Soldier Boy by Cassandra Parkin

Author:Cassandra Parkin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Legend Press

With Alannah in bed, we sip our beer and watch television for a while. Liam takes control of the remote, the way men always do; and I let him, the way women always do. If I want to watch anything different, all I have to do is ask. I don’t ask, so obviously I don’t care. Left to myself, I’ll watch the same six movies on rotation night after night, or else fill up the planner with trashy, comforting nonsense. Wedding dresses. Makeover shows. Home redecorations. Anything where ugliness becomes beauty and a happy ending’s guaranteed. It’s good that Liam’s back, making me watch news and documentaries. It doesn’t matter what we watch, we’re simply filling in the time until we’re confident Alannah is asleep.

“God, Persil,” Liam murmurs. He’s still decompressing, still in the stage where small visual or sonic cues seem like miracles, re-anchoring him in his true life. He reaches absently behind him and pulls out a Union Jack cushion, drops it on the floor beside his feet.

He doesn’t throw things around, doesn’t make a mess, doesn’t wreck everything. It’s just that I made the cover for that cushion, pieced out each stripe on the flag, sewed them together, then added the zip and the backing. I made it because I thought he’d like it. Then, because I’d had that thought, it became a talisman of his safety. I’ll arrange that cushion on his spot on the sofa every morning, and as long as it’s still there at night, I’ll know he’s safe.

Now he’s home. The cushion’s done its job. It doesn’t matter now if it goes on the floor. And all I can think of is how careful I was to always put the flag the right way up, in case God was watching and taking notice. That, and how hard it was to get the corners crisp. Acute angles are hard to sew accurately. But I did it.

And when Liam looks at the cushion, he sees one more piece of clutter.

“There’s a new Ribena ad,” Liam says, almost as if he thinks I should have told him about this. “You warm enough?”

On the back of every chair and all along the sofa are hand-pieced quilts and hand-knitted blankets. When I’m alone, I take them down and wrap myself in them. Tonight, Liam’s here, and I don’t need them.

“That one new?” he asks, nodding towards the quilt I made with pair after pair of upcycled jeans, carefully chosen from a succession of charity shops. I took pleasure in preserving the pockets, the networks of stitching, the worn places where keys or wallets had been carried.

“Yes.”

“Don’t we have enough yet?” The question’s mild enough, a little teasing, but behind it is a difference so fundamental that for a moment, I feel as if I’m falling into a pit. I like prettiness. He likes order. We’re different people. And somehow, we have to live together.

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