The Snapperoody
Caro Ramsay
Yesterday was a great day. It was her birthday. I had to be polite and wear a frock, but it was okay. SHE got a Tiny Tears and a vanity case and had to kiss Auntie Nell. I had to kiss Auntie Nell, too; well, I tried to escape first but she caught me a smacker. I told her the bristles of her moustache hurt. It was sore. I got a sore ear for being cheeky.
My first for the day.
SHE was showing off in the front room, twirling in front of the aunties in a lemon ballerina dress and angora jacket. The aunties were impressed. Auntie Chrissie said she was an angel. Auntie May said all she needed was a halo. I said all she needed was a Christmas tree up her arse.
Sore ear number two.
I did enquire, sometime after the ritual singing of ‘Happy Birthday,’ the lighting of the candles, and the cutting of the pink cake, why SHE got new things and I didn’t.
‘Because you’re the youngest.’
It’s the same reply, every time.
‘But I’m the tallest.’
‘You’re still the youngest.’
‘But…’ there was a pause, I sensed another sore ear coming and left it at that.
But the bestest, bestest thing of all, was her Big Present. The Diana Flash Camera. Working on the inheritance theory, I crept into her room, like a thief in the night, and claimed the Box Brownie. I wasn’t going to wait. I hung it round my neck, tucked under the collar of my jumper, putting a special napkin over it for birthday-cake-eating purposes. I do like eating with my mouth open because it annoys them and they all go hysterical when food falls out.
As we are having a day out tomorrow, I spend the evening practising. I decide to be George of the Famous Five. Kimmy Kim is Tim, but our fat old Staffie is much more smelly and much less obedient. She darts around, posing for photographs, snapping at the camera as it snaps her. Kimmy Kim and I have fun together. Then SHE, I suppose SHE would be Anne, the pathetic girlie one in the Famous Five, comes out and tells us to Stop The Carry On.
I stand with the camera flat against my stomach, and pirouette on my good leg. I pretend to be a submarine, periscoping to the world. SHE is standing in view. If I had a decent torpedo, I could fire and SHE would be blown away into a million pieces.
Which wouldn’t be enough.
SHE takes the lens off her Diana Flash and explains to me, in simple words, that her camera takes proper photographs. My inherited camera, the Box Brownie, can only take snaps. It is a camera for children.
I tell her that Kimmy Kim and I have no interest in photographs and immediately christen our camera ‘the Snapperoody.’
So today the Snapperoody and I are going on a great adventure, an awfully great adventure as the Famous Five would have it. They are all going to Millport in the car, going on the ferry. I am allowed to tag along if I am well enough. I have a secret plan, of course.
Kimmy Kim was not allowed to join us, so I will be numbered in the adventure. Kim has been confined to barracks for chewing the fridge so I ate her doggy chocs ensuring I will throw up in the back of the car. True enough, just as we go down the Haylie Brae at Largs, I am violently sick, up it all comes, a brown stinky sludgy mess. I manage to get some of it on SHE.
I get a slap on the leg for not using the sick bag, but I claim I didn’t have enough warning.
I feel rather proud as people walk away to avoid the smell on the ferry.
As we walk from the slip to Millport, I refuse to answer to anything but George. I lag behind, of course, as they forget.
SHE explains to THEM about George of the Famous Five and that she was a girl pretending to be a boy. She explains it is a ‘little girl’s story.’ She thinks she is grown up. SHE tells them I read too much. THEY say I have an overactive imagination.
I think they might be laughing at me. THEY are walking well in the front of me, thinking I can’t hear, but I notice everything.
Once we are on the beach near the Crocodile Rock, THEY put down a travelling rug and slip off their socks and shoes. Mum starts to unpack the peanut butter sandwiches and I show her the worm I have been carrying around in my pocket for a while. Then, SHE says ‘that is not a grown-up thing,’ and the worm flies from my hand, accidentally hitting her in the face. I explain it was an accident, but I still get a slap on the ear ‘for frightening your sister.’ I try the ‘as she is older’ defence but age is no defence against worms, it seems.
So I walk away and sit down, stretching my leg. I feel the tension. I have to change, before they change me.
So I change.
I decide to change into a wild dog of Africa, a bit like Kimmy Kim, but taller and with a brain. As a wild dog, I am alert to all that is around me. My nose finds scents on the breeze. All my senses are keen to the sound of nature. I am also keen to the sound of Dad asking if anybody wants an ice cream.
He must be in a good mood, we are getting 99s.
I watch him carefully, my cunning eyes narrowed, my ears pricked, as he breaks a flake in half. I tell him, that I know from my rods, that a half is two equal parts of one. So why is SHE getting the bigger half? Indeed, is there such a thing as a bigger half?
