The Outing

Jaroslav Vejvoda

(Translated by E S M Morrison)

Myska pulled on her tights and her new wellingtons, which she took to bed with her. The wellingtons were a lovely yellow colour and her tights were green like cats' eyes. To go with this she had a red anorak which shone like a traffic light, but this was what she liked about it. At least she needn't be afraid she'd be run over. She comforted herself thinking there aren't so many cars in the country. She stamped her feet very quietly and whistled happily, then she remembered she wasn't at home and gave a little sniff — she could go to the toilet alone, but who would do up her plaits? There was a green tinge to the darkness in the room, outside the small windows the trees were sighing and scratching at the glass like impatient dogs, and Myska began to find everything frightening. She knew Dad was somewhere among the heavily breathing sleepers, but how was she to find him? At home she could always find him because of his beard, which neither she nor Mum had, only here there were enough bearded fathers here for a whole infant school, and they were all green like water sprites, only their teeth shone. If Dad hadn't had any teeth it would have been easier to find him, however he still had teeth enough. Then she remembered the scar on his forehead, which he got as he fell when he had been out all night looking for a job, and she decided to feel around for him. This idea intrigued her, she could already feel her dad under her fingers, his beard not too scratchy, but not downy either, something between tiny needles and moss, his nose soft like a little mushroom, the gaps in his teeth where he couldn't get any new ones while he was on the dole, his scar, his breath. She felt like a diver, even though the green darkness smelt rather of her dad when he came back at night and the smell certainly wasn't that of water. Then she stumbled over something smooth and cold, it turned over with a dull thud and suddenly Dad's smell became stronger and people were clicking their tongues in their sleep. She reached out, fumbled and promptly closed here eyes, because she suddenly realized she was blind and could see with her hands just as well as others with their eyes, and people would ask, why has that little girl always got her hands out in front of her, and those who knew her would say, don't you know? That's the clever little girl from number three! She can see everything, that child. And so she went and saw with her hands, first of all a man who wasn't Dad, she didn't even need to look for the scar, his nose was like a little sabre, whereas Dad had a button nose, and also when she touched his eyes, he said, sounding thoroughly foreign, "Herein!" So off she went and continued to "see", someone, probably a woman as she didn't have a beard, just smooth cheeks, wet cheeks, and the woman whispered as if she was trying to swallow something.

"What are you looking for?" "For my daddy," Myska answered. "Pepa."

"I don't know him," said the lady and sighed. "There are lots of dads here!" After a moment she asked softly, "Aren't you afraid? Do you want to come to me?"

"No I don't," said Myska, and so that the lady wouldn't be offended at her refusing, she explained, "I have to keep walking. You see I'm blind."

The lady gave a cough and said, "I see, you think that blind people never sleep."

Myska thought about this. Truth to tell she had only seen blind people walking, but she couldn't discount the idea that they sometimes took a rest. "I don’t know," she answered carefully. "I'm just a little," she hesitated over the form of word, "blinder!" The unseen lady coughed again, but by now Myska had a burning desire to pursue her researches. She opened here eyes, for in sheer excitement she had forgotten her own blindness, "And when they go to bed … blinds — " she reconsidered the word, "blinders…," she blurted out, "where do they put their stick, the white one?"

"Maybe they put it on the coat rack," said the lady, who had green dimples in her green cheeks but damp patches under her eyes. "And where is yours?"

Myska hastily closed her eyes again and quickly returned to her unseeing darkness. She said with deep conviction, "I'll get my stick when I go to school. I'll get a white stick and a white dress! But," going straight back to the problem that was bothering her, "how do they get to their beds without their sticks?"

The lady hesitated, "Possibly, well probably their dog leads them to their beds. They're bound to have a dog!" "Oooh," panted Myska, "and the dog is it blind too?"

"What if it is," mumbled the lady, wearily and sleepily, "it wouldn't matter to it anyway. it has a nose, it can sniff!" She paused and whispered, "Bye then, little blind girl!" And Myska realized she would have to reply on her own wits as she always had to in the early morning. And that was that. Her head immediately filled with thoughts, chiefly about those sticks. It's all very well, she thought, say they put their stick on the coat rack. But that's where people hang their coats and Dad hangs up his trousers. And what about blind people who don't have a dog, how do they find their way to bed? Perhaps they take the stick to bed with them. But where do they put the stick, on top of the duvet, under the duvet? Myska was pondering this so deeply that she forgot to grope about with her seeing hands. And she bumped into something that gave her a little whimper. At that moment Myska suddenly got her sight back. Now instead of the lonely game of the blind girl, here was a splendid opportunity to hold a baby, lift it up, nurse and squeeze the little warm living parcel, almost like the puppy she once had, only this didn't have fur and it wasn't so easy to get hold of. But someone rapped her across the fingers, grabbed the little bundle, which was already falling head first, and shouted, "Oh my God, that girl is dragging our Miluska along like a rabbit!" "Well keep her then," muttered Myska as she ran off. The green half-light behind her back was full of the sighs and groan of the wakening sleepers and vibrating with Miluska's yells, the child's lungs were certainly bigger than her little feet. "I don't need your howling babies," she said to reassure herself, but there were tears of regret in here eyes. She could still feel the baby's soft warmth in her fingers. "Cry-baby, cry, there's soot in your eye," she said and made a face as she ran, but she felt that somehow she hadn't got the rhyme quite right and that this intense desire to have something to cuddle had not gone away. And in fact it didn't go away until she reached the threshold, she came up against a wide open space, boundless sunlit emptiness with only a strip of grass at the bottom: she stopped in her tracks and forgot both about the baby and about being blind. She realized that what she could see before her, from the earth below up to the dark water-laden clouds, was the countryside which her mother had often talked to her about.

