“Get your skates on then, or Shirley’ll be down before you get a look-in.” DCI Brackman strode down the corridor towards us, giving us both a gentle push, kitchen-wards as he passed and then leaning around the banister, holding on to the post for balance yelled, “Shirley, love-bug, tea’s up.” Shirley bounded down the stairs and he gave her a piggy back to join us and we all sat round the kitchen table and had tea and laughed – quite a bit more than usual actually.
I was, as we used to say, more at sea than the Titanic. I tackled Faith about it the next time we were alone together.
“He hit her?”
“It’s her fault, she drives him mad.”
“How?”
“He works so hard,” she was defensive. “Some of the things he has to do and see, you’ve no idea … traffic accidents, people all mushed up and other things – horrible. He always says he needs the house, the place where he lives, to be different, clean you know and smelling nice and no filth anywhere.” I digested this.
“Does he hit you?”
“No.” she looked genuinely shocked, “Why would he?”
“Will they get divorced?”
“Course not, stupid, every family has rows, yours does too, I bet.” Well, certainly we did, and with much yelling and pounding of the table (my father), shouting back (my mother) and things flying around the room (me), but other than the time I’d accidentally cut Dawn’s head, I couldn’t recall anyone ever getting hurt.
“My dad doesn’t hit my mum.” I said.
“Yeah, well, I bet she isn’t a lazy bitch.” I turned and stared at her, aghast. Gentle Faith, gentler times then and I’d never heard her utter anything remotely like that. I was shocked.
“It’s what Dad says and Mum too, sometimes she doesn’t do the things she should. It’s her own fault.” Faith’s mouth was tight, bitter-pursed. “If she wasn’t like that, he wouldn’t get so upset.” Inside her head, bleeding out from one of the compartments, kept as neatly as her school case and normally locked tight, was a shockingly fierce anger at her mother, the sole cause of so much upset and unpleasantness. Suddenly there clicked into place a rather dreadful realisation,
“All those other times, when you said she fell …?”
“No! Are you crazy? He only ever gives her a little slap, doesn’t ever hurt her.” Before Faith swiftly caught and cauterised the trickle in her head, I shared with her for one moment the almost rock solid belief in what she said, along with the tiny, smothered-to-death doubt. We didn’t talk about it again for a good year, nearly two.
Chapter Eighteen
GCE ‘O’ levels loomed large in our lives for at least a year before we took them although for some, they loomed larger than others. Elaine was peripherally aware she needed to get down to some hard studying but, convinced there was no point, until it felt right, was confidently waiting for that time to arrive. Rochelle, whose mother was in the midst of launching a third matrimonial offensive, found her input was required on everything from finger-foods to honeymoon outfits and was torn nightly between filial affection and revision. I struggled for a mind-shut mode and tried to study, but have to confess, didn’t worry unduly. Shamefully, I knew, in maths or science where I truly didn’t stand a chance, I could do a quick poll of those around me and pick up what I needed. Cheating? Well perhaps, but twinges of guilt were, I always equivocated, more easily dealt with than fail marks.
Of the four of us, Faith was the most academic. She was a scrupulous student and although very bright, worked hard to keep her marks as high as they consistently were. Her exercise books were, as might have been expected, meticulously covered in brown paper, mitred at the corners and labelled neatly at precisely the regulation two inches down from the top on the front cover. She was a shining example to the rest of us, particularly to me, who hadn’t then, come to think of it haven’t to this day, mastered the art of mitreing a corner. Faith took revision as seriously as she did everything and devised her own strict timetable to which she stuck rigidly, refusing like the rest of us to be seduced by the live-now-revise-later philosophy and restricting herself to just an hour’s outing on a weekend. As the months slid away though, it was impossible not to notice that, thin already, Faith was losing more weight and her normally pale skin had acquired an unhealthy pasty look, with under-eye, mauve markings. My mother, when she saw her after a few weeks gap was horrified and didn’t mince words,
“Faith, sweetheart, you don’t look good, far too thin. Are you sleeping? You’re working too hard, let me see you eat this cake right up.” Faith good-naturedly did as she was told, eyeing then eating the glistening, crumbling apple strudel together with a hot sweet cup of tea and just a little of the tension went out of her, but she wouldn’t stay too long – she had to pick up some shopping for her Mum.
A few weeks earlier her mother had, it seemed, tripped over an uneven paving stone and not only badly broken a wrist but also cracked a couple of ribs. Faith was taking over many of the day to day chores of which, in that house, there were many. Elaine and Rochelle had been with us when Faith came into school the day after the accident. She didn’t look at me when she talked about it and for a couple of weeks had made it her business for us not to be alone. Not that I was going to say anything, what could I say? Once she realised this, she relaxed a bit. But what I saw in her frightened me. The walls of Faith’s compartments were crumbling. There were things she knew, couldn’t help but know and the careful barriers and beliefs she’d been handed by her parents were gradually and painfully, breaking down.
I’d never said anything to my parents about the incident I’d witnessed a year or so earlier. I was embarrassed, even once removed as I was, but it began to play increasingly on my mind.
