by J. A. Baker
‘I’ve just boiled the kettle. You make some coffee and I’ll rustle us up some scrambled eggs, if you like?’ She is surprised at how chipper she sounds. A far cry from how she actually feels but then she has always been good at covering up, tucking the lies deep within her, keeping them hidden.
‘Sounds good. I’m starving.’ Alec rubs his hands together and grabs a couple of cups from the dresser.
How is none of this getting to him? Is there a side to her husband she doesn’t know about? Or maybe it’s just that his childhood gave him an air of resilience whereas Peggy’s own childhood appears to have damaged her for life. Another reason to hate her mother. Not that she needs any more reasons. One look in the mirror is enough to remind her of why she left. Peggy’s scars are all too visible, unlike Alec, who carries his on the inside, keeping them safely tucked away from prying eyes.
Cracking eggs on the side of the bowl, Peggy has a sudden flashback. She does her utmost to suppress it but no matter how hard she tries, it won’t leave her. That day, all those years back. She was just a kid, too young and naive to defend herself. Manipulative to the core, her mother knew exactly what she was doing, tackling her about the whole issue of the contraceptive pills when only the two of them were in the house. No allies, nobody around to stop it escalating. Which it did. Of course it did - this is her mother, after all - causing arguments is her forte; her defining feature.
Peggy grabs a fork and whisks the eggs with a strength she didn’t know she possessed. She adds a sprinkling of salt and continues to beat the fork around the bowl, enjoying the feel of the metrical tap of metal against glass.
It wasn’t her fault. She was no more than a kid, yet she has carried the guilt around with her for so many years, believing the burden of blame should be placed firmly at her door for dating an older man - for having sex with an older man - the man she eventually married. It has taken her a long time to realise she did nothing wrong, but it’s too late now. The damage has been done. Her face is testament to that fact.
‘There you go.’ Alec slides a steaming mug of liquid her way. She takes it and downs a long slug, savouring the burning sensation and slightly smoky taste as it travels down her throat.
‘Won’t be long with this,’ she murmurs as she pours the yellow liquid into a pan and turns the gas on.
Grabbing a wooden spoon, Peggy continues stirring the eggs, her mind still firmly focused on that day. If she didn’t know better she would say that her mother had done it on purpose. After all, nobody in their right mind would wrestle with their child and push them that hard when they were next to a glass door would they? It was ludicrously stupid to do what she did. Dangerous. Her mother was lucky the police didn’t press charges. And the only reason that didn’t happen is because Peggy didn’t go to the hospital, which is why her face now looks as though it has been through a shredder. Had she gone for treatment and got it stitched, perhaps her life would have turned out differently. Perhaps her mother would have ended up in court. Who knows what would have happened, but, as it turned out, Audrey got off scot-free because the child she scarred for life ended up protecting her from the authorities and the powers that be. Even Alec still doesn’t know the truth of that day. He has no idea her mother called him a paedophile and he also has no idea that her mother pushed her, face first, through a plate glass door. He doesn’t know any of it because Peggy didn’t tell him. What she did tell him was that she and her mother had argued and she had fallen and that she had left home and now wanted to live with him. He had agreed and from that day forward the incident was hardly ever mentioned. He tried to get her to see a doctor about her face but the more he pressed her, the more stubborn she became. Doctors would ask questions and as much as she loathed her mother, she wasn’t about to report her for child abuse. No, the punishment she meted out to Audrey was far worse than that. Peggy made sure she severed all contact with her mother. Beatrice tried to persuade her to come back and talk but Peggy refused. It didn’t take Bea long to realise that living with their mother wasn’t an easy ride and shortly afterwards she too moved out to stay in a tiny bedsit with a friend. Which left their father to battle it out with Audrey on his own. Peggy feels a lump lodge itself in her throat, hard and painful. She swallows it down. A solid stone of guilt. Perhaps if she had stayed around, he would also have had an easier time of it, but as it was, Audrey half-nagged him death about everything and anything. He was all she had left to go at. And go at him she did. The house was never modern enough, the garden never tidy enough, his salary never large enough. The list of her complaints and his purported misdemeanours was endless. On the odd occasion when Peggy managed to get through to him on the phone, she could hear her mother’s shrieks in the background, asking why he wasn’t out mowing the lawn and demanding he hand the phone over so she could speak to her daughter. So, they started meeting for coffee instead, she and her father. Funny thing is, he never asked Peggy about that day. It’s as if he knew all about it, and no words were needed. He knew exactly what they were both up against when it came to dealing with Audrey. Nothing more needed to be said.
