IT’S TIME: COULD YOU RISK YOUR SANITY TO SAVE YOURSELF?

by Rachael Dytor

  Beatrice responds, “Mr Taylor please can you leave now and let us see to Mary.” This wasn’t a question; it was an instruction and I grudgingly left, which was a shame. It would’ve been just the ticket to see them restraining her and perhaps giving her a shot of something to calm her down. No matter, I’ll just have to imagine that scene in my head. Well George, I think I’ve done a good job there and make no mistake. I almost skip out of the care home feeling giddier than I have done in years.

  CHAPTER 5

  April 1998

  I

  awaken as usual to the noise of the animals. I hear the rooster singing his morning song, imagining him striding along proudly showing off his plumage. He’s closely followed by the hens. It’s lambing time so we have to keep a close eye on the ewes. They are hardy beasts and are used to the tough terrain of the Inner Hebrides and can easily lamb outside, but we have to be aware in case any lambs get stuck in the birthing process, so I keep an ear out for the sound of an ewe giving birth but I hear nothing.

  This is my favourite time of the day, early morning when I am alone with no pressure to do anything or be anywhere. I know I could sleep on a bit longer but I’ve trained myself to wake when the rooster calls so I can have some precious time to myself. I lose myself in my imagination. I wonder what it would be like to be living in a foreign country; to be a different race or religion. Having never left Skye and only ever left the croft to go to school or accompany mother once every few weeks to do food shopping, my imagination was my sanctuary. I fantasize about what it would be like to be rich and live in a fancy house with fancy clothes. Imagine having a butler to chauffeur you around to a posh restaurant or clean up after you because frankly you couldn’t be bothered. Or imagine living as a nomad in the desert, what would that be like? The blazing sun on your face and your camel by your side. The weather on Skye could be wild at times and blazing sun was not a frequent commodity so I pause on this thought and imagine the sun warming my whole body.

  My happy dreamscape is broken into shards as the jarring voice of father penetrates through my fantasy. “Thomas! Thomas, move it, boy! Shift your lazy carcass.” With a heavy heart I jump out of bed and set about going downstairs as quickly as possible. I know not to delay as this only aggravates him. The school has broken for the Easter holidays and this is not good news. Whilst most of my schoolmates are happy to just ‘chill out’, I know I will have endless work to do on the croft and no escape from father. I don’t necessarily love school, but it provides me with a welcome escape for a few hours each day.

  Father had adopted his usual position, head of the table sitting waiting to be served. Mother I know is always first up in the household, fetching the eggs from the barn and preparing everything just so, just how father likes it. We’re not allowed to speak at the breakfast table so we sit in silence which I find excruciating because I can’t bear the noise of him eating. His jaw makes a really odd sound as he chews, and he never eats with his mouth closed so we are all subjected to the pleasure of watching him turning over his food. I see mother anxiously flitting here and there in the kitchen, unable to sit down – she’s waiting to see if there’s anything wrong with the food she’s plated up which undoubtedly there normally is but I pray today everything is to his liking.

  I consider what Caroline, James, and Juliet make of the situation and deduce that they are my co-conspirators in the loathing for the disgusting pig-like way father munches his breakfast down and then the ensuing stony silence we find ourselves in. We know better than to utter a single word. Perhaps if I were allowed to eat myself, I could focus on my food and the noises I make when eating but we’re not allowed to eat until father is finished and has granted us permission to begin. So, we have no other option than to listen to him slavering and slurping away, that godforsaken jaw of his banging in tandem.

  He has the same cooked breakfast each morning consisting of three rashers of bacon (fat removed); two fried eggs (well done); two sausages and beans. It looks promising this morning, he’s almost finished, and it appears as though everything is to his liking. He only has one egg to polish off then, all being well, we can eat. He starts off with the yolk, puncturing it with his fork and I watch in horror as a small slither of yellow liquid escapes from the centre. Mother hasn’t yet noticed the scene unfolding as she is busy at the sink already clearing away the frying pan and utensils. He doesn’t shout or make a scene straight away … he very carefully lays both knife and fork down and sits back in the chair, arms folded in contemplation. This isn’t good. I know better than to glance over at him, so I stare down at the table. He is being very calculated about how he’s going to deal with her misdemeanour.

  Out of the corner of my eye I notice one of his hands reach for the fried egg then drop it on the floor. The noise stops mother in her tracks. With no other sound in the kitchen other than the noise of her washing dishes, when the egg makes contact with the floor the sound is amplified.

  “Mary,” he says in a quiet menacing fashion. “Get over here.” I want to stop this right now before he dishes out whatever punishment he has in store. Every part of my being wants to protect and shield her. I am frozen though, ashamedly frightened for my own skin. My heart is telling me to protect her, and my head renders my body motionless and speech mute. I hear the shuffle of her feet as she makes her way towards us, the shuffle of the condemned. Still no shouting but he simply says, “Get on the floor and eat that excuse for an egg up, no hands.”

