Morgan

Mum has emptied her plate of parsnip stew. She looks at me with narrowed eyes across the kitchen table. ‘Why aren’t you eating?’ she asks. ‘Is it an attention thing?’

The twins watch her.

Dad eats painfully slowly.

‘I’m not hungry,’ I answer.

Mum says, ‘Yes, it was like that when I cooked too. This is why I prefer eating. Cooking’s awful. I eat it through my nose, just smelling it I get the taste, and by the time it’s ready, I’m full.’

‘Yes, it’s like that,’ I reply. But it’s not. After I’d called them the first time, then finished cooking, I dished it all up and ate mine. I called them again, waited for them to come. Emptied their plates back into the pot, warmed it, sat and tapped on the table and dished it back onto their plates when I finally heard their footsteps coming along the hallway.

Mum stands up. She says, ‘You like me again,’ as she walks out of the kitchen.

Dad glances at me, nods just once, chewing.

The twins scurry out after her. ‘Mum, can we—’

‘—have a story tonight?’

‘The one with the flying rats …’ A door bangs shut and their small feet run up the stairs.

I clear their plates and put them in the washbowl. Dad sits at the table, still slowly chewing, his curly grey hair tied back in a black bow. He looks like a pirate, but smells of cologne.

‘Dad, they’re my books, they’re the only things I …’ I turn to face him.

He stares into his plate, his eyes like marbles.

I pull out the chair next to him and sit down.

‘Dad, if she reads one of my books to the twins, will you make sure I get it back?’

‘What?’ He swallows almost painfully and shakes his head. ‘Oh.’ He looks surprised I’m here. ‘Yes, it’s very good. More peppery than usual. I’d prefer even more, next time. But yes, very good. Thank you.’ He puts down his spoon though he hasn’t finished his meal. ‘Right. You’re all right?’ He glances at me and back at his plate. ‘Good. I’ll go and take over from your mother with the twins.’

‘Thanks. But Dad, could I talk to you—’

‘Good. Very good.’ He doesn’t look at me as he leaves the kitchen.

I put on a block of peat, stoke up the fire in the range.

Pick up a bucket and go out of the back door to the well in our garden.

And back into the kitchen and pour

and pour

back to the well

back to the kitchen

and pour –

fill four huge pans with water.

Put them all on the range together.

When they’re boiling, I get all the small sacks of rice out of the cupboards.

I put the rice in the boiling water.

When the rice has puffed up, thickened and starchy, I go outside, put a bath towel over the drain by the back door and strain the rice.

Haul the rice back into the kitchen, wrapped in the towel.

And again. And again.

I cover the whole table in rice, a glutinous thick layer and I stand in the corner of the kitchen and watch the steam coming off it.

When the steam has gone, I get a wooden spoon and a mixing bowl and stand on a chair.

I scoop out the rice so the table shows through where I carve the words into it:

I AM HUNGRY BUT
NOT FOR FOOD