IT’S TIME

by Rachael Dytor

  I glance up at the kitchen and see movement. Bless her, mother has clearly been watching the scene unfold, she knows her fate. As we make our way back into the kitchen, however, she’s sitting there in the same seat as though she’d never moved. The only difference in the scene is that Jess is now lying at her feet. She doesn’t lay there long; the stench has clearly piqued her interest and she’s up on her haunches sniffing the air. “We’ve got you a wee treat, Mary girl! A little mud pie for you so you can join in with the birthday celebrations.” His voice has lost the wild anger and has been replaced with a boyish giddy excitement, he is loving every minute of this. “Out of the way, Thomas; let me do the honours, I want to plate it up for her.”

  I sit down next to mother and whilst he busies himself plating up the disgusting offering, I reach my hand out under the table and find her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. She reciprocates and squeezes my hand back. I just want to guide her out of here; to run away somewhere far away from this stinking hell hole but she releases her grip, and I am forced to also move my hand back. With his back to us I sneak a look over – he is in his element. He has used one of mother’s scone cutters and has created a perfectly formed little dung pie placing it smack, bang in the centre of her plate. Jess is in on the action; both her paws are up on the counter next to him, eager to see what he’s up to, the smell too much for her to resist. He pushes her off. “Fuck off, Jess, you stupid mutt. OK ‘et voila’, Mary; especially for you, a little Mississippi mud pie – ‘Bon Appetit’!”

  He places it in front of her and the tiniest little voice pipes up, “No.” It was so faint I was unsure whether I’d imagined it or not but clearly I hadn’t for he’d heard it too.

  “No?! No?! You are to deny me, woman?” With that he pulls her chair away from the table and stands in front of her, towering over her, standing between her and the plate. “Mary so help me God if you don’t clear that plate up and lick it clean you just wait for it; you do not want to take me on!” His voice is now booming, the words reverberating around the small room. “Do I make myself clear?” he says, the words coming out in staccato fashion, a pause between each emphasising that he is not messing about. With a flourish he bends over; his face right on hers; his hands steadying himself by holding onto the top of her chair. “Well?”

  In the same little meek voice, “Yes.”

  “Yes what, bitch?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Aah good,” he says, the bluster now gone and he’s back to being Mr cool, calm, and collected. “Well don’t let me stop you then, tuck right in.” He moves out of the way and pushes her chair back in towards the table. Then he makes his way back around to the head of the table and gaily takes a large swig of the amber liquid.

  There’s silence and no movement from either mother or myself, neither of us ready to ‘tuck right in.’ He’s ever ready with instructions though. “Right, you two, how will we do this? Bite for bite or dive right in?” If he’s wanting a response, he gets none as we remain silent. He’s oblivious to this and ploughs on. “Oh how remiss of me! We haven’t sung Happy Birthday to Thomas!”

  This really is beyond weird. To the onlooker I imagine it’d look like a happy scene; mother and father singing Happy Birthday lovingly to their son, ready to tuck into a ‘cake’ to celebrate, but the reality was a far cry. He goes for it, belting the song out; the whisky clearly starting to take effect along with the heady anticipation he is experiencing over his latest punishment. Mother’s contribution is barely audible and I feel my heart breaking for her as she knows her fate at the end of the song.

  When it’s over he signals for us to begin and I find I have no appetite; feeling yet again sick to my stomach so I can only imagine the horrors mother is enduring. I’m aware of movement to my left and realise she’s picked up her fork. I am momentarily frozen, unable to move a muscle; gripped by this sickening scene. He doesn’t miss a beat. “What are you waiting for, son, eat up!” Reluctantly I too raise my fork. The combination of smells in the room from the chocolate and cow dung is a vile cocktail. There is a momentary pause and silence before the next sound – mother’s fork being placed back down on the table and she barely whispers, “I’m sorry, Sir, I can’t do it.”

  I expect to hear him roar and confront her, but he goes eerily silent as he contemplates his next move.

