by Aly Sidgwick
Mary’s eyes wake up. She jerks her head up an’ down, an’ pulls her mouth into a smile, but this jus’ highlights the sadness in her face. Her eyes seem glassy an’ far too fragile, an’ don’t match her mouth. I glance over my shoulder at Mrs Laird. Should I tell someone?
‘Aren’t you hungry?’ I ask, pointin’ at her destroyed oatcake.
Mary shakes her head. She takes a deep breath an’ looks away, then returns to studyin’ the backs of her hands. I notice that her legs are shakin’.
‘What can I do?’ I whisper, but Mary keeps her face turned away. Silence spreads between us. For an awfully long time Mary does not move. Then she lifts a hand an’ nudges me away. I’m not used to being pushed.
‘Mary,’ I say, an’ she raises her head. Her eyes fill up, an’ for a moment I almost believe she’ll speak. But the fake smile returns instead, harder at the edges, an’ with much more force she pushes at me.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’
Mary rolls her eyes. For a minute nothin’ happens, an’ I wonder if I should apologise. Then Mary grabs my hand an’ drags me out of the dinin’ room. We climb the stairs in her usual, painstakin’ fashion, an’ all the way there the tears don’t stop slidin’ down her face. In her room she goes to the nightstand an’ takes something out of the drawer. Then she kneels on the rug below the window. In her hands there’s a Jiffy bag. A rip across the top showin’ iss already been opened. Not knowin’ what to do, I sit down beside her.
Mary’s face is rigid now. Shallow, huffy breaths spill out of her as she snatches somethin’ white from the bag an’ throws it into my lap. I stare. Iss a greetings card. But no salutation graces the front, jus’ a small silver cross with a halo an’ some doves. I open it up.
Mary. Today you are one year older, and one year closer to death. Each day we pray for the salvation of your soul. That God may cleanse you and restore, by His grace, your place by His side in Heaven. Murder is the most heinous of sins, but with God’s help we may one day find a way to forgive what you did. Only through prayer will you find the path to redemption.
Father and Mother.
I stare at Mary, open-mouthed.
‘What the …!’
Mary’s eyes have gone dull.
‘Iss your birthday?’
A nod.
‘“Murder”?’
A scowl. She goes back to the nightstand, comes back with a biro an’ scrawls something on the back of the Jiffy bag, so hard that the pen punctures through.
Abortion = ‘Murder’
‘You had an abortion?’
A nod.
‘But …’
Mary writes somethin’ else an’ shoves the Jiffy bag back at me.
Got raped. Got pregnant. Got abortion. Now going to hell.
‘What?’ I splutter. ‘You believe that?’
Mary grimaces. She shakes her head. Then she points at the card an’ nods. I stare at her, aghast.
‘Is that why you … why you tried to … kill yoursel—’
A nod.
So now you know, she writes. Happy?
I try to hug Mary, but she pushes me away. Her eyes are even duller than before. She scribbles Please leave me alone.
‘I jus’ want to help y—’
She pushes me roughly an’ I tumble off balance.
‘Mary!’
She pushes me again. Then I know I must go.
There’s no one in sight as I burst through the back porch onto the moor. I run till my lungs are on fire an’ my legs are black with mud. Finally my knees give way an’ spill me into the bracken. Only then do I let myself cry. I hunch where I’ve fallen, squashed low to the ground. Thorns stick in my back. The air is eerily still, an’ there are no birds in the sky.
#
Lunchtime comes around, an’ I sit at my usual table. As I pick at my stew I try to find the right words to say to Mary, but this ends up being a waste of time, cos she doesn’t show. I stay here till long after the dishes have been cleared away. She’s fine, I tell myself. Iss not my job to keep tabs on her. After all, I don’t come down for every meal myself. These thoughts give me a headache. No, she told me to leave her alone, an’ in here that’s somethin’ you must respect. When Mary wants help, she’ll ask for it.
After lunch I feel drained, so I go back to bed. I dream about my mother. At least, I think that’s who it is, only her face is blotted out. In the dream I have a red an’ yellow satchel with a picture of a bear on it. The window on its front pocket holds my name, but when I try to see it the words bend an’ dance. We walk through the rain hand in hand, wearin’ long hooded coats which I think look silly. I love the satchel but don’t want to wear the coat.
