Farouk

                                              Farouk

    Farouk was a royal tom, black and beautiful and utterly conceited. His coat, licked caringly into condition, glistened in the sunlight shafting through the branches of the blackcurrant bush. Under that bush was his favourite spot in the whole garden and he lay there at an angle perfect for optimal pleasure: the light wasn’t permitted to molest his green eyes while his belly of soft wool absorbed the rays escaping the branches’ interruptions. It was immense gratification. Farouk had it worked out to the last detail and that was what infuriated Catherine.
    Catherine was seated in the oriel window of the bedroom overlooking ‘Farouk’s garden’ keeping one eye on the novel she was reading and the other on the cat. For the past ten days since she and Tommy, her younger brother, arrived at Gran’s for the holidays she had observed Farouk take up his position each morning beneath the blackcurrant bush. He arrived at about half past ten, in good time for the best of the heat. Once settled, he commenced his morning ritual. He licked himself all over, systematically, thoroughly. When he came to the area down there, the area between his hind legs, he devoted great care and substantial time and attention to the scarlet dart and the two black lumps that were his credentials. And worthy credentials they were, especially when viewed from behind.
    Catherine observed Farouk’s ablutions with fascination and disgust. As soon as he reached the area down there she tried to return to her novel but could manage no more than a line or two. What a dirty thing to do, she thought as she watched. What a dirty thing he was!
    When Farouk finished he stretched himself and lay napping in the morning sun until summoned to lunch by his mistress. Gran had him spoilt. After food and drink it was back to the bush for renewed licking and then siesta. His evenings after sundown were spent elsewhere, presumably in the pursuit of something agreeable.
Farouk didn’t allow Catherine to pick him up, she never got the chance to grab him by the scruff or fondle his ears or stroke his back. Catherine understood the cat to be for her pleasure, as were Queen Farouk and the two kittens, but the king would have none of it.
    Tommy entered the garden. Farouk saw him at a glance but didn’t grant him the satisfaction of recognition. Nevertheless, he knew he’d have to move, to abandon the delights of lounging. The child was a nuisance but Farouk didn’t fear him and had no intention of giving the impression of fear. Catherine put the novel down when she saw Tommy in the garden. Each day Tommy tried to master Farouk and each day Farouk won with disgusting ease. Tommy was a seven-year-old idiot, childish and raw. The outcome was inevitable.
    Farouk timed it perfectly. He raised himself languidly, almost with a sigh, if cats sigh, and stroked the air with a forepaw. By chance, the paw connected with a silly bee and smacked it to the ground, but the king ignored the thing as it did several fantastic loops in the long grass before taking to the air again none the worse for misadventure. Now in the naked light Farouk was forced to contract his eyes more than he cared to. Necessity was a bore but nuisances had to be avoided.
    He’d taken about twenty paces when Tommy pounced, but a sufficient distance separated them to allow Farouk a vital moment to stroll through a small hole, catsize only, in the dense privet hedge surrounding the fruit garden. Once safe, the cat cringed beneath the protective barrier of the privet. Tommy charged into the hedge, throwing the full weight of his stocky little body against it.
“Whit, Farouk, whit!” Tommy hissed, punishing his belly on the sharp sticks of the hedge and ruining the uniform height his grandmother had painstakingly clipped.
“Whit, Farouk, whit!” he hissed again, but Farouk didn’t move a muscle. Tommy knew full well the cat was beneath the thickness but he couldn’t for the life of him see or hear anything. “Frig you, Farouk!” he exclaimed in frustration.
The outburst shot across the garden to the open window of the kitchen where his grandmother was keeping one eye on the oven and the other on The Guardian crossword. She put the paper down immediately. “Tommy, come out of there at once!” her firm voice commanded. “Come out of there at once.” She leaned out the window. “How many times have I told you not to chase poor Farouk, and how many times have I told you not to use that ugly expression?”
For a moment Tommy died of mortification but then his resolve returned. “Frig you,” he said under his breath and pulled his marked belly off the hedge. He knew he’d lost again and now Granny would give him a dressing-down into the bargain.
    Catherine was delighted by Tommy’s outburst and even more delighted when Gran reprimanded him. Lunchtime should be fun.
    When the smoke had cleared Farouk peeped into the fruit garden and saw the nuisance had disappeared and all was as it should be. After a certain deliberation he strolled back to his blackcurrant bush and stretched elegantly on the grass. Flies resumed their acrobatics above him and winedark fruit pressed about his temple. It was time again for inactivity.
