Mum's the word
Then it starts, the city child behaviour.
“Which ones are ready?”
“Duh. The red ones. Taste them …”
“No mum! They haven’t been washed!”
“Eh? Get them down you.”
“I’ll wait till we get home.”
“Watch those nettles.” I say.
“Which ones are … ow. That’s your fault.”
“Rub it with a dock leaf.”
“A what?” she asks. How can a child not know about dock leaves? There wasn’t a summer’s night I didn’t fall asleep legs tingling with stings. I throw her one.
“It works!” Then, eyeing me with the gaze of a Salem witch accuser. “How did you know?”
Advertisement
Hide AdAdvertisement
Hide Ad“Women know things. Like when Aunty Thingmy knew Uncle Thingmy had been ‘at it’ when he got back from abroad. ‘One toe over the door, I knew,’ she said. ‘Just call me a witch.’” Three hundred years ago we’d have been douked.
“Will I know things?” she asks.
“Of course you will. Just stick with me kid.”