EMMA'S
LAMENT
Emma was resigned to her life. She was aged sixteen, large and
homely. A neighbour said that she looked more like her father than her father
did.
She was the despair of her parents. Emma was not a good scholar.
She learned slowly and had repeated most years. Her teachers had resigned to
leaving her alone and letting her pick up what
knowledge she could. The other school kids mostly avoided her.
The boys weren't interested in her except as a large oddity. The
girls, on the other hand, were
occasionally cruel. They whispered about her behind her back, just
loud enough for her to hear.
They called her Lumpkin and Pudding Face. She asked her mother why
they were nasty. Her mother said they were jealous because she was tall and to
ignore them. If she responded, they
would be happy that they had upset her and keep at her. “Best
ignore them, Dear. They'll get
tired of it.”
Emma was aware that she was different and that there was nothing
she could do about it. Her mother wasn't smart enough to try and cook meals
that helped Emma lose weight. Fry-ups were about all she could manage. But she
loved her only child and wanted her to be happy so she
cooked comfort food and stuffed her. Emma had few pleasures in life and took to
eating with enthusiasm. She got bigger and stronger.
Emma plodded off to school, resigned to sitting by herself at the
back of the class and being ignored. The same at lunch time. She sat at the end
of a bench alone, munching through her large lunch, watching the other kids
laughing, running, yelling. She wondered what it would be like to be one of the
crowd. But she was resigned to her lot. Stolid and
stoic.
There was a little clique of girls, who were the coolest of the
cool. The number varied slightly as to who was in favour and who was cast out,
often in tears. They were smart with the latest clothes and trendy gadgets. The
other girls admired them, wanted to be like them and nearly curtsied if the
cool kids deigned to speak to them. The boys fancied them, nudged each other
and whispered rude things about them. The leader of the clique, Jaquie, was the
coolest and prettiest of the lot. And the cruellest. She knew just what barb
hurt which kid. But she couldn't get through to Emma. Emma just gaped, blinked
at her and then ignored her. This enraged Jaquie. She made fun of her large,
tent-like, home-made dress, her amateur haircut, and her large second-hand men's
shoes. But she couldn't upset her.
One day Emma knew something was wrong. Everybody was yelling and
screaming at her. One of the teachers was pulling at her. She had trouble
focusing and then she saw Jaquie in front of her at arm's length. Her hands
were around Jaquie's neck. Jaquie was blue in the face and her eyes were
bulging. Emma slowly processed all this. She had Jaquie in mid-
air and her feet were kicking. The
noise, the yelling and screaming were confusing her.
Slowly the teacher's voice got through to her, “Emma put her down,
right now. If you hurt her you'll go to jail and never
see your mother again.” Emma let Jaquie go and she
collapsed on the ground. The teacher yelled at the kids to get the
sports-master who was trained in first aid and resuscitation.
The headmaster held a hearing with Jaquie's enraged parents. It
was established that as Emma was eating her lunch and ignoring Jaquie's taunts,
Jaquie knocked Emma's lunch off her lap into the dirt. Emma was provoked and
retaliated. As would any normal child. Despite the witnesses, Jaque denied and
lied about the incident. The headmaster explained forcibly to Jaquie's parents,
in nice terms of course, that their daughter was a heartless bitch and if they
proceeded with any legal action, he and the other teachers would testify to the
emotional turmoil and torment that their pride and joy caused.
“I suggest you take her home and chastise her vigorously and then
come back tomorrow and tell
me why I shouldn't expel her and then network with all the other
school principals in the area as to
Jaquie's behaviour and character.”
The headmaster summoned Emma's mother and told her that as Emma
was sixteen and learnt all that the school could teach her, she should leave
and try to find a job. She could read and write and do basic mathematics.
Mother took Emma to the Job Centre. The interviewing lady had an
in-depth discussion with
Emma's mother but couldn't get much out of Emma who stared and
blinked at her. Eventually she marked her report - Difficult Personality- and
said she'd search for a job for her. With Emma's lack of experience
it could be difficult. In the meantime, she would get Emma a pension. Her
mother was fairly happy with that. There was not much
money in the kitty since her drunken, bully of a husband had disappeared. Emma
under-foot may be a problem. Possibly she could encourage her to garden.
Life for the pair went fairly smoothly.
Mother thought Emma may have been a bit depressed at
times. It was hard to tell, she mostly looked the same: vague,
blinking and gaping. Mother took her
shopping, just for the outing. She plodded along behind her
mother, not showing any interest.
On the way home they stopped in at Mr. Pearson's Mixed Business
for a newspaper that advertised jobs. Mr. Pearson, an old friend, advised which
paper would be best. When told of the problem, he appeared thoughtful.
“Is Emma drawing benefits?” He asked. Mother nodded. “Well, I
could use some help. Mrs
Pearson is finding it all a bit much and would really enjoy two
days a week off. If Emma is reliable
and hard-working and would settle for a modest amount of cash in
hand, on top of her benefits, I
believe we could use her.”