Peggy continued to watch from a distance, dismayed and helpless as her father was cornered into borrowing money to renovate the house, putting him under massive strain both financially and physically. There seemed to be no end to his list of chores - go to work, earn more money, paint the house, dig the garden. On and on it went, until one day when it all ceased. That was the day he stopped. They put her father deep in the ground and all of a sudden, the world became a lesser place without him. After that, Peggy gave up on Audrey altogether. The bits of information her father had given her about her mother was all she’d had to go on. After his death, she had nothing. No contact, no news about how she was getting on. Nothing at all. And that suited her just fine. The one thing Peggy did find out about her mother via an old neighbour was that she had turned into an old soak. That little piece of information didn’t surprise her one little bit. She had always liked a good drink, claiming the stress of work drove her to it.
Peggy turns as she feels hot breath on her neck, ‘Almost ready?’ Alec is standing next to her leaning over the hob, his eyes fixated on the food. He has taken her by surprise, his words cutting into her thoughts. She stares at his side profile and for one dreadful second has a vision of him smashing a fist into his father’s face, blood spurting from Barry’s swollen mouth. She closes her eyes against it but is bombarded with images of Alec driving his foot into Barry Wilson’s stomach, the old man’s internal organs shifting and rupturing with the force of it. Is Alec really capable of carrying out such an act? Then she thinks about Sheryl and suddenly feels faint. They still haven’t spoken about her and she isn’t even sure if Alec has received any messages about it. If he has, he certainly hasn’t mentioned it to her. She decides to remain silent about that one. Talk of Sheryl will never come to any good.
Peggy lifts the pan off the hob. She no longer feels like eating anything and the smell of the eggs is starting to make her feel nauseous. Dishing the food up, she has to muster up all her strength to shove a few mouthfuls in without vomiting. She notices how thin her hands are as she places her cutlery down on her plate. She really must start eating again. Her clothes are falling off her, lately. Alec mentioned it just last week, said it in an accusatory way as if she was doing it on purpose. Another one of his wife’s bids for attention.
Her head begins to throb as a noise filters through from the hallway. They both stop and stare, their eyes locked in anticipation. Both she and Alec know what this is - who it is that is knocking at their door at this time of the morning. Alec continues to stare at her, his fork hanging mid-air, a slight tremble visible in his hand. Peggy’s heart begins a steady thrum up her neck. This is it. This is the part where everything begins to unravel. She stands up, her legs like lead, and shuffles along the hallway, her innards squelching with dread as she opens the door to see them standing there, the two of them with their shiny suits and faces devoid of al
l emotion.
‘Good morning, Mrs Wilson. Is it all right if we come inside?’
Peggy stands to one side and watches Rollings and Evans as they saunter past her, ready to rip her life to shreds with what they are about to say.
28
Maude
They’re angry with her, Brenda and that tall, gangly lad. When she woke up, her back hurt and her head was aching. She was cold too. Really, really cold. Now she’s up and has had her breakfast and they are staring at her and shaking their heads as if she’s done something wrong. She can’t remember doing anything bad but she can tell by their funny looks and sharp voices that she’s in trouble. Maude looks down at her feet. They’ve warmed up a bit now but as she stares at them she can see the black bits, all dry and grubby, smeared in between her toes and over the soles of her feet. Reaching down, she rubs her fingers over her toes. Why has she got mud on her feet?
