by Ruth Dugdall
Mum cried then, and I never mentioned Mrs. Carron again, but I took it upon myself to watch her and Dad. To make it safe for Mum to come out of her nest, and be well again.
I used to go to the blackbird’s nest every morning before breakfast, and every afternoon, so I could let Mum know how the birds were doing. It was the only thing she seemed to care about. When I told her the eggs had hatched, she was so pleased. I told her about the three chicks with thin scrawny necks and hardly any feathers. I felt like I’d given her a great gift, and we watched from our duvetden, the parent blackbirds to-ing and fro-ing with their worms and grubs, happy, knowing the little ones were safe.
But you can’t know anything for certain.
The day after I’d counted the three chicks, about a week after I saw Mrs. Carron’s red bra, I put on my blue gingham dress and went to see Mum before school. She was awake, but lying very still, and she gave me a little smile, then asked me to pass her pills.
“I think I might get up today, Rose,” she said.
I jumped in the air, whooping with joy. The spell was broken, and today she would be back to normal. I knew from all the times it had happened before that when the bad ‘loony’ days had passed she would be lovely. She would take me to the beach and buy me ice cream, and make up for all the days she’d stayed in bed.
I ran outside and tagged Peter on the arm and kept running, so full of energy that I could’ve run to the end of the earth that day, but all I wanted to do was get school over so I could be with Mum again. I knew she’d be waiting for me downstairs. Dressed and ready.
It was only when I was at my desk at school, kicking the back of creepy Alfie’s chair, that I realised I’d forgotten to look in on the three chicks. But that was okay—I bet it was the first thing Mum would do after she’d got dressed. And Dad would sleep in her bed again tonight, and everything would be normal. I didn’t even mind when Alfie passed a crumpled note to me, saying he fancied me.
After school I ran home, ran so fast I tripped but didn’t care about a grazed knee. I ran right past Peter and his mates, and kept going until I ran straight into the shop, hardly hearing the bell, and straight into an empty room. Where was she?
I started calling, “Mum? Mum!”
I heard a sound coming from the store cupboard. A woman, and it sounded like she was in pain. “Mum? Is that you?”
I ran to help, opening the door as the sound became a cry of pleasure. I saw Dad’s back, two hands on his shoulders. He was pushing someone against the wall.
“Mum?”
“Here, Rose.” A voice from behind me.
I turned around. Mum was standing there, her hair still wet from a recent bath, clothed, smelling like a new day. But her eyes looked beyond me into the store cupboard, to Dad’s back and the other woman’s hands. “Rose, what is it?” I wished, how I wished, that I’d been able to keep her safe. She pushed me aside and then I heard a high-pitched scream, “You bastard!”
Inside the store cupboard Dad twisted his head, there was a scramble of bodies coming apart and clothing being pulled down. He came forward, his shirt untucked and his hair all messed up, and behind him I saw Mrs. Carron, wearing nothing on top but a red bra and a satisfied smirk. Mum doubled-up like she’d been punched, and started to howl.
I ran out of the shop, and round the back, throwing myself on the grass at the base of the Elaeagnus. Then in front of me, I saw them.
Tiny baby dragons. No hair, just thin necks, big black beads for eyes, and one wing outstretched. Two of them.
As I watched, a magpie came out of the Elaeagnus, a scrap of life held tight in its cruel beak, which it jerked, tossing the tiny bird to join its dead brothers on the grass.
The magpie flashed its beautiful, glossy wings, looked at me quickly, and was gone.
I cried for a long time, and the sun was setting when I finally got up from the ground and went to the tree. I stood on tip toe and reached for the empty nest, cupping it in my palm and gently pulling it from the branches. It may be empty, but it was still a home. I would take it to Mum, as a gift.