Mother was thrilled. Emma out from underfoot, given an interest
and a bit of pocket money. Too
good to be true! Arrangements were made. Tuesdays and Thursdays at
6.45 am to help open the
shop and clean and stock the shelves. The first day Mother came
with her to help launch Emma's new career and make sure she didn't foul up.
Mother watched her like a hawk, but Emma went well.
Where stocks were low on the shelves, she was able to find more in
the store room. If she couldn't,
she asked Mr. Pearson who would show her or order it in.
Emma took to it like a duck to water. She was very methodical,
nearly to the point of obsession. She was happy, with a purpose in life! Mr
Pearson treated her well.
“Well done, Emma,” or a pat on the back had her nearly smiling.
After the morning rush,
newspapers, milk and bread, mainly, Mr Pearson had Emma make them
tea and they would sit near
the cash register.
He read the newspaper and she sat
silently watching her new friend. Often he commented
on an article in the paper and she nodded. If he didn't think she understood,
he explained it. She absorbed this new-found knowledge like a sponge. Sometimes
she even asked questions, and this girl hardly ever spoke! Day by day he could
see her coming out of her shell.
She loved her job. Mr Pearson gave her a key, so she could lug the
newspapers in and put them
on the racks before opening time. She then put the jug on so they
could have a cuppa straight off -
if Mr Pearson wanted one. She carefully checked the deliveries off
against the invoices. She was a bit slow and if the delivery drivers tried to
hurry her, she'd lose count and insist on starting again. They learnt to let
her go at her own pace. As did Mr Pearson.
Emma worked a long day, until just after 5.00 pm when Mrs Pearson
usually bustled in complaining about her long, hard day. Emma would have stayed
later if Mr. Pearson didn't send her home. He even lent her an umbrella if it
was raining. Not only did she love her job, she had
grown to love Mr. Pearson.
Mr. Pearson and his wife lived in a unit above the shop. Emma had
little to do with Mrs. Pearson,
She was dainty and attractive with lots of make-up and nice
clothes. Emma had heard some of the
lady customers say she looked tarty. She usually rushed out
shortly after Emma arrived and
rushed in as the shop was being shut.
Mrs. Pearson had very busy Tuesdays and Thursdays. Each of the two
mornings she went to a
different wholesale warehouse, looked at new lines in their
showrooms and submitted orders. She could do this over the phone with the aid
of the brochures in the mail, but it got her out of the shop.
Tuesday she lunched with an old
girlfriend and they visited the shops, films and any fashion
parades they may find. They finished with a late afternoon tea and
Mrs. Pearson then caught the train home.
3
Thursdays were different. After the warehouse visit
she always met a real estate agent and he showed her through a desirable
furnished residence he was either managing, leasing or selling.
Which, fortunately, had a nice bottle of white wine in the fridge.
Late in the afternoon, he dropped her off at the railway station and drove away
smiling.
Emma's mother was quite happy. She had two Emma-free days to
herself. Not that Emma was a problem, but her presence was a bit oppressive.
Mother felt that there should be something she could do for her. She had
dragged Emma to museums, art galleries and cinemas, when she could afford it.
But Emma showed no interest, just stared and blinked.
Emma brought home an old newspaper and carefully read a couple of
articles. She asked her
mother about them. Her mother struggled with the items but got
some sense out of them and
attempted to explain them to Emma, who listened with apparent
concentration, nodding, which amazed her mother. She had not seen such purpose
since her husband, a pox upon him, had gone. She remembered when Emma was
fourteen. Emma had hauled the violent, drunken bastard off her by the neck,
nearly choking him to death. Mother had to intervene. Another time when her
father had more than one too many, Emma blocked the doorway, stopping him from
attacking her mother. The bastard kicked and punched Emma
but he couldn't get past her. Emma shoved him over. He lay there stunned and
then crawled off, muttering death threats. That was the last time mother had
seen him. Good riddance!
After a few months, with everything going so well, Mr Pearson,
judging a quiet period, had Emma
make a cuppa. He locked the front door and put up a sign stating,
'Back In 15 Mins'. Emma was
puzzled. It was not a normal procedure. But she had faith in Mr.
Pearson. He had Emma take their
tea out to the store room and he shut the
adjoining door. “Emma, we've been friends a long time,
right?”
Emma nodded.
“You do like me and trust me, don't you?”
Emma nodded.
“Will you keep a secret for me?”
She nodded. She would do anything for him! He got up from the
table, walked around to her side
and unzipped his trousers. Emma knew this was sex. She remembered
the girls giggling about it and teasing her, “Don't worry Lumpkin. No boy will
ever go near you, let alone have sex with you.” And they walked off laughing at
her. Now her nice Mr Pearson wanted to have sex with her. And he did. Emma was
staring at the table top nervously. She thought this
sex thing was overrated. Not a bit like her mother's magazines described it.
