***
Kate sat on the cold stone floor in darkness. She carefully touched her eye, gingerly pressing the swollen eye-socket with the pads of her fingers. The flesh was soft; bruised like squashed fruit. The feel of it made her want to heave. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness she saw a dark, bulky shape leaning against the far wall. She held her breath, fixing her eyes on it; frightened to make any noise in case it moved. She began to reason with herself. There couldn’t be anything there, could there? She would have known wouldn’t she? They would have heard it moving around underneath them as they carried on with their lives up in the house.
Her curiosity began to get the better of her. She shuffled across the dusty stone floor on her haunches and reached out warily with a trembling hand. With one outstretched finger she touched it lightly. It was soft and light and didn’t move. Relief flowed through her as the weave of the cloth became familiar to her hand. She rubbed the fabric between her thumb and finger and as if she were hugging an old friend, pulled it towards her. The pungent smell of pipe tobacco lingering on the garment filled her nostrils. She smiled and closed her eyes, inhaling the familiar scent. It was simply her father’s old gardening jacket. Angie must have thrown it into the hole in a fit of temper. Anything that reminded her of Joe made her angry, particularly Kate whose black hair and striking violet-blue eyes resembled Joe's own looks.
The jacket gave her comfort and she buried her face into the shabby corduroy, softened with age and use. When she closed her eyes and pressed her face into the cloth she could pretend he was there with his arms around her. They had been so close. If he came back she thought, he would make everything right again. Her father's name had been unmentionable from the day he’d left and after all this time, a year or so, Kate dare not say it in front of Angie. As she daydreamed Kate tried to resurrect the last Christmas they had all spent together.
Christmas Eve had been such a magical and happy time. After tea, the Christmas hamper had arrived. The anticipation of this event began the excitement for them and was enjoyed almost as much as the great day. Kate and Emma greeted the delivery agent with giggles and squeals of delight as he'd dragged the huge cardboard boxes into the hall. Joe had called to them above the commotion.
“Steady, girls, steady. Girls will you be careful now. Just wait a minute. Dear God, will yer let the poor bloke in the door?”
After the delivery man had dragged the hamper into the living-room and made his get- away, Joe had run his penknife down the brown sticky tape holding the boxes firmly shut, the excited sisters urging him to hurry. Then the ritual had begun. The exclamations of delight over every item of delicious festive food they’d lifted from the box were moments of supreme happiness.
Angie had stood in the kitchen door way, her shiny shoulder length hair fastened each side with a diamanté slide. She wore a bright-red Christmas apron with a snowman and a little robin on the front She looked happy. She was smiling. Joe was laughing with them. He sat on his haunches and helped them unload the boxes, pretending to hide the chocolates from them. Kate and Emma had launched themselves on him in a rough and tumble and they were giggling so hard it hurt.
In a moment her dreams of happier times were gone. She tried to cling onto the thoughts that had helped her fight her terror but they faded into nothing. She felt a shot of panic in her chest and her blood ran hot in her veins. He breathing came in short gasps and the constant throbbing in her temples was unbearable. Nausea washed over her like a wave and the hole felt oppressive and empty of air.
Paralysed with a fear that even reflections of her gentle and loving father could not chase away her humiliation was complete. Damp warmth flowed across the floor underneath her. She didn't have the strength to stop it.
Chapter 2
“Where did you and Daddy meet, Mummy? Was it exciting?”
“Huh, exciting? Oh sure. We met in the pub?”
“Oh.”
“Why?”
“The girls at school were talking about how their mums and dads met. I just wondered.”
“Did you, now? What else did they say?”
“That Daddy was nice to look at. It made me feel proud.”
“What about me? What did they say about me?”
“Nothing, Mummy. Nothing at all.”
“They must have said something.”
“No, Mummy. Nothing.”
“I know the things they say about me. And you think it too. You probably joined in. You probably said even more than they did about me, how awful I am, that I don’t care about you.”
“No, Mummy, no. I love you. As much as I love Daddy. Emma and me, we both love you. So does Daddy.”
