Hieroglyphics And Other Stories. Anne Donovan
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He likes you to help him around the place and you’ve hardly spoken to him the past few days. Will you do that?’
Anna looked at the ground.
‘Will you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, without looking up.
‘That’s my good girl.’
Grandfather was preparing the doors in the hall for repainting; burning off old gloss paint, sanding the wood with fine paper, and putting on undercoat. Anna’s mother had told him there was no need, as modern paints were designed to go on over the old stuff, but he maintained that his way gave a better finish.
‘Anyway,’ he smiled, ‘too late to teach an old dog new tricks. Keeps me out of mischief. And you.’ He turned to Anna, ruffling her hair with his hand. Anna squirmed.
Her job was to sand down the wood prepared by her grandfather. She sat on the floor working her way slowly along the bottom edge. The sandpaper rasped against the door, forming a fine coating of dust on her fingers.
Her mother came into the hall. ‘I’m just going into town for some shopping. See you later.’
‘Bye,’ said Anna, without looking up.
‘Don’t forget the chocolate biscuits. I think we may be running low on supplies,’ said Grandfather.
‘I wonder why?’ replied her mother.
Grandfather put down his scraper and stretched, linking his fingers above his head.
‘I think it’s time for a break, Anna. Let’s put the kettle on.’
In the kitchen he made tea for himself and hot chocolate for Anna while she laid biscuits on a plate. Grandfather sat back in his chair in front of the fire and she leaned forward on a low stool at the other side of the hearth.
‘D’you think we can start painting this afternoon?’
He poured his tea into a saucer, blew on it, then sipped. Anna’s mother hated when he did that.
‘Maybe. If we get the sanding done in time. But we have to do it properly. The preparation is the important part, Anna. If you do the preparation, the rest will follow, but if you skimp it, the job’ll never be done properly, no matter how long you spend on it.’
Anna stared into the fire. Grandfather, worn out, began to doze in the heat, his head to one side, mouth slightly open. When she was sure he was asleep, Anna placed her mug on the stone hearth, crept into the hall where he had left his blowtorch, then out to the shed.
Cold air entered freely through the broken window, draughts blasted from the roof and filled gaps between the walls and stone floor. In the clear daylight the horse looked dingy and sad, ice forming a protective husk round his body. Anna crouched in front of him, holding the blowtorch in her hand. The metal felt cold even through thick gloves. She placed one finger on the rocker of the horse and it started to tap rhythmically on the floor. The rockers were made of wood, their dark varnish scuffed and scraped. Anna pressed the starter button and the flame hissed out and licked the edge of the rocker. She let it play, teasing the wood, staining it with faint scorch marks. Then she held the torch against the centre of the rocker, pressed her fingers firmly on the control till the fire took hold, flickering blue at first, then flaring orange and red. Methodically, she set fire to each end of the rocker, then repeated the process on the other side. Anna lifted a scraper and stabbed it into the horse’s back, smashing the ice in a crazy-paving pattern. She tore off the pieces with her fingers, as the heat below started to make her eyes water and cheeks tingle; then she stood back, watching the lines of fire slither along the rockers, growing stronger, feeding from each other where they touched. For a moment she feared that the water dripping from the horse would put the fire out, but it slid clean onto the floor, for the most part missing the flames. Anna stretched her hand over the fire and gave the horse a push. He began to move, surging back and forward in a sea of flames, trails of vapour escaping his nostrils and rising from his mane and tail, his damp back. As the last of the ice escaped, trickling down the sides of his face, his beautiful clear eyes looked straight into Anna’s.
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