But it was nice to feel Mr Pearson's hands on her. Nobody had ever touched her
before. It was all over too quickly. She adjusted her clothes,
they sat at the table and finished their tea. For the rest of the day, on and
off, Emma remembered Mr Pearson's nice hands touching her and she felt a little
shiver of delight. She floated through her day. From then on
she never thought of their little secret as sex. She thought of it as Mr
Pearson loving her.
One day Emma was changing labels when she heard a commotion at the
front of the shop. She
peeked around a rack and saw a teenage boy threatening Mr Pearson
with a knife and demanding
money and cigarettes. Emma was enraged. He was threatening her Mr
Pearson and robbing her shop. She lumbered down the
aisle in a rage. The kid saw her coming and went white. He was about to be run
over by a huge, fierce, juggernaut. He escaped from the shop by the skin of his
teeth. Emma followed him to the door but the kid was
nearly out of sight and still gaining speed.
Going back inside, she found Mr Pearson shaking and gasping for
breath. She hugged him and he
hung onto her desperately. After a minute or two he calmed down
and asked her to put the jug on
while he called the police. She closed the shop, made the tea and
set it up on her table.
So life went on. Mrs Pearson
was quite happy with her two days off and the time spent with her
friends. Mr Pearson was very happy with the new shop procedures.
Emma's mother was so happy
for Emma. She seemed to be blossoming. Well, nearly! It was a bit
hard to tell. What's more it didn't
look like her drunken brute of a husband was coming back.
And Emma! Well, she was in seventh heaven. A job she loved. A boss
she loved. A boss who
loved her regularly. She was surprised to find that she was
starting to actually enjoy the loving bit, as well as
Mr Pearson's lovely hands.
One Thursday morning Emma decided to go in early. She knew there
had been a large delivery
yesterday and Mrs Pearson wouldn't be capable of getting it
sorted. She'd probably leave most of it for her. Which Emma didn't mind, it was
her job and she enjoyed it. Putting everything in it's right place. Collapsing and
binning the empty cartons Sweeping out the store room
and above all, clearing her table. She got to the shop about 6.30, even before
the newspapers arrived. She opened and shut the door quietly and tiptoed
through the shop, past the stairs that led up to the Pearson's unit and then
she heard a peal of girlish laughter.
Mrs Pearson said, “I'll bet you'd give that great, fat dollop a
jolly good romp if she let you.”
Mr Pearson replied, “As if I'd go near that cart horse. I'd rather
rip my kidneys out with a blunt
spoon and eat them. But, mind you, pat it
on the back and it soars through the day.”
“Don't change the subject, Casanova. You've always been a bit
enthusiastic in that direction. You're an animal, Reg.”
''If you were a bit more forthcoming, my sweet, I may be a bit
calmer. Do you realise it's been
weeks?”
“I'm sorry, Reg, you know how tired I get with the shop.”
“But isn't that why we've got the dollop?”
“We'll have a little romp on the weekend, Reg, I promise.”
“Sweetie, Sweetie, I can hardly wait.” Mr Pearson said.
“In the meantime, why not have a practice bonk with Dunderklumpen?” Mrs Pearson laughed.
“You could put a bag over her head.”
“What if the bag flew off in a moment of passion?”
“Passion!” They both roared with laughter.
“Can you imagine all that dimpled flab flopping about in front of
me? Anyway, I'm only keeping
her on until I can find a young cutie and then the dollop and you
are both out the door.”
The pair of them laughed fit to bust.
Emma crept quietly out of the shop and closed the door. She stood
there and waited. The newspaper bloke dropped the papers off and said,”What's wrong with you, Emma?
You're crying fit
to bust. Can I help you?” She shook her head.
At 6.45 she wiped her face, opened the shop and brought in the
newspapers, nearly getting
bowled over by Mrs Pearson who had a busy day in front of her. Mr
Pearson and Emma got through the morning rush. He looked up and down the street
and put up the Back in 15 mins sign. “Cuppa time, Emma.”
Emma got through the rest of the day stacking, cleaning and
sobbing quietly. Mrs Pearson arrived a little before 5.00 pm. The door was shut
so she knocked, she could see Emma sweeping. Emma plodded over to the door and
opened it.
“I see Mr Pearson shut early, Emma?”
Emma nodded.
“Where is the lazy beggar? I'll give him a bit of hurry-up!”
Emma pointed to the store-room. Mrs
Pearson rushed past her and the last thing she saw as Emma's hands clamped
around her throat was Mr Pearson's body face up on the table.
Emma put the lights out and plodded home, crying all the way. She
thought about going to their
shed and getting her father's wheelbarrow and spade out again,
when it's darker but why bother?
What's the point?
The End