  “I’ll give you one more chance, eat up, Mary – now!”

  I’m thrown as mother turns her gaze towards him, looking him in the face and replies, “I’m sorry Bert, I can’t do it.” He will lose it now; we are not allowed to give him eye contact. What was she thinking?

  He blows his top. He sends his glass flying across the table, the contents pouring everywhere, and it smashes into little pieces as it makes contact with the edge of the sink. Jess lets out a whimper and I said a silent prayer that it was over the noise and not a little shard getting into her paw or her face. He is over at her chair in a flash. “OK you insolent bitch, I’ll teach you a lesson.” He grabs the back of her head and pushes it downwards with force onto the steaming muck. “Eat it up now, bitch!” I want to lunge at him for what he has put her through. He transitions again from fury to giddy excitement, “That’s it, little piggy! Oink oink! Eat up, that’s a good girl.” He momentarily turns his attention away from her and looks towards me. “Well what are you waiting for, boy? Your mother is tucking right in so get that muffin into you.”

  I can hear all sorts of strained muffled noises coming from mother as she battles to catch a breath. I panic – is he going to let her come up for air? “Please,” I hear myself say. “Please Sir, let her breathe.” It takes him some time to register I’ve spoken; his focus solely back on torturing mother and when he does, he’s clearly happy to continue to let her suffer.

  “Aww isn’t that lovely, Mary, the lad is full of concern for you; haven’t you done a good job of raising him.” The panic I felt earlier has now escalated beyond anything I have ever experienced before as I see she’s now thumping the palms of her hands on the table. Fortunately, the noise of this shakes his reverie and he loosens his grip on the back of her head. Like a drown victim bursting through the surface of the water to get air, her head whips up at break-neck speed and a huge, panicked gasp ensues as she gets that blessed oxygen into her lungs.

  I realise I am off my seat and need to re-position myself in my chair before he notices but I’m unable to as my legs are rooted to the spot like two solid oak trees. My body is rendered motionless as I take in the horrific scene before me. Mother is still eagerly gasping for air; this is her priority. Her survival instinct having kicked in. Dealing with the mess and the degradation of what he’s done to her obviously secondary at this point. I, however, am simply left with this vision of my beautiful mother looking like something from a horror movie, bits of cow dung plastered all over her face and hair; the unrelenting stench doing nothing to quell the unease in my stomach. I needn’t worry about being unable to take my place back at the table for mother has grabbed his attention again. Obviously now that her lungs have recovered somewhat, the rest of her bodily functions have taken over and with an unimaginable force she expels everything in her stomach, the projectile vomit bursting forth with such ferocity, some of it makes contact with the wall opposite us. How is he going to react to this? That’s both of us now been sick, this is not going to go down well.

  With all this going on, I hadn’t been aware of James and Caroline’s presence in the room. James like myself is aghast at the spectacle, seeing mother like that covered in a mixture of excrement and vomit. He is ashen and momentarily unable to utter a word (I know how he feels). Then, “No, no, no!”

  “Shhhh,” I attempt to silence him, but Caroline is straight in there.

  “You’ve taken it too far, you brute, enough!”

  “OK Caroline, I know, sweetheart, but hush, please!” I sit back down at the table, now praying for an end in sight.

  “What’s that? What’s going on and what is all the
mumbling about?”

  I speak on behalf of us all, not wanting my siblings to jeopardise things any further. “Nothing Sir, sorry Sir.” It seems enough to pacify him as he turns back towards mother.

  “You really are a stinking bitch, Mary, look at the state of you! No-one in their right mind would want you, what was I thinking? Not even good for one thing if I’m honest but let’s spare your blushes and not get into that with prying ears listening in. Fuck it, I’ve had enough, I don’t want to spend another minute in your company, you pathetic excuse for a woman. Just don’t even think about cleaning yourself up until this place is spotless!”

