The Knife Drawer Read online

  The Knife Drawer

  SHORTLISTED FOR THE AUTHORS’ CLUB BEST FIRST NOVEL AWARD 2012

  In the house where Marie lives, the cutlery is running wild . . .

  Madness and fairy story creep hand in hand in this darkly comic tale. At the top of a narrow driveway there is a shambling Victorian house full of dust and stairs. The walls inside are ancient emulsion, sloughing off the distemper walls in gorgeous ribbons.

  The mice that infest the dining room chimney-breast are living out their own dreams and nightmares, learning voodoo and the meaning of love and forgiveness. In The Knife Drawer, dead bodies miraculously vanish as if scraped to nothing by pudding spoons.

  Marie’s mother has rather lost her wits since she did away with her husband. She could swear they’re out to get her; even the house gets messy on purpose, all by itself. Marie’s twin is living in a hole in the back-garden, small and round as a cherry pip, waiting to be discovered.

  In The Knife Drawer the steak knives grow so hungry that they scream. When the children murder the rent man, things get a little out of hand . . .

  Praise for Padrika Tarrant

  ‘Padrika Tarrant’s imagination is not a comfortable place to be, but it is darkly addictive.’ —Sarah Bower Ink Sweat and Tears blog

  ‘Her language is both precise and arrestingly strange.’ —Nicholas Clee The Guardian

  ‘Tarrant’s stories are images trapped and corralled, temporarily, and put on brief display before they slip off of the page and back into the wilds from which they came.’ —Laura Benedict Notes from the Handbasket blog

  ‘Man Booker juries like small publishers and début novelists, so how about this as the wild card? Tarrant is the author of a collection of (very short) short stories, ‘Broken Things’, which demonstrated her sensitivity, originality and keen sense of the darkness of life. All elements to the fore in this creepy, gothic first novel about a house and its mice.’ —Suzi Feay We Love This Book

  The Knife Drawer

  PADRIKA TARRANT was born in 1974. Emerging blinking from an honours degree in sculpture, she found herself unhealthily fixated with scissors and the animator Jan Svankmajer. She won an Arts Council Escalator award in 2005 and has been working more seriously since then. The Knife Drawer is her second full-length book; Broken Things was published by Salt in 2007. Padrika quite likes sushi, although she tends to pick the fish out. She hates the smell of money.

  Also by Padrika Tarrant

  Broken Things (Salt 2007)

  Published by Salt Publishing Ltd

  12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © Padrika Tarrant, 2011, 2013

  The right of Padrika Tarrant to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.

  Salt Publishing 2011, 2013

  Created by Salt Publishing Ltd

  This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 978 1 84471 984 6 electronic

  for Dawn Echlin and my darling little Jay

  Prologue: Titty Mouse and Tatty Mouse

  from The Golden Book of Fairy Tales, ed. Joseph Jacobs

  TITTY MOUSE AND Tatty Mouse both lived in a house, Titty Mouse went a leasing and Tatty Mouse went a leasing, so they both went a leasing. Titty Mouse leased an ear of corn, and Tatty Mouse leased an ear of corn, so they both leased an ear of corn.

  Titty Mouse made a pudding, and Tatty Mouse made a pudding, so they both made a pudding. And Tatty Mouse put her pudding into the pot to boil. But when Titty went to put hers in, the pot tumbled over, and scalded her to death.

  Then Tatty sat down and wept; then a three-legged stool said, ‘Tatty, why do you weep?’

  ‘Titty’s dead,’ said Tatty, ‘and so I weep.’

  ‘Then,’ said the stool, ‘I’ll hop,’ so the stool hopped.

  Then a broom in the corner of the room said, ‘Stool, why do you hop?’

  ‘Oh!’ said the stool, ‘Titty’s dead, and Tatty weeps, and so I hop.’

  ‘Then,’ said the broom, ‘I’ll sweep,’ so the broom began to sweep.

  Then, said the door, ‘Broom, why do you sweep?’

  ‘Oh!’ said the broom, ‘Titty’s dead, and Tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and so I sweep.’

  ‘Then,’ said the door, ‘I’ll jar,’ so the door jarred.

  Then, said the window, ‘Door, why do you jar?’

  ‘Oh!’ said the door, ‘Titty’s dead, and Tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, and so I jar.’

  ‘Then,’ said the window, ‘I’ll creak,’ so the window creaked.

  Now there was an old form outside the house, and when the window creaked, the form said, ‘Window, why do you creak?’

  ‘Oh!’ said the window, ‘Titty’s dead, and Tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and so I creak.’

  ‘Then,’ said the old form, ‘I’ll run round the house.’ Then the old form ran round the house.

  Now, there was a fine large walnut tree growing by the cottage, and the tree said to the form, ‘Form, why do you run round the house?’

  ‘Oh!’ said the form, ‘Titty’s dead, and Tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, and so I run round the house.’

  ‘Then,’ said the walnut tree, ‘I’ll shed my leaves,’ so the walnut tree shed all its beautiful green leaves.

