Write....Edit...Publish...March 2014 : Through the Eyes of a Child

Hello everyone,

  

Time to head back to Write...Edit...Publish... the monthly bloghop hosted by Denise Covey, where the prompt this month is "Through the eyes of a child". Another prompt with myriad possibilities.  

Here is my entry, more a reaction to the words than the image; and in a vague, roundabout way a tribute to my first language teacher, and to Denise and the teaching profession generally.  

Girl interrupted at her blog

March 1^st

Something is going on between Mama and Steppes, and I can bet that it is nothing good.  Just because I am young doesn’t mean I have no sense.  I can figure things out for myself.

I wish my father was here.  He would know exactly what I should do.  That is an insane thing to write of course.  If Papa were really here, Steppes would not have been part of all this.  I don’t remember Papa very well.  Sometimes I wish I had been younger when he died, so that I would have no memories at all.    Or older, so I’d have more complete ones.  Just not the age I was and stuck with half-memories.

 

Steppes does not like me, but he has recently come up with the notion of adopting me.  Weird or what?  I am not supposed to know that, but I overheard.  There was the mother of all rows.  Steppes goes ballistic over the strangest of things.  Both of them were extra polite to each other at the dinner table tonight.  Anybody would know that something was up, even if they hadn’t heard them quarrelling.  I mean, the way they talked the food practically froze on the plates. 

March 3^rd

Mrs Osmond says I must write a journal, but nothing ever happens to write about.   The idea of pen and paper diaries is ridiculous, who writes those nowadays?  Just suppose some moron came snooping and found it?  A blog is so much more interesting.  And safer.

Mama is strict, she doesn’t let me join the usual rounds of parties and picnics with the school crowd.  Not that I particularly want to.  But even if I did, she wouldn’t allow me. 

There’s just a high wall at the end of the garden to look out onto.  I can hear the cars on the road, but none of them stop at our gate.  I go to school and come back. Spend the afternoon on the little balcony off my room. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I sit there at night too.  Take my laptop there, it’s pleasanter than indoors.

 

No-one can see me there if I sit down; the railing is a a thin slab with little star-shaped holes in it.  Like fancy peepholes.  Mama is rather keen on privacy.  Can’t imagine why.  Not as if there is anyone looking.  The nearest neighbours are half a mile away.  Like I said, nothing ever happens.  It’s really hard doing up posts with the shitty life I lead.  

I don’t expect Mrs Osmond will understand though.  Adults are so over-the-top demanding.  She will go ballistic at how often I don’t write.

 

March 7^th

Maybe I am from a noble family?!  Today Mama quite casually mentioned that I have money coming to me when I grow up. I asked her if I was an heiress and she laughed and said not quite that rich, and not to get strange ideas into my head.  I asked why we lived in this old rundown house miles away from anywhere, and she said because the money was tied up and we don’t really have much cash. Yeah, right. 

She rambled on about trusts and banks and all that, half of which I couldn’t be bothered to follow.  Actually, I just switch off when she speaks like that.

But she is quite different when Steppes is away, she laughs more, and she sits with me on my balcony.  She said something about being careful with money and responsibility and not trust everybody which made my antenna go ting and I did understand.  But I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t heard them quarrel.

March 15^th

Steppes is back.  And Mama’s back to her non-smiley self.  I heard them from the balcony.  Squabbling again in the kitchen.  The kitchen door’s right beneath and it was wide open.

March 25^th

Mama’s dead.  I can’t believe I just wrote that.  I am not sure what’s going to happen to me.  I am really scared. The place is crawling with policemen.  I have to be careful.  I don’t really know if I have been legally adopted or not.  I don’t know if that can happen without my agreeing to it, I mean I wasn’t even asked?  How crazy is that?  So is my stepfather my legal guardian now?  Will anyone believe someone who is not legally of age?  Are under-age people allowed to testify?  Where do I go?  I have to be careful. 

March 26^th

I couldn’t figure out a way to tell them without everyone getting to know.  But I will.  It was a full-moon night on the 20^th. I was on the balcony.  I saw her die.  Through the star-shaped peepholes.

26^th April

To

The Asst Commissioner of Police

Crime Branch/Homicide

Uttarakhand Police

Dehradun

Dear Sir/Madam,

Sub: The Monica Salve/Natalie Pereira Case

I am a teacher of English at the Pinegrove School, and taught Natalie Pereira.  Natalie was away for several days after her mother was murdered, and returned to school on 31^st March.  I had asked her class to keep a journal earlier in the term, and she had started blogging in compliance.  She passed on the link in one of her workbooks without my alluding to the journalling assignment, on 1^st April just before she went missing.

Unfortunately, I was involved in a serious car accident on that afternoon, and therefore did not go through her workbook immediately after.  The news of Natalie’s terrible death did not reach me in hospital, not till the police arrived for my statement.  At that time, I was still unaware of her blog, the information therein and its implications.  I saw her link and checked it only on my return.  

I cannot but feel deeply saddened at the time lost, though inadvertently.  I attach prints of her entries through March, with the hope that they will help bring clarity and justice.

Sincerely,

Mrs M Osmond.

WC - 991
All feedback welcome



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