Private Rites

by Julia Armfield

That’s not right, though, Stephanie said when Agnes had finished this story. We heard shouting. Jude and me. We were out on the veranda and it looked like a commotion, people trying to get away from something. Agnes frowned for a second as though in serious thought. I didn’t think I made a scene, she said after a moment. When she came for me that third time she grabbed my hair so hard I thought she was going to pull it out. But I don’t remember people looking. I just pushed her off me. That’s what I remember. I don’t think that’s what happened, Stephanie said. Baby, I think what happened is you screamed when she pulled your hair. I think what happened was everyone was looking when you threw the ashtray. I don’t know, Agnes said, picking at the skin around her thumb for a moment and then looking away. I don’t know how that could be true if it isn’t what I remember. She laid her hands flat on the kitchen table, seemed to inspect each fingernail in turn. When I was little, she continued, I used to think I was being quiet but then my dad would get angry anyway, so I guess it’s possible to be wrong about things. She added, in a low voice: I hate being touched when I’m not expecting it.