Pink

By Siobhan Colman

 

Pink is the story of a little girl’s discovery of love, family and what it means to be brave.

 

It is 1969 and Pocky is seven years old. Her brother gave her the name because she has The Southern Cross in chicken pock marks on her forehead. She and her brother live with their mother on the flat roof of

• Language: English
• Publisher: Normoyle and Cogan Publishers
• Release date: Oct 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780648400219

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

R

UST RAN in bloody rivers from the taps when I was little. I'd watch it swirl and fog, turning the water in my glass into a strange, metallic Fanta. It ran in rings around the old bath until the enamel opened itself up to the stain. It kissed the wash basin with its lusty red until my mother blushed and turned away.

No use! she said, finally, and painted the bathroom orange. I watched her slap the rich colour against the walls in defiance. There! she said when the last brush-stroke had found its mark. Do your worst!

From then on the stains looked intentional - as though the bathroom had become a ruddy work of art. I'd lie in the bath and stare at the rusty ceiling as though I was cocooned in a giant desert nest. I lay there for hours, long after the water had cooled and my knees had dried into knobbly islands above a scungy sea. 'Yuck soup' my brother called it. I didn't care. I was experimenting. I wanted to see if the water could dye my skin. My knees were the control. I spent months, right through winter, adrift in 'Yuck soup'. I even went without using soap just in case it made me less porous. I was determined to be orange by Christmas. I would have, too. If I hadn't gotten pneumonia.

It was 1969. We used to sit on our flat iron roof in summer and catch the breezes between the leafy trees. Our neighbours wondered about it at first. Fixing the roof? they called to my mother from their meccano-fenced lawns.

My mother looked down from the ladder and smiled. I watched as they waited for more information, but Mum turned and finished climbing, pulling us up like baby birds. At first the hot corrugated iron stung our feet, but she soon fixed that with a picnic blanket. Before long we were having dinner there every evening, high above the neighbourhood, almost hidden by the jangling leaves. The neighbours would glance up from their gardens and shake their heads.

One afternoon, after school, I turned the corner of our street and found a collection of kids standing on the footpath in front of our house. They stood staring open- mouthed at our roof. It was then that I noticed Mum. She was dressed like Gina Lollobrigida; spotted dress, movie star glasses and scarf. There was what looked like an ice bucket next to her and in her hand was a cocktail glass. But that wasn't what took me by surprise. It was the fact that she was lying on a lounge. A hot-pink inflatable lounge.

When she saw me she waved. I heard the other children draw breath. One was whispering something about ‘weirdos’ when Mum beckoned me to climb the ladder. I watched the children shift disappointedly on their feet. Were they wishing they had mothers who owned inflatable lounges and who liked to sit on roofs? Even the child who had called us weird stood expectantly for a short while after I'd joined Mum on the lounge. I felt sorry for him. He had to look at the world from ground level. We were aiming for the sky.

When Mum was at work my brother and I would sit on the lounge and have cherry spitting competitions.

You gotta throw your head back and then spring forward as you spit, he told me. That way it'll go further. I did as he instructed and nearly choked. My cherry seed dribbled out of my mouth, bounced off the lounge and landed with a tired click onto the rippled iron at our feet.

Not like that! he scoffed. You gotta block your throat with your tongue and spit as you bring your head back. Not before! With that he demonstrated; the seed shooting out with a thhh..p..t! onto the Johnson's roof. Again he loaded the seed onto his tongue and spat; the ping of it ringing off their Hills Hoist. I watched him carefully until I felt I'd learned the technique; the spit swirling with eagerness around my tongue.

Let me! Let me! I begged.

Okay, but no swallowing it! he said with all the authority of his twelve years.

I won't, I promised, and was ceremoniously handed a cherry. I chewed the sweet pulp greedily and polished the seed between my tongue and front teeth. When it was smooth, I mustered the spit and leaned back.

On the count of three, he said. One. I drew a breath through my nose. Two. My tongue pushed the seed into the middle of my mouth and moistened it with saliva. Three!

I held my breath and threw my head forward. Thh...t..p! I spat and watched the tiny seed head out beyond our roof. It clipped the Johnson's tiles and soared out beyond their fence. My brother stood speechless for a moment, then scowled. Careful! he said, folding the top of the cherry bag. Gotta leave some for Mum. She likes 'em too!

Later, after tea, I caught him spitting seeds until his face looked like a giant plum.

That was the year I had chicken pox. I was the only child in first grade to get it. Mum said it was the worst case she'd ever seen. Great domes of clear fluid had suddenly erupted all over my body during the night.  It was Mum who first noticed.

