TWO HANDS TOUCHING (615 words)

The child starts running, her hair, like a blazing storm cloud, blows behind her. Its after school, the busses have left, a few stragglers vanish around bends, others fade in the distance. She runs faster, clutching her schoolbag to her chest. Her feet hit the ground, thud, thud, thud. Hedges - gates - flash past. Dangling twigs - leaves - swoosh away. Faster. A chorus of dogs barks into the afternoon. Faster. She doesnt know why shes running. All she knows is Dad left and she and Mom now live with Granny. She also knows how hard she had tried to keep Mom and Dad together; ever since she can remember she had tried. After their fights she would climb into the middle of their bed, puff up their pillows, and click on the radio as she called out, Mummy. Daddy. Lets listen to Pick-a-Box. Its starting in seven minutes, and Consider your Verdict is right after that. They came every time, first Mom, then Dad. She would take Moms hand then Dads hand and pull them towards each other until they touched. And there she would stay, all cosy and safe, holding the two hands together until her shoulders ached, until her eyes stung, until Mom and Dad finally fell asleep. Mom and Dad were always happy after that, teasing, laughing, grabbing a kiss, and these happy times made her relax enough to read her favourite stories in the Treasure Casket book: Dick Whittington, The Ant and the Grasshopper, Gullivers Travels then came the next fight. Why hadnt she been able to fix this one? Had she missed it? Had she been too busy in her stories to hear it? Why?

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She doesnt stop at the corner. A bicycle zigzags past, knocking her sideways. The rider swivels, his face contorted. Stupid twerp! She runs on, racing her shadow in the sunlight, playing hide-and-seek with it amongst the lacy tree silhouettes. Thud, thud, thud. Faster, faster, faster! Her body lurches forward. Her feet cant catch up. The schoolbag tugs lose. Her arms swing wildly. She crashes to the pavement! The schoolbag skims away! Her heart strikes the earth! Silence. A dove coos. She tries to breathe. She cant. She thinks shes dying. She doesnt mind; shes comfortable lying there. She catches one small breath, then another, then another. She smells tar. She presses down on her hand and slowly climbs up to stand on a twisted shoe. Pain bolts through her body. She swallows her tears and picks up her schoolbag. She lets out long, gutteral groans as she slowly limps home. Granny is sitting on a wooden chair in the kitchen sorting rice, picking out the stubby husks from a mountain of pearly white torpedo shapes. Granny doesnt look up; she may miss one thats not perfect. Hello, my child. How was school? ... How was school? She stands in the doorway, quiet, motionless, her blue eyes blank. Grannys head turns. Rice scatters After bathing her in a cool Dettol bath Granny wraps her in a towel and tends to her wounds; one rip, one scrape, one swollen welt at a time. Granny gently guides on her pyjamas, brushes her long auburn hair and offers her a cup of sugar water. Then she puffs up her pillow, and tucks her into bed.

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Droplets of sweat twinkle on her forehead. The wounds smoulder. She begins to sob. Granny leans over and dabs her forehead and cheeks with a cold cloth. A cricket chirps. Warm lavender light fills the room. Granny places the cloth down and hums softly as she takes her small, bruised hand in hers. And there they stay, two hands touching, until the child finally falls asleep.

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