I hold a granny smith in my little hand, it is my token against all disaster. It comforts me. I am called Buttercup and I love everything that is yellow. I heard on the Children’s News bulletin that there was an outbreak of Yellow Fever on Christmas Island, and I wondered if that was where all the Christmas trees grew, and if I could catch the fever myself from our tree. It stands now in a bucket of brackish water in the back yard. In our yard there is also an old pram where I keep my pet stoat. He is called Pear, which I think sounds rather Japanese. I like Japanese people because they look yellow. One of my brothers, a particularly horrid boy of indeterminate parentage, calls me Buttercup the Cow, and my pet the Rotting Pear. He doesn’t like me, and tries all the time to rile and torment.
But it doesn’t ever work. I think
placid yellow thoughts, resigning myself to always being the odd girl
out. At least in this family.
After I feed and pet Pear, I go
up to my little cot bed at the top of our house. I enjoy the smell of
my own pillow and rejoice that I am a girl, even if an odd one. Because
if I’d been a boy, I’d have to sleep down there amongst them all.
The boys, all noisy and bothersome, have no interest in the wild life I love.
And they are not at all beguiled by yellow.
The copyright of this post belongs to Valerie Rule