    Lunchtime wasn’t any of the fun Catherine had hoped for as Tommy never showed. He must’ve gone to visit the Shipleys, Gran’s only neighbours down the road; the Shipley house was where he sought refuge when he was in trouble. But he did show up at tea, and on Catherine’s insistence, his grandmother tackled him. He was not to impose on the Shipleys, it wasn’t proper, she pointed out, and then she got on to the subject of Farouk and the use of bad language.
“Tommy, if your mother knew you were chasing Farouk like that, and if she knew you were using that ugly word, she’d be angry with you,” his grandmother said as sternly as she could. “And she’d be angry with me,” she added after a thought, “for allowing you to. It’s a very ugly word.”
“Daddy uses it all the time,” Tommy said in his own defence.
“Don’t be cheeky with me or I’ll give you a good slap.”
“But he does, Granny, honest,” Tommy said.
“I’ll slap you.”
There was a short silence during which Tommy held his head low and Catherine’s smirk broadened to a grin. Then Tommy said simply, “I’m sorry, Granny,” and he said it so sweetly and with such contrition his grandmother melted in an instant. He was a good boy really, just a bit wild.
“Would you like a piece of cherry cake?” she offered.
“Oh yes, please,” Tommy answered, thrilled.
Catherine couldn’t believe her ears and looked at her grandmother with fire in her eyes. But she was clever enough not to show her fury too openly so she lowered her head and fumed in silence. At lunch, when she and Gran discussed the incident in the garden, Gran had sworn Tommy wouldn’t be given any cherry cake at teatime but now the brat was being offered some.
    Grandmother pottered off to the pantry for the cake tin, and the moment she was gone Catherine said, “You don’t deserve cake.”
“Shut up, you,” Tommy shot back.
“Chasing poor Farouk out of the garden, you are so stupid.”
Catherine knew from long experience that calling Tommy stupid always hurt.
“I’ll chase him if I like,” Tommy said defiantly.
“Oh you are stupid, a little child!” Catherine spat with such vehemence that Tommy lost his temper completely and made a kick at her under the table and caught her high on the shin. The kick caused sharp pain and Catherine retaliated with a hard smack to her brother’s face and a flood of tears for Gran as she returned with the cake.
“He kicked me, Gran, he kicked me,” Catherine whined. “Beat him, he kicked me.”
“Tommy, what did you do that for?” his grandmother demanded.
“She said I was stupid,” Tommy answered.
“And so you are!” Catherine shouted at him. She got to her feet and looked at her grandmother with cow eyes. “Look at my shin, Gran,” she whined, and more tears flowed. The skin on the shinbone was considerably red. “Don’t give him any cake,” she implored.
“Indeed not. Tommy, tell your sister you’re sorry.”
“I will not,” Tommy said and jumped up from the table and ran out.
“Tommy, Tommy, come back here!” his grandmother ordered but the child had already bolted out the back door and was deep in the garden.
    Grandmother soothed Catherine, dabbed the grazed skin on her shin with antiseptic cream while reassuring her the pain would be gone in no time, served her a large slice of cherry cake and advised her not to judge her little brother too harshly as he was a bit wild, like most boys his age. For Catherine it was woeful consolation and Gran had to promise to slap Tommy when he returned, slap him twice, for kicking and for chasing ‘poor Farouk’.
“Yes, Catherine,” her grandmother said. “I only wish he’d leave the cat in peace.”
“He’s always after him, Gran, he never leaves him alone.”
“Poor Farouk has been terribly upset since Tommy came.”
“Send him home, Gran,” Catherine suggested, a plan suddenly coming to mind, “and you and I can stay here together.”
“No dear, I can’t do that,” her grandmother said, “your mother would be upset.”
“Well, I’m going to write to her this minute and tell her what-”
“No, don’t do that, there’s no need to trouble your mother, she’s got enough on her mind already. Don’t worry, I’ll speak to Tommy.”
“Promise, Gran?”
“I promise,” she said and then, almost to herself, “but God knows I’m tired speaking to him about it. Every day.” She looked with affection at her granddaughter. “I’ve had Farouk ten years, you know, ever since you came into the world, and he’s an old pet and I don’t like to see him…” Her voice died away as she went off to the pantry again.
    When her grandmother came back to the kitchen Catherine asked, “Gran, am I older or younger than Farouk?”