And Dad too.

"It would be better if you took the child to the countryside," she would say when she came back from work and found Dad poring over his drawings.

"We've been to the park," Dad would say guiltily rolling up his drawings. Through his fingers there would slip coloured dots making up houses, with ponds on the roofs and windows turning towards the sun, houses that Myska sometimes helped him to dream up.

"That's not the countryside," Mum would say, "you should take the car and go to the mountains with the child."

"I'd love to," Dad would say smiling, "but how? After all you know our car's laid up — we can't pay the tax."

"I've known that for the last three months," Mum would answer in vexation, "and I'd like to know when we'll be mobile again. The Kalouses get a brand new car year after year and the Prochazkas get two. Only we don't even have enough to pay the tax. You, a qualified architect, and you walk! Why on earth did we ever emigrate?"

"Surely not just because of the car?" said Dad, and went on, "Kalous works in a car factory after all. He gets his cars at cost price. And both the Prochazkas have jobs. They go different ways. They don't only need two cars, they also earn enough so why wouldn't they…"

"Exactly," Mum interrupted, "only you don't earn a penny."

"I haven't got a job," said Dad apologetically. "I'd like to try a competition. Look, here…" he began to unroll the drawings with the bright-looking houses, but Mum put her hand over them. "Silly things," she said, "not many houses are being built and no one puts up money for flights of fancy. But Prochazka left you a message, he'll need a plan for a cottage he's converting. A few hundred would help out the dole money! I tell you I'm ashamed of you. People here are building country cottages and you haven't even got a job! What am I to tell them when I write home?"

Dad shrugged. "The truth," he said quietly. Then he put his hand beside Mum's on the rolled-up houses.

"It's not as bad as all that," he said placatingly, "you know I'm serious about this competition. But first I have to make some drawings. I tell you for a few hundreds any half-baked foreman builder could make a garage out of a barn and turn an old cottage into a square box that doesn't let in the rain — or repair a staircase. I'm not going to undertake any old job just because we can't afford a car at the moment."

"At the moment," said Mum sardonically. Then she tossed her head and finally took off her coat. "It would be more to the point if you told me what's new at the labour exchange."

"There might be something for me," said Dad with some enthusiasm. "They're looking for designers for an absolutely enormous housing estate. A completely new concept you know, with a central solarium and everything using solar energy."

"For the central heating too?" Mum was interested and the good news brought colour to her cheeks.

"Of course," said Dad, "only it's more likely to be a cooling system," he corrected himself, "it's pretty hot there."

"The Middle East?" asked Mum sharply. Dad nodded and went red in the face while Mum turned pale. She came to a decision. "Do you know what," she said. "If you haven't won this competition by Sunday, you'll go and have a look at Prochazka's cottage. And the child can go too. At least she can see a bit of the countryside again.

And so Myska was in the countryside. She didn't really remember it, because before their car was laid up, they had travelled mostly on the roads. At the motels where she stayed she wasn't allowed out in case she was knocked down. She tramped about delightedly in the mud which was all around here, just like that, with no asphalt on it. She was no longer thinking about Dad, she was well aware that as usual it would be a long time before he got up. Just like at home, when Mum had gone off to work, he would lie down for a bit after breakfast to take his mind of things, so that Mum often woke him when she returned. At home Myska also played alone, and she had to make do with the living-room and balcony to play in. So why wouldn't the countryside be enough for her; for example, you could stamp about and make slurping noises, not like in the living-room where you couldn't hear your own feet. And wasn't it great to splash about here with your wellies disappearing into the mud like a rabbit into the undergrowth. To be on the safe side she stamped about lightly, so that she would at least keep her anorak clean. Though tights will get into a mess anyway. But tights can simply be put in with the washing, can't they? Whereas ears, which she certainly mustn't get muddy, they have to be washed! However the puddle she was paddling about in suddenly had no water in it, the water splashed all around and up behind her ears and into her hair, and on the muddy bottom was left a stone as big as a fist. Behind her a boy's mocking voice said,

"Little squirt!" Myska stopped dead. In the first place she wasn't all that small. She could reach their button in the lift now! Besides the dirty water felt cold on her neck. The boy behind her back asked impatiently,

"Can't you understand Czech, damn you?"

"Yes I can," Myska answered with dignity. "I'm not stupid, you know!"

"Then don't show off," the boy immediately changed to a familiar kind of Czech, "or you'll get a bath!"

"Should I take my wellies off?" Myska countered bravely although she could hardly keep back her tears. "You'd better put on a bathing suit," said the boy maliciously, "you're going to get a bath for showing off."

"She's not showing off," another voice interrupted unexpectedly, "it's you that's showing off!" Up till then Myska had been standing with her back to the voices but now she got over her fear and turned round inquiringly. A boy probably not much older than herself was standing a little way behind her, however he was clinging to the door as if for support and the hand holding on was puny. "Just look at him!" sneered the boy behind her, "see, he wants to fight over a girl!" With that he began to move towards the door. But the other boy suddenly made a movement and with his free hand raised a metal crutch, which up till then he had been holding behind his back. Its rubber end was now aimed at the head of the bully who recoiled apparently in awe of the crutch.

