As far as Caterina was concerned, Friday night was the most thrilling night of the week. It was Brownies’ night in the colliery church hall and she had just been made Sixer of the Pixies. Now, she not only got to wear her team badge, which depicted a vivid green embroidered pixie (which she’d overheard her father say looked ‘bloody satanic’) she also proudly wore stripes showing her authority as a Sixer. Silvia was not even a Seconder yet. She probably never would be either. She was too shy, never volunteering for anything, always the last to be chosen too, rarely speaking to anyone but her sister. Silvia would never have Brown Owl say about her that she had, ‘First rate leadership skills.’ Caterina had gushed with pride when Brown Owl said that. She told her parents all about it, word for word, and treated them to a demonstration of the actions that had earned her such a magnificent compliment. What she hadn’t shared with her parents, or anyone else, was the slightly shaming feeling that although Brown Owl’s words sounded complimentary, Caterina had detected within them a tinge of reproach. It was like when terrifying Grandma Coxon would say about some woman or other, ‘Well, she’s no better than she ought to be,’ and Caterina understood that the only crime the woman had committed was one of having too much confidence, of being too assured. It troubled her, because this was a crime that boys and men never seemed to be guilty of.
Sometimes Brown Owl asked Silvia a question, and Caterina could see her sister wilt with embarrassment, a florid red rash would slowly creep up her neck and her cheeks would burn with a ferocious intensity. Her head would instantly drop so she could hide her mortification behind her long straight hair. Caterina would call this pose the ‘Weeping Willow’ because it reminded her of their hide and seek games in Welfare Park, veiling themselves behind the drooping branches of the sorrowful trees. When she saw Silvia respond this way to a question from Brown Owl, who always spoke in a sharp and waspish tongue, Caterina would leap in and try to answer for her.
‘Please Caterina, let your sister answer for herself,’ Brown Owl would whisper, unable to hide the metallic hiss of her tone.
It was a stupid thing to say. Surely Brown Foul (as Caterina thought of her) should realise that they could sit there till the moon turned to marmalade; Silvia was never going to answer. Caterina was just trying to speed things up and draw the withering beam of Brown Foul’s splintery gaze away from her sister.
Navigating Brown Owl’s nettly capriciousness was part of the thrill of Brownies for Caterina and she loved the eclectic busyness of the evenings. There were games to play, songs to sing, ginger snap biscuits to eat and handy new skills to learn like knot tying or Morse Code. One time, she’d tied her father to the kitchen chair using a Figure of Eight Knot and timed how long it had taken him to free himself (3 minutes, 12 seconds to be precise).
That month they were working towards their cookery badge and were making cheese scones. Caterina had carried the wicker basket that contained their ingredients to the meeting, jauntily striding ahead like the drum major of a marching band. Silvia had dallied dreamily behind, her eyes fixated on the glint of her yellow wellingtons as they scuffed through the dry dead leaves. Her mittened hand grabbed her mother’s tightly. The sky was blood red above the sea as they walked.
‘Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight,’ Silvia had chanted over and over as she walked.
‘Hurry up!’ Caterina had called impatiently. She turned off the main street to walk up the shadowy narrow path to the church hall. ‘We’re going to be late. They might have started on the scones already!’
Stella shook her head fondly. John called Caterina a ‘force of nature’. He was quite right. She rushed towards life with a determination and joy that was exhilarating to watch. Stella bent down to speak to Silvia,
‘Grandpa is collecting you tonight. Wait with Brown Owl until he comes,’
They were standing under the trees as the dahlia sun slipped below the colliery rooftops and the darkening sky was gilded with ripples of amber. ‘God’s light,’ Silvia had once called it. ‘He’s behind the clouds, watching us.’ Stella and John had smiled at that. Her words brimmed with the innocence and purity of childhood. They were as fresh and good as a glossy red apple.
Caterina had climbed the steps to the church hall and with one hand had pulled open the heavy door. She stood there, frozen, bathed in the benign light from the hall. Silvia was also frozen, transfixed by the dry orange and brown leaves that scuttled in the breeze across the dark path.
‘Mamma, they’re little crabs!’ she cried, delightedly.
