Nothing.
The curtain is pulled back and Paul steps into the cubicle with a concerned smile. I start to cough. Just his presence seems to suck the oxygen out of a room. Is this what happens when a relationship dies? You drain each other to the point of collapse. I know I drain Paul. I can see the exhaustion on his face as he closes the curtain and walks toward the bed.
“I feel like this is all my fault,” he says. “I shouldn’t have gone out. I should have stayed with you. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him. “I’m a big girl now.”
My head is sore and it hurts to speak. I watch as he pulls out a chair and sits down. He rolls up his sleeves and scratches at his arms. I look at the silvery scars and remember that night. Him trying to grab the bottle from my hands and then the sound of broken glass. He notices me looking and stops scratching.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry, Paul.”
After that night things haven’t been the same between us. We sleep in separate bedrooms. We don’t eat together anymore. And Paul is spending more and more time at work. We’re two strangers who just happen to live in the same house.
“Let’s not worry about that now,” he says gently. “You didn’t know what you were doing.”
He smiles and my stomach twists. Poor Paul. The day after, he didn’t even want to admit what I’d done to him.
“I didn’t mean to do it.”
“I know,” he says. But I can see in his eyes he doesn’t trust me.
“It’s fine, honestly.” He attempts a smile. “Anyway, the doctor said you can go home now. The car’s out front, we can go whenever you’re ready.”
The thought of going home makes me think about Kate again, the news.
“It just doesn’t seem real,” I say, turning from him. “That she’s gone.”
“I know,” he says. “I can’t believe it either. She was an amazing woman. I just wish I hadn’t left you today. I’m an idiot. Or what was it Kate used to say? A plonker.”
He laughs sadly and my heart hurts.
“She used to call me that too,” I say as I ease myself off the bed and pick up my cardigan from the chair. “When we were kids.”
I see the two of us on Reculver beach. One of my clearest memories. I’m building a sandcastle and she’s digging. She was always bloody digging. Then she stops and I look up and she’s got this thing in her hands. “Is it a fossil?” I ask as I come closer. “Dunno,” she replies. “But I’m going to keep it.” Next minute Mum’s looming over us and then she grabs the fossil thing from Kate’s hands and runs and throws it in the sea. “What did you do that for?” Kate whines as my mother stomps back up the beach. “That was mine.” Mum’s skirt is dripping wet from the waves and she scowls at us as she settles back onto her beach towel. “That was a bomb, Kate. You don’t mess around with things like that.” And Kate nods her head, her face all serious, and carries on digging, but I can’t concentrate on my sandcastle because I’m confused. “What’s a bomb?” I ask. “Is it a kind of dinosaur egg?” And my mother and Kate roll about laughing and they look so funny I can’t help but join in. “Oh, Sally. You’re such a plonker.”
I close my eyes and bury my face in the woolen folds of the cardigan. I hear my mother’s voice as the tears finally come: You don’t mess around with things like that.
“The silly, stupid fool,” I cry. “Why did she always have to be so bloody brave? Why couldn’t she just leave those people to it; let them fight their own battles?”
“Oh, Sally,” says Paul. He stands up and takes the cardigan from my hands. “It’s all right. Let it out.”
He puts the cardigan onto the bed and takes me in his arms. He smells of Paul, of fresh soap and cake mix, though he never makes bloody cakes. It’s just there in his skin. It’s such a comforting smell, and I bury my face into his chest and breathe him in.
“It’s been a massive shock for you,” he whispers. “But we’re going to get through this. I promise you.”
“I can’t,” I say, extricating myself from his arms. “I will never get over it. Knowing that she died all alone, with nobody to comfort her in her final moments. I should have been nicer to her when she came to see me but all I could think about was everything she’d done. It was eating me up inside and now it’s too late.”
“Shhh,” says Paul, picking up my cardigan. “It’s okay. You can’t change the past. What’s done is done. And I’m going to help you, baby. We’ll get through this together. Now come on, let’s go home.”