"You will not bully little kids!" said the boy with the crutch firmly. "She's not such a kid either," the hefty lad said trying to justify himself, and Myska, with the strange logic of the downtrodden and the small who long to be bigger, proudly drew herself up to her full height.

Instead of answering, the boy at the door said, "Look how dirty she is," and pointed his crutch at her splashed tights and mudstreaked anorak. At that moment a lady appeared, assessed the situation and sternly rebuked Myska's defender.

"Are you not ashamed of yourself taking a stick to a little girl?" The hand with the crutch dropped, its owner frowned but did not protest. Perhaps he had previous experience of other grown-ups. Or of that lady in particular. She meanwhile had turned to the hefty lad saying, "Come, Kajik dear, Mummy will give her little chubby-cheeks something nice to eat." Kajik made a face but went. Myska went too because she suddenly remembered Dad. The boy with the crutch waited for her at the door, and Myska thanked him with a smile, which she promptly regretted because her frail rescuer frowned and said, "Don't think I'd have fought over you! I'd have fought just for fun!" Offended Myska tossed her head and shot back, "He'd have beaten you anyway!" The skinny boy smiled sadly and with a sudden slick movement slipped the crutch between her feet so that she fell with a thump. When she was lying there he bent down and hissed in her hear, "Little squirt!"

Suddenly so many insults were too much for Myska. She burst into floods of tears and cried till she choked. From inside the cottage she was happily joined by Miluska.

Dad, who was now up, was telling what had happened when he had applied for a job as a street-sweeper. They hadn't taken him on, as they only take on locals, and they divide up the streets among themselves according to their length of service, so that only a street-sweeper who is about to retire gets the main street, just the way you become a general in the army. Everyone laughed, and the lady who was the mother of the hefty Kajik, and also, as it turned out, of the boy with the crutch, whispered so that all would hear, "He's tight even at this time in the morning. If he didn't drink he'd have had a job long ago!" Myska frowned. She knew the lady was wrong, Dad was lively and cheerful and there was nothing but milk on the table. And he didn't drink at home either, not what you'd call drink, only tea and the stuff that smelt different, he only rank that sometimes and in a different place, not here and not at home. Although she was frowning she didn't feel bad, let the lady say what she liked, Myska wasn't in the least wet now, Dad had changed her clothes and hadn't asked where she had got so dirty. He hated asking about such things, especially not why she was howling or what had happened to her, he might then have had to make further inquiries of other children and even of their parents, and that was always embarrassing for him, as if he had been the one who had done something wrong. So he would embroider the truth when he told Mum what he had been doing all day.

Now too he pretended not to hear what the lady was whispering. Perhaps because her husband was sure to have a job. Kajik's father, who was sitting beside Kajik saying nothing, couldn't understand anyway even if he was able to hear. He was Swiss and they were speaking Czech. Myska, keenly aware of everything, noticed that his two sons were quietly, deliberately and unemotionally cursing each other in Czech, while their father nodded compliantly and went on happily chewing. Myska felt resentful, not that she wanted Dad to be any different, but it would have been nice if he didn't understand for a while and she could curse someone, perhaps these boys, and he would then simply say to her as this Swiss father said to his sons, "You see! You don't have to quarrel all the time. If you've finished eating go and play!" The boys went off, and only Myska noticed that with a touching understanding, they each made for a different door. She would have loved to go out too, but the one who wanted to give her a bath was at the front of the cottage and the one who tripped her up was at the back. Or perhaps it was the other way around.

So here she was — a poor lonely little blind girl, bored with sitting at table and surrounded on all sides; there was nothing for it then but to pull Dad's sleeve and say politely,

"Will we go to the countryside, Daddy?"

Mr Prochazka boomed, "I was just thinking that too what about having a look round?" he said.

"Well," Dad was embarrassed, "it looks as if it might rain any minute!" However, as he said it, he wasn't looking at the clear blue sky but at the table which was just being cleared. At the same time a group of bearded men were taking their seats at the table. In their hands they had coloured cards just like the ones Myska had once seen falling out of Dad's pocket when he had been looking for a job.

But Myska did not like these cards because she knew that nobody would ever let her have them. "Mummy will ask if we've been in the countryside," she said pointedly.

"You're right, child," said Mr Prochazka brightly. "She's a smart kid, that!" But Myska who knew that he wanted to take a walk round the cottage where danger lurked for her, said emphatically, "I'd like to go to the forest! Mummy said there was acidgen in the forest." She turned uncertainly to Dad who muttered, "Oxygen!" shrugged apologetically in the direction of Mr Prochazka, and took Myska by the hand. Myska skipped about and Mr Prochazka waved a hand. "Never mind," he muttered to Dad.

