Chapter Two
Forty-five year old Joseph Garcia popped a Liquorice Allsort into his mouth. He let the smooth black cylinder roll around intact. He preferred the exotic black to the sweeter white filling. In some unconscious place, it reminded his senses of home. Of silent siestas where young boys could not sleep. Of darkened rooms and the sound of grasshoppers. The liquorice was warm and syrupy on his tongue like a long Jerez de la Frontera afternoon. He sat at his well-used desk in his study and savoured the start of the day.
His wife lay in bed with her eyes open. Her door, like his, was closed. However, even closed doors could not prevent the noise of the house from entering each room. Mrs. Garcia pulled the sheet and the eiderdown and the crotched quilt up to her cheekbones. The sun sent a beam through an opening in the curtains. Dusty particles randomly avoided each other in the light. The beam settled on the dressing table. A glass dragonfly shimmered.
With her hands pressed over her ears, Tessa sat on the bottom stair in the hallway, facing the front door. From her point of view near the ground, it was a huge pale grey barricade of impenetrable wood. It was not improved by a large black cage suspended halfway down into which arrived, courtesy of a horizontal rectangle, the news from the outside world.
With her hands pressed over her ears, Tessa sat on the bottom stair in the hallway, facing the front door. From her point of view near the ground, it was a huge pale grey barricade of impenetrable wood. It was not improved by a large black cage suspended halfway down into which arrived, courtesy of a horizontal rectangle, the news from the outside world.
She was now dressed and she knew, from the sounds of the house, that the other occupants were in various states of attire. She closed her eyes. Even with her hands over her ears and her eyes closed, she could still hear and see her brothers and sisters. Doors opening and closing, drawers rifled through, then rammed shut. Wardrobe doors and chairs and brushes and combs. All noisily used by eight pairs of hands. Nine including her own. But hers were still, listening to all that noise. Without the noise of the house, Tessa felt scared. Hearing it, she wanted to scream. Too many sisters and brothers. And a mother, still as a sarcophagus in bed. Their mother was a presence in the house that continually threatened to pounce. The assaults were never anything but verbal, stroked with acid. All the children waited. It was the only influence that silenced the noise. When it came, that torrent of ice over stones, it always thundered in the same direction. It flooded towards the same person every