  Whilst he reads her the riot act, Caroline whispers in my ear, “If you don’t do something about him soon, I’m going to take matters into my own hands. I can’t put up with this any longer. He needs locked up and the key thrown away.”

  Under my breath I whisper back, “He’s still our father.” Who am I trying to kid? I know his behaviour is outrageous and I often fantasise about leaving but there’s still a part of me which is pulled towards staying here. I’ve reasoned over the recent years that this is borne out of a need to protect mother but what if I was falling victim to Stockholm Syndrome?

  “Father, father?!” Caroline presses on. “He’s not worthy of the title.”

  I am shifting back and forth in my seat now, petrified that he is tuned into the conversation, but he is too busy finishing off ranting at mother. James, who is on the other side of me, chips in too, “She’s right you know, no one should have to live like this.” I decide the best way to deal with the two of them is to simply not interact. This works only for a short moment as there is no pacifying Caroline.

  “Thomas, I love you, you know that, but I’m starting to think it’s not only mother who needs to grow a backbone!” Mercifully, they’re both now quiet; Caroline having got this off her chest. I didn’t think it was possible to feel worse than I had before but with her parting comment I’ve sunk to a new low and I can feel a simmering rage in my stomach directed not towards Caroline but towards him. You have done this, I think to myself, you’ve tortured us and now you’re turning my siblings against me!

  At that moment I start to wonder what I could be capable of. The mental anguish is too much to bear, and I feel as though I’m coming undone, ready to explode. Thankfully he beats a retreat and storms back through to the dining room and fixes another large Scotch then slams the door shut, leaving us to it. I can now properly engage with mother but I’m not sure what to do or say. I venture a meek “Mother” and I get off my seat, arms outstretched to give her a hug, but she backs off, too ashamed with the state she is in and says simply, “It’s OK, son, you go to your room, sweetheart, I’ll see to this. Sorry about everything on your birthday too of all days.” Sorry about everything! She is apologising for him! I can feel that hot fury bubbling away again. I am fit to burst!

  “He shouldn’t be allowed to do this to you, mother.” I realise Caroline’s words are having an impact on me as I normally avoid the subject, fearful of making things worse for her. I look at her and her eyes are full of sadness. Sad for the wretched life she’s living and sad for the impact he’s having on the rest of us. She doesn’t know how to fix this. Of course she doesn’t, otherwise she’d have found a way out long ago so she simply reverts to the usual tactic of cleaning up the mess and brushing the incident under the carpet as though it had never happened. Her eyes are pleading with me to leave her to it, and I relent, then motion to James and Caroline to join me.

  Caroline has to have a final say though, she can’t help herself, “One of these days he’ll take it to the next level and you’re not going to walk out of here.” I turn around to see my mother before leaving the room and for once she hasn’t just ‘jumped to it’ busying herself cleaning the place. She is slouched in one of the chairs, looking as though all fight and hope and resolve have left her body entirely. A solitary tear traces its way down her cheek, navigating its journey past stinking excrement and vomit.

  CHAPTER 12

  Janey

  W

  ith work still thinking I am unwell, I waste no time in making final preparations to set off. It was difficult saying goodbye to Michael. Not because he was upset, far from it. He was over the moon to get to spend a few days with Lucas and Amy’s cooking is legendary, so I know he is more than well taken care of. It was more that I didn’t like lying to him about why I’m heading up there. I made up an excuse about work being so hectic lately and needing some time out. “Whilst your father is working through the day I’ll relax or do a little sightseeing then catch up with him later, it’ll be just what I need.” Bless him, he didn’t ask once to join me, sensing from the thread of conversation that I was looking forward to some ‘time out.’

