by Louise Beech
‘You have drawers like mine,’ said Christopher.
‘What?’
‘I can only open one when the other is closed. I always think it’s like someone with Alzheimer’s – some part of the brain is always closed. To have them both open together you’d have to tear out the kitchen and rebuild the whole thing. God, I should shut up.’
In the corner the tap continued to drip. The water’s plop echoed; every sound but that one was muted. Dripdrip-drip.
I looked at Christopher and his lips moved slowly but the words drowned. In the disharmony, I heard my name, each letter a droplet. But it was not Katrina or Catherine that it spelled. I heard the name no one called me anymore. The name no one sang, no one wrote, no one loved anymore. I squeezed my head.
Christopher touched my arm gently, gave me a coffee and sat at my side on the sofa.
‘She’s here,’ I whispered.
‘Who?’ The word was slow, eerie.
‘Catherine-Maria.’
‘Who’s she?’ No judgement clouded his tone, and he didn’t move away in fear.
‘Me,’ I said. ‘She’s me.’
I didn’t know how to explain it when I barely understood myself. I could hear a child. The tap spelled her name. I heard her laugh. She opened the flat door and came in. She was nine. She began to cry. She was me. I cried.
‘What is it?’ Christopher touched my cheek in a way that suggested nothing more than kindness; I leaned into it. He didn’t wipe away my tears, just let them fall over his hands.
I was scared but not of him. Not of her either but of what she would tell me. She was full of words and names, and I knew if I listened and let her into my heart they would be black and many. ‘Everything we need to know is in there’, my dad had written of the heart. ‘When you give like that, you deserve whatever makes your heart whole’, Bob Fracklehurst had said.
‘She’s going to tell me.’ I covered my ears, knocking Christopher’s hands away. ‘She knows all the words,’ I said.
‘Don’t be scared; words can’t touch you.’
‘They can,’ I said.
‘Maybe you should listen to her, Katrina. What if you listen to her and I sit here with you? I’ll sit just here and I won’t leave you.’
The tap dripped. I thought I heard footsteps and pictured the bushy man on the metal stairs outside, mounting them in time with the water’s rhythm. It was like being flooded all over again. Drip-dripdrip. I wanted to pick up the sofa and the TV and carry them to safety. Dripdrip-drip.
‘Don’t let anyone in.’ I looked at the door.
‘It’s locked,’ he said. ‘No one’s coming in.’
‘They’re already here.’
‘I’m here,’ said Christopher. ‘Don’t be scared.’
‘You can’t just sit here. It’s the middle of the night. You must have somewhere to go.’
‘Katrina, I can stay.’
‘I’m not Katrina,’ I whispered.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Catherine-Maria.’
I couldn’t see Christopher anymore. I knew he was there and was glad but I no longer heard his gentle words. The room melted away like snow and my raw hands softened into smaller ones and my hair untangled like thin snakes. My heart grew big and full, and my head bounced with new words and my heart with questions. And I knew buried under the weight of those heavy words was something terrible that would answer all those questions. Something grave that would shatter my nine-year-old heart.
There was something else – someone else. Like a cold spider, the memory stirred in my head and spun an icy web about my brain. Someone else crawled in.
It was him. It was the bushy-haired man.
I remembered.
21
Maria in the moon
Nanny Eve chose my name: Catherine-Maria. When she calls it in her sing-song voice I am as beautiful as the sparkling Virgin Mary statue in her hallway. Virgin Mary is always there when I go for Sunday tea; she smiles sweetly, palms out as though she wants one-pound pocket money. She stands on the tall table next to a candle and I’m not allowed to touch her.
Nanny Eve would let me, she says, but Mother says Virgin Mary is too precious and I’m only nine and too clumsy.
I broke the flower pot in the garden last month. It was waiting for soil and seeds and I had to stay in my room until teatime. When Mother tucked me in I told her it wasn’t on purpose and she said my hands are little accidents waiting to happen.
I used to touch Virgin Mary when no one was looking, stroke her blue dress and kiss her stony feet. But now I’m scared my accident fingers will crack her smooth face. I wouldn’t like to break her.
