THE OUIJA BOARD
My goodie two-shoes gene. It makes me afraid of getting into trouble. Thus, I avoid acts that might put me there. Always have. Except once or twice as a kid.
The time another Mum had to call about my behaviour? Huge.
I blame the weather. We’d gone to the park: a sad patch of grass with peeling slide and swings (if the teenagers hadn’t twisted them up out of reach). I was with my pal Beth and her younger brother. When it started to rain we sheltered at theirs.
We made the Ouija board from an upturned glass and handmade letters hastily biroed on lined paper. Scared ourselves so silly Chris swore he saw zombie fingers reaching through the cat flap.
I told Mum it was their idea. But I read a lot of Point Horror books back then so I’ve a niggling feeling it was me.
Yes? Or no?
I lived in the same house for 17 years. Mum and Dad still live there. My Gran lived on the street next to us. The family who lived in the house where the incident took place have now moved.
A number of stories sprung to mind from different times – hazy early memories of sitting under Gran’s table as ladies shelled shrimps and gossiped above. Carving my name into Mum’s table and being sent to my room. Throwing shrimp husks off the jetty and watching the seagulls swoop. Life was about a very small space — and it was everything.