“What’s that, dear?”
“Sorry, it’s a stupid question, isn’t it? He’s much older than me of course, seven times older. Cats age seven times faster than humans, don’t they?”
“So they say, something like that,” her grandmother replied.
“What I meant was, did you get Farouk before I was born or after?”
“Now you know the answer to that, I’ve told you the story many times.”
Catherine did indeed know the story well, her grandmother had often recounted it, but she wanted to hear it once more. Anyway, Gran never seemed to tire telling it, and she said, “I know, Gran, but tell me again. Please, please.”
“Your father found Farouk under his car when he came out of the maternity hospital one evening. He was visiting your mother - you were due any hour - and when he got to the car he heard crying. At first, he didn’t know what it was and for a moment he thought it was an abandoned baby. He had babies on the brain, I suppose, but then he realized it sounded like a kitten. But he couldn’t see it anywhere and he couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from exactly, but he knew it was from close by. Eventually, he thought of looking under the car, and there was little Farouk. He was dirty and thin and very weak, close to death’s door. Well, your father took pity on the creature and picked him up and put him on the seat beside him and took him home and fed him and kept him warm. It was bitterly cold that March. Your father has a good heart, dear.” She paused and then, “And that was on the very day King Farouk died in Rome. You were born the following morning, the morning of the twentieth. A week later, your mother and father and you came to stay with me here for a while and I was so happy. You were such a beautiful baby, Catherine.”
“Was I, Gran?”
“Oh yes, dear, a beautiful baby, and my first grandchild.” She looked at Catherine with great warmth in her eyes. “After I’d handed you back to your mother, your father handed me this little ball of black wool; well, he looked just like a little ball of black wool, and felt like one, soft and warm, and your father said to me, ‘Here’s another grandchild for you.’ I told him he shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not, Gran?”
“You can’t compare a child to a kitten, it isn’t proper. But I must say the little ball of wool was delightful, just delightful. When your father told me the story of how he found him and what day he found him, I decided then and there to name him Farouk. And Farouk’s been with me ever since.”
“Was King Farouk the King of Italy?” Catherine asked.
“No, dear,” her grandmother answered, “he was King of Egypt.”
“But you said he died in Rome.”
“That’s right, dear, he did.”
“Why did he die in Rome if he was King of Egypt? Did he die while he was on holiday?”
“No, dear, he died in exile.”
“What’s exile?” Catherine asked and looked at her grandmother with genuine curiosity; this part she hadn’t heard before.
“Farouk wasn’t a very good king, I’m afraid,” her grandmother replied with a touch of apology in her voice. “He was corrupt, or so they say. He wasn’t good for his people because he favoured the rich too much, and eventually the army generals in Egypt forced him out. He abdicated actually.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he resigned his position as king, gave up his throne. He left the country and the army generals took control of Egypt. That was back in 1952. Farouk lived in exile for about thirteen years and then he died in Rome. Some say he was poisoned, but I don’t know. I never knew the details and I suppose they don’t matter now. The one thing I liked about him was his name, Farouk has a lovely ring to it.”
“Why did he go to Italy, Gran?”
“I don’t really know, the Italians must’ve agreed to let him live there. Whatever it was, he ended his days in Rome, and he died the very day your father found the kitten, the day before you were born.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this story before, Gran, this part about the king?”
“There was no reason to, it didn’t seem to matter.”
“It’s the best part of the story, Gran, the part about the king is interesting.”
“I suppose it is.”
Catherine thought for a moment and then asked, “Gran, if I had been a boy instead of a girl, would I have been called Farouk?”
Her grandmother was quite amused by the question. “No dear, of course not,” she replied, laughing. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Just wondering.”
“A long time before you were born,” her grandmother explained, “your mother and father decided that if the baby was a girl she’d be called Catherine, after me, and if it was a boy he’d be called Thomas, after your grandfather. So when you came along they called you Catherine, and when your brother came-”
“Don’t mention him,” Catherine interrupted. “He’s so stupid,” she added sourly. “And don’t forget you promised to slap him. You promised, remember?”
“Yes, dear,” her grandmother said wearily, disturbed that Catherine still bore a grudge. This child never lets anything go, she thought.