He says it is a grown-up thing and bites the larger of the two bits of chocolate, making the long bit shorter now. Then he bites the other, the only person getting chocolate is him. My good foot starts to tap in anger now. I point out the error of his ways, so SHE ends up with both bits of flake and I get a slap and another sore ear. I guess that’s a grown-up thing, as well.
Children must be seen and not heard. Wild dogs of Africa, ditto.
Still, I can escape. I put a peanut butter piece and three happy-face biscuits in my pocket. I am wearing my brown Sloppy Joe and bush hat so I can merge in the crowd on the beach. I disappear. I walk invisible. I am the adventurer.
I don’t tell THEM where I am going. I circle round THEM, watching carefully. Dad is making a paddle steamer out of sand, measuring the funnels with a straw. SHE is collecting seashells to make portholes on the boat. Mum, who must be obeyed, is rubbing sticky stuff into all and sundry, and saying ‘don’t come crying to me if you get sunburned.’ They are playing happy families.
I am not playing.
Because we are not a happy family.
The sun starts to climb in the sky, and the air gets hot. I may die from dehydration, but that never bothers George, so it won’t bother me. George would have lashings and lashings of ginger beer. I’ve tried it, but it gives me the dry boke.
I slip away. I have my piece of peanut butter. I have my Snapperoody. I have a mission in life. I am off to snap a crocodile.
I scramble over the rocks quickly, but my leg is heavy and it gets caught on the jaggy bits. I keep having to pull it clear. I keep having to stop and rest. I stand up and periscope, surveying the scene, viewing the horizon. I am still the wild dog of Africa. I am alert to all danger and all beasties with nasty stings. I pan round, eyes and ears alert, all-sensing, twitching, hearing and seeing all that there is.
The crocodile slides into view.
A big grey rock with a bright red smile and white teeth.
From here, one eye looked a bit skelly…or maybe it was the other. Or is that the same thing?
I scramble down from my viewpoint, holding the Snapperoody high in case my leg should give way and I fall. I walk right up to Mr Crocodile. He is very big. With a very big smile.
‘That’s a nice camera,’ says the man emerging from the other side of the rock.
I don’t answer. It isn’t a question.
I hold the Snapperoody to my stomach. I stare hard down the lens, trying to line up the picture.
‘A Box Brownie, I see.’
So I figure he’s not blind.
I am too busy periscoping to answer. I watch him, watching me, through the camera. And soon the man is walking towards me. He is now watching me, watching him, watching me. And he is in the way of my picture.
The crocodile is big and fierce from this angle. George would be proud of me, and Dick and Julian would make me an honorary boy.
I ask the man to get out of the way. He shrugs his shoulders. He still walks towards me. I ask him to go away. The man says I shouldn’t know language like that, as I am a nice girl. He asks me if I like chocolate. I tell him I am busy. That really gets me annoyed and I snap the crocodile anyway. I walk around, here and there, unsteady on my leg, avoiding this man who persistently gets in my way. He’s talking but I’m not listening. I have Kimmy Kim, so I don’t want to see some puppies, thank you, and I have a peanut butter piece in my pocket, so I don’t want sweeties from you.
I walk up the beach and sit on a rock; my leg is really sore now. I pick the dog hair from my jammy dodgers and start to eat, beginning to wish I had lashings of ginger beer. It is very hot now. I keep the crocodile in view.
He is not watching me now.
I am watching him.
He says something to another girl, pulling his hat down over his face, then points the little girl in the direction of her mum and dad. The man offers to take a photograph. The family poses in front of the crocodile. Thanks are said. The man walks away.
But I am not fooled.
The bloody cavalry appears along the beach. My wild dog of Africa senses tell me SHE is there, her slim arms and legs spinning in the air, she is looking for me. SHE dances along the sand, turning cartwheels with the grace of a gazelle. Her long brown hair blowing behind her in the gentle breeze as she makes her way up to the crocodile.
I watch her as the man talks to her.
She nods her head. She points along the beach, points along the direction I have come from. She points to her leg, indicating my calliper. A horizontal hand indicating my height.
He points along the beach, away from the rocks. Away from everybody.
I watch as she nods her head again. His hand comes out of his pocket. His face is hidden by sunglasses now. He takes one last look behind him, nobody is paying any attention.
They walk away together. His hand is on her back, guiding her to where he has told her I am.
I watch, finishing my biscuit, stretching my bad leg and walk slowly after them.
Snapperoody is at the ready. The wild dog of Africa has seen its prey. The hunter and the hunted...and the hunter.
I have a bad leg. I may have an overactive imagination. I can be George, a submarine, or the wild dog of Africa.
The one thing I am not—is stupid.