  Now there was a little bird perched on one of the boughs of the tree, and when all the leaves fell, it said: ‘Walnut tree, why do you shed your leaves?’

  ‘Oh!’ said the tree, ‘Titty’s dead, and Tatty weeps, the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, the old form runs round the house, and so I shed my leaves.’

  ‘Then,’ said the little bird, ‘I’ll moult all my feathers,’ so he moulted all his pretty feathers.

  Now there was a little girl walking below, carrying a jug of milk for her brothers’ and sisters’ supper, and when she saw the poor little bird moult all its feathers, she said, ‘Little bird, why do you moult all your feathers?’

  ‘Oh!’ said the little bird, ‘Titty’s dead, and Tatty weeps, the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, the old form runs round the house, the walnut tree sheds its leaves, and so I moult all my feathers.’

  ‘Then,’ said the little girl, ‘I’ll spill the milk,’ so she dropt the pitcher and spilt the milk.

  Now there was an old man just by on the top of a ladder thatching a rick, and when he saw the little girl spill the milk, he said, ‘Little girl, what do you mean by spilling the milk, that your little brothers and sisters must go without their supper?’

  Then said the little girl, ‘Titty’s dead, and Tatty weeps, the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, the old form runs round the house, the walnut tree sheds all its leaves, the little bird moults all its feathers, and so I spill the milk.’

  ‘Oh!’ said the old man, ‘Then I’ll tum
ble off the ladder and break my neck,’ so he tumbled off the ladder and broke his neck; and when the old man broke his neck, the great walnut tree fell down with a crash, and upset the old form and house, and the house falling knocked the window out, and the window knocked the door down, and the door upset the broom, and the broom upset the stool, and poor little Tatty Mouse was buried beneath the ruins.

  PART ONE

  1

  Knife

  THE GREATEST AMONG creatures is the knife. Metal is old as planets; knives are the most primitive living things. A knife is a locked disaster, dormant for centuries, mostly safe enough for chopping vegetables. One might even forget that a knife is alive.

  Dormant things have no hunger; they have no need at all. This makes them invincible, for they can bide forever if they want to. Knives are lying in wait for the end of the world. A torpid knife doesn’t give a damn what it is used for, nor what meaty hand grips it, however vulnerable; however soft. They are more patient, more dangerous, than stars.

  But sometimes a knife might slice itself awake and sing with the glory of blood. It almost never happens. It’s an unhearable thing and cruel as a dog whistle. The keening of knives sours the milk; it makes dogs howl; causes foxes to devour their young. It gives nightmares to persons who are incapable of speech; it ruptures stomach linings; induces cancer.

  It wakes up other knives and causes scissors, forks and spoons to wail in unison, thinly as tinfoil. The change folds through a population, quick as licking. And it gives them a need. Suddenly, they are hungry.

  2

  The Mother

  WHEN YOU ARE bitten right through with guilt, it gets so that you daren’t say a word, just in case you blurt out a confession instead of the offer of a cup of tea. Everything with eyes might just be able to see inside you, to the thick-molasses gloop that you are trying to conceal. If you are guilty, it becomes a little harder to see; harder to focus on your hand in front of your face; harder to understand the instructions on a packet of soap powder; harder to chase an idea from its beginning to its end.

  Halfway down the hall the mother halted, straightening her back to catch her breath and, irrelevantly, to check the time. It was a quarter to one and her mind was wandering; she found herself worrying about the stains on her dressing gown. They might never come out. She pulled it around herself where it had begun to gape, and then she took the cord in her fists and knotted it tight.

  It was ever so quiet now. You would almost think that there had never been shouting, that the enormous sounds of five minutes ago had been the radio up too loud, or a drunk bellowing at his demons out in the lane, or a figment of a nervous mind. She shuddered and began to wring her sticky hands. The sensation of wet on them made her stop and push at her face instead. Her eye socket was becoming numb; she could feel the swelling purpleness of it, like Ribena poured into a glass of water. In a while, the whole lid would force itself shut, as if it couldn’t bring itself to see any more.

  His shoe got stuck against the corner of the telephone table. When she began to haul him along again, it slipped clean off, leaving the laces still double-bowed, holding tight to an invisible foot. The mother sighed, tired of this hard work already, and let him slump to the floor. She leaned forward, fingers against the tabletop, and fetched it from the carpet by the laces. When she lifted her hand from the varnish, her fingerprints remained there, invisibly filthy.

  The mother stepped over her husband and trod shadows all along the hallway runner, ruining the wallpaper, making the floors a little damp. She stood for a minute, thoughtlessly untying the laces on the shoe, as she realised that she did not have the first idea what to do. Panic set in, quick, like nausea; for the first time, the mother began to quake. She could hardly leave him out for the bin men. Then she scurried forwards, impulsive, desperate to rid her hallway of this thing, and she wrenched open the door to the dining room. The light bulb blew as soon as she flicked the switch, with a sound like a spit. The mother flung the shoe inside and turned away, staring down the length of the bottom landing at the smeary carpet and tatty Christmas trimmings, and the low step that led down to the kitchen, and the body of her husband, gouged right through with her best Sheffield steel.

