Snow Angel
Page 23
I was neither.
She was always exasperated with me. If I wasn’t under her feet, then I was making myself useful. When I got a bit bigger, I went with her to her cleaning jobs and tried to help where I could. I was a hard worker and I think she was pleased with me. Although she never said much. Life was so much happier when Mum was home. She would find something for me to do, which got me away from the boys, kept me in her sight. I liked being useful. She had a lot to do, what with Dad being the way he was. I was a good girl.
I was a good girl the day of the bus crash. We’d been round at the Timtons’ big old house in Blackheath. I liked the house and the heath with the kiddies flying kites, but not the long walk from the bus stop. That afternoon, Mrs Timton came out as Mum was putting on her coat. She had a small brown envelope in her hand and a biscuit tin under her arm.
“Mary, your wages, dear. One other thing, I’d like you to have these for Nancy. She’s a little trouper and she deserves to be paid.” She smiled a lovely smile and gave me a little wink. I smiled back, but at the same time hid my face behind Mum’s hand.
She handed Mum the biscuit tin. My eyes widened and my mouth began watering.
“Thank you very much, Mrs Timton. That’s very decent of you. Say thank you, Nancy.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it, my dear. You have earned it.”
Mum was chuffed, I could tell. She clutched the tin to her chest on the walk to the stop and placed it on her lap as we settled in for the bus ride. I stared at the pictures on the lid, imagining how each biscuit would taste and deciding which one to eat first.
We were on the top deck, as a treat for me, so we never saw the car coming. They told us later a driver took a chance at the lights in Deptford, rushing through as amber changed to red. A motorbike waiting for the change was quick off the mark and pulled away just a touch early. The car saw him, over-corrected and swung straight into the path of our double-decker. I heard the squeal of brakes a second before my mother’s forearm slammed across my chest.
The force made my bottom slide forward, knees smacking into the seat in front. I began to cry, more through frightened surprise than pain. Mum’s protective gesture towards me left her with one hand to brace herself. Her instinct was to throw her right arm across me and use her left elbow to prevent herself being thrown forward. Her left hand clutched the biscuit tin, which bent, parted and presented a knife-like edge to my mother’s thumb.
That was the first time I saw real blood. My tears and snuffles dried instantly as I watched dark surges of my mother’s blood pour from her hand. Mum’s face was white as she too gazed at the phenomenon. Shouts of anger and outrage came through the windows, as other passengers began to cry or comfort one another. When we bled, Mum stopped it. Now it was my turn. I reached into her pocket for her handkerchief, the spit-and-polish for dirty faces handkerchief. I took her hand and wrapped it around the base of the thumb, careful to hold it as tight as my small chubby fingers would allow. It must have hurt, because Mum flinched and her eyes sharpened.
“Right, Nance, we may as well walk to the next stop, ‘cos this old heap’s not going anywhere.”
“What about your hand?”
“I’ll see to that when I’m home. You’ve done a good job and it’ll hold for now. Up you get.”
It took us another hour to get home, by which time the hanky was soaked through. She went into the bathroom, telling me to make us all a cup of tea. I did as I was told, took Dad’s into the front room and waited for her to come downstairs. She was waxy pale as I passed her a cup of tea with half a sugar. Her hand was neatly bandaged and there was no more blood.
“Well done, Nance. You kept your head. Just knuckled down and got on with it. You’re a good girl, Nancy. Let’s give the boys a shout and tell them we’ve got biscuits, shall we?”
Mum was wrong. I wasn’t a good girl. Those biscuits were for me and I didn’t want to share them with my greedy selfish brothers. I wasn’t good at all.
The front room was for Dad. We were quieter when walking past the door and respectful once inside. We never stayed long because we wore him out, he said. He didn’t seem to mind me so much, because I didn’t like to talk. It was hard for Dad to talk on account of his lungs. Hearing him make conversation would pain you, it sounded such a struggle. The boys, though, couldn’t stay quiet for long. Dad preferred to hear of their achievements and exploits through Mum. Trouble was, when Mum was out and Dad shut up in the front room, the boys had the place to themselves. Sometimes they played on their own, generally something involving shouting and banging. The danger was they’d get bored. If they got bored, they’d come looking for me.
Charlie was the mastermind and Frank always did the dirty work. If ever there was a visible result of their handiwork, Frank copped it. Charlie always appeared distressed about it and would often comfort his trembling little sister. Who would have trembled far less with some distance between me and him. As time passed, Frank grew out of it, found other people to bully. Charlie never stopped.
When they grew older, my big, brave brothers both left home to join the Forces. Frank went into the Army, like our dad, but Charlie was in the RAF. I was happy as a sand-boy, gay all day, singing around the house, as long as Mum was out of earshot. For the first time in my life, I was not terrified and I will always remember those times as pure, perfect happiness.
They came home on leave, throwing my Mother into an enormous panic, using up the whole of our rations in preparation for a banquet. They both behaved like returning heroes, even though neither of them had seen a stroke of action. Frank ignored me, apart from to comment on my beefy arms. Only way she’ll get a decent fella is with an arm-wrestle! Ha ha ha. The rest of the time, I was barely visible, apart from my maid duties. Tea. Ironing. Dinner. Sandwich. Wireless on. Tea. Wireless off. Bottle of beer. And another. Bag to be packed. He wrote to Mum and Dad. I never got a mention. The dog did, once or twice, but not me.
Charlie though. Charlie used to do what he did with Frank. With the eyes. Except he wasn’t whispering to Frank anymore, he’d be talking to our neighbours, telling them about his training routine. Or with Uncle Brian, talking about tactics. Didn’t matter who it was, he’d be watching me, with those eyes. I knew. He knew I knew. I tried asking Mum if I could sleep in with her as I was feeling poorly, but she told me not to be so daft. If you’re going to be sick, you can do it on your own sheets. I just had to wait there, in my own bed, till it was all quiet. Waiting, as I always had, in fear.
He never did it again. Always threatened to, but never did. I don’t know if he was because he was too scared, drunk or cowardly without Frank. I hated him anyway. For the fear. For the shame. For the knowledge that he could, he might, one day.
I did cry when we got the telegram. Mum’s face changed as she read it. She went white as gauze. I thought it was Frank. Not for one second did I think it could be Charlie, the golden boy. Mum sat down heavily on the arm of the good settee, her eyes closed. As gently as I could, I took the telegram and read it slowly. That’s when I started to sob. I slid down to the floor, put my arms round my knees and sobbed. I cried huge, hot tears and said, ‘Oh God, oh God’ over and over again in a cracked, clogged voice. What I meant was, ‘Thank God, thank God’.
Not till a lot later did I realise how badly Charlie’s death affected my mother and father. At the age of about twelve, I was listening to the wireless with Dad and half-watching Mum doing the ironing in the kitchen. Dad started to cough, those creaky heaving coughs which were so painful to hear. I stood to pat him on the back and noticed Mum, head tilted to the ironing board, hands rhythmically removing the creases, tears rolling silently down her face. She hid her sniffs and reached up her sleeve for a hanky. That was when I realised that some people had really loved Charlie.
Not me. I hated him and I am glad he’s dead and buried. Selfish. I know I’m a bad person. No joke, the world will be better off without me.
The sky’s g
etting lighter. It’s today. My last day. Looks like we’ll have nice weather for it.
The complete novel of
An Empty Vessel by Vaughan Mason
is available here:
AN EMPTY VESSEL
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Message from JJ Marsh
Dedication
Acknowledgements
An Empty Vessel