by Abby Davies
My skin prickled as I approached the old clock. Up close, it wasn’t so scary. Scratches surrounded the dip in the lower door panel as though someone with long, sharp nails had opened it too many times.
With a glance over my shoulder to check I was alone, I slid my fingertips into the dip and opened the glass door. A squeal of hinges made me jump and I quickly closed the door, darted back and tripped over my own feet. I fell hard on my bottom and rolled my eyes at my clumsiness. Moving onto my hands and knees, I went to push myself up and stopped. A piece of paper was sticking out from behind the clock. I stretched out my arm and tugged on the paper. It slipped out and I stared at it, amazed to see a black-and-white photograph of Mother when she was a girl standing beside a wrinkled old man whose face was all scowl. That must be him. Mother’s grandfather. My great-grandfather.
In the photograph, Mother was holding the old man’s hand. She looked pretty in a frilly dress, her hair tied in sweet bunches, but her face looked sad. Her grandfather wore a suit as dark as his glowering eyes. He looked like a shadowy sort of person and I was glad I hadn’t met him.
I brought the photograph closer to my face. Something wasn’t quite right. The picture wasn’t whole. Someone had clearly been cut out of it, because a small, ghostly hand about the same size as Mother’s was tucked into the old man’s other hand, and the person that the hand belonged to had been chopped off the photograph.
Mother was an only child and her parents had died when she was a baby, so maybe the person holding the old man’s hand had been a friend of Mother’s. Maybe that friend had died in a terrible accident. Maybe that friend had been nasty and Mother wanted to forget about them. There were so many maybes that my mind swirled with them.
I turned the photograph over. On the back in Mother’s handwriting, it said Grandfather and me, July 1946, Village Barn Dance. Barn Dance. I pictured a room full of people dressed in bell-bottoms and flouncy blouses dancing around mooing cows and enormous bales of hay. A giggle burst out of me.
The stairs creaked and I slipped the photograph back behind the clock and spun around.
Mother stood in the doorway with her face half-covered by shadows.
‘Have you taken your pill?’ Mother’s voice was sharp.
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘Good doll.’
She handed me a pair of knickers and I pulled them on quickly.
‘Arms,’ she said.
Obediently, I stretched my arms up in the air so that Mother could pull my dress down over my head and onto my goose-bumpy body.
Today’s dress was rich blue with a flouncy, white petticoat sewn in underneath. Mother made all of my dresses. I had worn this one many times before and it was growing a little tight across my chest.
Mother stood back and assessed my appearance. A frown scrunched her forehead into crumpled paper and her small eyes shrank to brown peas. For a fleeting moment she was the spitting image of her grandfather and I drew back and looked down at myself, wondering what I had done to earn such a disgusted grimace.
‘Take it off,’ she snapped. ‘It’s too small. You’re … developing. It’s disgusting. You’re still a child, for God’s sake!’
I wriggled out of the dress with difficulty, ripping several hairs out of my head. Fortunately, Mother was too enraged to notice. Muttering under her breath, she stomped upstairs and returned seconds later with an emerald-green dress embroidered with pink flowers. She threw it at me and I pulled it on over my head, hoping desperately that it wasn’t too tight. I hadn’t worn this one for about a month. I exhaled, emptying my body of air to shrink my lungs. Mother eyed me suspiciously and tilted her head to the side.
‘Yes, that’s much better,’ she sighed. I could almost see the relief pouring out of her. She smiled and I inhaled a huge gulp of air. The room was silent for a second and then it was shattered by a ripping sound as a side seam tore open. Mother’s nostrils flared and she grabbed the collar of the dress and ripped it off me, leaving me standing there trembling in my knickers.
‘Run upstairs and put on the dress you were wearing yesterday,’ she said in a hysterical voice.
I dashed out of the room and took the stairs two at a time. Tears dribbled down my cheeks and I swiped them away, determined to hold them in. I’d be in even worse trouble if I went back downstairs with tear-stained cheeks.