My God! she gasped, leaning over my bed that Saturday morning. Her hands went to my sheets and pulled them back.

What is it? I asked her as she lifted my pyjama top.

How long have you been like this?

Like what? I was scratching what I thought was a mozzie bite.

You've got chicken pox, sweety.

Have I? I looked down at the itchy spot and saw a mass of lumps. Instantly I felt them tingle. I'd woken them up by looking at them and now they were itching out of spite. My eyes filled with tears. Mum!

Mum rubbed my head and smiled. You poor thing. They're going to drive you crazy if you let them. She sat on the edge of my bed. First thing is to work out ways of beating them at their own game. If we plan it together we'll be sure to make them quieten down. Want to give it a go?

I nodded, my fingers finding the phantom mozzie bite and digging for relief. Her large hand covered mine and she gently held my fingers still. That's just what they want, those sneaky pocks. Once you scratch them you double their itching power. We'll get some calamine lotion and drown the buggers. That'll slow 'em down.

She stood and headed for the door. I think there's some in the bathroom. Be back in a sec.

Alone in my room I lifted my top and saw that my skin had completely disappeared under a lunar landscape. Would I ever be normal again?

Here! Mum threw a bottle full of pink liquid onto the bed. Slowly I sounded out the letters. C.A.L.A.M.I.N.E . Our first line of defence, said Mum.

I was sickly pink and smelling a bit like Grandma's handkerchief drawer by the time my brother got up. He padded past my open door on his way to the kitchen and stopped.

Ha! he said, leaning in. You look like Barbie's dream house! Then he leaned forward and sniffed the air. And you stink!

I've got chicken pops. I said in the hope that he'd take pity on me. It's calamine lotion. Mum said it was our best defence.

Great! he sniggered before turning to leave. See ya pocky!

It'll work. I called after him. You'll see!

From the kitchen I heard him singing. Pocky, Pocky, pink, pink! and knew it was going to be a long fortnight.

I wasn't allowed on the roof by myself. Exiled in my room I stared out the window and dreamed of life among the leaves.

Couldn't I just go up for an hour or so during the day? Nobody'd see me. They'd be at school, or at work, I begged after the first day. I'd spent the whole night fighting the temptation to scratch. I was sick of the chalky feel of the lotion on my sheets and the powdery smell. I was tired of my room. I wanted the cool, fresh air and the smell of eucalyptus flowers. I dragged myself into the kitchen while Mum was making dinner. Please!

Afraid not, darling, said Mum.

But why? I whined. I'll be good, I promise.

I know you'd be good. That's not the problem. If something happened to you I'd never forgive myself.

But nothing's gonna happen.

Sorry, but only when your brother's home.

"I only want to sit there for a little while. I'm big enough. He doesn't look after me. When you're not home he doesn't do anything except pick on me. I'd be safer on my own!"

Mum laughed, then shook her head. Nice try.

I was furious. You don't care! I screamed. I hate you. You love him more than me! I pointed wildly at my brother who was sitting at the table enjoying my distress. A wide grin sat smugly on his face. He gets to do everything he wants. It's not fair!

I think you're a little overtired, said Mum gently.

Over-acting's more like it! added my brother.

You! I snarled and grabbed a saucepan off the bench. Shut up!

Mum caught me as I readied myself to hit him with it. Holding me tightly she whispered calmly, Now shhh.

I'm not scared of Pocky, laughed my brother.

I struggled to break free. I was already imagining him concussed and on Life Support.

Don't call her that. It upsets her.

"Well she is pocky. She looks like a big pink golf ball."

Stop, said Mum.

A giant pink pimple party! he teased.

I began to cry. Not because he was being cruel, but because I was suddenly so tired that I didn't have the energy to kill him. The bones in my legs became rubber and I felt Mum's arms tighten.

I said stop!

"And she smells funny!" he added, not realising that he had gone too far.

Right! said Mum. No roof for you either.

I watched his smile shrivel into a slug which hung, trembling, under his nose.

Mum!

I wouldn't say one more word if I were you, she said firmly.

But... His bottom lip pushed forward for a moment before curling back under his teeth. He was trying not to cry.

Don't say I didn't warn you. Mum took my hand and led me to my room. As I lay, exhausted, on my bed she kissed me and smiled. He could do with a spruce up! I didn't even notice her take the bottle from my bedside. It was only later that afternoon, when I woke up, that I noticed something was different.