‘Brenda! Dirty feet. I’ve got dirty feet!’
‘I’m not surprised you’ve got dirty feet. You’re lucky you’re not dead, never mind getting all het up about a bit of mud, mother.’
There it is again. That angry, mean voice she uses when Maude has done something bad. She can’t remember doing anything but she did have a funny dream last night. She dreamt she was running and running, out in the cold and there was a lady in the dream but she doesn’t know who it was. She thinks a man was there too, but can’t be sure of it, and she doesn’t know who he was, either. It wasn’t this tall boy - that much she does remember. It was someone older. Not like her, somebody more like Brenda. It was dark in her dream. Too dark to see anything properly. No wonder she can’t remember who they were.
‘You must stay in the house today, Mum. I have to go out to run some errands so Andrew is here to look after you.’
‘Andrew? Who’s Andrew?’ she asks as she digs at her toes with slightly yellowed fingernails, ‘Anyway, I don’t need looking after. Can look after meself. I’m not daft you know.’ Maude continues picking at the dirt. It’s making her itchy and she doesn’t like feeling itchy. ‘Can I have a bath? My feet smell.’
This seems to amuse the pair of them and Maude watches as Brenda and the boy laugh together. Maude joins in. She likes it when they all have fun together. Better than them being angry with her. Better than her being angry with them. She doesn’t like getting annoyed and upset but sometimes she just can’t help it. Things happen in her head, things she can’t explain - bad things - and then the next thing she knows, stuff is getting thrown about, ornaments and sometimes even furniture, and she is crying and everything is just a mess. But laughing is fun. This is better. She enjoys a good laugh; it makes her tummy ache and her mouth go all funny at the sides.
‘Come on, Mum, let’s get you sorted,’ Brenda says, while shaking her head and smiling. Maude has no idea why she’s doing that but she doesn’t mind. Everyone is happy and that’s good. If Brenda is in a good mood then everything will be just fine.
....................................................................................................................................................
‘Where has she gone?’ Maude asks, her face just centimetres away from the young man’s. He moves back in his seat. Maude shuffles in closer. She needs to know where Brenda is and he isn’t answering her so she moves in as near to him as she can. She doesn’t like being ignored.
‘She won’t be long. She’s just gone for some paintbrushes. Don’t worry,’ he says, in a tone she doesn’t care for.
‘I’m not worried,’ Maude whispers as she fiddles with a strand of hair that has attached itself to one of her buttons, ‘I just want to know where she is so I can tell her about my dream.’
‘Well,’ he says, sitting up straight, ‘why don’t you tell me about it? I like talking about dreams.’
Maude eyes him cautiously. Is he being - what’s that word again? - sarcastic, yes that’s it. Sarcastic. Because she doesn’t like sarcastic people. They make her feel unwanted and sad. As if they are laughing at her. And nobody likes being laughed at. She stares at him and watches as he starts to look away. He seems all right, this lad. Maybe she can tell him what she remembers? Thing is, she’s not even sure if was a dream or if it actually happened. This morning she was sure it was a dream, but now - well, she can’t be certain. She always gets muddled first thing in the morning, but once she’s eaten and had another nap, everything always seems much clearer in her head. As if a thick fog has lifted and she can see properly once more. That’s the thing, you see, she has to say these things as soon as she remembers them, otherwise they disappear into the dark places in her head. And right now, her head is clear, which is why she wants to say it straight out, get the words out. Not keep them sitting in her brain where they’ll just melt away with all her other thoughts, get sucked away down that big, fat drain never to return.
‘It wasn’t a dream at all,’ Maude says clearly, her voice making the young man suddenly sit up and pay attention, ‘I saw it all. I remember now. And if I don’t tell somebody then I won’t be able to settle.’
Her eyes feel light in her head as if they’re about to roll straight out of her skull and up into the sky, like tree blossom floating along on the breeze. No aching head or fluff clogging up her thoughts. Clear. Everything is suddenly so very, very clear.