    When he returned, Tommy wasn’t punished on any count, Gran let the matter rest. Catherine was indignant and sulked. She went to her room and sat in the oriel window overlooking the garden. The light was too dim to see far and as she didn’t feel like reading or writing she sat there brooding, fuming at the lack of justice in her grandmother and in the world. To be kicked and abused by her small brother who was nothing more than a brat and an evildoer and then to see him go unpunished was intolerable. And it all boiled down to the fact that Farouk was too clever for the stupid child. In future, she’d take the law into her own hands, she would be avenged.
    The moon came up full and commanding. Its silver filtered through the branches of the blackcurrant bush but Farouk wasn’t there to catch its subtle charms, he was prowling elsewhere, stalking some innocent thing in its bed. The image of him lying there under the bush in the sunlight licking the scarlet dart and the two black lumps returned to haunt Catherine, and in a moment she flounced out of the window seat and threw herself on the bed. But for all its comfort and softness the bed gave no rest; Catherine was too hardened by indignation and too discomfited by the image of Farouk, dirty thing. And the image persisted and could not be banished. She rolled and turned, crossed and uncrossed her legs, put her hands behind her head and then across her chest and then by her side. She sat up and re-arranged the pillows, lay back once more and then sat up again to thump the pillows to a different shape. Finally, she rose and went back to the window. The garden was absolutely quiet, not a stir anywhere. The house was quiet, too. Gran had retired, and Tommy, dirty, stupid brother, was fast asleep in the next room.
    Catherine went downstairs as quietly as possible, careful to avoid the two creaky boards in the hall, and went into the livingroom. She put on the reading lamp in the corner and then from under the copy of The Guardian, carefully folded to leave the crossword facing up, she drew out Chambers Twentieth Century Dictionary. The book was heavy and awkward to handle and it took her some time to balance it on her knees in such a way as to be able to turn the pages freely. It took her considerably more time to get to page 292 and find corrupt in the right-hand column. The delay in finding what she sought was not due to ignorance of how to use a dictionary but rather to her attraction to so many interesting words that caught her eye as she went forward through the pages.
Adze, adz, n.  a cutting tool  with an arched blade which is set at right angles to the handle. ( O.E. adesa). Neither the word nor its definition meant anything to her but it sounded interesting and as Gran would say, had a lovely ring to it.
Ashlar sounded beautiful, too, and so did bower. Brat was the perfect word for her stupid brother, and brumby, a wild horse, was a funny word. Chloasma (which she couldn’t pronounce) was some kind of skin disease and sounded awful. She tried to imagine the condition and shivered when she conjured up a picture of a severely deformed face. She made it Tommy’s face then and laughed quietly, tickled by the notion. But enough of this time-wasting, she told herself.
Corrupt, kar-upt’ , v.t. to make putrid: to taint: to debase: to spoil: to destroy the purity of: to pervert: to bribe. -v.i. to rot: to lose purity. -adj. putrid: depraved: defiled: not genuine: etc.
All of those words whose individual meanings were beyond her told her nevertheless that corrupt meant something or somebody bad, somebody impure, somebody or something dirty. She closed the book and put it back under the paper, turned the lamp off and found the way to her bedroom without making a sound.
    Breakfast was a silent affair for Catherine. Gran and Tommy seemed to have forgotten the events of the day before, all was forgiven, they were as thick as thieves. When breakfast was ended her grandmother said to Catherine, “I’m going to town to do some shopping, dear, and I’m taking Tommy with me. He needs sandals because those shoes he’s wearing are too heavy for this time of year. You’ll mind the house until we get back.”
“Yes, Gran,” Catherine said, suppressing her fury. The brat was going to be treated! He should be made to go barefoot and walk on sharp stones until the blood came, and be given nothing to eat or drink for three days. Instead, he was getting new sandals for his evil, corrupt feet.
“Now the bus is at ten,” her grandmother continued, “and the one back doesn’t get here until after half past two.”
“Yes, Gran.”
“If you want elevenses, you know where everything is, don’t you, dear?”
“Yes, Gran.”
“I’ve already prepared the salad for lunch so there’s no need for you to do anything, we’ll add the ham and dressing just before we eat.”
“Yes, Gran.”
“Oh, and don’t forget to feed the cats.”
“I won’t forget, Gran.”
“And don’t worry, we’ll bring you something nice from town, won’t we, Tommy?”
Tommy didn’t say anything and Catherine gave him a look to cleave him in two. He stuck out his tongue at her behind Granny’s back, but Catherine ignored him. Things could rest.