No sign of Mum or Dad or Mrs. Carron. No sign of Peter, who was supposed to stay in the shop after school. I would look in the flat, find Mum and give her the nest. I pulled back the curtain and climbed up the stairs, listening for any noise but hearing none. My stomach rumbled with hunger and I decided to dip into my ice cream box of sweets, hidden under my bed. But when I looked the box was gone. Peter must have it! He’d be hiding somewhere, stuffing himself on all my lovely sweets that had taken so many weeks to collect, and so much of my willpower to resist.
The kitchen was empty. So was the front room, just Peter’s shoes lying on the floor where he had kicked them. I checked the bathroom, even looking behind the shower curtain, but he wasn’t there. There was just one place left. My parents’ room.
The door was closed and I pushed the handle down slowly, seeing from the shape on the bed that Mum was there, huddled up under the bedding. Poor Mum. The room was hot and stuffy as she wouldn’t have the windows open. She didn’t like to hear the outside world. She was lying very still, so deeply asleep that I couldn’t resist going over to her, thinking I’d climb under the duvet and make it a den.
I placed the empty nest on her pillow, so she would see it when she opened her eyes.
She was so pale, her long blonde hair lying in a rope on the pillow. I tiptoed right up to the bed. She hadn’t stirred and I suddenly wanted to kiss her. Surely that would be allowed, if I were careful not to wake her. I climbed onto the bed, and lay down close to her, afraid of being caught but entranced by my beautiful mother. If she woke she might shout for Dad to fetch me away, and I would get a good hiding. But it was worth the risk, just to be near her.
I touched her cheek with my hand, cool and dry. Her parted lips were cracked. I leaned over and brought my lips to her cheek, then to her lips, feeling the roughened skin on my mouth. But there was no warmth there either. I wanted to hug her, to press my warm body over her cold one. She held something in her hand, her fingers grasping the neck of a bottle almost empty except for a few of her pink sweets. I pulled at it, but it was as if her fingers had been welded to the glass.
Then, a muffled sound came from the wardrobe.
I froze, thinking of the monster I feared lived in wardrobes, as I watched the door inch open. Expecting a furry paw, or claws, I held my breath, cowering into my mother’s stiff body. Instead, the open door revealed Peter. His mouth, smeared with sugar, was a round wound of an ‘O.’
“I saw her do it,” he said, “but I couldn’t stop her, ’cos then she’d know I was hiding in here and she’d tell me off for eating all your sweets.”
Between his feet was the empty ice cream box. His eyes were red and puffy and dried tears streaked his face.
“I saw her take all her pills, and now she won’t wake up.”
11
Black Book Entry
What I remember most about my mother’s funeral was the hushed voices of dark clothed strangers, huddled in corners of our flat, whispering as I walked by. No one would talk to me so I sat in the corner of the front room and waited. Dad came over, swaying as if he’d had too much beer like he always did at Christmas, and patted me on the head, pulling my hair with his heavy hand. “You’re a good girl, Rosie.”
Mrs. Carron came over, and handed him a whisky. I heard him say ‘Thank you, Isabel,’ and that was how I found out her name, but she was always Mrs. Carron to me. When she came to kiss me all I saw was teeth, and I moved away so she caught my jaw with a tight peck. She was younger than you’d think a widow should be, and though she was dressed in a black skirt her blouse was red and silky. She had shiny lips and big gold earrings and I didn’t like the way she looked at my Dad, like our cat used to look when it brought a bird in from the garden. She led him away, into the front room and the door was closed behind them. When they’d gone I wiped my face where Mrs. Carron had kissed and the back of my hand was smeared with pink lipsti
ck.
I didn’t know where Peter was and I didn’t care. No one in the room came to talk to me, but I saw them look over often. I felt like I’d grown horns or something. And then a group by the door separated to let a round woman in a large fur coat enter. She had a tiny hat like a porkpie balanced on her head, and a piece of black lace over one eye, but I could still see it was Auntie Rita straightaway. I jumped right up and ran to her.
“Oh my, Rose, what a big girl you are! You’re going to be quite the bobby dazzler in a few years.”
She took a tissue from her shiny black bag and spat on it, wiping the remaining lipstick from my face and tutting. She smelled strongly of roses, and I wanted to bury myself into her soft coat.