They passed the ladies who were sitting on the front porch, gossiping about the men inside, who didn't even go out into this clean air and this fresh breeze, and they also talked about themselves, how they spent every minute of their time on the fresh air, they congratulated themselves, that it was just like being at a spa, and it was all thanks to Mr Prochazka, who at that very moment came out, squinted up at the clear sky and followed Dad with his eyes. And so Dad went round the corner still holding Myska by the hand, but then he let go of her hand, thrust his hands sulkily into his pockets and wandered slowly round the cottage with Myska behind him. She wasn't sure if she was now in the countryside or if the countryside didn't begin till a bit further on, behind Mr Prochazka's plot of land or even not till the wood. She padded through the grass and didn't want to ask Dad because she knew he was sulking. Just like a boy, she thought severely like Mum who often said that. But Myska kept her thoughts to herself, after all she wasn't Mum and danger was lying in wait for her everywhere. If she quarrelled with Dad, who would protect her? She followed closely in his footsteps, watching apprehensively the walls, the fence, the grass and the stacked fire wood. Here enemies were nowhere to be seen, but she knew from television that they were sometimes capable of disguising themselves. Then they were passing the window of the room they had come out of, and there was a kind of slapping sound coming from it, as if it was raining inside. Dad stopped and hesitated, "How about joining the boys?" "The three of you could play together. Perhaps I ought to talk about a job with one of these gentlemen?" Myska knew that this was something that could neither be proved nor disproved. And so she confessed, "I'm afraid of these boys!" Dad looked at her for moment, shrugged and said, "you mustn't be afraid of people. They are bad just because you are afraid!" He took her hand and Myska asked, "Children too?" Dad answered, "Children are just little people, Myska!" Myska thought about this and said, "But big people aren't afraid of little people. They're not afraid of children!" "They are afraid for children," said Dad. "So are children, daddy," exclaimed Myska — she spoke from bitter experience — "they are afraid that big people might go away and leave them." Dad smiled. "They won't go away, and children have legs, they can catch them."

"What about birds, daddy?" said Myska bringing new life to the discussion, "when they fly, where do they have their children?"

"I don't know," said Dad, "but I'm sure they don't just fly away from them. Why would they have them then?"

"Yes, why?" Myska agreed and then explained what was troubling her, "Mummy said you were always flying off somewhere like a bird and you might fly off for good some day!"

Dad bent down, picked a blade of grass, put it in his mouth then spat it out, put his hands back in his pockets and asked Myska as he sometimes asked Mum, "What am I supposed to do, for Christ's sake? I have to get something, don't I?" He spoke dispiritedly, wanting to be finished with the topic. It wasn't a question. It sounded more like an entreaty. However Myska was still waiting anxiously for an answer. After all she couldn't really imagine anything without Dad — not even the countryside. She remained standing on the uncut grass, half like a lost rabbit and half an unhappy little human being. Dad meantime walked on, then turned round and opened his arms to her. When Myska ran to him, he picked her up and said softly, "Don't worry, I haven't got wings!"

They walked right round the cottage and came back to the door through which they had come out. Mr Prochazka was not in sight and the ladies on the seat were breathing in the fresh air and holding on to their skirts so that the fresh breeze would not lift them, and talking about Mr Prochazka who had two cars because he pinched petrol from his work and was trying to rebuild his whole cottage for nothing, and they were saying that he lets his friends come and sleep in their own sleeping bags and them expects them to slave all day long. But they weren't working like slaves, the ladies, they were just gossiping, and one of them was rocking Miluska in her push-chair which was standing up in a puddle, and as it moved up and down, water splashed over Miluska's nose but even with her nose wet she slept like a log in the healthy air. Dad heard the slapping sound again, gave a start and cast a worried look at the sky which at that moment was clearer than Miluska's nose, and said, "Well I don't know, I'm not sure, I think it's clouding over a bit. Shouldn't we go inside?" And Myska who knew from Mum that you couldn't be up to what menfolk would do, sighed and waved her hand dismissively the way Mr Prochazka had done a little while before. Dad put her down. Myska stamped about on the ground, feeling beautifully firm in her boots. Suddenly emboldened, and anyway she did not like the men's little picture cards, she said to Dad she'd walk on a bit on her own. "If you want to," he said and added, "Take care!" But he didn't say, "Don't get dirty!" and Myska gave a sigh of relief. If the worst came to the worst, she told herself, she hadn't been told not to. Dad disappeared into the cottage and Myska round the corner, for the minute Dad went off, those ladies began to gossip saying he hadn't a job and she knew that, and also that old skinflint Prochazka paid you only with mushroom soup, and you have to gather the mushrooms yourself, only it was good, you know, for people out of work to have something like that to do, when otherwise they'd do nothing. Myska stole away from the cottage across the grass. She hadn't forgotten the danger but she was looking for mushrooms because she knew that Dad wouldn't pick any himself when he was playing that picture card game, so that Mr Prochazka would make mushroom soup for him. And for her too! If only she could see some mushrooms. On the other hand she did hear something!

But now it wasn't the ladies who were a long way off, nor was it the wind, that fresh breeze was no longer howling here, perhaps she was on the sheltered side, it was blowing into the cottage, up the ladies skirts and into Miluska's nose, but here it wasn't evening moving a blade of grass. And now she could hear every word, every detail of a great secret:

"All you have to do is help me up. Then I'll give you a hand and you can get up behind me."

"Yeah! And as soon as I've got you up you'll start off!"

"There's agate over there. If I start off you can shut the gate!"

"Then you help me up first. It's all the same."

"No it isn't. I can't run. I wouldn't be able to close the gate in time. And you'd be sure to ride away, I know you."

"Hm. And why don't you go on your own then? Why did you tell me anything about it?"