Mum! I called. It was unusually quiet. Maybe she'd gone back into the kitchen and hit him over the head on my behalf. Maybe she'd sent him away to a boys’ home specialising in cruel twelve year olds with swelled heads. These two thoughts were running through my mind as I climbed out of bed and shuffled up the hall. Mum?

In the kitchen, came her reply.

The first thing I noticed when I entered the kitchen was that my brother wasn't dead. The initial disappointment I felt was quickly replaced by confusion when I noticed he was sitting sullenly in his pyjamas at the kitchen table. He turned and glared beady black hate from what I now realised was a bright pink face. Not just his face was covered in calamine lotion. His spindly legs wrapped around the kitchen chair were streaked with chalky pink. His arms matched the rest of him and the whole of him clashed with the brown cowboy pyjamas Mum had given him for Christmas. His embarrassment made the pink even brighter. I grinned at him.

Shut up! he growled.

Mum was at the sink. She was also in pyjamas. I didn't think this odd because she often wore her baby doll pyjamas around the house. They were good to work in, she said. And they're cool. But now I saw she was smiling from a pink Apache face. Her forehead had two thick pink lines across it and her cheeks and chin were similarly daubed. She'd tied her hair back and stuck a gum leaf under the band. Couldn't find a feather! she said when she saw me staring. Thought I'd try to match your brother! she grinned, raising her eyebrow.

He scowled at us both and stormed from the room. I'm running away!

Looking like that? laughed Mum.

I'll wash it off. You can't make me stay like this, he yelled on his way towards the bathroom.

Try me.

We heard the bathroom door slam. I watched in awe of what Mum did to stop him. I'd have followed him up the hall and dragged him out of the bathroom. Mum stood there momentarily listening to the muffled sound of his fury. There was a flap of cloth against the door: his cowboy pyjamas and the sound of the shower curtain pulled roughly along its metal rail. I held my breath. Surely it was too late to stop him now. Why wasn't she running up the hall?

Mum calmly turned back to the sink and opened the cupboard door beneath the steel tub. Crouching, she reached inside and I watched the muscles in her arm tighten.

What are you doing?

Turning off the water.

A second later we heard an explosion of swearing from the bathroom and what sounded like the repeated thump of a bare foot against a metal tap. An hour later my brother limped quietly out of the bathroom still smelling of calamine lotion and with skin like streaky bacon. 

For the next two days we three remained camouflaged. Look at this as a lesson in empathy, Mum told my brother on the third day. He was on his way to the bathroom to release himself from his pink prison.  Now you know what it feels like, you might be a little more thoughtful in the things you say when people are sick. It would be dreadful if we had to repeat the lesson. He glared at her as if to say, You wouldn't dare!

I smiled. I still wasn't allowed on the roof, but I took comfort in the fact that it would only take one word from me and my only brother would be sentenced to two weeks looking like a stick of fairy-floss.

CHAPTER 2

A

T NIGHT we'd squeeze onto the lounge and watch the stars. Mum taught us how to find The Southern Cross. The marker stars became as familiar on their velvet sapphire background as the streetlights in our neighbourhood. One evening, after the day birds had settled and we were listening for owls, my brother made an announcement.

Pocky has The Southern Cross on her forehead.

I'd been leaning my head back over the edge of the plastic to look at the constellations from a different angle. Now I sprung forward ready to defend myself.

I do not. Do I Mum! I said with all confidence. There was no way I'd fall for this one. If he thought Mum was stupid enough to listen to him then he was a real idiot.

Mum had been staring out over the rooftops. She often stared out over the roofs to the streets beyond ours. Sometimes I wondered if she had superior eyesight and could see things my brother and I couldn't. I tried standing on my toes to see if height helped, but all I could see were rooftops and, a long way away, the slow moving necklace of headlights on the highway. Mum!

She blinked and looked down at me. Let me see, she said, squinting into my face. I'll just move your hair out of the way and we'll... she hesitated, then blinked again. Well if that isn't amazing!

What? I rubbed at my forehead. What is it?

The Southern Cross, murmured Mum. A perfect Southern Cross, in pock marks. Her fingers trailed across the skin on my forehead. Here... and here! she said, the shock still clear in her voice. And the two here. There's even that tiny one in between. Your hair's been hiding them.

I touched the places warmed by her fingers, unsure of what it all meant. They weren't there this morning. I said defensively.

They've been there since the pox. I reckon we should put Pocky in an exhibit. Make some money off 'er.

Then they're the first stars of the evening, said Mum, ignoring him. We should make a wish on them. To bring us luck! She patted my head. You've been touched by the heavens! Then she bent low and whispered