‘Remember, it’s Grandpa tonight, Silvia. Bye Caterina!’ Stella had kissed Silvia and waved and blown a kiss to Caterina. She’d stood and waited as the girls vanished into the glow of the church hall. How could she have known that this was the singular moment of her life that was to haunt her forever? Surely there must have been a sign that a shadow was about to cross their path, crushing their lives to dust, and shredding their hearts into raw, open wounds.
After Brownies ended, Caterina clattered down the steps clutching the basket of scones. The smell was mouth-wateringly delicious.
‘We’ve got six. That’s one for you, me, Papa, Mamma, Grandpa and Grandma, she counted on her fingers. It’s perfect! I want LOTS of butter on mine. I’ll have butter so thick I’ll leave teeth marks like a wolf!’
Excited little girls in brown woolly hats were thronging everywhere. ‘I can’t see Grandpa,’ Silvia said anxiously.
‘We’ll sit on the step and wait,’ Caterina said confidently. ‘He won’t be long. He’ll be talking to someone in the street. Grandpa is famous. He can’t go anywhere without people stopping him. He’s King of the Colliery.’
Silvia smiled. ‘Grandma says he’s more like a gossipy old woman,’
‘Like Grandma Coxon,’ Caterina giggled, wrinkling her nose like she’d just sniffed sour milk.
‘Caterina! You are so cheeky,’ Silvia laughed delightedly. She loved how her sister had the courage to say exactly what she thought.
The flock of chirruping brown birds had all but disappeared. Only Nancy Saddler remained while her mother chatted with Brown Owl.
‘Let’s walk down to the main street to meet Grandpa,’ Caterina suggested. ‘He’s SUCH as old man, we’ll spare him the dark, sloping path.’
‘He’s not that old, Caterina. You make him sound like Gepetto! His hair’s not white or anything.’
‘He’s 50 this year. That’s ancient. Come on.’ Caterina stood up, picked up the cookery basket and held out her hand to her sister.
‘Mamma said to wait with Brown Owl.’ Silvia said. She could feel her stomach churn uneasily. It was dark. She didn’t want to walk down the path without her Grandpa. There was only one lamp and it gave out the tiniest yellow smudge of light. It was useless really.
‘Well if you’re worried, why don’t you go and tell Brown Owl that we’re meeting Grandpa on the street then.’ Caterina suggested. Sylvia nodded. That sounded sensible and well-mannered, like something Mamma would approve of, although she couldn’t help wishing that Caterina had offered to take the message to Brown Owl herself. Silvia shyly walked over to where Brown Owl and Nancy Saddler’s mum were in the midst of a heated conversation about upholstered headboards. Sylvia knew she was not supposed to interrupt adults when they were talking. She stood meekly for a minute, waiting for their chatter to end. The problem was, they had now moved on to the subject of mattresses, which appeared to be an even thornier topic of debate. Silvia sensed that Brown Owl knew that she was standing politely next to her. Her eyes had darted surreptitiously in Silvia’s direction, as quickly and meanly as the flick of a snake’s tongue. She’s never going to acknowledge me, Silvia thought and she melted away back to her sister, her mission aborted.
‘She’s too busy with Mrs Saddler. I didn’t want to interrupt.’
‘Come on then, slow-coach. Let’s be Red Riding Hood with our basket of cakes for Grandma, going through the deep, dark forest. I guess there will be 51 footsteps until we reach the street. What’s your guess, Silvia?’
Silvia laughed. This was one of their favourite games.
‘I think 65 and a half steps. But NORMAL steps. No giant steps or tiny mouse steps allowed, Miss Caterina Cheating Pants!’
The girls looked over to where Brown Owl and Mrs Saddler were now exuberantly discussing fringed table lamps. Little red-haired Nancy looked bored silly. She was kicking smooth silver pebbles into the shrubby undergrowth that bordered the church hall. She looked up as the twins made their way down from their seat on the steps. They were holding their wicker basket between them and swinging it softly as if they were rocking a baby to sleep. Their footsteps were in perfect unison, and they counted each step as they walked. ‘twelve, thirteen, fourteen . . .’ Nancy waved to them as they disappeared into curling blackness of the path, but they didn’t see her. She heard the softness of their liquid, silvery voices fading into the night, ‘twenty five, twenty six, twenty seven . . .’
And then they were gone.
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