    Catherine was delighted to be in charge and to have the house entirely to herself. When the bus had gone out of sight she went upstairs to her seat in the oriel window and sat there with writing pad and pen on her lap.
    Dear Mummy and Daddy,
                   I hope you are both well. Daddy, I hope you had a nice stay in London and the doctors and nurses were good to you. Get better soon.
Granny is well and she is looking after Tommy and me. She is so kind to us and we are enjoying our holidays with her. She has a treat for us every day. Yesterday, it was cherry cake, my favourite. Mummy, I know it is your favourite, too, so I’m glad you weren’t here for tea yesterday because then there wouldn’t have been any cake for me. Sorry, Mummy, that was a joke.
Granny says the arthritis in her left knee hasn’t troubled her since the warm weather came. Isn’t that good news? She was able to clip the garden hedge this week without pain. I hope the warm weather continues. Do you remember how much her left knee troubled her when she stayed at our house at Christmas?
This morning Granny and Tommy went to town to do some shopping. Granny is going to buy sandals for Tommy because his shoes are too heavy for this time of year. Isn’t she kind?
Farouk is still the king of the cats. He lies in the garden all day and doesn’t do anything. Queen Farouk has two new kittens, Granny says they are four months old. One of them is all black and the other is black and white. The black is a boy and looks just like Farouk, the black and white is a girl and looks just like Queen Farouk. Both are nice but I like the black and white better because she is more playful and comes to me all the time.
Today, we’ll have ham salad for lunch and -
Catherine put her pen down, Farouk had entered the garden. She watched him saunter to his blackcurrant bush and stretch himself in the sunlight. Then he commenced his disgusting ritual. He licked himself all over, concentrating, dirty, corrupt thing, on the scarlet dart and the two black lumps down there, and then when he had taken his fill of pleasure, the lazy good-for-nothing, pride and conceit oozing from his sleek mass, he sprawled and stretched to full length and went to sleep.
    As noon drew near and the sun climbed to its full height in the heavens, the heat made Farouk sleep soundly. The intensity of flies above the blackcurrant bush was of no consequence, life was a profound dream. Catherine entered the garden barefoot and on tiptoe. Blades of grass bent silently beneath her well-chosen steps and she was careful to avoid twigs which might snap and betray her presence. She had got to within ten feet of Farouk when he stirred. She froze in her tracks, certain he had sensed her, but he was merely stirring in his slumber. He hadn’t detected her presence because he was in another world, out for the count, and when Catherine realized this she steeled herself once again, tightened her grip on the brick she was carrying, took aim and fired. Farouk leaped high, completely startled. The brick had missed by a whisker and had shattered the twigs above his head. He righted himself in a flash, took one look at his new adversary and darted for cover under the privet. Catherine gave chase and shook the hedge violently. She regretted the absence of shoes as she wasn’t able to kick into the hole he’d fled through. She went back to the blackcurrant bush to retrieve the brick, and the moment she picked it up the cat took off out the other side and was well away in a minute.                                     
    Farouk didn’t re-appear in the garden, he worked his way round to the front of the house and lay on the hot flags beneath the open window of the livingroom. Catherine was baffled. She waited patiently in the oriel window of her bedroom for his return but he never showed. She gave up eventually and finished the letter to her parents. Before she addressed the envelope she looked out again but there was still no sign of him. Perhaps she had frightened him to death, he had run away, never to return to the blackcurrant bush. If that were true it would be the sweetest of triumphs as she would’ve conquered cat and brat. But another possibility nagged her. Farouk had outwitted her and found peace and quiet in a spot equally as agreeable as the blackcurrant bush, a spot only he knew and which she might never discover. She admitted to herself that that was more likely than his having run away forever. The cheek of him! She ripped the finished letter from the writing pad and squeezed it in her fist until it became a hard, pink ball. Her strength thrilled her and gave her a sense of power she hadn’t felt before. Maybe all wasn’t lost. She started the letter again and this time finished it without stopping.
    The cats weren’t fed at the customary time and soon in the afternoon Queen Farouk and the kittens came calling. Catherine put out saucers of food and water and as the three ate she patted them and asked them where Farouk was. The interrogation didn’t have to go on for long as the cat himself, roused by hunger and by the chatter and calling in the kitchen, put in an appearance. He peeped around the door.
