of my blouse – and slowly undid one, hoping she would leave. But not only did Grandma stay, she also helped with the removal of my skirt and kept going until all my clothes were piled on the floor.
“Climb in,” she said with authority. There was no need to urge me into the water, I was anxious to be undercover but my knees were still stuck together with invisible glue. That meant I had to perch on the edge of the bath, then swivel my body while performing a swift scissor-kick with my lower legs. After that, I sank into the warm water and reached for the soap and sponge.
When Grandma picked up my clothes and left the room, I sighed with relief. But all too soon she returned to deliver clean nightclothes and a towel. By then I had sponged my arms and shoulders and created a bucketload of bubbles that popped and glistened in the light. Grandma obviously realised how capable her granddaughter was because her lips curved upwards, she closed the door and left. Her quick footsteps travelled downstairs.
Alone at last …
After bath time, my brother and I expected to be sent to bed, but to our delight Grandma delved in the sideboard next to her piano and brought out a game of Snakes and Ladders. She also handed us a packet of boiled lollies called Spangles; they were luscious and square shaped. We sat on the carpet, opened the board game, and chose tokens to move around the board – green for my brother, red for me. Just as an orange Spangle released its fruity flavour over my tongue, my brother threw a six with the dice, grinned with delight, threw again then counted his way up a long ladder.
When my turn came, I tossed the die high above my head. It dropped onto the board with a spinning action, flipped like an acrobat performing a somersault, then wobbled diagonally onto the carpet. I laughed so hard that the Spangle in my mouth shot backwards and lodged itself in my windpipe.
I clutched my throat, gasped. For breath. Tried to cough. Couldn’t.
Mum shrieked. “Quick, she’s choking, she’s turning blue.”
Dad sprang off the couch, grabbed me by the ankles and hoisted me upside down.
My nightie mushroomed over my head. I clawed at the cotton, desperate for air as my father shook me, up and down like a bottle of HP Sauce he was desperate to un-clog. Someone slapped my back while he jolted me, faster and harder, until finally, the Spangle dislodged and spurted onto the carpet.
Things started pumping – my ribs in and out – shoulders up and down. Someone lifted me onto a chair and I heard hooting and whistling. Not a train this time, just our family full of relief.
That night, as I sat there sucking air into my lungs, my cheeks began a slow burn because I was suddenly aware that two things had come unstuck. Father’s message about modesty. And my invisible glue.
Author: Christine Tapper
Christine has always loved words and language. She writes short stories, memoir, articles and poems. She thinks the word ‘faction’ should mean ‘splicing fact and fiction to create stories’. The inspiration for ‘My Invisible Glue’ came from recollections of her childhood.