I AM BEING held captive in my own house. Paul is determined that I won’t sneak out to buy more booze so he has taken the rest of the week off work so he can stay here and play nursemaid.
He has been up to see me several times throughout the day, bringing me tea and biscuits and a pile of crappy magazines, and telling me that whenever I’m ready we can talk about Kate.
The lack of booze is making me jittery and my stomach is aching terribly. I’m going to have to find a way to sneak out and get some drink. Still, right now I feel strangely calm, though I don’t know how long that will last.
Brushing the biscuit crumbs from the quilt, I turn over and lie on my side. Paul has suggested I have “a nice bath” but I don’t want to move because if I do, then this all becomes real. If I lie here and think hard enough about her then maybe I can bring her back.
I close my eyes and I’m back in that house. I must’ve been around eight. We’re sitting around the table waiting for him to come home from the pub. I’m chatting away to fill the silence but my mother and Kate are just looking at each other. I can see the fear in their eyes. I’m not stupid, despite what they think. Mum’s cooked a chicken pie from scratch. It was perfect when it came out of the oven but that was three hours ago and now it sits in the middle of the table getting cold and dry.
“Oh, this is ridiculous, Mum!” cries Kate, slamming her hands on the table. “We can’t just sit here all night. It’s almost nine o’clock and I have to do my history homework. Just slice the bloody thing and heat his up when he gets in.”
My mother folds her hands in her lap and bows her head. It looks like she’s praying.
“You know he likes us to eat together, Kate,” she says, her voice quivering. “Now please don’t make a scene, not tonight.”
“Me make a scene?” she exclaims. “Me? This is crazy, Mum. If he wants us all to eat together, then why can’t he get himself back from the pub?”
“We could watch the TV?” I suggest, but my mother frowns at me. “There might be something nice on.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Sally,” she snaps. “Don’t talk nonsense.”
The iciness of her voice rips into me and my eyes start to water. I put my head back and try to keep the tear that is balancing precariously on my eyelid from falling on to my plate. Then I feel a hand on mine. A gentle squeeze, telling me that everything is going to be all right. I turn my head and see her smiling at me. My big sister. She smiles and for that moment we all feel okay. She has the ability to convey such reassurance with her smile.
But then the front door slams and we all sit erect, silent soldiers on parade. The color drains from my mother’s face and my heart begins to pound.
“Now remember, Kate,” whispers my mother. “No antagonizing him, okay?”
Kate goes to reply but before she can he is there in the doorway, filling the room with the stench of stale cigarette smoke and whisky.
“Fuck me, it’s the three witches of Macbeth,” he slurs as he stumbles toward the table.
He grabs hold of the corner and almost sends a plate flying.
Kate sighs dramatically and I glare at her, willing her not to provoke him.
“What you sighing at, eh?” he sneers as he slumps into the chair next to mine. “Something wrong with your lungs?”
“Come on now, let’s all be nice,” says my mother as she takes the knife and begins to slice at the pie. As always, she serves my father first.
I watch as she spoons the vegetables onto his plate carefully, her hand shaking as she deposits a pile of carrots and peas next to the pie.
Kate is next, then me. Finally, she cuts a tiny sliver for herself.
“Right, tuck in,” she says. She nods at Kate as if to say “keep quiet,” but Kate is busy stuffing the food into her mouth as fast as she can. As soon as she’s finished she’ll be up the stairs.
I begin to eat but my throat has gone dry with the tension and as I try to swallow a piece of pastry it wedges and I start to choke. Kate thumps me on the back and I grab for my glass of water.
“Jesus Christ,” yells my father as the food finally goes down and I sit trying to get my breath back. “What you trying to do to us?”
I look up but he is not addressing me. Instead he has his hand on my mother’s wrist.
“No wonder the poor kid choked,” he snarls. “This is fucking inedible.”
He sticks his fork into the pie and starts flicking bits of pastry across the table.
“Look at that. It’s not cooked properly. And it’s dry.”
Beside me I can feel Kate’s temper start to rise, like heat spreading across the table.
“What do you think, sweetheart?”
He is talking to me.
