Free Girl in Profile by Zillah Bethell Page B

colour of faded pansies, decaying flowers. “What will become of that?”
    I shrug, gaze about the room. The little interior so like my own: the round table, the teapot which from where I sit looks as if it has no spout, no phallic adornment, the paints, overalls, smock. How hard it is to create light and space for ourselves as women. I should like to paint so that the viewer has to work hard also to create light and space within my pictures. “My friend Ursula is an artist who lives with her parents. Sometimes she has to go into the middle of a field to scream.”
    â€œ Bien sûr. We must be ruthless. There is no place for family. Or love.”
    I think of my father playing the organ every Sunday in Gumfreston, his foot firmly pressed on the tenuto pedal of grief. “If I could make a living out of my painting that would be a start. The rest I leave to others. But I think if I am left alone without distraction I can produce something good.”
    â€œSo. Let the pompous turd shake at his own wonder. Start to tremble a little at yours.”

Moth
    Cunts and Flying Saucers
    We trudge down the hill, Ro racing ahead with Mr Stinks. What a delight – a boy and his dog running through the countryside. Jamie whacks nettles with a big stick.
    â€œIf we had some string,” his voice gleams, “we could have a conker fight.”
    â€œAbsolutely not. No, no, no. We don’t have any in the house.”
    â€œEveryone has string. You must be mental.”
    â€œYes, we do have string.” Dove pulls me up. “In the drawer by the sink in the kitchen.”
    â€œOh, yes, sweetheart, we did. But Daddy took it to work this morning. Oh look, here’s Cherry with her nana.”
    Nana Rottweiler is hurtling towards us with a pram so shrouded in shawls and blankets it’s impossible to discern its contents. Jamie and Max charge up. Even Roan and Dove peer in tentatively.
    â€œFucking hell.” Max steps back. “Have you been feeding her Bombay Bad Boy?”
    â€œShe looks very…” I fumble for a word like a stone in my pocket.
    â€œRed?” Jamie offers, his magical eye travelling so fast I catch it with a grin.
    â€œWell. She looks very well.”
    â€œTeethin’, innit. Little cunt. Kept me up half the night.”
    â€œOh dear. Well, we better get on. Lovely day for a walk.”
    â€œFor them what’s got the legs.”
    She puffs off and Ro falls in beside me, his face solemn.
    â€œWhat does cunt mean exactly? I thought it was a swear word.”
    â€œMo’s just saying she’s a bit cheeky, a bit naughty.”
    â€œLike Dove.”
    â€œNo, not like Dove. Not at all.”
    Jamie hits Mr Stinks with his stick. “Cunt’s a fanny, knobhead.”
    â€œFrou-frou,” I correct. “Don’t do that. It could hurt him.”
    â€œHe likes it, see. He wants me to do it again.”
    â€œNo, he doesn’t.”
    â€œSo there are lots of words for the same thing.” Ro’s interest is piqued. “Why is that?”
    â€œI don’t know. I suppose it’s how the language evolves.” I keep stumbling over the precipice of my own making. “Fanny in America, for example, means bottom.”
    â€œFanny, fuck, cunt, cunt.” Jamie gyrates his hips like he’s having sex with an invisible nymph. I wonder suddenly if he’s witnessed his parents at it or accessed some porno site. Luckily I’m distracted from these horrific mental images by Dove grabbing my arm and pointing.
    â€œLook,” she squeaks, her eyes wide as flying saucers steeped in vodka. “Look.”

Elizabeth
    Moonlight
    â€œCrudities and dip, Elizabeth. If they don’t do the trick, we’ll try a laxative.”
    â€œThank you.” I have a surprisingly muscular sphincter.
    â€œPeter’s on his way.”
    â€œOh, good.”
    Peter brings a record to play on the gramophone Minnie gave me