Bernard and the Cloth Monkey by Judith Bryan

Author:Judith Bryan [Bryan, Judith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780241992371
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2020-12-04T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sex and Drugs and Rock ’n’ Roll

A biddly yeah, take it down.

Oh you’re scatting, yeah you’re singing, oh you really are The Swinging Moore Sisters. The coolest cats, the bathroom jazz band. Got the toothbrushes, smelling of Eggy Peggy sludge from the bottom of the toothmug. Got a strike on the sink. Now keep that beat; one, a-one, a-one two three four. Time to introduce Sister Beth on bass (also known as dental floss). Whoops, now she’s on the laundry bin, that baddest of big drums. Take it away, Sis. Kicking. Going to take y’all into some freestyle now, hit the door, hit the bath, stamp your feet, swing that shower curtain. Really swing it. Sister Beth’s switching like mad, she’s alto, she’s sax, you’re taking the be bop dow woos, you’re a wild scat cat, awroooo.

Come on, Big Sister. Need some help here. It’s good, but it could be baaad! Let her fill in the gaps, let her do the harmonies. Where’s the harm in it? Let her in … Yes! And now give a biiiig round of applause to Sister Margareta. Back from a long tour of the USA. Back by popular demand, please welcome a songstress to make your heart bleed … Greta, lead them on.

A rap rap rap. Not in the beat. Not a beat, a bang. Daddy’s banging on the door, oh God. You’re only playing. Improvised jazz, nothing’s broken, promise. Only a bit of water on the floor and some Eggy Peggy on the windowsill. You can clean it up, he won’t even notice. Dad, please, we haven’t done anything.

But you ought to know better; after jazz come fairy tales and nursery rhymes: here’s the big bad wolf. He’ll huff and he’ll puff and he’ll blow your house down. Come out, ready or not. Counting: one, two, three. Then the Bells of London. Out the door with you. One arm, thick as a tree trunk across the gap. You’ve got to dodge down, under the arch. Run along now, little children. The belt’s overhead, buckle end down and … Here comes a candle to light you to bed. All the way in, under the covers with you. No, Daddy, no, Daddy, no, Daddy … Here comes a chopper to chop … off … your … head.

With reluctance, An finally resorted to the stash of sleeping pills the hospital had prescribed. She hadn’t needed them for a long time. Therapy helped her to stay on a level during the day; a kind of truce was achieved at night whereby the bad dreams stayed away as long as she looked after herself. This meant meditations, visualizations, plenty of fell walking and a healthy diet. She’d tried self-medicating with alcohol, but that had nearly landed her back in hospital. Now it was an occasional treat.

Meanwhile, different, difficult circumstances prevailed. If she didn’t get her sleep she would get threadbare, become unravelled. Sylvia, her therapist, had warned her that coming back to the homestead (and her father’s death) would throw up new issues for her.

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