“Faith’s father hits her mother.” I said suddenly one evening over supper, after a day in which Faith had drifted into school more strained and wraithlike than ever.
“Nonsense,” said my mother, “Who on earth told you that?”
“I saw.” My parents exchanged glances.
“When?”
“A year or so ago.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“What for? What could you have done?”
“Well, what do you think we can do now?” my father pointed out reasonably.
“Nothing, forget it, forget I said anything.” I snapped. My mother cut a few more slices of roast chicken, absent-mindedly put a piece on everyone’s plate and slapped Dawn’s hand away as she reached for a potato with her fingers.
“Fork! I think you must have made a mistake darling, they’re a very happy couple from what I’ve seen, and sometimes … ”
“Sometimes what?”
“Well, sometimes,” her eye met my father’s again but he telegraphed – it’s all yours – to her.
“Well sometimes married couples can be … how would you put it dear?” blank from my father, so she struggled manfully on,
“ … Playful, you know, they muck around together and can be a bit silly, like teenagers and I expect that’s what you saw. I bet they weren’t even having an argument were they?”
“No, but …”
“Well, there you are then and were they upset when they saw you’d seen them?”
“No, but…”
“Well exactly.” And she triumphantly dished up the few left-over potatoes, apportioned some stray sprouts where she thought they were most needed and rose to get dessert.
“It does happen, in some families, nasty stuff and all that, but not in this case sweetie, not with a Chief Inspector.” And she bent to kiss my cheek as she passed, “I wish you’d told us before and then you needn’t have worried about it all this time. How many times do I have to say, never keep things to yourself.”
*
Faith was getting into trouble at school. It was trouble reluctantly dealt out. The staff knew there must be something wrong and didn’t exactly come down on her like a ton of bricks, but they couldn’t let some things continue to pass uncom
mented upon. Late homework, blotted, unfinished and – totally un-Faithlike – incorrect.
Our form teacher, Miss Headlam, who took geography and had quite a formidable topography of her own in the shape of a bottom, bosom and stomach that dipped, swelled and swayed as she progressed in stately fashion along the corridors, called Faith in for a chat one morning break. According to Faith, this took place in one of the little side rooms off the staff room and involved a cup of tea, ginger biscuits, a lot of questions and no conclusions. I knew she wouldn’t have been moved to confide in Miss Headlam, but there was no doubt that Faith’s life was slowly unravelling and my heart ached for her.
Although I did still go to her house, by unspoken agreement she came more often to mine and whilst things were very nearly normal when Elaine and Rochelle were with us – slightly more strained when we were on our own – I think there was a certain amount of relief for her in the fact that, unlike the rest of the world, I had some inkling as to what was going on.
One unseasonably bright day in February we had an unexpected half-day study period. Elaine and Rochelle had been hauled into an extra German session by a determined Frau Kempfer who seemed to feel Teutonic pride was on the line and they needed to deal with a few basics which until now had utterly escaped them. So Faith and I were on our own. It was a Tuesday, Mrs Brackman’s late working day, so I felt happy enough to agree to Faith’s suggestion that we go to hers.
Chapter Nineteen
When we arrived at Faith’s we discovered that in fact Mrs Brackman was there. We didn’t see her at first, not until Faith opened the kitchen door and found she couldn’t. There was something in the way. We took the other route through the dining room. We thought perhaps the towel had fallen off its hook and somehow wedged itself under the door, preventing it from opening.
It wasn’t the towel though, it was Faith’s mother, lying curled up with her knees to her chest, arms covering her head. She was shivering spasmodically, deep shuddering judders that shook her whole thin frame. We moved forward slowly. Faith’s face had turned bone white, her mouth open as if she couldn’t pull in quite enough air. I wished we’d had Rochelle’s inhaler with us.
“We have to call an ambulance.” I said.
“No.” Mrs Brackman wasn’t unconscious as I’d thought, but she wasn’t fully compos either. In a movement that seemed to take forever, she turned her face up to us.
“No ambulance.” One of her eyes was swollen closed, the flesh tinged livid red and blue. Her lip was cut and puffy on one side. She started to speak again. We both automatically leant in closer to hear her. She had something in her mouth which, after a second or two’s work, she expelled feebly with her tongue. It fell on the floor and rolled a little along the lino – small, white, hard, a tooth.
“Shirley, upstairs.” she breathed. Faith and I looked at each other.
“I’ll go.” I ran upstairs. Couldn’t hear anything. Heart in mouth I opened Shirley’s door slowly and peered round. She was sitting on her bed, cross-legged with an open book on her knees. She had her head down, eyes on the page, didn’t look up.
“Shirley?” I said “Shirl, you all right?”
“Fine.”
“Look, your mum’s had a bit of a fall.”
“I know.” She glanced up then and smiled brightly at me. “I’m reading my book. I’ll carry on reading till Mum feels better, then I’ll come down for tea.” She turned back and I saw she was holding the book upside down.
“You’ll be all right up here for a bit then?”
