BROKEN PORCELAIN I

AUGUST 1960

A delicate pink arm rose up over the headdress, a slender hand held a black lace fan embroidered with jagged red silk lines. Another pulled at the hem of her twirling dress, scarlet and gold, to reveal layers of raven-black petticoat. At the end of her bare legs, black stilettos pressed together, one pulled slightly higher, about to stamp out another beat to the flamenco rhythm on the porcelain floor.

Daddy stood smiling behind us and winked at Mummy. "All paid for out of their own pocket money."

"She's beautiful." Mummy rotated the porcelain figure carefully in her hands and looked at Daddy.

"It's perfect." She smiled down at the three of us, John, Ben and me, as we beamed up at her. "And it's going in the best spot in the room. There,"

With the back of her hand, she pushed our handmade birthday cards along the otherwise empty mantelpiece and placed it in the centre. She stood back a moment, assessing the position and then tilting her head towards Daddy, said. "And safely out of the reach of little hands."

"She looks like you, Mum."

At five, John was the oldest. He was right. The dancer had the same rounded face, olive green eyes and full red lips. Only the hair was different. Although both were dark brown, the figure had long straight hair with a pink rose tucked behind one ear while Mummy wore hers curly and short, pulled away from her face by a brown hair band.

She laughed. "Oh, I don't know about that. I don't think I'm that beautiful."

Daddy nodded, smiling and her face reddened a little. In turns, she bent low and gave us each a tight hug and a kiss.

"I love my boys."

Last of all she gave Daddy a kiss, different to ours and mouthed something we could not hear into his ear. When he pulled her close to embrace her, Ben ran over and hugged her leg.

Finally, Mummy picked her apron from the back of a chair and retied it around her waist. Daddy clapped his hands and said. "Okay, party's over. Mum's got lunch to prepare."

She gathered up the gift-wrapping paper from the table and walked into the kitchen, flicking on the little transistor radio on the draining board. Radio Luxembourg 208 crackled happily to life with Helen Shapiro singing 'Walkin' Back to Happiness'.

Over her shoulder, Mummy called out, "Lunch should be about an hour and a half. Can you take them to the allotments with you, love?"

She wore her tight black slacks and a black sweater and danced around the kitchen barefoot. Daddy looked at her for a minute then went into the kitchen and put his arms around her from behind.

"Okay. I'll take the boys, birthday girl. As long as we can have trifle for dessert." Daddy looked around at us and winked.

"Yes! Trifle." Ben jumped up and down on the spot.

Mummy slapped his Daddy's hand away playfully as he tried to dip a finger into the Yorkshire pudding mix. Instead, she guided him to a can of mixed fruit and a steel can opener.

"Here. If you want trifle make yourself useful and open this. You know how useless I am opening these things."

Behind our small downstairs flat, the usually busy council municipal building and grounds lay quiet. Only the rumble of an occasional British Rail passenger train broke the silence, running along the length of the grounds behind the boundary fence. Council trucks and vans, under corrugated aluminium shelters, stood dormant in regimented lines beside the staff football field. On Sundays, the workers stayed at home, the gates remained closed and it became our safe playground.

Through the warmth of the cloudless August morning, the crisscross wire of metal fencing felt cool, pressed against my forehead.

Daddy line. Daddy line.

I mouthed the words repeatedly. Beyond the tall fence, yellow fluffy dandelions jostled enticingly out of reach along the grass border of the railway line. Ben tottered happily ahead on the tarmac path, clutching a handful of them, freshly plucked from the field along the way.

I had only found three.

Daddy strolled ahead in his red checked shirt, worn jeans and green Wellington boots, a black bucket hanging from one gloved hand and John clinging onto the other. Whenever he talked about his allotments, a plot of land rented from the council to grow our own vegetables, Mummy would roll her eyes or shake her head, but she was always happy when he returned home with a bunch of carrots or a handful of string beans.

"Come on, old fellow. Keep up."

He dropped the bucket and smiled back at me, wiping a crumpled handkerchief across his creased forehead. The three of them stood together on the path, framed by the short tunnel under the road bridge that led to the allotments. John liked to stand in the middle and shout out meaningless words. His voice would echo loudly around the dark crevices. Ben and I always giggled, but the chill air and booming sounds of traffic passing overhead scared me.

I did not want to go through on my own.

"Do you want to go back?"

Daddy shoved the handkerchief into his pocket and ran a hand through his prematurely greying hair. John yanked at the other one eager to keep moving. Ben grabbed the bucket with both hands and tried to lift it, but the handle came up to his chin. Daddy took it off him.

I wove my small fingers into the wire fencing trying to reach the dandelions, but they were too far away. I pushed out my bottom lip and nodded, feeling the sting of tears starting to seep into my eyes.

"Go on then. Go back and help Mummy. We won't be too long."

They spun around and I watched blurrily as the darkness sucked them into the tunnel and almost instantly spit them out again on the other side. John ran ahead to the allotments while Daddy stopped and turned around. With one hand held over his eyes, he looked back at me and waved, waiting for me to move.

I turned and sulked slowly back along the fence, my right hand trailing the cold metal. Across the field, the back door to our flat lay open. Through the kitchen window, I could see the shape of Mummy moving around.  She would be happy with my small fistful of flowers, even though there were only three. Feeling warm and pleased again, I stepped into the field ready to head for home.

Out of the corner of my eye, an orange streak shot out from beneath one of the vehicles. It darted across the field and stopped on the path ahead.

"Cat, cat."

I squealed and pointed happily. As though it had understood, the ginger cat sat down and eyed me suspiciously. I toddled quickly towards it, holding the flowers out in front of me.

"Cat. Here cat."

A sudden rush of wind and a roar startled me as a train hurtled past. When I looked back, the cat had run further along the path where it sat again, staring at me, daring me to follow. I ambled forward again, slower now but each time, just as I stood within a few yards, it turned and ran off a little further.

On the fourth occasion, it disappeared under the fence.

I had never been to the far end of the grounds. A long garage, sheltering monstrous shadowy machinery, blocked my view of home. The road bridge in the distance looked like a toy. Where the cat had disappeared, a large area of the fence was missing, providing a space generous enough for me to scramble through.

I dropped to all fours and then crawled forward.

Standing up on the other side, I cried out with delight. Hundreds of dandelions and bluebells peppered the rough grass. I toddled around happily picking them.

At the top of the gentle incline, the ginger cat sat staring at me.

"Here cat."

I held out a large bunch of freshly picked flowers and waved them. It turned and disappeared. Clambering up the slope, I stood erect at the top. The ground here was very different, no grass or flowers and completely flat. Four pairs of long grey metal tracks bolted onto slabs of wood, crossed the surface.

There, in between the tracks at the centre, sat the naughty cat. 

I stepped over the first track. There was a strange hissing noise, a little like the one Mummy made when she read the book about snakes.

"Cat, cat."

Waving the flowers seemed to make the cat sit still.

"Here cat."

My foot landed firmly on the flat wooden sleeper and I tottered forward to the next. Around me, the noise seemed to grow louder. Lifting my booted foot again, I trod onto the uneven stone chips between the tracks.

Wide eyed, the cat sat watching me. I rushed forward again, unsteadily, waving the flowers and failed to spot the bolt sticking out of a sleeper.

As I lost my balance and fell onto the conductor rail, a hand went out in front of me, even at three years old, a reflex reaction of self-survival. A loud crackling flash thumped the air, brilliant white light shot across my sight. A momentary sweet burning smell, my own flesh, reached my nostrils.

There was sharp, fleeting pain and then darkness.