  This is degrading. I am quite sure she’d have preferred a telling off or a quick slap, but this was his forte, dreaming up new ideas to break you down and here is the latest, mother on all fours eating like a dog off the floor and making her do it with an audience. I know he will be savouring the moment; engrossed in the spectacle so I consider whether I could risk a glance over. I cast my eyes towards him and see him totally relaxed, slung back in the chair; raptured with the very edges of the corners of his mouth upturned in a menacing grimace. He was loving this. Do I dare cast my eyes towards mother? I don’t want to see this, my precious mother eating like a dog off the floor but a small part of me holds a morbid fascination and I look over. I knew straight away this was a mistake. This scene I know will be etched in my brain forever. Because she wasn’t allowed to use her hands and the egg hadn’t been chopped up into manageable pieces, she was floundering and failing; bits of it entering her mouth and bits dotted over her face and body. With the yolk not solidified she had yellow stains on her teeth and face.

  I willed him to just put her out of her misery and call an end to this but in a further shameful act he took his plate, not uttering a word, then proceeded to smash it within an inch of her face on the floor. This caused mother’s body to buck backwards. He was ready for her. He pushed her back down and told her to lick the remains of the yolk clean off the plate then tidy up ‘her mess’ afterwards. Dutifully she obliged. I’m sure it was only a couple of minutes, but it seemed to be an eternity before it was over.

  I was aware of father shifting in his seat, so I quickly reverted my gaze downward to the table. He turned his attention to the rest of us. “Move it; no breakfast for you here this morning. Go and feed the sheep … NOW!” For once I was more than happy to leave the table without a morsel of food. I knew if I were to try to eat anything there’s no way I’d be able to hold it down. I could already feel the bile rising in my throat and did my best to swallow it back down.

  I wish I could slip back into my fantasy world where none of this torment existed. I just wanted to wrap my arms around mother to tell her everything will be OK, but I know that’s not the case. There is no way she’ll leave him she’d be too frightened to. She would be forever looking over her shoulder wondering when he was coming for her.

  When I was younger, I used to just think this was the way of things and that everyone’s household was the same, but now I know better. I’ve seen the interaction between my classmates and their fathers and it’s in stark contrast to my reality. They
have a loving relationship. I look on with envy as I see fathers gently ruffling their son’s hair and embracing one another as they meet them at the school gates. There is no loaded silence, just easy chat with the fathers displaying a genuine interest and enthusiasm to hear how their beloved son’s day went.

  This is another fantasy of mine. I often imagine myself as being that boy at the school gates with a loving father; stood there with open arms ready to greet me. He doesn’t have father’s face; it doesn’t matter too much what his face looks like and it can change frequently as I drop into the fantasy, but it’s never been father as this would turn my fantasy into a nightmare. At least there are still some parts of me he can’t penetrate.

  We had experienced a harsh winter and it had been unforgiving on the land. Grass was in short supply, so the ewes needed an extra supplement as they were heavily pregnant, so I haul a couple of buckets of sileage up to them in the nearby field. I deposit the buckets in the feeding tray and watch as they lumber their way over, unable to move at their usual speed whilst carrying their heavy loads. As they make light work of the sileage I turn my attention to my siblings.

  James I see is already up to no good. I don’t know what he’s doing but he’s out of sight and that’s never a good sign. Juliet is by my side, helpful as always. I’m seriously concerned about what impact father’s antics are having on her. She is way too young to be witnessing his behaviour.

  I ask her, “Are you OK?”

  She beams up at me. “Yes, don’t worry, Thomas, I’m fine thanks.” Still that beautiful nature of hers. I hope and pray that his actions aren’t chipping away at it.

  I risk pushing a little further and the words are out before I realise it, “I wish mother would just leave him.” A pained look flashes across her face as she considers how to respond but thinks better of it and decides not to answer. I’ve pushed too far, and I’m annoyed with myself. She’s young and is dealing with this in her own way, lord knows I can relate. If that involves pushing it away and not talking about it then I respect that. We are all just trying to find a way to deal with it.

  Now the feed is out it’s time to check the water bute to ensure there’s plenty water there for the ewes. I see Caroline has busied herself with this task. When complete she takes a seat on a large boulder adjacent to the water bute. Her posture tells me everything I need to know even before a single word is uttered. She is slumped forwards, her long hair dangling around her face. There is enough space on the boulder, so I sit down next to her.

  As the eldest I always feel a duty to look after my younger brother and sisters. With mother preoccupied the majority of the time with matters around the croft and trying to pacify and please father, the majority of what my siblings have learned around the place has come from me.

  I adopt a different tactic this time. Caroline can be fragile so rather than start a conversation I simply put an arm around her. We sit like that for a few minutes in a comfortable silence. Then she breaks the silence.

  “She’s weak you know.”

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “She’s weak, Thomas. Mother is weak, she should just stand up to him or pack her bags and get out. Why does she put up with it?”

  “Well perhaps she can’t see any way out.”

  Caroline pauses as she considers this and comes back with, “Possibly, but if it were me I’d find a way, I’d get the bastard back for what he’d done.”

  Her words shock me. Caroline at this point is young too and I’d never heard her use language like this. Even thinking about how she’d plot revenge on father. She was old beyond her years and it scared me. Was this the stamp he’d imprinted on her? Caroline was quite a shy character but clearly the damage has left a simmering fury there.