“Well, you won’t love me when I’ve finished belting you will you? And you’d better not let on to that father of yours who adores you so much or you’ll get it even worse.
Kate woke. She looked around unsure of where she was, her eyes searching for any glint of light that might take her to freedom. She got to her knees and pressed her face against the floorboards above. A cold sweat broke out in droplets on her forehead and her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth; sticky with lack of saliva. The temperature had dropped even lower in the unheated house and the sharp coldness was numbing. She rubbed her hands together blowing on them to warm them then massaged her legs that were chilled to the bone. Cramp surged into her muscles sending shots of pain into her calves and forearms.
A faint noise from the hall made her gasp. Hardly daring to breathe she strained to listen. Dragging herself towards a minuscule shard of light between two floorboards she craned her head to look through it then placed her ear against it. It was the creak of a floorboard she was sure of it. Her eagerness to escape the hole tempted her to call out but she ignored the enticement. She knew it would be foolish, remembering from bitter experience that if Angie heard her another beating was certain. She decided to wait.
She held her breath and sat quietly for a few moments. There it was again. Foot-steps! She heard a voice fearfully calling her name. The relief that washed over Kate was so strong it almost melted her. “Emma. I’m in here. I’m in the hole under the cupboard.” Emma crouched down whispering as loudly as she dared. “Not so loud, she’ll hear you.”
“Where is she?”
“Asleep on the settee. I knew there was something wrong when I saw the shopping bags in the kitchen. The shopping's all over the kitchen floor. I bet she’s been kicking it around. She’s such a stupid cow.”
Kate wanted to ask Emma to move the cupboard Angie had pulled across the loose floorboards to imprison her underneath, but she hesitated, knowing it would make more than enough noise to wake Angie. “You’ll have to move the cupboard. Try and move it to one side.” There was a pause. Emma didn’t answer but Kate could hear her breathing from above her where her cheek was pressed closely against the floor.
“Don’t ask me to do that, Kate,” Emma whispered. “Please don’t ask me. If she wakes up, Christ knows what she’ll do, you know what a bitch she is. She’ll put me in there as well.”
“You can do it, Emma.”
“She’ll kill me if she wakes up.”
“Look. Just try. Please. If it makes too much noise we’ll stop but please try. Please, Emma. Otherwise I’ll be in here all night and I couldn’t take it. I’ll die, I know I will.”
There was silence. Kate's stomach churned. If Emma wouldn’t help her she would be in the hole for hours. She listened carefully for any sound, praying with all her heart that she’d soon be free. To her joy she heard the cupboard being scraped across the floor bit by bit. As the broken floorboard lifted, Emma’s expression swiftly changed from one of exultation to horror. Her hands flew to her mouth and her eyes, wide with shock, swam with tears.
“Oh, Kate.”
Kate crawled out of the hole, struggling with legs that had lost all feeling after spending hours curled up in the same position. She leant against the wall, beckoning Emma to help her. Emma put her shoulder gently und
er her sister’s arm and together they managed a slow walk to the mirror hanging by the front door. When her reflection was finally facing her, Kate heaved.
The right side of her head was swollen, and around her eye was a purple bruise. Her cheekbone had distended and turning blue. She turned and faced her sister. Emma shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears of anger. “She’s such a bitch, Katie. Why d’you let her get away with it? She’s the one that should be locked up, not you. We should do it now. We’ll push her in and pull the cupboard over the hole and never move it again. We could y’know, we could do it. No one would ever know. I’d enjoy every minute of it. I wish she was dead. I hate her guts.”
Emma raised her head and looked at Kate, silent tears streaming down her face. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” she whispered. Kate gently wrapped her arms around her sister. “It’s not your fault,” she said softly, brushing Emma’s fringe from her eyes. “What happened was nothing to do with you. It would have happened anyway, whether you were here or not.” She put her hand to her face to feel her swollen eye. “I s’pose we should take a look at Mum.” Emma looked at her in astonishment. “What for? Who cares about her anyway?”
