PUNK PROSE: These Small Words by Maria Thomas

 “My father still reads the dictionary every day. He says your life depends on your power to master words.” — Arthur Scargill

It’s a small word that destroys us. Four letters, one syllable, a hard word, a harsh word. A word as deadly as a stiletto, a word to wound. The word is daubed on the front door, a metre tall, bright red drips pooling to the floor like blood.

SCAB

Mam brings scalding water and some rags, and we try to wipe it away before Da gets home, but the word has been gouged into the wood; it remains, an indelible accusation. Across the street a couple of men sitting on the stoop watch us. We can feel their hatred from here. It burns, our backs blacken and char as we try to remove the word. We’re not welcome in this village now.

SCAB

Da’s a self-taught man, an auto-didact.  At home he’s never without a book, eating knowledge like a starving man, the library his magic porridge pot, his source of infinite nourishment. In another time, in a different family, Da wouldn’t be a pitman. He’d have gone to the grammar, his hands would be soft and pale, not covered in the tribal latticework of pitman’s tattoos.

He likes to tell us stories of the mine, how coaldust smells ancient and metallic like exploding stars, of spaces where the air feels thin and cold, as if you could step right through from this world to the next. Sometimes, he says, he hears music in a minor key, full of sorrow and longing, the lament of those lost to black gold. Miners don’t tend to be fanciful but Da’s a minstrel, it’s why Mam fell for him.

SCAB

Da’s always been a popular man, erudite, witty, good with words. Now he’s something else, that one small word has stolen his voice, his reputation, diminished him. When he comes home, he’s older, his face etched in sadness and charcoal, an outline of the man he once was.

I’m sent to bed early, but I listen to their tense words from the landing. Mam isn’t a fan of the union man, with his Weetabix hair and big words. She thinks he’s divisive, incapable of compromise, but she knows she’s to blame; she’s the one who persuaded Da to take the offer and go back to work. For a while the worry vanished, but now it’s back and their voices rise in accusation. I fall asleep before they finish talking, and I’m woken by Da carrying me to bed.

“What’ll we do?” I ask and he shushes me and rubs my forehead with his thumb until I fall asleep again. It’s the last time I see him.

They say you shouldn’t pick a scab, it exposes the tenderness beneath, leaves it vulnerable to corruption. That small word infected Da’s bloodstream like the pills he took, leaving us with more small words – sorrow, grief, widow, fatherless.  

--Maria Thomas