‘No one’s looking at you anyway,’ says the woman. ‘Why would they look at you?’
The rain makes my hand slippery. Iss cold, an’ I don’t understand why there are so many people here. They move fast, an’ they’re all too high up, an’ every face is hidden. We’re movin’ an’ weavin’ between the bodies, an’ I’m strainin’ to keep up. Our coats are indistinguishable from the others. Our faces featureless. The woman does not look at me. I know that soon she will let go, an’ that when this happens I will not find her again. The rain flashes down. Her grip hurts my hand. I want to cry.
12
Saturday.
When I walk into the dinin’ room my heart almost explodes. There, in the corner, sippin’ from a blue cup, is Rhona. Ev’ryone watches as I float towards her, but for once I don’t care about that. Already I can feel the smile spreadin’ across my face. Rhona lifts the napkin from her lap, drops it on the tabletop an’ stands up.
‘C’mere, you,’ she says, an’ opens her arms. I rush into them. When I look again, most people have gone back to their food. Beside us, Joyce clears her throat.
‘Did you miss me, sweetie?’ asks Rhona.
‘Yes.’
‘Well I missed you too. Listen, honey, I’m sure you have lots to tell me, but right now I need to talk to Joyce. Why don’t you get some breakfast and we’ll see each other later.’
There’s a new edge to Rhona’s voice that I do not like. A commandin’ edge. It was never there before.
‘But you’re only jus’ back,’ I say. ‘I want to tell you … things.’
Rhona sighs, an’ for a second it looks like she’ll change her mind, but Joyce clears her throat again an’ the steeliness springs back into Rhona’s eyes.
‘I know, love,’ she says. ‘But we’ll talk about it later. I promise. Why don’t you get some eggs, and make a list in your head of everything you want to tell me?’
‘But—’
‘Run along now, Kathy,’ says Joyce. I bristle. Rhona sits down an’ replaces the napkin on her lap.
‘I’ll … get some toast,’ I say to the side of Rhona’s head.
She nods but doesn’t look at me. ‘Okay then,’ she says, casually. ‘See you later.’
#
For the first time in ages we meet in Rhona’s office, an’ this makes the meetin’ feel uncomfortably formal. On her desk there’s a pile of folders, an’ with a sinkin’ heart I realise what they are.
‘So,’ breezes Rhona. ‘I see you’ve been to the big city.’
‘I … don’t … I …’
Rhona grabs the topmost folder an’ leafs through it. There’s so much paper inside – typed an’ stamped an’ signed. I wish I could see what they’ve written.
‘Looks like you made some real progress. The parts about your family are fascinating.’
‘I don’t know. They wouldn’t let me read it.’
‘Do you want to read it now?’ asks Rhona.
This throws me off guard. I stare at the beige folder an’ feel light-headed. There is so much paper inside.
‘Can’t we talk about somethin’ else?’ I whisper.
‘What do you want to talk about?’ asks Rhona, tentin’ her hands below her chin.
I look at her, an’ struggle to hold back tears
. ‘I …’
Rhona looks at her stack of folders. She swipes a hand across her nose.
‘Look. Kathy. We have to talk about these things sooner or later.’
‘But … Can’t we jus’—’
‘It’s in your best interests to read these transcripts, love. You’ve obviously got a lot bottled up. If you don’t let it out you might get sick again. You don’t want another trip to Inverness, do you?’
I stare at my lap, strugglin’ to find the right answer. A puff of air lifts my fringe as Rhona chucks a folder over the desk. It slides to a stop in front of my face. The only word on it is Katherine. The rest is all numbers. I look at Rhona.
‘This is the transcript of your first Inverness session,’ she says. I think you should read it.’
‘But—’
Rhona leans across an’ takes my chin in her hand.
‘I’m trying to help you, Kathy. Seriously, the Inverness stuff has opened some exciting doors. Don’t you want to find your mother?’
I withdraw as far as my chair will allow. I look at the file. I scratch my chin in the place where Rhona put her hand.
‘I want to go for a walk,’ I say.
A small silence. Rhona exhales.