"Use your common sense. I can't get up on the horse by myself. And you can't either. So if we go together, we can open the gate, you can help me up and then get on behind me and we can both go!"

"Where to?"

"Doesn't matter. Anywhere! Away!"

"Mum will be mad at us. And what will Prochazka say? It's his horse after all."

"If you're afraid of Mum…"

"I'm not afraid of anyone! Not even of you, you cripple!

Then Myska heard a kind of snorting and a noise as if a whip was being cracked. She hadn't even time to crouch down before Kaja came galloping round holding on to his head, shouting "I'm going to te-e-e-ell" and about the horse too!" He shook his fist and yelled, "You're not going anywhere, you rotten cripple!" Then he disappeared and Myska, trembling with excitement, stood up, "Take me with you!" she said to the boy with the dangerous crutch, who now came limping up from the little dell, where he had previously been talking to is precious brother. He did not answer.

"Oh, do take me with you," Myska begged once more — in a louder voice — and added impulsively, "I can cook! (She could butter her bread but she couldn't cut it. If someone lit the gas she could boil water herself!) The boy with the crutch grinned. Then he asked, "Where to?"

"To the Canaries," the boy said in surprise. "How?"

"On the horse of course!" said Myska. The boy began to laugh. "Then the horse would have to swim across the sea! All round Africa. How on earth can horses swim?"

"They can," Myska came to the defence of her idea. To tell the truth, mention of the sea surprised her. Canaries in her imagination were yellow things on branches of trees, and to go to the Canaries meant to go to some place where you could catch canaries. But she didn't want to give in. "I've seen horses on television that could swim and shoot!" The boy was surprised. "What do they shoot with?" he said.

"It's the Indians that shoot" Myska explained, "they hide behind the horses. Like this." She lay down on the grass and immediately could hear distant shots and pulled on the horse's bridle as it swam. However the boy began to laugh and said mischeviously, "Well, all right, they can swim in a river. Not a thousand kilometres or so… And the sea! A horse can't swim that far!"

Disillusioned Myska agreed gloomily. She squatted down and then noticed with anguish the green stain on her tights. That was worse than… even the thought of it was terrible… wetting her pants. Dad couldn't wash out this stain and Mum… Her desire to travel was all the greater. "All right then," she agreed humbly. Now she had to get away at all costs. "Perhaps we can just go to the Alps then. Or to Chuchel ("Is it not lovely in the Alps, Dad would say defensively, "as a boy I longed to go to the Alps. And now we have them on our doorstep!" "That's just it!" Mum would say reproachfully, "it would be just as if we went to Chucle!" "If only we could!" Dad would say with a sigh.)

The boy picked up his crutch and looked slyly at Myska. He feigned astonishment. "What are you gabbing about? What horse? What Canaries?"

Myska, still sensing her opportunity, made the best of things. "The Alps would do. It's too far to the Canaries. And we can't go to Chucel!" She was safe in the knowledge that they couldn't go to Chucle, only she didn't know why not or where Chucle was. She tried offering an inducement to her future travelling companion. "Hey, you know what," she said, "I could help you on to the horse. I'm strong and you're…" "Weak," the boy gave a bitter laugh. But he seemed thoughtful rather than really angry. So Myska pushed her luck. "We'll not bother about fatty! As long as he doesn't go and tell on us," she added strategically voicing her doubts.

"Him," the skinny boy laughed and twirled his crutch, "just let him try!" Myska's heart thudded. Here was indirect confirmation that there really was a horse. It was surely somewhere in the vicinity: she calculated with a child's cruel reasoning how far the boy with the crutch could get with his limp. Of course she did not put this into words. She suspected it would not be politic to persist. So she changed the subject.

"Your brother is terribly silly, isn't he?" Apart from the stone in the puddle she had absolutely nothing against him. But now her grand tour was at stake. "Him?" the skinny boy sighed, but he was no longer twirling his crutch. He put it on the grass and sat down beside it. "He's worse than silly," he said, "you see when Mum starts howling she's homesick, he goes after her and howls too."

"Silly ass!" he spat out, "how can he be homesick when he was born here?"

"Perhaps he's homesick for his toys," said Myska who did not really understand, "I'm homesick for toys too."

"I see," said the boy at her side, "you mean you want to have them bought for you. But that's not being homesick!" "What is being homesick then?" inquired Myska.

"Well," answered the boy thoughtfully, "I think Mum's homesick for grannie. She's always talking about her…" "I know," said Myska, "my Mum's homesick for the Canaries. She's always talking about them!"

The boy shook his head. "That's not it," he said, "my brother bawls along with Mum as if he was homesick for Prague. And he's never been there! But when Dad comes home and shouts at Mum because she hasn't got the dinner ready, my brother shouts with him. He's a real smart alec. He's Swiss with Dad and Czech with Mum!"

"What are you?" asked Myska.

The boy beside her fell silent. Suddenly, surprisingly, he got up so smartly that the end of the crutch he leant on a cloud of earth.

"You've got ears," he said dryly not looking directly at Myska. "You heard. I'm a cripple see." He limped away scattering the loose grass round about him. Myska watched him go and felt all desire for the horse leave her. With that strange logic of childhood, what she longed for most at that moment was a crutch.

Conversation at lunch was very lively. All were deftly cutting up dumplings, putting juicy cabbage and meat swimming in grease on to their forks and carrying the lot to their mouths, which never stopped moving, even in the intervals between mouthfuls.