Nanny Eve says virgin means pure. Pure Mary. I think it would be nice to be pure. To be precious and not have fingers that mess up pretty things.
My English teacher, Mrs Willis, said Catherine-Maria is an ostentatious name. So I asked Mother what ostentatious meant and she said pretentious and that Mrs Willis was embittered. I asked what embittered meant and Mother told me to go play on the swing. She said I ask too many questions.
Mother is busy. She likes flowers and baking and cleaning. She wears a pink apron with palm trees and sunshine on the front, and rolls pastry and cuts shapes and sprinkles sugar. All day long.
She’s in the kitchen when I go to school and in the kitchen when I come home. When I’ve had my tea she tells me to go and play on the swing, but it’s no fun because Dad hung it too high, so my feet don’t reach the ground and I can’t push myself off. I call her to help me, but she says she’s busy. I want to ask her why – why she is busy, what she is doing, why don’t her cakes taste sweet even with sugar? but I know she will say I ask too many questions.
My dad liked questions. He said that it’s good to ask them, that it’s how we learn, alongside watching and living. He died last year when I was eight. I miss him. My heart feels like a hand is squeezing all the love out of it when I think about him. He answered every question I asked, and I had lots and lots.
He told me about my mum, who I’ve never met because she died having me. He told me that the moon is about 250,000 miles away from us and that the dark patches are called maria, which is Latin for seas. So my name is in the sky, right by the stars. Maria in the moon.
Dad showed me how to tell if the allotment tomatoes are ready for picking; he said that they ripen from the bottom to the top, and are heavy and even when done. He gave me a book about rabbits when I asked if I could have a pet, and he said he’d buy me one when I was nine. He helped me learn my spellings every Thursday night and so I always got ten out of ten on Fridays.
But I’m not in the top English group anymore. I never get full marks now. Mrs Willis said she is disappointed and she will be having a word with my mother. I don’t think they’ll be words that I like.
I like to sit in Dad’s green chair in the study, hugging his cushion and talking to him. But it’s difficult because I can think of millions of questions and none of the answers. I try to say his answers but they sound stupid. Mother asks who I’m talking to, but I don’t tell her because she’ll be cross and I’ll probably have to go to my room again.
So I whisper his words but they’re not really him. Not really his.
Then I wander into the living room and sit at Nanny Eve’s feet and she sings, and I know it’s because I make her happy. She pats my head and calls me Catherine-Maria and knits hats for her friends and coats for my dolls and tells me about Poorly Patsy who hasn’t got long left, and she sings and I don’t ask any questions.
I don’t like Uncle Henry.
I haven’t told anyone I don’t like him because I think they all do and because Nanny Eve says God said we should love our neighbours. But since he doesn’t live next door and I’ve never seen God, I think it’s OK not to like Uncle Henry.
Uncle Henry has been visiting a lot since Dad died. He is my dad’s brother, Aunty Mary’s brother too. He has a bushy black beard that I think birds could live in and ma
tching eyebrows and hair. He says he will cut it soon, that he’s experimenting with it. I whisper to Dad, What does experimenting mean? They all laugh when Uncle Henry is here. He has a booming voice, not like Dad’s, who spoke softly about numbers and the moon and musical notes. Mother makes beef casserole and gets out the blue swirly plates, and Aunty Mary with a hairy chin comes for tea and brings a homemade cake and Uncle Martin comes too.
Uncle Henry always gets a second portion and the sugar gets stuck in his beard as he talks about his travels – about sunny places and deep rivers and craggy mountains. Mother says she wishes she were free to escape and go to the sun. She always acts silly and smiley when he’s here. Aunty Mary says Uncle Henry brings the sun here.
He is very nice to me and gives me a pound every time he visits, so I have lots. My friend Anna says I’m lucky because her uncle just gives her toffees that are so old the shiny wrapping won’t come off and she can’t even eat them. And then he falls asleep in the chair and snores. I say she could have some of my pound coins because they are just sitting in a jar on my windowsill. In the morning, they shine golden in the light and I wonder if maybe Uncle Henry did bring the sun from his travels and he coated them in it.