‘Read the file, Katherine.’
‘No.’
A rustle of paper.
‘I’ll read it to you, then.’
I shoot to my feet an’ my chair clatters over. I cringe.
‘Oh come on, Katherine!’ cries Rhona. Her face is all hard an’ pink. I’ve never seen her face look like that. I back away.
‘You won’t find the answers out there!’ she calls, an’ her tone of voice shocks me into lookin’ back. Almost immediately I crash into something hard. But iss not the wall. Iss Joyce.
Christ, the woman really is made of steel …
I dodge sideways an’ flee along the corridor. Jus’ before the corner I look back. Joyce has her hand on Rhona’s arm.
#
Sunday.
It feels wrong to see Mr Duff so soon after our last session. Nobody is very enthusiastic about singin’ or dancin’. Instead, we watch Mr Duff sing songs at us. I’d hoped Rhona would come to apologise, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Mary’s not here either, an’ I miss her. Specially when it comes to dancin’ time an’ I have to pair up with Jess. There’s no gramophone today cos Mrs Laird is away an’ doesn’t like us touchin’ her 78s. Instead we have to dance to Mr Duff’s guitar, which feels extremely strange. I know Mary would have found this as funny as I do.
For lunch we eat meatloaf, which I don’t really like. I sit in my corner near the new brick wall, pushin’ bits round my plate. Is Rhona eatin’ in her office, jus’ to avoid me? The thought of this enrages me. Joyce fillin’ secret plates for her. Passin’ them under the door.
When I’ve finished eatin’ I get up to leave, but Aggie loudly points out I haven’t cleared my dishes away, an’ this attracts Caroline’s attention.
‘Go on, lazybones,’ says Caroline. ‘Take your stuff to the kitchen.’
I look at the horseshoe-door.
‘I … can’t …’
‘Katherine, I’m warning you.’
Ev’ryone’s eyes are on me. I press myself against the wall, wantin’ to leave. But this would cause problems. They’d tell Rhona, an’ she’d get angry again.
My legs feel disconnected from the rest of me. I command them to move, without luck. Move. Move. Move! This burns a huge amount of energy. I stand glued to the carpet while my heartbeat quickens A dark, fizzy patch slurs across my vision an’ settles there, right in the middle.
‘What are you waiting for?’ demands Caroline.
I swing my head towards her voice, but her face is hidden behind the fizzy patch. I open my mouth. The darkness slips to the left. Something swishes towards me. I gasp. Hands appear. Fasten onto me. Yank me forwards. Voices babble. Too late, I flail. The ceilin’ light slams down into my eyes. Then away. Out, back, to somewhere behind my head. I trip backwards, followin’ it. The fizzy patch rushes up my nose, an’ then …
#
Floor. Hands. Light. Faces. Dark.
#
Wild faces watch me, inhuman and grand. Legs swishing through the grass. They’re coming to see what I am. I can’t stand that sound. Those strangled vocals, like a giant, hurt man. Getting closer. Closer …
Unless, of course … Unless it’s … What if it’s …
I lie flatter, hands sinking deep in the soil. Is this mud thick enough to hide me? Above, there are stars. Framed on all sides by a dark, swinging fringe. Lukewarm dots swarm behind my eyes. I feel them there. Pale tangerine. They are what I see inside me. Waiting for their time. Waiting to explode when a weak moment comes. When my instinct outgrows my fear and my legs raise me up to run.
#
Heavy.
Pink.
Dim light.
Of course. The crisis room.
‘Hey,’ says a voice.
I turn over.
Rhona is tucked up in the other bed. In her hands, a dog-eared copy of Flight to Terror Mountain. She puts down the book an’ tilts a smile at me.
‘You all right, ya weirdo?’ she asks, kindly.
I look at her carefully. I nod.
‘You don’t have to talk. I’ve got my cheesy book.’ She winks.
I smile.
‘I tried readin’ that one,’ I say. ‘I didn’t get very far.’
We lie quietly. Rhona drifts in an’ out of focus. Sometimes I hear her readin’ the words under her breath, an’ this sound reminds me of the wind in the ash tree.
‘I’m sorry for the other day,’ I mumble.
‘That’s all right.’