Angie lay on the settee in the living room. She’d pushed her head into the corner between the back and the arm, and her neck was awkwardly bent over to one side. One leg was stretched out in front of her; the other bent at the knee, lolling over the side towards the floor. A shoe hung carelessly on the end of her foot and her left hand lay on her chest. Her right hand clutched the bottle which held the remnants of the alcohol she’d poured down her throat. Some of the liquid transporting her into unconsciousness had spilled from the bottle and dribbled under her chin, coming to rest in her hair. Her mouth had dropped open and a trickle of silvery saliva had run down the side of her face on to the torn black vinyl.
Kate looked down at Emma, overwhelmed with shame. This person, drunk and unwashed was their mother. Angie had turned into an alcoholic within the year. Twelve painful and frightening months since Joe left them. Kate inhaled a deep breath as hot tears ran slowly down her cheeks. There had been good times once and she’s still my mum, she thought. She looks different and the things she does are wrong, but underneath she’s still my mum. She can’t help what she’s doing. It’s not all her fault.
She put her arm around Emma’s shoulders. “It’ll be all right now, Emma. She won’t wake ‘til morning. We’re safe now.” Leading Emma towards the stairs she glanced up at the clock. It was past eight. Kate shook her head when she realised how long her imprisonment had lasted. “You go up, Em’. I’ll have a wash and sort myself out a bit. We’ll both be better off in bed. It’ll be warmer anyway. It’s so cold in here.”
Emma stood by the stair-rail and looked at her. “How can you be like that, Kate, after what she’s done to you? Don’t you hate her? Don’t you want to kill her?”
“I don’t hate anyone, Emma. I don’t think she can help what she does.”
Emma made her way up to her bedroom and Kate followed, her eyes fixed upon the open living-room door. When the motionless Angie came into view she sat on the stair. She knew her mother would be in the same position until daylight squeezed through the gap in the brown chenille curtains.
Kate folded her arms across her knees and rested her head carefully on top of them, gently burying her swollen face into the soothing warmth of her own breath. She suddenly felt the need to pray to a God who seemed to have deserted them. She got up and went to her bedroom, opening a small draw in her dressing table. She took out a poetry book. Inside was a slip of paper and a piece of pink tissue. She opened the tissue revealing a dried pressing of a dandelion clock. She refolded the tissue carefully, closed the book and took these and the paper back to the stairs. Finding the step that gave her the best view of Angie she sat down and unfolded the paper. She held the poetry book tightly in her hand and began to read softly out loud.
“When loves echo whispers, it caresses our lonely hearts.
It leaves us breathless.
Wanting the wonderful memories to return
The surge of love that makes us weak,
And when entwined our warmth will burn.
And when he has to leave our side,
We feel such pain.
The parting of souls, no words can explain
The depth of feeling. Our loss is true.
And once where there was sun, now only rain.
Love is the key to this broken world.
Our loved ones are all we need.
For where it seems that anger reigns,
And all is wretched and lost.
Love’s echo whispers and your precious love sustains.”
Written by Joe McGuire.
Tears streamed unchecked down her face. Holding the beloved dandelion clock that Joe had given her in another time, she made her wish. “Come home, Dad,” she whispered. “Please come home.”
Chapter 3
“Do you like Christmas Eve, Daddy?”
“Of course I do.”
“Why?”
“Because Christmas Eve means magic. And leaving gifts for your loved ones and seeing their happy faces. Just say the word ‘Christmas’ or think it in your head. It makes you feel excited doesn’t it?'
“Why does it?”
“Because it’s the night Joseph took Mary to Bethlehem to have her baby. You know the story so well darlin’. You’ve done your Nativity plays at school haven’t you?”
“Yes, I have.”
“And it was the most magical moment wasn’t it? When Joseph took Mary to the stable, she gave birth to Our Lord, Jesus Christ. Our Lady Mary had her baby in the poorest of places didn’t she? In a stable. Not like when Mummy had Emma. She was born in a nice big, bright hospital. And so were you.”