“Oh yes, I’m happy as Larry, Daddy always says I’m happy as Larry.” And she handed me another of those terrifyingly blank smiles. I closed her door quietly.
In the kitchen, Faith was trying to help her mother sit up, they were both sobbing quietly.
“I don’t think we should move her.” I said, “She may have broken something, she needs a doctor.”
“No. No doctor. Fine in a minute. Shirley?” There was more than a swollen lip and broken tooth stopping Mrs Brackman from speaking properly, she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. What with Faith and her mum, there was a fair old bit of panting going on. I quickly grabbed and soaked a dishcloth in cold water and knelt to place it gingerly and gently against her lip which was oozing blood. She raised her hand to help me and I saw that two of her fingers, her long slim fingers of which she was so proud, were bruised and swollen and one of them, the little finger on her right hand was completely twisted to one side and oddly limp. I had to make a couple of attempts to get my voice working properly, it came out though nearly as croaky as hers.
“Shirley’s fine, Mrs Brackman, she’s just upstairs, reading.” She was trying to talk again,
“Time? What’s time?” I looked at my watch. My own hand was shaking rather badly and I had to hold it with the other to keep it still enough.
“Ten to four.” She moaned and grabbed my arm fiercely, trying to pull herself up but the movement must have hurt something inside because she lost whatever vestige of colour she had and slumped back against Faith, who moaned in sympathy. Her mother took a shallow breath, held it, then got out on a gasp, words distorted by her swollen mouth,
“Donal. Polsh. Coming back.” I didn’t understand what she meant, I scanned her, God, she was in such a lot of pain, I didn’t know how to stop it, didn’t want to feel it, I withdrew quickly but I knew what she was trying to say. He’d gone to the local shops. He’d gone to buy polish because he wasn’t happy with the shine on the dining room table. No, he wasn’t happy at all, that was what he’d been making clear to Mrs Brackman before he left.
“Faith,” I hissed, “Your Dad’s coming back, he’s only gone down to the shops.” She didn’t question how I knew, she was still holding her mother.
“Why mum, why, why, why d’you do it? Why get him all upset?”
“I’m sorry, so sorry.”
“Faith,” I interrupted desperately, crouching, reaching out and gripping her chin, forcing her to look at me. “Listen to me, your Dad’ll be back any minute, do you understand? Is there a neighbour, anyone, someone we can call? She’s got to have a doctor, she’s badly hurt.” I was shouting now, Mrs Brackman flinched, Faith gaped at me. I stood up, my mother would know what to do, the phone was on the window-sill. As I grabbed the receiver, we heard the key in the front door. Mrs Brackman moaned into the wet cloth,
“Faith, upshtairs, go ‘way quickly, go to Shirley.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said more staunchly than I felt, “We’re not leaving you, not going anywhere.” In my haste, my finger had slipped sweatily on the phone dial, I had to start again.
“Allo, ‘allo, ‘allo what’s a goin’ on ‘ere then?” Chief Inspector Brackman had on his smart, blue uniform he wore for official dos. He cut an imposing figure. Mock-accent in place, smile as wide as a barn door, he’d come in through the dining room and was eyeing us all warmly.
“Wasn’t expecting you home yet girls, but nicest surprises are the one’s we’re not expecting, eh?” We all stared at him. He looked back cheerfully and held up the carrier bag of shopping,
“Faith, your Mum’s got a wee bit of polishing to do. You and Stella run upstairs and we’ll call you when it’s tea-time. Helen, here’s the duster and the other stuff you needed.” He stepped carefully over Mrs Brackman and Faith on the floor and took the kettle to the sink where he filled it, placed it on the gas hob and used the Ever-Ready Igniter to light the gas. “And while you’re at it Hells, hows about a bit of the cup that cheers?” he looked down inquiringly at Mrs Brackman.
“Come on love, ups-a-lazy-daisy, won’t get much done down there.” Mrs B was indeed struggling obediently, trying to shake off Faith’s arms and get up. His eyes, blue and clear, lighted on me, frozen with the phone receiver in my hand.
“And who’s that you’re phoning, Stella pet?” he inquired mildly.
“My mother.”
“Not now, call her later love, more convenient later. Put the phone down.�
� I did, his was a voice used to giving orders. My hot hand had left a damp imprint on the black bakelite.
He grinned companionably at me over the matching fair heads of Faith and her mother. Inside his own head, beyond the everyday jumble – station shifts, road-safety talk at local infant school, tyre that needed replacing – there was a terrifying and complex blankness, a deep nothingness I’d never encountered before. The kettle began to bubble softly, such a familiar domestic sound. He moved a few steps away from the cooker and stood over his wife and daughter, loosening his tie,
“Come on old girl, that table’s not going to polish itself now is it?” And he drew back his foot with its impeccably polished black shoe and kicked her in the side, just below her ribs, I didn’t know whether it was the same side she’d been hurt earlier. The force of the blow went through her and into Faith, still with both arms round her mother, so that Faith’s head jarred dully against the kitchen door. Mrs Brackman didn’t seem to have a moan left in her, she retched once and her breath hitched even more in her chest, an ugly, uneven sound.
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