‘Well, I’m all ears, Aunt Maude, why don’t you tell me all about it?’ His voice is soft, gentle. It eases Maude, makes her feel wanted. And she does really want to tell him what she remembers, before she forgets it all and the words refuse to come out properly.
‘I got out once before,’ she whispers breathlessly, excitement at being able speak clearly beginning to overwhelm her.
‘You got out again?’ he says a little too loudly. The boy’s eyes are wide, and rather than scare or annoy Maude, it makes her want to laugh. He reminds her of her little brother, a cute one he is.
‘It was before. Not like last time,’ Maude says quietly, ‘and you weren’t here. Brenda was asleep in the chair. Right over there,’ she says, pointing at the recliner in the corner of the room, ‘I had the window open but couldn’t hear everything they were saying so I decided to have a wander. Shouldn’t have really. Think I had ants in my pants,’ Maude says, letting out a giggle, ‘but anyway, the key was in the door, so off I went. I followed the voices, went to where the shouting was coming from. It was really loud. And she was crying as well.’
‘Who was crying?’
‘Over there. A lady over near the cottage,’ Maude replies and rolls her eyes at him, her finger pointing towards the window. She’s sure he’s a bit slow, this lad. Takes him an age to pick up on anything she says.
‘Did you go into the house, Maude? Please tell me you didn’t just walk straight in?’
‘Course I didn’t!’ she cries in disgust, ‘It was outside. They were outside arguing, so I watched them. Loads of swearing and shouting. Really dirty words. Shouldn’t be allowed to use words like that in public.’
He smiles and nods his head in agreement, ‘You’re absolutely right, Maude. It shouldn’t be allowed at all. Anyway, what happened next? Did you come back home?’
‘Course I came back home. But not before I saw it.’ Maude rubs at her eyes. They’re starting to ache again, that dragging feeling she gets when the mist begins its heavy descent into her brain, clogging up her thoughts and memories. The lightness didn’t last long. It’s becoming briefer and briefer these days. Soon she won’t feel or see anything at all.
‘Saw what, Maude? What is it that you saw?’ he whispers, leaning in closer to catch what she is about to say.
‘I saw her fall. All the blood as well. It was everywhere. And then I saw the worst thing. Because the blood wasn’t the worst thing, you see …’
The boy gets a crease above his eyes, a long line across his forehead, and his eyes are wide as saucers, ‘Maude, are you absolutely sure about this?’
She smiles smugly and wriggles in her seat like a small child. No
w he’s listening to her. All of a sudden, he is interested in what she’s got to say. Not before time either. She’s been trying to tell them all for weeks and weeks about this and nobody listened. Nobody was interested. Well now they’ll listen to what she’s got to say, won’t they? All of a sudden, her words are important to them.
‘Of course I’m sure,’ she barks, ‘do you want to know what happened or not, young man?’
‘Yes, sorry,’ he nods quickly, ‘carry on. So, what was worse than the blood, then?’
Maude places her hands in her lap, trying to get the words right. She locks her fingers together and concentrates as hard as she can. She doesn’t want it to come out all wrong, otherwise he won’t believe her. And she wants everyone to start believing her because what she’s about to say is true, she saw it happen. She knows that now. It wasn’t a dream at all. It was real life. She witnessed it. Not a programme on the TV like those ones Brenda watches, where people get punched and beaten and stamped on, and then get back up and run away. Not like that at all. This was a murder. A real life murder. And there was a body. She saw it all. It actually happened. Right near her house as well.
‘She died. Her head was full of blood. I saw it, I really did. But the bad bit is worse than that …’
‘Go on,’ he whispers, his face pale, his skin suddenly clammy. Maude watches him. He looks a bit frightened and small beads of sweat are standing out on his top lip. She clears her throat before speaking again,
‘She was put in a big hole. Right under the house. Over there,’ Maude points again towards the window and Chamber Cottage in the distance, ‘that little house over there where the woman and man live. There’s a dead body underneath it.’