WISHBONE
an excerpt

CHAPTER 5

1978

"You have to let it dry out first," she had insisted the day before when they had eaten the chicken for dinner and he had been the one to find it on his plate.

"Oh, okay then," he had complied, putting it on the side of his plate.

He couldn't remember being so particular about it 'having to dry out' all the times he had done it throughout his life - was sure that he and whoever, had pulled the thing there and then. But maybe, once or twice - more for all he knew - just maybe it had been dry when he had pulled it. Either way, it had never made much difference. It had never rewarded him. But of course why should it? It was just a piece of chicken bone, for Christ's sake.

And now here they were, a day later - the wishbone having apparently dried out enough - each of them hooking a little finger around a stem of the inverted 'V'.

"Make a wish," she said. "But don't say it out loud!"

"Okay." He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, exaggerating the gesture for effect. "Are you sure you don't want to keep it instead of snapping it?" he asked her.

"It's not snapping it. It's making a wish. The only way you can make a wish is by doing it this way, or it doesn't work. Silly"

"Right," he said.

I've got news for you, kid: it doesn't work. Never has for me anyway. I must have snapped (or whatever you want to call it - doesn't matter, it's much the same end result: two pieces instead of one) one of these things God knows how many times during my lifetime, but I can't remember once any of my wishes coming true. Story of my life. And don't expect it to be any different for you, kiddo.

But of course he didn't say that. He didn't want to shatter the innocent faith that the youngster had - her belief that it would work. And by Christ why should he want to? A bit of faith these days seemed sorely lacking in the world. Instead, most of the population seemed obsessed with the immediate, physical, material stuff. So more power to the Faith elbow. Heck it might even make the world a better place, if only by a small fraction: by a single child. Don't expect it to make any significant difference, but this moment could be a defining moment in this child's life. The moment that she got her priorities right, when so many of her friends would be getting it so wrong. Obsessed by looks, weight. Expensive perfume. Fast and expensive cars. All the stuff - the shit really - that didn't matter much at all, but, ironically, most people thought did matter.

"Ready?" she wanted to know.

"Yep, ready."

"On three!"

"Okay. On three."

"And no cheating," she warned him.

I'm not quite sure how I'm meant to be able to do that, he thought. "I won't cheat, don't worry."

It was a comical sight really: the two of them facing each other, eyes squeezed shut tight, faces creased up. The taller one - a man in his mid-forties; the other, much shorter - a young girl three months short of her ninth birthday. And between them, held by two hooked pinky fingers - again each very different in size - was a piece of dried out chicken bone, more commonly and optimistically known as a wishbone.

"One..."

He risked a peek between scrunched up eyelids. It was a big mistake. She was doing the same.

"No peeking!"

"Well you were."

"I was making sure you weren't, and I knew you would be."

"And I was making sure you weren't, and you were."

"Don't argue."

That told him.

"Yes, sir!" he said, feeling put in is place. Even so young, she had to win the argument. He wondered what she would be like when she was older. A natural boss, that much was obvious. Someone who loved to argue, to spar. She would probably become a barrister. A Judge even. A politician. God!... He quickly pushed the image of a Maggie Thatcher Mark 2 from his mind.

She blew out an annoyed sigh. "We'll have to start again now."

"Right then. I'm sorry."

"So you should be. This is the last chance or it won't work. We need to take it seriously. And keep your eyes closed."

"I am taking it seriously." For some reason, he actually felt like bursting out laughing. The situation was growing amusing. He could suddenly see it from a bystander's point of view, witnessing this spectacle. Maybe his mind's eye made it appear funnier than it actually was, but he doubted it could be much different.

"Let's go," he said, stifling a giggle and hoping she didn't notice.

"One..." she said.

He tightened his little finger around the matchstick thin bone. Felt her do the same.

"Two..."

Lord, he prayed she would win the split second tug-of-war. That she would get the larger half so that she could cling on to the hope that her wish might come true. He couldn't care less. Numerous failed wishes over a lifetime of forty-four years had made him cynical, destroyed his faith in virtually everything and anything. Besides, it was just a piece of chicken bone. How could it, logically, have any power to grant anyone's wishes? And where did it all come from? Was there a story behind it? A reason why they were called such things? Did it date back to when chickens where first sacrificed, did that have something to do with it? Was there some other myth or legend? He had no idea. Maybe he should look it up and find out.

But she was young, uncorrupted by the harsh realities of life. Hope, like faith, was something positive. Heck, if hope was enough of a driving force for that Luke Skywalker fella and the rebels in that brilliant (even he had now seen it three times, dragged into the cinema - not unwillingly - by his daughter) new blockbuster film Star Wars: A New Hope, then it was good enough for his daughter. But then, we all need hope. Some - those less corrupted by time and experience - found it harder to find.

And so he did actually make a wish. He wished with all his heart and mind, and body and soul that she would get the larger half of the bone. That she would have the gift of a wish come true.

"Three!"

She pulled. He just kept some resistance. He had no idea what was the best way to do it in order to let the other person win, so just let her do all the work and hoped for the best.

The was a barely audible snap. Even quieter than the breaking of a matchstick. He still had his eyes closed, yet could feel the slim bone against his little finger. But now there was no resistance and his hand, fist still clenched, bobbed up and down, unfettered.

Please let her have the larger half. Let my daughter's wish come true.

He opened his eyes, took a moment to focus...

The delight on her face surprised him. He hadn't expected a look of such apparent joy. She tended to put on a brave face most of the time, tried to hide her emotions; did her best to play the grown up. But for a few wonderful seconds his young daughter - his pride and joy - dropped her guard. It was as though she'd won the lottery.

"I win. My wish will come true."

"Yes, your wish will come true." He moved towards her, put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her close to him. The humour he had felt mere seconds earlier was now washed away by a sudden wave of emotion. Christ, he loved her. He loved her so much.

"But I can't tell you, or it'll never come true."

"No, don't tell me. Don't tell anyone, Susan."

"It might be today, it might be tomorrow, it might be in twenty years time, but my wish will come true, I know it."

"It will." He ran his hand down one of her pigtails, then stroked the top of her head.

"I'm going to keep it. Forever." Susan told him. "If I keep it, my wish will come true."

And, as he rubbed Susan's shoulders and pulled her even closer, he didn't doubt that she would keep it. Wouldn't be surprised if she kept it for the rest of her life.

And Susan Blake kept her word.