Friday 8th June 2012
A message to the giants; the wailing wall
MUGS of tea and sandwiches having been placed on a tray for the Guvver Munt guards, I asked Brendan to give them a message.
“Tell them, please, that I will remain here. I will not return to the cabin.”
“I’ll do that, though I don’t suppose they’ll be very happy about it.”
“Say to them that Virgulle of Rheta stays with her friend Jenny. If the Pry Minister wishes the guards to be waiting outside for all the time, they can. I will not leave the house and will not try to remove the device attached to my wing. And I agree that I will say to the giant Me Dear the words written for me by the Pry Minister’s officers.”
He left the room, to be followed, gradually, at intervals, by the remaining mourners.
For the rest of that day we did little, except sit, talk and drink tea.
Occasionally Jenny would stand up and move across the room to gouge more lumps of plaster from what she named ‘the wailing wall’, which was where, once, in a moment of frustration, Tom had started to carve a rude word with the sharp point of a pair of scissors.
Jenny now vented much of her own despair on this wall, hacking at it with a knitting needle, her fingernails, and an old fork which used to be used for extracting food for Clawed from tins.
“It’s odd…” she told me, on slumping amid the rubble and asking me to hand her the drug-stick making materials, “…how, when pregnant with Em, I had cravings for raw cabbage and lemons. Now I crave the sight and smell of this dust… want to lie down or take a bath in it. I must look a mess. Do I look a mess, Ulla?”
“Thought so. I’ll tidy myself up a bit… tomorrow.”
But she did not tidy herself up on the morrow; or the next day; or the day after that.
The best she could do was to sweep the rubble of her desolation into a dustpan, transferring it from there into one of the many black plastic bags she’d placed on the floor, intending to fill with those items from her life that she now wished to dispose of or destroy.