“Nice Farouk, nice Farouk,” Catherine whispered in her gentlest voice when she saw him. “Come on, Farouk, come on,” she said, but he wouldn’t be drawn. He stood there eyeing her from a safe distance, watching her every move and gesture. She got down on her hunkers to appear less threatening but he wasn’t persuaded and continued eyeing her with what she interpreted was a mixture of suspicion and scorn. He watched her stroke his kittens and his mate who seemed content with her caresses, and then he turned and left.
“Oh you-!” Catherine exclaimed, but didn’t bring herself to say more. She thought of what Tommy might say but remained silent. He was only a child. She sprang in pursuit, but Farouk had anticipated an attack and was out of sight. He found his way to the front of the house again and lay beneath the livingroom window none the worse for wear except for a troubled belly. He managed to nap albeit less soundly than usual.
    Catherine determined to discover Farouk’s whereabouts. From the bedroom she checked the garden but hadn’t really hoped to see him there. Nevertheless she couldn’t afford to overlook any possibility. She was going to find out where he was keeping himself and that was that. “I’ll find him, I’ll find him,” she said aloud and gritted her teeth. “I’ll find him even if it takes forever.”
She realized Farouk’s new spot couldn’t be far away as he’d come for food when it was going, and now that his belly was bothering him he wouldn’t stray far.
    It didn’t take her long to discover his new location. He was in full view when she edged around the front gable of the house. She was filled with delight and clenched her fists and bit her lip. She hurried back to the kitchen, removed her shoes and went through to the livingroom. The open window made things delightfully easy, she could get to him without making a sound, it was child’s play. The window was low on the inside and it required little effort to lean out and find him directly below her, only a few feet away. Farouk was entirely vulnerable, stretched to the world in the glorious heat of the day, his small hunger forgotten.
    Catherine returned to the kitchen, donned her grandmother’s apron and became the busy housewife. She bit her lip and clenched her fists once more and then poured half a pint of cooking oil into a saucepan and placed it on a high flame on the gas cooker. While it was heating she made two trips to the livingroom window to check that all remained as it had to for her plan to succeed. Farouk continued to laze in the gold of the sun.
    The golden oil hissed and spat in the pan as Catherine carried it across the floor of the livingroom. When she reached the window she placed the pan on the sill, silent as the dead of night, and positioned her body expertly for the execution.
“Thank you, Edward, thank you very much,” her grandmother said loudly. “Tommy, thank Mr Shipley for the lift.”
Catherine lost her balance and fell to the floor, but she was up in an instant and looked out to see Tommy and her grandmother and their shopping bags on the road outside. Mr Shipley, the neighbour down the way, was driving off. She lifted the pan of boiling oil from the windowsill and carried it as quickly as she dared across the livingroom and back to the kitchen. Drops of oil leaped from the pan onto the apron and several drops found her bare shins and feet and stung fiercely but there was no time to consider the pain. She managed to put the pan down safely on the gas cooker and then grabbed a dishcloth from the edge of the sink and wiped the yellow rivulets of oil from her shins and feet. She threw the cloth into the sink a second before Tommy, dragging two bags, entered the kitchen. Grandmother was right behind.
“We met Mr Shipley in town and he very kindly gave us a lift home, we didn’t have to wait for the bus,” her grandmother gushed. Then the acrid fumes of hot oil reached her nostrils and she sniffed the air and said, “What’s that smell, dear? It smells like oil.”
Catherine didn’t reply and her grandmother noticed how flustered she looked and put her shopping bags down quickly. “Are you all right, dear?” she asked.
Catherine, barely able to get the words out, replied, “Yes, Gran.”
“Why, you’re out of breath! Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, Gran, it’s just the heat of the kitchen.”
Her grandmother approached the cooker and asked, “Why were you using the cooker? You know you’re not supposed to turn the gas on when I’m not here.”
“Sorry, Gran.”
Grandmother looked into the saucepan and said, “Why were you heating oil? Don’t you know oil is dangerous?”
“Yes, Gran.”
“You could burn yourself badly, dear. And why so much? There’s enough oil in that pan for-”
“Sorry, Gran.”
Grandmother noticed the yellow stains on the apron and asked, “How did you get that oil on yourself? What on earth have you been up to, Catherine?”
Catherine knew she had no acceptable explanation to offer, she was cornered and her only way out was to burst into tears. “I’m sorry, Gran, I’m sorry,” she sobbed and threw her arms around her grandmother’s neck. “I don’t know why I did it, I don’t know why, and I promise I’ll never do it again.”