He brings laughter into our house. He makes Aunty Mary giggle. He makes Mother clap her hands. She says I’m grumpy for ignoring him, and she doesn’t let me have any cake. Aunty Mary sneaks me some under the table, but my throat always seems to close up and the crumbs make me gag and the sun burns me through the window. I don’t think it likes me.
Uncle Henry bought me a rabbit.
I love my rabbit, but I wish Dad had given her to me instead. I pretend that he did and hold her to my cheek so I can hear her squidgy nose sniffing and feel the tickle of whiskers on my chin. She’s called Geraldine and she is black and white. She lives in a hutch in the shed. Uncle Henry said that having the hutch in the shed would keep her safe from cats and foxes. I give her carrots and cabbage and ask her questions, but she just wiggles her nose.
Is she the one you would have chosen? I ask Dad.
My friend Anna comes to see Geraldine, and we take turns brushing her long fur. I’m better at it. I’m not scared when Geraldine wriggles and scratches because I know how to calm her down. Her heart beats really fast under the fur and I hold her until it slows down. Dad told me how. They had rabbits when he was little and they ran all over the place, mating and making millions more. Anna says I’m lucky, that she wants Henry to be her uncle.
I’d happily have her uncle instead.
Sometimes Uncle Henry visits when it is just me in the house. My mother puts keys and tissues in her bag, wipes the kitchen counter and says she’ll be back at four. I look at the heart-shaped clock on the wall near the oven and it’s always twelve. I’m good at maths and so I know how much time we have.
Uncle Henry tells her not to hurry, that we’ll be fine, we shall have fun, just him and me. I don’t want her to go. I asked her not to go the first time and she told me not to resent her for escaping the house. That if I loved her I’d want her to live. She put on her furry coat and looked cross. I do love her. I do want her to live. I don’t want her to die, like Dad or my real mum. She kisses my forehead when she goes, but her lips don’t touch my skin.
She smells safe.
Uncle Henry smells of hair and calls me ‘Tiger’. He tickles my chin and says, ‘Tiger, let’s go and see Geraldine.’
In the shed Uncle Henry puts his scratchy face near my ear and blows into it. I laugh because it must be a game but it’s one I have never played and I’m not sure what I have to do. Leaning into the cage, I touch Geraldine, but he says that we can have more fun.
Just us.
And he whispers to me, ‘If you tell anyone about this game they won’t believe you because it’s in your head, Catherine. Listen to me, Tiger. Listen to me; it’s in your head. This special thing we’ll do, it’s magical, it’s all up here, and no one will believe you anyway.’ Then he taps his head and I hear his black thoughts moving around.
I want my name back. Tiger isn’t my name; neither is plain Catherine. Tiger isn’t in the sky; Catherine isn’t in the sky. Catherine-Maria is in the sky.
I think about the sky when he puts his hairy mouth on mine. He doesn’t kiss me like Uncle Martin does or like my dad used to. He doesn’t just brush my lips with his. He holds my face and pulls my hair and pushes my mouth open with his and then puts his tongue into my mouth. It’s hot and wet and I don’t like it. I squirm and wriggle like Geraldine does in any hands but mine, and he stops and tells me I’ll get used to it.
‘If your dad was still here, it’s what he would do with you.’
I shouted the first time he said that. I said, ‘No, no, no, my dad would never make me hurt.’
But Uncle Henry said that it’s time to grow up, that I am a big girl. He shushes me with his finger now, but he doesn’t need to. I am used to it. I don’t argue. I am a big girl. He bought me a rabbit and it’s all in my head. I think about the sky and about being in the moon when he kisses me and puts his hand inside my dress, and I don’t know what it’s called but I don’t like it.
So I whisper in my head.
Maria in the moon, Maria in the moon, Maria in the moon.
He squeezes the top of my leg so hard I cry. He digs nails into my skin. He says, ‘It’s not love unless it hurts,’ and kisses my tears.
His fingers move into my underwear and I kick because no one touches me there. Not even my mother when I had chickenpox all over and she had to cover me in cream. It hurts so much I think I will die. His fingers have broken me, reached inside my tummy, pushing, ripping, hurting, tearing.