“It’s not real fur, but who’d know?”
“It’s very soft.”
“I need to take it off. It’s too hot in here.” She peeled back the fake animal skin, revealing a tight black dress and fat knees in thick, tan-coloured stockings. “I must sit down, Rose. My legs are like lead weights.”
Rita sat on a wooden chair, her massive thighs bulging over the sides, and stood me in front of her. She was ten years older than my Dad, and lived further down the coast in Felixstowe so we didn’t see her much, but she always had violet sweets in her handbag, along with her ciggies, and I loved it when she came to visit. I wanted to put my head on her bosom and be held there.
She touched my chin, turning my face upwards. “Have you been in the dining room yet?”
I shook my head. The dining room wasn’t a big room and we only used it at Christmas or for special meals, though Mum sometimes sat in there with a book. The door had been kept closed all morning, though I’d seen people going in and coming out and thought the food must be in there.
“Then I shall take you. Your mum’s in there and you need to say goodbye to her.”
I gasped—Mum was in the dining room! I pictured her sat in her favourite chair, talking to all the people who’d been going in to see her. Why hadn’t someone told me? I would run to her, let her scoop me in her arms and kiss my hair. She would say, “Where have you been, Rosie? I’ve been waiting for you,” and I would show her the blackbird’s nest, kept safely for her.
I jumped from Rita’s grip, ran out of the front room and down the hall, pushing past the sombre-suited strangers. I yanked the door handle of the dining room, desperate to see my mum.
The room was dark. The table was empty of food. Then I saw it. A dark wooden box, balanced on two chairs. I inched closer and saw white satin lining the box then the tip of my mother’s nose. I didn’t move, but stood on tiptoe and peered down at her face. She was so pale, so featureless. It was as if her face had been wiped clean of all its colour, leaving a wax mask. Her eyes were closed and her blonde hair was loose around her face.
“Give her a kiss.”
I jumped when Auntie Rita spoke. She put her heavy hand on my shoulder, pressing me into her generous warm body. “Go on, Rose.”
I inched forward to the coffin, afraid that Mum would suddenly move. I looked at her for a few moments and then leaned into the box, eyes screwed tight shut as I puckered my lips onto her cheek. I could feel the edge of her cheekbone, the cold skin hard and unyielding.
“Talk to her.”
I began to cry. Hot tears fell down my cheek and into my mouth, which I wiped away with the back of my hand.
“She can hear you, Rose. And see you. Her body is empty, but her spirit is still here, in this room.”
Through my sobs I said, “Mum?”
“That’s it, Rose.”
“Mum. I want you to come home.”
Rita was right behind me, burying me into her. “Your mum is in the spirit world now, Rose. She won’t ever come home but she’ll always be with you, when you want her. And she will always be listening.”
It was the first time anyone had told me that death could be like that. I’d thought of heaven as clouds or a large garden with lots of birds and angels. But Rita taught me about spirits. She taught me not to be afraid of death. I learnt that heaven is a better, safer place.
Some birds steal the nests of others. It’s in their nature. Killing the chicks in the nest is just what they have to do.
Some women think nothing of stealing a man.
Dad was in such a state in the months after the funeral that I should probably be grateful to Mrs. Carron. She kept the shop going and cooked our meals while he just sat behind the counter staring into the dusty air. When the salesmen called he would look into their boxes with a frown, as if he recognised the strawberry laces and the snowy macaroons, but just couldn’t remember what they were for. The shelves weren’t stocked and the jars were empty. Mrs. Carron quietly set about re-ordering supplies, and taking the cash to the bank on Tuesdays. In the evening she would write with small neat handwriting in the accounts book, while my father slumped in the armchair holding a forgotten cup of tea. She would smile at him, take the cold cup away, and make another. In time he began to drink the tea, eat the food she cooked, and he seemed to forget that she wasn’t really supposed to be there.
I didn’t forget. I watched her, knowing that she wasn’t my mum. She had no right pretending.