“And did Mary cry, Daddy, because when she had Jesus she wasn’t in a hospital?”
“Only with happiness darlin’. Only with happiness.”
“Y’know what, Daddy?”
“What’s that, Katie?”
“I think when Santa left Mary her baby on Christmas Eve she would’ve wished she’d had a typewriter.”
“A typewriter? Why’s that?”
“Because... if she’d had a typewriter, she could’ve typed a letter, and sent it to the inn, and they’d have known they were coming to stay and she wouldn’t have had to have her baby in a stable. Y’see, Daddy, I’d write lots of letters if Santa left me a typewriter.”
“Would you now?”
“Yes, Daddy. I would. Night-night.”
“Night-night, Katie.”
It was Christmas Day. The old radio on the windowsill in the kitchen churned out the usual Christmas songs and carols and Kate hummed along with them as she worked. When Mud’s song ‘Lonely This Christmas’ came on, she snapped, “Oh, shut up for God’s sake,” and then laughed. “Shut up yourself, Kate. It’s not Mud’s fault Dad’s not here.”
She washed the plates they’d used at breakfast. She wiped the watery suds around the blue and yellow flower pattern on the plates as her mind dwelt on one thing and then another. Each change of thought hurtled around her head like a racing-car on a chicane, pushing away the one subject uppermost in her mind no matter how invisible and unimportant she tried to make it. The swelling on her face where Angie had punched her felt sore and too tender to touch, and the bruise on her cheekbone had turned overnight to dark purple streaked with a sickly yellow. She had tried to disguise it with make-up but it still showed through.
Joe appeared in her mind again. She tried not to think about him but he kept turning up in her thoughts. A rush of sadness swelled and churned in her chest. She was grieving for him and it worried her. Maybe I’ll always feel like this, she thought. As the Christmas season had closed in she’d nursed a faint hope that he would contact them. She allowed herself to feel annoyed with him for not letting her know how he was – she and Emma where his daughters after all. It feels like he died, she thought. Kate shuddered and pushed
the thought away. Thinking of him like that scared her. She looked up as Emma came into the kitchen. “Smile, it’s Christmas,” she said, leaning right into Kate, looking up at her in a comical way. When Kate looked down Emma was pulling a silly face and she couldn’t help but laugh at her. “Thanks for trying to cheer me up, but I’m feeling a bit sad today.”
“Why?” said Emma, wiping her finger around the inside of the empty jam-jar and then pushing her finger into her mouth.
“Why d’you think, dopey?”
“It doesn’t feel like Christmas does it. Not like it used to be?” Kate shook her head. “Nope.”
Emma danced around the kitchen in a clumsy ballet style, banging into the table, trying to get Kate to laugh again.
“Are we going to have caviar or quails eggs to start the feasting today, darling? And are we going to follow it with a lovely plump turkey or a juicy piece of beef? It’s such a problem deciding what to have, don’tcha know.” Kate giggled. “You’re such an idiot. Stop making a joke of everything. And it’s chicken pie today...don’tcha know.” Emma stopped dancing and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t care what it is. It always tastes horrible whatever we have.” She sighed. “How do you feel today anyway, Kate? Your face looks dead sore and that bruise looks the devil. Don’t you think you should see a doctor? It looks really bad. In fact, you’re uglier than usual today, which is saying something.” Kate gave her a look. “Can’t you be nice to me just for today? Yes, it does hurt and so does my head. Have you seen Mum this morning? I should think she’s got a sore head as well.”
“She’s in the bathroom being sick again,” Emma replied, her eyes raised upwards.
Kate went into the living room and pulled back the heavy chenille curtains to let some light into the musty room. She opened the windows to get rid of the smell of alcohol and cigarettes. It was snowing heavily outside and little drifts of ice had collected on the square window frames. The rush of the icy breeze swirling into the room cleared her head and she took in a deep breath, relishing the clean air: a stark contrast to the debris of empty bottles and ashtrays full to overflowing Angie had left scattered across the floor.
A Dish of Stones Page 2