  As I consider how to react, I end up not responding at all for I hear James rampaging in the adjacent field chasing an ewe who’d managed to escape through a hole in the fence. He is way too exuberant – she’s heavily pregnant and scaring her could have drastic consequences for the unborn lamb. Rather than shout over and cause more noise I run over to lend a hand. Between us we coax her back into the correct field and she quickly re-joins the flock. It took some doing and we both collapse onto our backs on the grass. Too exhausted to tell him off I just lie prone and then a noise breaks the silence. It’s laughter. James starts with a little chuckle then it’s a full-on hearty belly laugh. It’s infectious and I join in. He takes to his feet and does an impression of the pregnant ewe; legs akimbo cluelessly darting this way and that then it all becomes too much, and he falls down again rolling about the grass in fits of laughter. I am so grateful to this boy. He has provided us with a welcome distraction and lifted our spirits, for now at least.

  CHAPTER 6

  T

  hankfully I awaken this morning having managed to get some sleep. It felt as though my body shut down with exhaustion last night, leaving my mind no other option than to eventually follow suite and surrender too. I gaze over and see Janey lying there. She’s normally up and about by now but perhaps she’s benefitted from a night when her husband hasn’t been tossing and turning the whole time. I know she’d want me to rouse her as she’s going to be late, but she just looks so peaceful I can’t bring myself to do it. At least with some sleep on board I might be able to piece things together. Yes, a clear head is what I need to think about how to deal with everything.

  First things first, let’s see if there are any more messages. I ease gently out of bed leaving Janey to her slumber and head down to the kitchen. Michael is there just finishing off breakfast. We have a quick chat about what he has planned for the day and then it’s “bye dad” and off he goes. I’m left in silence, so I retrieve my phone and turn it on. Nothing. No more contact from George. This is a good thing. It gives me time to think about my next steps. It’s 08:30, possibly too early to phone the care home so I fix some breakfast for myself and Janey and take it upstairs.

  It could’ve been me getting back into bed or the smell of the coffee, but a sleeping Janey bursts into life. “Breakfast in bed. Is it the weekend?” I explain unfortunately not. When she realises the time, she takes a quick slurp of coffee and hastily shoves some clothes on. There’s clearly no time for a shower so she grabs a slice of toast and with that she’s off.

  It’s now after 9 a.m. and I too should be in the office. Instead, I phone in and tell Susie a little white lie – that I’ll be in shortly, that I’m at the doctors. I phone the care home and Beatrice answers after only a couple of rings.

  “Morning Beatrice, it’s Thomas Taylor here. I was just wondering how mother was doing.”

  “Well Thomas, she’s had a good night and is bright as a button this morning. She had a chat with one of our domestics late last night and was very lucid, able to recall various facts and memories so that was lovely. She has calmed right down. In fact, you’d almost think that yesterday had never happened. Perhaps her illness has erased the memory? Anyway, we have no concerns about her, and I’ll tell her you’re asking for her.” I thank Beatrice and hang up.

  This was what I’d hoped for. Her short-term memory isn’t good at all and I wondered if she’d recall any of it. That at least provides welcome relief. Before I stow my phone away, I feel it pulse and vibrate in my hand. Another message from George – ‘Meet me at 1 p.m. at Bank Street Gardens.’ Once again George is in control, dictating the flow of things. I consider replying to his text then think better of it. I will meet him at the designated time and place and hear what he has to say first, then take it from there. He has been persistent to say the least, so I guess I need to hear him out.

  I head off to work and the morning passes uneventfully. I curse George for arranging to meet somewhere outside. It’s bitterly cold and there’s been a fresh flurry of snow. As I approach Bank Street I glance over at the gardens. The snow looks like spun sugar, it’s a truly magical scene. Then I catch myself as I remember why I’m here.

  As I approach the gardens, I see the solitar
y figure of George. We exchange pleasantries and George initiates the conversation.

  “Afternoon Thomas, thank you for meeting me. I thought you and I could take a walk, it’s too cold to stop anywhere.” Well, I’m fine with that, at least we agree on something!

  My plan to see what he has to say goes right out of the window and I jump straight in; “OK you have my attention. You want me to go back to Skye but why? For what reason? What do you plan to achieve by dragging me back there and what makes you think I’ll agree to it?”

  “Slow down, Thomas, we’ll get to that.”

  God this man frustrates me. He is always so cool, calm, and collected. I guide us towards the black path, a walk which runs alongside the Gala Water. I see the river is unable to flow freely with large clusters of ice along its length. The path is icy too so we walk tentatively as it doesn’t appear to have been gritted.

  I know there is no point in saying anything further so I muster as much patience as I can and wait with bated breath on his response. He makes me wait a good ten minutes or so then – “Have you never considered returning to Skye over the years, Thomas?” Is he playing with me?!

  “Of course I’ve never considered returning to Skye! You know fully well why not.”

  “I have to be honest with you, Thomas, when I say I can’t tell you everything right now. There are things you don’t know, and I need you to trust me on this when I say you need to go back and see for yourself.” This was giving me very little to go on.