Storm Glass by Jane Urquhart

Author:Jane Urquhart [Urquhart, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-1-55199-428-4
Publisher: McClelland & Stewart
Published: 1987-06-28T16:00:00+00:00

“Old Man Cassidy’s a mean old man

Stuffed my mother in a garbage can

Took her to his shack

And cut off all her hair

And wrapped her up like garbage

And threw her down the stairs.”

It never occurred to me to doubt the existence of such a terrifying individual. The mental image that the story, and subsequent song, conjured up was instant and precise. From that day on my nightmares included a gnarled old man dressed in tattered clothing with golden curls cascading down his back. I had no trouble imagining the hair, since, once a week, I saw some just like it tumbling out from underneath Amy Jefferson’s straw sunhat.

After three or four visits I persuaded Amy to bring along some of her picture books. In these slender volumes, for the first time, I saw actual representations of the stories I had been told by my mother and sister, stories in which terrible things happened to beautiful women. At best, it appeared that they were made to scrub floors for indefinite periods of time. At worst, they were given poisoned apples to eat so that they would sleep for centuries inside glass coffins, eventually to be rescued by ineffectual, anemic-looking princes. In my imagination I cast Amy in the role of the beautiful women, and myself, if only by reason of my sex, in the role of the princes. Then I envied her more interesting, if more dangerous part.

By August the first bright green of summer had begun to fade and the earth on our drive was baked hard by the sun. Amy and I picked huge extravagant bouquets of golden rod for my mother, who immediately banished them from the kitchen because of my older sister’s hay fever. My father embarrassed my by suggesting we ride one of the gentle old workhorses when I knew that Amy had a perfectly beautiful pony at home who would make Bessie look clumsy and stupid by comparison. We talked a little more about “Old Man Cassidy,” speculating about what terrible crime he might commit next. Most often, however, we played a game invented by me as a result of the picture books, a game called The Prince and the Beauty. During the course of this entertainment I got to kiss Amy on the lips in order to awaken her from whatever length of poisoned sleep we had previously arranged. Once I suggested that we switch roles, that maybe occasionally I could be the Beauty. Amy quickly squashed that idea. I was a boy, she said, and nobody ever gave poisoned apples to boys. Besides, I didn’t have the golden curls necessary to qualify as a Beauty. She would, however, allow me to be Old Man Cassidy, who was, more often than not, responsible for the evil fruit.

Near the end of summer, Amy’s weekly visits abruptly stopped. I asked no questions, assuming her absence was the result of some adult decision over which I had no control. Besides, my sisters had spied on one of our extended entertainments, had seen the kissing part, and had given me no peace since.

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