Then he undoes his belt and drops it to the floor and Geraldine runs to the back of her cage. Uncle Henry is cross because I bite him. But I don’t want to see and squeeze my eyes shut. I feel spiky hair and hot skin and something hard and warm but I don’t open my eyes.
‘That’s my Tiger,’ says Uncle Henry. ‘That’s my Catherine.’
He squeezes my hand inside his and moves it, and he is breathing hard. After he stops, a long time after, I open my eyes and there is blood and something else on my dress. Something warm and sticky like chickenpox cream. Uncle Henry says he will sort it out; he will wash it before my mother comes back and he will say it was an accident. That I fell in the mud.
‘You are beautiful,’ he tells me. ‘My beautiful Catherine. My Tiger.’
I think that maybe his hands are the accidents waiting to happen.
Mother says they will call me Catherine now. We have lasagne for tea and she lets me have extra cake for being quiet at the table. She says I’m not a baby anymore so I need a grown-up name. I will soon be ten.
Nanny Eve says that my full name, the name she chose, is beautiful. She says that Catherine means pure and Maria is the Latin form of Mary. Pure Mary. She says that I should still be called Catherine-Maria if I want to be. But I don’t know what I want or who I am.
Mother shouts at me for ignoring Nanny Eve’s question. I can’t eat the cake. My throat feels like the sawdust in Geraldine’s cage. Mother says I’m never grateful and don’t deserve a lovely name. Nanny Eve tries to pat my hands, but I don’t want her touching them. Mother throws the cake in the bin and says they will all call me Catherine and that is that, no questions.
I don’t like questions anymore anyway.
It is Sunday now. After church. Nanny Eve asks why I knocked the Virgin Mary over and smashed her face into sharp bits and won’t say sorry. I don’t have an answer. I can’t remember. Mother asks why I’m so moody. I don’t have an answer. But I know I am Catherine. No questions. Even Nanny Eve calls me Catherine now, and her voice is never quite as sing-song.
When I’m with Uncle Henry I’m Tiger. We stroke Geraldine, his big hand on mine, and he reminds me that she might die if I tell anyone about our special time in the shed.
‘You’re a big girl now,’ he says. ‘You’re very special to me.’
Geraldine
is a rabbit and she is part of me. She is in the hutch and she is between my legs, hairless there, smooth but bleeding, sore and hurting. Uncle Henry sits me on his knee. The shark belt buckle cuts into my bottom.
Until he takes it off.
Geraldine never stays. She covers her head with her black paw, one ear flopping over her eye. I don’t stay either. My body is here. His hands stroke up my dress and push inside me and his beard rubs my cheek and leg. But my mind is in the moon. I learn my spellings for school but can’t find the words. I spell m-a-r-i-a and m-o-o-n and Uncle Henry shushes me and shushes me and shushes me. Before we go back to the house he tidies my hair and wipes me with a tissue. There is no blood any more. No pain.
Because it’s all in my head.
Uncle Henry strokes my hair and says he’d like to take me when he goes away. When I grow up I’m going to have my own house with a red roof, white bricks and a painted wall. On it I’ll draw a beautiful face. But not Virgin Mary, someone truly pure. And I’m not going to have people in my house. I won’t let anyone in. I’ll let my friend Anna stay because she likes the same things as me – except Uncle Henry. We like to dress up and play card games and sleep side by side. We’ll make cakes and style each other’s hair and laugh. We’ll borrow each other’s clothes and stay up late and talk.
We won’t have boyfriends or uncles, just each other.
It is snowing today. The sky is grey. It’s going to be Christmas soon and Mother has chosen a silver tree. It’s bare in the corner, waiting to be prettied. I’m in trouble for losing clothes again. I can’t tell Mother my dresses are in the bin, that they’re messed up and torn, because it’s only in my head.
She hangs baubles on the new tree and says that Uncle Henry has gone and he won’t be coming back. Not ever.
The table is set for three and there is no cake. Nanny Eve knits a long pink scarf in the chair by the window. She looks like she lost something and hasn’t a clue where to look for it. Mother says Uncle Henry has gone back on his travels, that I should forget him because he’ll never be visiting again.