Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson

Author:Jeanette Winterson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: For the Benefit of Mr. Kite
Published: 1984-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

6

Joshua

“There,” declared my mother, laying down the vacuum cleaner. “You could keep a coffin in here without feeling guilty, not a speck of dust anywhere.”

Mrs White came out of the lobby waving a dishcloth. “I’ve done all them skirting boards, but me back’s not what it was.”

“No,” my mother answered, shaking her head, “these things are sent to try us.”

“Well at least we know they’re holy,” said Mrs White.

The parlour was certainly very clean. I poked my head round the door and noticed that all the seat covers had been changed to our very best, my mother’s wedding best, a present from her friends in France. The brasses gleamed, and Pastor Spratt’s crocodile nutcracker took pride of place on the mantelpiece.

“What’s all the fuss about,” I wondered. I went to check the calendar, but as far as I could see we weren’t down for a house meeting, and there was no visiting preacher due on Sunday. I went into the kitchen where Mrs White was making a sad cake, a round flat pastry filled with currants and spread with butter.

For a moment she didn’t notice me.

“Hello,” I said. “What’s going on?”

Mrs White turned round and gave a little screech. “You’re supposed to be at violin practice.”

“It’s cancelled. Anybody else here?”

“Your mother’s gone out.” She sounded a bit nervous, but then she often did.

“Well I’ll take the dog out then,” I decided.

“I’m just going to the toilet,” said Mrs White, disappearing out of the back door.

“There’s no paper…” I began, but it was too late.

We set off up the hill, climbing and climbing until the town was beaten flat. The dog ran off down a trench and I tried to spot various landmarks, like the dentist and the Rechabite Hall. I thought I might go and see Melanie that night. I had told my mother as much as I could, but not everything. I had a feeling she wouldn’t really understand. Besides, I wasn’t quite certain what was happening myself, it was the second time in my life that I had experienced uncertainty.

Uncertainty to me was like Aardvaark to other people. A curious thing I had no notion of, but recognised through secondhand illustration. The feeling I now had in my head and stomach was the same as on that Awful Occasion, and that time, as I stood by the tea urn in the vestry, I had heard Miss Jewsbury say, “Of course, she must feel very uncertain.” I was very upset. Uncertainty was what the Heathen felt, and I was chosen by God.

That Awful Occasion was the time my natural mother had come to claim me back. I’d had an idea that there was something curious about the circumstance of my birth, and once found my adoption papers hidden under a stack of flannels in the holiday drawer. “Formalities,” my mother had said, waving me away. “You were always mine, I had you from the Lord.” I didn’t think about it again until there was a knock on the door one Saturday.

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