"I fainted three times when I was on Atkin's diet. My husband had begun to hide the charts and little sticks, you see you have to test your urine because of the carbohydrates or something of the sort; if the little sticks change colour then you are already losing weight. And without these sticks I couldn't even check it. And you know ladies, you mustn't even have the tiniest bit of anything starchy. And a pork belly without bread? Horrible. You can stuff yourself with pork practically every day, but no dumplings. Can you imagine, pork without cabbage? But I stuck to it. Lost ten kilos!" The ladies sighed, however one of them asked,

"And are you allowed it now?"

For a moment the lady thus addressed dropped the hand holding the fork with a piece of dumpling. However she then put the tasty morsel into her mouth and announced chewing, "He is a beast, this Atkins. You have to stick to it for ever. So now I'm back to my usual weight — that means overweight," she added more accurately. "Only," she went on to say still chewing, "you know the feeling when you find out you can keep your body under control by sheer will-power, nobody can take that away from you!" She looked round and the ladies, bent over their plates, nodded. Myska nodded politely too, and unobtrusively transferred her dumpling on to Dad's plate. At that moment he was pouring himself some beer and didn't notice. He was listening to Mr Prochazka and Myska, who liked to listen even when she didn't understand, pricked up her ears. "Well, you see, I bought this place as it stands. I'm going to pull down the barn, make a concrete base and building a garage. I'll take this porch away, it only overshadows the place, I'll have a bigger window put in and perhaps I'll take the roof off."

"Why?" asked Dad tersely and took another drink of his beer.

"Well it's in a bad way," Mr Prochazka explained, "I want to have a modern flat roof so that the old girl has some place to sunbathe in summer. She sits in that office all year long and doesn't get much sun."

Everyone nodded, only Dad remarked,

"She can sunbathe outside. There are fields all round. There's plenty of room!"

Myska was alarmed. She didn't like it when Dad argued. Luckily Mr Prochazka hadn't heard. He continued,

"Television will be the problem here. There are hills all round and they don't have a common aerial. That's the sticks for you. I asked a farmer about it and just imagine, he doesn't even have colour…"

All, including Mr Prochazka, shook their heads in amazement. Only Dad let out a guffaw so loud that Myska couldn't look. She was no longer hungry. She would have liked to leave the table but the others were still eating. And Mum said it wasn't done to leave the table during a meal. No one spoke — the only sounds were the clatter of knives and forks on the plates and the occasional sigh, — one lady broke the silence and reverted to the subject.

"You can say what you like," she said, "but the best thing is simply to starve yourself. In the morning a slice of ham, a small piece of orange and tea without sugar. At lunch-time grilled meat, salad and juice. And in the evening a little bit of fish or cold chicken and finish off with a drink of soda water. Then go to bed on an empty stomach — and you'll have the figure of a young girl!"

Dad snorted, "Only in bed, madam," he said, "you'll really have to sleep so that your figure doesn't get spoiled again!" The ensuing silence was so downright painful that Myska hesitated no longer. After all she knew her Dad! She slipped down from her chair, which for long enough had been mercilessly digging into her bottom, took Dad's hand and said, "Mum said we were to be in the countryside a lot!" Dad gave in without offering any resistance. He must have felt himself that the atmosphere in the room wasn't doing him any good. He rose and no one protested. Even Mr Prochazka said nothing. |Perhaps he was still thinking about the roof. By now Myska was just looking for the door. On their way out, one of the ladies who were on a permanent diet, only now were eating normally, sighed, "Poor child!"

She wasn't being blind, indeed Dad swayed occasionally to be sure there were puddles everywhere left from the night's rain, Dad was screwing up his eyes against the light and so she had to look in order to see. Her arm was aching, it was held up so high and she had to strain to guide Dad across the puddles, he didn't look down at his feet at all, perhaps he was the one who was blind now, but at least they weren't laughing at him and they weren't sighing, the air was really clean and the wind quite fresh and MCI was fairly contented. Then they came across some bilberries which, Dad said, you could eat. Dad remained standing, but Myska bent down to pick them and put them in her mouth. Only her anorak kept slipping down over her hands. And so she raised her arms and said to Dad, "Turn up my hands!" "Sleeves," Dad corrected her. "Sle-e-eves," repeated Myska. But she was no longer bending down for the bilberries. All the way she had a question on the tip of her tongue and now she gave it expression. "Daddy, if I am a poor thing, are you one too?"

"And now!" said Dad and grinned. "With you keeping on asking me questions." Then he became serious. He released her hand, looked back and shook his fist, "But I'm not yet such a poor creature that I'd destroy a cottage of character and build in its place a concrete hutch for two-legged rabbits. That, Mr Prochazka, I will not do! I will not!" He stamped his foot and repeated mulishly, "I will not!" Again he shook his fist and shouted, "I simply will not destroy the countryside!" He hiccuped, thought it over and added, "For practically nothing!"