‘I went onto the moor.’
I hear Rhona put down her book. ‘You like it out there, don’t you?’ she says. ‘We should take a walk sometime.’
I turn, an’ smile hopefully.
‘Like old times,’ I say. But this time she doesn’t answer. Instead she slots a knitted bookmark into her book an’ places it face down on her lap. For a while she fiddles with the tassel on the bookmark. Then she flicks through the pages with her thumb.
‘Do you still pray?’ she asks, without lookin’ up. I watch the pages flutterin’. Beneath my head, my folded arm grows tingly.
‘Mm hmm,’ I answer, finally.
‘What do you pray for?’ asks Rhona.
I twist my mouth to one side. Is it allowed, to tell another person such things? Aren’t there rules? Like on my birthday, when I blew out the candles? Rhona sees me pause an’ thumps me gently on the arm.
‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry. I’m just making conversation.’
I smile.
‘Sometimes,’ I tell her, ‘I pray for Mrs McRae.’
‘Oh,’ says Rhona. ‘Didn’t she pass awa—’
I stop. Rhona stops too, an’ turns her face away. Suddenly I understand she’s made a mistake.
‘I mean … I meant …’
‘Mrs McRae is dead?’
Rhona sighs. ‘I think so, yes.’ She doesn’t look at me, but I see the frown wrinkles on the side of her face.
‘Who will … run the post office now?’
‘I don’t know, love.’
A great gust of wind rattles the shutters then, breakin’ apart the silence that has fallen. We wriggle at the sudden chill, an’ Rhona shifts further under her bedcovers. I look at her mess of backcombed bed-hair, an’ cackle.
‘What?’ she laughs.
‘You look like a ginger lion.’
Rhona cackles too an’ flaps at me with her book. I duck.
‘Cheeky sod!’ she says, but I know she’s not really mad.
#
People stare when I enter the breakfast room. I fill a plate with toast an’ carry it to my usual table. Caroline is not here. I like to imagine she got into trouble for last night. My appetite is pretty good today, an’ the shakiness has disappeared. I worry that when Mrs Laird returns she’ll make me talk
about yesterday. They never learn that fuss makes things worse. Iss not like I chose to faint, is it? Maybe I should tell someone about the horseshoe. They might go easy on me then, an’ take the bloody thing away. My God, I’d love that. I’d throw it over the mountains if I could. I’d throw it into the sea.
We’re meant to talk to Joyce this week instead of Mrs Laird, but there’s no way I’m tellin’ Joyce my super-private stuff. I don’t believe she’s clever enough to do the deep brain stuff anyway. Yesterday I heard Liz talkin’ about Joyce. That Joyce once did a night class in the stuff Mrs Laird does an’ now she thinks she knows it all. Could that be true? God, imagine if Joyce took over Mrs Laird’s job for good! I couldn’t bear it.
As I pick at my food I think of the Inverness transcripts an’ know that sooner or later I’ll be made to read them. But God knows what horrors I’ll find at the end of that path. Why is ev’ryone so anxious to send me back where I came from? How can I explain this fear to them? That I don’t want to leave this place. That I can’t. That if I lost Rhona, I think I might die …
After breakfast I go upstairs an’ ponder by my bedroom window. Outside, a spider is buildin’ a web. For hours, I watch its progress. Gettin’ battered by the wind. Hangin’ on by one leg.
By nightfall I’ve made my decision. I get up from my chair an’ go downstairs. The lights are turned off except for one dim wall lamp, an’ this makes the hall look smaller than usual. It feels strange to be down here so late, an’ I’ll probl’ly get in trouble for it, but this can’t wait till mornin’. I have to tell Rhona right now. I’m not goin’ to read the files. If I show her how scared I am, she can’t get mad. Can she? I’ll jus’ tell her straight.
A light flickers through the sittin’-room door, throwin’ a jerky pattern into the hallway. I stand for a moment, watchin’ the shapes. Then I peek inside an’ see Caroline lookin’ at the television. On it, a man with long hair is kissin’ a woman with short hair. I clutch my throat as I inch past, but Caroline doesn’t turn round. She looks younger from the back than the front. I wonder where ev’ryone else is. They can’t all be in bed already.