“Do you think it’s dry?”
I look at my mother. She is smiling at me, but her eyes are scared.
“Erm, I . . .”
“Come on, I’m asking you a question,” he slurs. “Is it fucking dry?”
I know what will happen if I don’t agree with him. He’ll get even angrier and take it out on them. I just want this all to stop.
“Yes,” I whimper. “It is a bit dry.”
“Oh, nice one, Sally,” yells Kate, clattering her cutlery onto her plate. “For God’s sake!”
“Come on now,” whispers my mother, putting her hand on Kate’s arm. “Don’t rise to it.”
My father is silent but we all know this is bad news; the longer the silence the worse the punishment.
“You can eyeball me all you want. I’m not scared of you,” says Kate.
Oh no. I look up at her. She is sitting with her hands on the table, glaring at my father.
“You should be,” he mutters.
“What’s that, Dad? I didn’t hear you.”
She’s goading him now. My heart is in my mouth as I wait for the explosion. One, two, three . . .
The plate misses Kate’s head by inches and he leaps to his feet and grabs her by the hair.
“Stop it, Dennis,” my mother screams. “She’s just a child.”
“She’s a bitch, that’s what she is,” he sneers as he takes off his belt. “A mouthy, know-it-all bitch. Get out of that chair and into the kitchen. Now.”
“Come on then, big man,” Kate yells as he drags her out of the room. “Hit me. Make yourself feel better for being a lousy waste of space.”
“Kate, stop it,” cries my mother, gripping hold of the back of her seat. “Don’t talk back to him. Come on, Dennis, she didn’t mean it.”
But he didn’t hear her. He had already pushed Kate into the kitchen and all my mother and I could do was sit and listen to her screams.
I turn over in the bed and look at the darkening sky. Soon the day will be over but I am dreading the coming of morning. Another day without drink; another day without Kate.
As I lie here with my legs pulled up to my chest, my mind drifts back to that evening. When Dad came out of the kitchen there was no sign of Kate, but Mum and I were too scared to ask where she was. Mum took me up to bed while Dad sat and watched late-night TV with the volume turned right up. I lay in bed waiting to hear Kate’s footsteps on the stairs but all I could hear was canned laughter. Had she run away? Had she finally had enough and made her escape? Or had he done something—but there my thoughts stopped. She’d be okay. An hour or so passed, then the laughter stopped and I heard the thud of my father’s footsteps on the stairs. No other footsteps, just his. I screwed up my courage and when I heard my dad on the landing I called him in and asked where she was.
“You get yourself to sleep now, love,” he said as he stood in the doorway. “Don’t be worrying about your sister. Everything’s fine.” He was always kinder afterward.
I sat up in bed, determined to do something. Perhaps he’d listen to me if I asked nicely.
“Why do you hurt them, Daddy?”
He stood there for a moment in silence, then he stepped inside and closed the door.
“You wouldn’t understand, sweetheart,” he said. “Now get yourself to sleep.”
“Please, Daddy,” I said, starting to cry. “Please stop hurting them. It’s mean.”
And then he sighed and sat down on the bed next to me.
“I’m not mean, Sally,” he said. “I’m heartbroken. There’s only so much a man can take. Do you want to know something about your sister, eh? Shall I tell you a secret?”
His hoarse voice sent shivers down my spine and I can still hear it as I lie in my bed, years away from that conversation. I can smell the whisky on his breath as he whispered in my ear a secret that I have kept for more than twenty years.
I didn’t want to believe him, but at the same time I knew it must be true. Why else would Mum have protected her like she did?
“Where is she?” I asked my father as he stood up to leave. “Has she run away?”
He gestured to the window. I got out of bed, opened the curtains, and looked out. There she was, in the garden. She was lying so still, curled up like a baby on the flower bed with some kind of bag wrapped around her.
“We have to let her in, she’ll freeze,” I said, turning to my father who was standing with his hand on the door frame. “Please, Daddy.”
“She’s a bad person, Sally. She needs to learn her lesson,” he said. “An hour or so out there won’t kill her.”