From the wood they came back almost cheerfully, with the taste of bilberries on their tongues and the stains round their mouths, in Myska's case also on her anorak. But that was part of the countryside and Mum wouldn't be angry, she hoped. They couldn't see the sun, but the landscape was flooded with light leaking through the clouds, like the liquid from a pickled cucumber through its wrapping paper. The wind had abated, perhaps it had disappeared in the irregular row of jagged mountains like broken walnut shells on the horizon. The leaves hung heavily in the windless air, but Dad's grip was once again beautifully gentle and his gait was becoming steadier. Only his face had clouded over. MCI knew these clouds. They had nothing to do with the countryside around them, clean and clear like a newly swept room — but more likely with Mr Prochazka's cottage, which was getting nearer with every step.

Dad always had this expression when they were on their way back from a walk and remembered about the unwashed dishes. Dad's face would also darken when Mum, back from work in the meantime, would greet him with, "For God's sake, don’t go putting on that martyred look!"

"I'm, not," Dad would say in a suffering tone. It seemed, after that welcome, as if his whole body and joined the mutinous expression, on his face; he would quite suddenly shrivel up and shuffle like an old man through the flat to hide in his room behind the defensive barrier of his drawing-board. Where he didn't draw, but just sat and winced every time a plate clattered in the kitchen. Next day, of course, they forgot the dishes again, even though Myska made a knot in the front of her tights and Dad wrote it up in red on the board. Only on some days he didn't draw at all.

However Mum was at home now having a rest from them, and the ladies, having eaten their fill (today of course was an exception!), had perhaps washed the dishes. For all that Dad's face remained clouded. The cottage where nobody was asking them to come was now in view. Then Dad suddenly stumbled on the flat ground and stopped.

"I can't walk so fast," he complained, "I'm an old man now." The roof in the distance was a coloured spot on the landscape. Dad looked at it dreamily. "If only we could get away. Somewhere far!" "To Chucel," suggested Myska. "We can't go there," said Dad sadly. He threw his head back and, resignedly, set off at a good pace. Myska caught up with him at a bend, she was now quite tired out and almost looking forward to the Prozachka cottage that Dad still had to have a look at. She was sorry for him certainly, but she knew she didn't have to look round it and she would be quite glad to sit down. In no time at all she did. Sit down. Hard. On the ground. Suddenly high above her head and a bit above Dad's towered an apparition with bloodshot eyes and bared teeth, whoa, shouted Dad, and there were jaws silhouetted against the sky like the head of a dragon. Myska collapsed wordlessly on to the hard ground, she didn't notice the pain and couldn't even cry, her whole body was shaking with terror, the jaws were moving against a background of darkening clouds, now it wasn't only jaws, an enormous shaggy body was blotting out the sky, Dad stretched out his hands towards it, but his fingers slipped through the bristly mane, along its coat and the swinging reign, which the monster had round its neck, and now stones clattered, there was a noise like an avalanche when the apparition thundered past them. Myska closed here eyes and covered them with her hands. Then she felt Dad's hands on her head and she burst into convulsive sobs; the shock had gone for her legs and had freed her lungs. She could yell as much as she liked but her legs would not obey her and she could not get up.

"There, there, Myska," said Dad soothingly, "it was only a horse!"

But there was no quieting Myska: now she was experiencing her own death, she was no longer on the stony path, she was lying on the smooth grass, Dad and the two boys were picking flowers and scattering them over her motionless body, her hands were crossed on her chest, her martyr's lips were pressed together, her face pallid. Then Dad fixed up a little cross behind her head. What did he make it from?

"Daddy," she asked between her sobs, "in the mountains if I died, what would you make a cross out of?

"Probably twigs," said Dad unthinking and unsurprised.

"And a coffin?" Myska asked. She was interested now and opened her eyes.

"A coffin for what?" said Dad. "The Indians don't bury their dead in coffins!" Well, I'm not going to die without a coffin, thought Myska whose conception of something as solemn as her own burial was not as simple as that of the Indians. On the contrary she knew exactly that she must have a white dress and there should be several dozen candles. And Indians, she knew from television, could see in the dark. Where would they get candles? All at once she recovered and stood up.

Also because there was again a crunching of little stones on the path. Myska didn't have time to be frightened, so quietly — in comparison with the previous stamping — did the crutch appear in front of them, and with it the sweat-streaked face of the boy that she had wanted to go away with. "Did he come…" he was breathing hard and his breath seemed to come from somewhere in the region of his heels, "this way?"

"The horse?" asked Dad tersely. The crutch waved frantically in affirmation. "Was it Mr Prochazka's horse?" Dad was making sure. The boy with the crutch could no longer keep his feet. Wheezing and coughing he fell to the ground. Meanwhile he jerked out "I just wanted to go for a ri-ide… I untied him and he…"

"Made off," Dad nodded. The boy nodded. Then he tried to stand up. "I mu-ust...," he gasped, "Mu-um will give me he-ell. I…" The crutch slipped from his grasp, his hands were shaking so much. Dad pushed him back down to the ground.

"Wait!" he said shortly. He scanned the sky which was darkening rapidly. The wind had also returned in full strength and the broken walnut shells of the mountain peaks had disappeared in shadow. "If it starts to rain," said Dad, "shelter over there under the trees. Don’t try to reach the cottage. I'll gallop back," he laughed, "as soon as I catch him!" In no time he was off. Myska was left alone with the boy.

"You'll catch it!" she said to him brightly, "you'd better find a cave in the mountains. You could stay there till the end of the emigration."

The boy turned on to his back and lay for a long time panting. Then he said defiantly, "I'm not a stupid emigrant. I'm Swiss!"