I couldn’t tell you the exact day Mrs. Carron moved in. It should have been memorable, dramatic even, the moment when my mother was replaced, but she moved quietly like she was playing grandmother’s footsteps. One day I turned around and she was there, ready to tap me on the shoulder, before I had chance to scream.
Things were different for my brother. After Mum died, Peter took things hard. He was so angry he would kick a kitten if it came too close, but when Mrs. Carron came to live with us he was quieter. He wasn’t a clever boy and Mrs. Carron treated him like a baby, hugging him to her breast and ruffling his hair. She bought him an electric guitar for his birthday and he said it was his best ever present. He liked Mrs. Carron; once he called her Mum and she kissed his cheek. I would never call her Mum. She had stolen my father.
When I think of it I’m back there again. I’m no longer in prison; I’m just a girl.
I need to know Mrs. Carron’s secret. I need to know why Dad loves her so much that he’s forgotten Mum.
He doesn’t know that Mrs. Carron is not naturally beautiful. But I do. I’ve seen how she does it. I’ve watched her sleep, in Dad’s bed, on the side where Mum used to lie. I’ve sneaked in and touched her bare back. Once she woke to find me standing over her, and she yanked the sheet up over her breasts, hiding her brown nipples, and called me a freak. I couldn’t let that happen again.
Dad’s wardrobe door doesn’t shut snug, and I like hiding among his dusty jackets. I like the smell, like a library. Stuffy but safe with old air and too much heat.
Through the crack I see Mrs. Carron slide into her dressing gown and peer at herself in the mirror. She sits, twisting her hair into a loose knot, clipping it high. Then she dabs from a glass bottle onto her fingers, smoothing musk over her neck and cheeks. I can tell by the eyeshadow she puts on what colour clothes she will wear, and today it’s green. Her sparkly finger strokes her closed lids. But it’s the lips I like watching best. She stretches her face, opens her mouth and eyes wide, like she’s had a fright, paints pink over nude lips. Then she takes off her gown and stands naked in front of the other wardrobe, so close I can see her chest rise with each breath. I can see the mole on her hip. I pray she can’t hear the thumping of my heart.
Later, downstairs, Mrs. Carron stops speaking when I enter the shop, and Dad eyes me cautiously. I place my money in the till and select a glass jar. I’m tall enough to reach now.
“Rose, you never bring any friends home,” Dad says, “is everything alright at school?”
“Yeah.”
I busy myself in weighing out a quarter of lemons; the dusty sherbet rises in the bag. I can smell her musky perfume. I pop a sweet in my mouth and suck.
She says, “I know it must be hard for you, with your mum gone.” Gone. I wince at the sharp tang of the sweet.
“But we don’t need to make the situation harder than it is.”
My bedroom is next to Dad’s and the walls are as thin as cardboard. If I peel the Bananarama poster from the wall, a bit of plasterboard comes away with the Blu-Tac. That was how I got the idea of making a hole in the wall. I couldn’t hide in the wardrobe forever. It was too risky.
The knife was soon blunt and I had to fetch a screwdriver from the kitchen drawer to finish the job. I was careful to make the hole the right size—large enough to see through, small enough to be invisible. Luckily the wallpaper in Dad’s bedroom is a floral pattern and the hole is in the centre of a blowsy flower. The hole is high, so I have to stand on tiptoe.
I hate the screech of Peter’s electric guitar, but at least he’s in his bedroom and not pestering me. I know he comes here when I’m not around. Sometimes he comes in to catch me off guard, loving it when I jump out of my skin. “What you up to, fatso?” he demands, and I holler at him to go away. I tell Dad, but he won’t put a lock on my door, so I have to remember to wedge a chair under the handle.
I don’t peep through my hole when Dad is in the bedroom, because that wouldn’t be right. In the mornings, when I hear the clink of the milk deliveries van and the chirp of a radio from downstairs, then I know it’s safe. Dad is in the shop and Mrs. Carron is alone.