  We hugged briefly on Amy’s doorstep then he was off in search of Lucas, leaving Amy and I alone. I thank her again for taking Michael in and she waves it off as though it was no big deal then steps towards me and squeezes me in an unusually tight embrace. Amy always has been very intuitive, and I sense she knows there’s more to this trip than meets the eye. Being held like that fires up some of my pent-up emotion and I’m so close to telling her everything, imagining some of the relief I’d feel at sharing the weight of this heavy burden I’m carrying about just now. But thankfully, she loosens her grip and takes a step backwards before I have a chance to blurt out anything I would later regret. She looks me directly in the eyes and says, “Don’t hesitate to call anytime, Janey, if there’s anything at all. I’m here and don’t worry about Michael, he’ll be well taken care of.” I thank her again and head towards the car.

  I set out on the long journey northwards. My stomach is churning, and a dull throbbing sensation is ever present at my temples with all the thoughts turning over and over in my mind. There are too many loose ends to tie up and the only way to address this is face to face. I know this truth, but I vision standing before him and hearing something awful then see myself going to pieces. To quell the unease, I turn the radio on and try to immerse myself. But my brain has other ideas. It is a clever fellow and persistent in its quest to keep pulling me back in towards the churning anxious thoughts. I decide to wait until I reach Portree and get settled into the apartment before contacting him. If I phoned him now and told him about my plans, I am certain he would do everything he could to get me to turn around.

  It is inky black when I arrive at my destination. When I pull up at the apartment and exit the car, I gaze heavenward and see a blanket of stars. With very little light pollution on Skye the stars are on display in all their glory. It is breath-taking and I realise I have been star gazing for quite some time as my neck aches when it snaps back into position.

  Well Thomas, you certainly have chosen well! I’m looking over the harbour and the lights from all the properties surrounding the harbour are twinkling and give the whole place a mystical, ethereal quality. The sound of the waves lapping up is hypnotic. It is captivating at night, but I imagine through the day it will be equally captivating or even more so as the colours explode.

  Wearily I haul my luggage out of the car and drag it in the direction of the apartment. Once inside I am pleasantly surprised, and it lifts my mood. It is very quaint. Someone with a keen eye has been involved in dressing the place, picking out some beautiful bespoke pieces. I particularly like the brass telescope set in front of the picture window which I see holds the same view out over the harbour I had just bore witness to. There is also a wood burner and large stockpile of wooden blocks sitting adjacent to it so before I do anything, I set about getting the fire going.

  In no time at all I have a roaring fire and the sight and smell of it seem to evoke a sense of calm in me. I start wandering around the apartment, finishing up in the kitchen where to my surprise there is a welcome basket. Happily, I realise I won’t have to leave my cosy fire because the owner has provided some pasta and accompanying sauce. Perhaps not my favoured cuisine but it certainly beats trailing around outside l
ooking for food after the long day I’ve had so I quickly rustle this up.

  With feet up resting and a full belly I feel somewhat contented and decide to phone Thomas. I realise just the thought of phoning him has caused my whole body to tense up then I chastise myself for feeling like this. This is the man I fell in love with and went on to marry. He has to be given a chance to explain everything. He answers after only a couple of rings and it takes me by surprise (I was half expecting the call to go straight to voicemail).

  We start by going through all the pleasantries. Then I enquire about what he’s been up to today and I get fed a pack of lies about how he’s visited one of the potential candidates for the position; him going into great detail about the imaginary fellows credentials and it simply becomes too much to bear. I’m straight out with it, “You’re lying to me.” I give him the opportunity to change his story and tell the truth instead.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Janey.”

  He’s not going to give me any other version of events, so I press on; “I know you’re lying to me because I’ve spoken with your work when I was unable to contact you and they told me there was no recruitment drive so I’ll ask you again, what were you up to today, Thomas, and where are you now?”

  There’s silence on the other end of the line. He is clearly gathering himself and fine tuning his cover story. I don’t interrupt, too interested in what he’s got to say for himself. Eventually, “I’m sorry, Janey. It’s quite hard to explain and I don’t like lying to you, but I said what I said thinking it was the best way to deal with the situation to avoid you getting involved or upset. I’m sorry if you’ve been worried but please don’t be. I am in Skye on a personal matter, but it is honestly nothing for you to worry about. Just give Michael a big hug from me.”