"You'll catch it just the same!" said Myska. The boy nodded. "All right then," he said equably, waving his hand. "But I'm still going to run away some day. I'm going to be a racing driver!"

"With a crutch?" said Myska with typical childish cruelty. The boy was untroubled.

"There are cars for lame people now," he said, "and I love engines. Mum keeps on saying I'll have to work hard at school, so I can get a job in an office somewhere, because with the crutch I can't do anything else, but I'd hate that!" "But you'd have to learn even to be a racing driver," said Myska having heard the same kind of thing from Mum.

"All right then," said the boy, "I'll work hard at school. It's just that I have this stupid accent. Dad says it's from Mum speaking Czech to me. But Mum says I get it from Dad, because he can't speak German properly because he's Swiss. But my brother doesn't have an accent and he speaks Czech with Mum and Swiss with Dad."

"Why have you got an accent then?" asked Myska.

The boy dropped his voice although there was nobody anywhere near and the wind was howling through the fields. "On purpose," he said, "at school I used to read and all that properly, and at home I always and to help in the house. Mum said Kaja was too young. So I began to stutter when I read and now I have to do reading at home! Only Mum doesn't pay much attention to what I'm reading as long as I read aloud and don't hesitate. So Kaja," he hooted with laughter, "dries the dishes and I get to read. I've read all about aeroplanes!"

"Oh," said Myska, "and aren't you sorry for your brother?"

"No I'm not," the boy with crutch answered sharply, "he's not a cripple."

There was no answer to that and Myska kept quiet. She was also worrying about the gathering clouds and the wind, now so strong that it was almost lifting her plaits. The boy had a look too and got up. "Here," he said, "we'd better get under those trees. It looks as if it's going to pour!" Myska had hardly got up when the first spots of rain fell. She set off at a run, the crutch clattering behind her. But Myska was now thinking only of herself and wondering if Dad would come back and when he'd come. She felt anxious, and when she was under the tree she pressed up against its hard bark and once more burst out crying. When the boy hobbled up behind her he was soaked through and Myska instinctively drew away from him. But the rain continued and the darkness thickened. Sobbing and worn out with fear and exhaustion, Myska leaned on the crutch so that the boy nearly lost his balance. But he held on to it and to his balance and even comforted her awkwardly.

"Stop bawling. When your dad comes, we'll go home on the horse!"

"What if he doesn't co-o-ome?"

"He will. But if he doesn't I'll take you. As my wife!"

"Don't wa-a-ant to! Why?"

"Silly, I'm Swiss you see!"

"What…?"

"You're Czech. If I marry you, you'll get your papers right away. Swiss ones."

"What for?"

"Well, you'll be able to go anywhere you like!"

"To Chucel?"

"Maybe. We are going to visit our gran, you see"

"We can't."

"Well that's it then. But with me you can even go to…" Myska never found out where. A dreadful snorting and a relentless stamping, like a bear crashing through the wood, sounded through the patter of the rain. This was too much for Myska. She gave a little shriek, and from terror, unable to hold it back, she peed. Her tights were hot and wet. She peed, though Mum was always saying it was disgraceful for such a big girl to wet her pants.

And she was still peeing them when through the hissing water and the dreadful neighing and snorting came Dad's cheerful voice, "Is the damsel in distress there? Here is Prince Bajaja! I've come on horseback for you!"

Dad carried the boy on his back and Myska, whose legs were folding under her, carried the crutch. But it was only a few steps away now. Myska could see lots of lights ahead, a bit blurred, but she knew she'd get there and that the horrible wood and rain were far away. Dad took them on horseback as far as the stable, but from there they had to walk. So that no one would know about the horse. However it got harder and harder for her friend who kept stumbling, so Dad picked him up while Myska held on to Dad and the crutch as tightly as she could. It had stopped raining, but the darkness persisted. It was evening. Myska splashed through the puddles. The inside of her boots and her trouser legs were wet, but it didn't matter now. They were just about there.

Ahead of them lights were dancing like will-o'-the-wisps and now Myska realized she wasn't seeing a blur of images, these were people running towards them waving pocket torches. Voices could be heard too and Dad, embarrassed, stopped. Myska stopped too. She leaned on the crutch and on Dad, but he had nothing to lean on, and he couldn't protect his eyes with his hands from their blinding lights, he was still carrying the boy, their mutual friend on his back, and he didn't loosen his hold although they were tugging at him from all sides.

"So irresponsible," someone called out, "taking children to the woods at night!" And the mother of the Crutch shouted, "Where is my child?" She tried to take her son but he wouldn't let go of Dad and Myska was holding on tight to his crutch.

And Mr Prochazka could be heard. He shouted, "This is the end, sir! Someone else will get the contract!" And someone said, "Well, he didn't deserve it anyway!" Then Mum appeared, making her way through the mob. Their weeping Mum shook Dad by the shoulders and sobbed,

"And I was looking forward to giving you a surprise. The Kalouses brought me. I thought we could go for a walk together… And now you've spoiled it all. And you haven't got the job… You've exhausted the child… What have you been doing, for God's sake? Where have you been?"

And Myska suspected that Dad would say nothing, either about the boy or the horse, that he would keep quite and she must help him.

She took a great part of the weight of the world on her little shoulders when she stepped forward in front of Dad and said quietly,

"We've been in the countryside, and I wet my pants, Mummy." …