Weathering by Lucy Wood

her mother called dimpsy even though Pepper had never heard anyone else call it that. It was hard to see the next picture and when she looked up it had suddenly gone very dark, the sky turning the same green as boggy water. The wind knocked against the house. Lightning lit the sky like an X-ray, showing the pale bones of the trees. Pepper stood in the window and watched, remembering her own bones showing up on a screen when she’d swallowed that bit of metal which was stuck in her chest.
    There was a low rumble of thunder. ‘Come up here and watch,’ her mother called down.
    The house stank of wet paint and Pepper could taste it in the back of her throat. She went upstairs and into the room her mother was sleeping in. The wind shook the window. ‘I got born in a storm,’ she said.
    ‘Just after,’ her mother said. She was holding a paintbrush with cream paint on it, the same boring colour the walls were anyway.
    ‘And the nurse said I cried louder than all the thunder.’
    Her mother picked out bits of brush that had stuck to the wet paint on the wall. ‘I don’t think she did. All that woman talked about was her apple tree; how she had crates of apples all over her house that were rotting.’
    ‘Louder than all the thunder,’ Pepper said. It was better to be born in a storm than just after one.
    They leaned against the window and watched. Huge thundery booms and gusts of wind. White sheets of lightning. The reflection of the rain rippled over their skin. The thunder was right above their heads – it sounded like the sky was cracking. More lightning, then more, and Pepper didn’t want it to stop, crack after crack of thunder. But there were longer gaps in between now, and the thunder was quieter, the lightning flashed less bright. She willed the storm to come back but the clouds moved apart, the sky turned grey again and the quiet was almost too much to bear.
    ‘You can do some painting if you want,’ her mother said. She turned away from the window and went back over to the wall.
    Pepper pressed her forehead against the cold glass. The paint was sour in her throat, the horrible rasping of the brush against plaster, just so that man could come and see if he wanted to buy the house.
    ‘It’s not going to be for much longer,’ her mother said. ‘OK?’
    A shivery feeling rushed over Pepper. She covered her ears, la la la. If only the storm would come back. She closed her eyes and then opened them again. The sky was the same old grey and the wind had calmed right down. She went over to the wall and stood in front of the bit her mother was painting.
    ‘I’ve got to get this done,’ her mother said.
    Pepper stayed where she was and when her mother tried to lift her she made herself as heavy as she could. It was easy: all you had to do was go completely slack and imagine your legs were made of the heaviest metal in the world, whatever that was.
    ‘You’re a bloody lump.’
    ‘You are,’ Pepper said. ‘You are.’
    Her mother tried to move her again. ‘Stop being boring,’ she said. She touched the paintbrush lightly against Pepper’s cheek.
    Pepper clutched at her face. ‘My eye,’ she said. ‘I can’t see anything.’ She staggered around and bumped into the wet wall, then she lay down on the floor and covered her face with her hands.
    Her mother sighed and went over to the window. She tucked her hair behind her ears, tucking and tucking over and over. There was the faintest rumble of thunder in the distance.
    Pepper stayed on the floor and watched her mother from between her fingers. They both knew she was faking it. After a while, Pepper went over and stood next to her. Very close but not touching.
    ‘Maybe we should play the hiding game,’ her mother said.
    ‘We probably should,’ Pepper told her. Already running through her mind where she could hide. She always found the good places. She had hidden in the loft of one house and stayed there all afternoon – her mother hadn’t even known