He closed the door, leaving me by the window. And then she stirred and looked up.
“Sally!” I could see her shouting for me to let her in.
And I wanted, more than anything, to go down and help her but my father’s words were ringing in my ears:
“She’s dangerous, Sally. She’s a bad person.”
As Kate waved her arms and begged me to let her in she suddenly looked like some wild monster. A frightening, uncontrollable thing. And for the first time in my life I was scared of her. My father is right, I thought, as I drew the curtains and blocked her out, she needs to learn her lesson.
And I thought she had. But then just a few weeks later she did something that made me change my mind. I had a school friend over to play. Jenny Richards. Kate was out and Jenny asked if we could go and look in her bedroom. We had a good root around and then we pulled out Kate’s clothes and started playing dress up. It was just two little kids having a bit of fun. But then Kate came back early and found us. She went mad. I’d never seen her so angry. She dragged us out of the bedroom, then slammed me up against the wall on the landing.
“Never go near my stuff again,” she yelled as she put her hand around my throat. “Do you hear me? Never. Just keep out of my way.”
The anger in her eyes made me feel like I’d done something much worse than just try on a few of her dresses. She looked like she wanted to kill me. It was terrifying.
I was shaking as I made my way downstairs. My mum asked what the matter was but Jenny and I were too shocked to speak. When Kate came down for tea a few hours later neither of us could look her in the eye. From that moment on I did what she had asked and kept out of her way. But something inside me changed that day. I became tougher, less trusting. And I told myself that no one would hurt me like that again.
31
I’m sitting in the back garden waiting for the sun to come up. It must be around 5 A.M. now. My sleep was plagued with nightmares. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Kate in the flower bed staring up at me with dead eyes. I woke up an hour or so ago screaming. Paul ran in and made a big fuss. He brought me cocoa, told me everythi
ng was going to be okay, but how could it be? In the end I gave up on sleep and came out here.
The garden is slippery with dew and my feet feel damp as I sit huddled on my plastic seat. I should have put proper shoes on but my slippers were the nearest thing to hand. As I tuck my feet underneath the chair I feel something brush against my leg. I stifle a scream. But when I look down I see it’s just a scrawny little sea gull.
“What do you want?” I say as it slinks around my legs, like a cat in search of petting. “Are you lost?”
I take my phone out of my dressing-gown pocket and shine its light at the bird. Its eyes are half closed and I see that it has a broken wing. Black dots, like specks of mold, are scattered along the edge of it and the flesh beneath is raw and broken. It must be in agony but I have no idea what to do. I’ve never tended to a sick bird before. It stares at me pathetically, like a small child looking to its mother for reassurance. Its eyes unnerve me and I shoo it away.
“Go on, you mangy thing,” I hiss. “There’s nothing I can do.”
It feebly flaps the broken wing and staggers away into the darkness.
As I watch the bird disappear I think of Hannah. I remember when she was a little girl she wanted to be a vet and she would bring half-dead birds and mice into the house that she’d rescued from next-door’s cat. I would try to explain that it was kinder to let them die but she would spend hours tending to them, wrapping them in bits of cloth. When the inevitable happened we’d take the little bodies and bury them at the bottom of Mum’s garden. Hannah would sob as we laid them in the soil and my mother would tell her that God was calling them back. We’d have a little wake after that with cake and lemonade but we always knew it wouldn’t be long before the next casualties arrived. She would have made a wonderful vet if she’d stayed on at school. God, I miss her.
As I sit in the darkness I feel a dull pain creeping up my body. I’ve lived with this pain ever since she left. It’s an emptiness I’ve filled with booze but now, with no alcohol in me, the pain is all I have. At Dad’s funeral the vicar said when you lose someone you love a little piece of you dies. I didn’t know what he meant until Hannah left. Then it all made sense. Without her I was no longer a mother, I was barely a wife. The Sally that had existed before then had disappeared and been replaced with the person I am now. I may look the same, and talk the same, but there is a hole inside me that can never be mended. I may as well be dead.
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