Page 34 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. IV #1

25
eleanor hooker
The year I turned eight, Dad began digging holes. Deep holes. In the ground. The holes didn’t do anything, didn’t serve any purpose; he just dug them and then filled them in. Dig- ging holes was Dad’s new hobby. My new hob- by was to watch visitors and family shouting into the ground, and dodging shovel loads of earth that erupted from the hole.
“Promise you’ll always write to me Granddad, even when Mother says it’s silly?”
“Dad, this one looks like the inside of a choco- late sponge cake,” I shouted down to him through the rain.
“Hi, Lizard,” he said, ruffling my hair.
“That’s just your sweet tooth talkin’ Lizzie,” he called back up. I could hear the smile in his voice.
Whilst he and Granddad talked farm stuff, I tried to make out faces in the shadows that filled the room. When Mother came into the kitchen, the room darkened and quieted. Her blue eyes were cloudy, her movements angry. As usual Dad was the last to come to the table. For a while the only noise was of knives and forks on plates and the Grandfather clock tick- tocking. Then Dad made his big announcement.
We lived in a tumble-down farmhouse on the Dingle peninsula. Except for the sounds of the sea, it was a quiet enough place. The kitchen, being the biggest, warmest room in the house, was where we spent most of our time. The fireplace was a deep hole in the wall where burning logs fidgeted in a hand-shaped basket on the floor. The dresser stretched most of the way up the wall and leaned towards the grand- father clock, as though it were listening.
“I don’t want ye to be talking about my holes anymore,” he said. “I don’t like it when ye tell everyone I’m up my hole or down my hole or whatever ye say for a laugh. From now on I want my hole to be known as my burrow.”
One evening in late October, the evening of Dad’s big announcement, Granddad and I chat- ted at the kitchen table while we waited for everyone to come to supper.
“You’re a bloody nut,” Mother yelled, standing up and knocking over her chair.
“I got your letter this morning, Granddad.”
”Enough!” she said, before slamming out of the room. The four of us sat in silence for a few moments.
“And did I have anything of interest to say ‘tall, Lizzie child?”
”You did, Granddad. You told me how our Grandfather clock came here on a sail ship, how it got shot once, how ‘tis still alive. Living furniture you called it.”
“Grand. I’ll post next week’s letter on Friday.”
Digging Holes
“I promise, Lizzie.”
Jack came in for supper and brought with him the smell of the fields and lively green chatter.
Dad was about to say something, but Mother hit the table so hard with the side of her fist, even the cutlery jumped.