  A print of The Crying Boy hung slightly outwards from the wall, suspended between picture rail and hooks on either side. A huge, elaborate cobweb threaded the child to his frame as if he had been sewn there with rotten grey yarn. It grew a little as she stood, thickening whenever she looked away, stopping whenever her gaze sharpened. She turned her head quickly, twice, and almost caught it happening.

  The dining room was astounded, full of mice, all crouching very low. The shoe rolled a long way in, the laces flung out sideways. They turned to one another in the dark and wondered. The father was sprawled like some forgotten thing, half looking at the skirting board. He was a heavy weight to lug through a house. Some buttons had popped off his stripy pyjama shirt, and now he looked more ridiculous than brutal; more ridiculous than brutalised, his smart mouth wide open and slack. Suddenly, he didn’t have a thing to say, not one word.

  As the mother looked down at him, as he turned from bully to helpless, she found her energy evaporating, until she could hardly believe what had happened, as though she was lying. She crept up close to the tinsel-wound banisters, taking in the top of his head, the prematurely thinning hair, sweat drying on its crown. Now that he was only meat, she couldn’t imagine what he had been like when he used to be able to move; the mother stood and shook. She could feel her justification oozing through her feet and into the carpet; it left her a tiny bit less solid, a tiny bit translucent; it leached a shade of dye from her lovely salmon dressing gown.

  He was heavier still as she went to pick him up again. When the mother hauled at his arm, the joint at the wrist let out a click and her belly heaved. The mother thought that, just as long as she didn’t have to look at the meat of him any more, she might cling to a shred or two of anger, of having been within her rights. So, she hauled the corpse along the floor and almost put her shoulders out getting it into the dining room. She was lost for breath when she finally heaped him up alongside his yellow-toothed piano, all made silly with paper chains and a cardboard snowman.

  The mother stood, breathing the spilt light from the hallway and gazing blankly at the Christmas tree. One mouse, whose curiosity had bettered him, craned his scruffy neck to see around the piano and stiffened in surprise at what he saw. As he looked from the body to the mother, his eyes caught the light and shined red for an instant. Mother and mouse caught each other’s gaze; both flinched.

  Then the mother dried her palms against her hips and listened to the cooling silence of her husband and the sleeping silences of the babies upstairs. She heard the judder of the wind against the windowpane, and the tension in her muscles. She did not hear the breathing of the magpie that hunched against the shadow of the window frame. The mother held her fingers in her other fingers, as if for safekeeping, and she turned and left the room.

  When the door was shut, the mice came sneaking out,to perch on the dead man’s knees and chest cage, and they stood and gawped and chattered, gleeful and terrified. Delicately, like wine-tasters, they sniffed and nibbled at his hair and sampled the odours of Vosene shampoo and grease, and the sort of criticism that could poison a whole watercourse. His eyes were fixed and dulling, with wide, blown-out pupils. They reflected the dim twinkle of fairy-lights and the shiny plastic garlands that stretched across the ceiling. The curl of his hand was almost pointing at a package tied up with penguin Christmas paper and lumpy Sellotape. Inside it were two identical toy rabbits. The mice had unwrapped a corner.

  The mother dithered on the other side of the door, hesitating among the stains, and she sank to the floor to touch the carpet with her fingers. Then she straightened up and tiptoed out to the scullery for rags and upholstery cleaner.

  When she was done it was nearly dawn and she had pressure b
ruises on her knees. After that, she wondered what to do, and while she was wondering, she crept upstairs to look in at the children. In the nursery, in a large cot, two babies lay side by side in identical romper suits. One, with nothing but a wisp of white fluff on her head, was sleeping like a china doll. The other had coarse hair and brown-black eyes to match. She was lying in her blankets, twisting the edge in her fat little hands and staring at the mother; staring right through to the thick molasses gloop in her.

  And the mice, crowded now in a mob around the body with the knife in it, froze solid still when they felt its blade begin to whine like an ultrasonic violin. And then, as if they’d been held by strings that had all been cut, they split and scatted in every direction, dashing for corners and shadows and safer places.

  Outside, it began to hail.

  3

  Mice

  THE LIVES OF mice are quick as clouds next to the lives of people. The lives of mice are brief and fragile, and their tiny thundering hearts do not have very long to beat. They say that there are only so many heartbeats in a creature, that when they are all drummed out, the creature is spent and it dies. This is only half-right. A creature is limited in time by fear, and mice lead oh-such frightened lives.

  The children of mice learn fear before their eyes open, while they’re still poor little blind things with spaghetti tails. Before a baby mouse has whiskers on its nose, it is afraid, and it digs in tight against the soft hugeness of its mother. For twenty-one nights, each mother holds her mouselings close, whispering to them of death. Then, on the twenty-second, she gives birth again.