My dress was in the bathroom in the laundry basket. Deadly was standing on the windowsill watching me. I turned my back on him and pulled out the dress, grimacing at the smell. It was still covered with my sick. I grabbed the bar of soap and ran the hot tap, desperate to clean the dress, but Mother was shrieking at me to hurry up so I abandoned my cleaning efforts and pulled on the damp, stinking dress and ran back downstairs. I lost my footing halfway down and nearly fell, my heart a hammer in my tight chest. The grandfather clock struck eight o’clock, booming the eight shours in a slow, mocking manner that made me want to punch its ugly face.
‘I’m so sorry, Mother,’ I panted, sitting down at the dining room table.
She ignored me and began to paint my face in a frantic, rough way, holding my chin with fingers like pincers, her jaw clamped shut, eyes narrowed. This was not the tender, careful Mother I knew. This was another person. A person who was changing faster than I could keep up. And I knew what had kick-started this change. Clarabelle.
‘Sit still,’ Mother snapped.
I wasn’t aware I had moved. I sat extra still and focused on the orange curtains and what beautiful things might lie beyond. My chest began to relax and I floated in my imagination, picturing birds and trees and grass and flowers. Pretty, gentle things that I could admire. I pictured the sun and my eyes burned with tears that I could not let drop, my heart heavy with longing; I would never see or smell or touch any of these amazing things because if I went outside my light allergy would kill me. Mother only kept me inside for my own good. Mother always knew what was best.
Mother finished with my make-up. I sat up straighter, eager to feel the slow, tender strokes of the hairbrush, but Mother packed up her purse and left the room without a word. I listened to her mounting the stairs, to her opening and closing the spare room door. The sound of her choosing to be with a strange little girl she’d only just met rather than me. I looked at the hairbrush that Mother had abandoned on the dining room table. I picked it up and began to brush my hair in long, slow, gentle strokes, but it wasn’t the same.
That was when it hit me: nothing was going to be the same ever again.
I placed the brush on the table and stared at the hideous orange curtains.
Mother’s words came into my head, her voice quiet and sad and ringed with a hateful, black truth.
My heartbeat quickened and I put a hand to my chest. My mind pulsed with Mother’s words. Words she had been repeating to me for as long as I could remember.
Dolls live short lives.
Chapter 4
I didn’t know what to do, so I went upstairs and opened my grammar book. I had studied mathematics yesterday, so Mother would want me to study English today.
I sat at the desk and stared at the words. The text swam. My chest felt like someone was standing on it and my eyes stung with the effort of keeping salty tears locked inside my eye sockets. Stabbing pains pulsed in my temples. I picked up my pen and began the exercises. A tear dropped onto my page blurring the word ‘friend’.
Mother loves me.
Love is supposed to be a two-way thing. Do you love Mother?
My door opened; I jumped and swivelled round, dabbing my wet eyes with my fingers.
Mother stood in the doorway. Her mouth was turned down at the corners and her eyes looked shiny. Over her arm she held one of her blouses. An ear-wax orange one with a huge white collar and large white flowers printed all over. It was very ugly.
‘I’m sorry, Mirabelle. I overreacted. I’m just worried, that’s all.’
‘Worried?’ I said.
‘Yes, I’m very worried.’
�
��What about?’ I ventured nervously, helping Mother remove the stinking dress from my body.
She sighed and rubbed her face. She looked tired. Old. Her hair was starting to grey at the temples and wrinkles clustered around her eyes and mouth.
‘I’m worried about Clarabelle.’
Part of me didn’t want to hear about Clarabelle. I didn’t want Mother to focus on her any more than she already did. Another part of me, the curious cat part, was hungry to know all about the mysterious arrival of this little girl who I never even knew existed before yesterday.
‘Why are you worried?’ I said.
Mother handed me the orange blouse and I pulled it over my head, grateful to be away from the stench of my own vomit. The blouse smelled of oranges, like Mother, who wore an orange-blossom moisturizing cream every day. I’d asked if I could try it once but she’d said no. Moisturizer was for grown-ups, not little dolls.
Mother perched on the edge of my bed and I swivelled in my chair to look at her.
‘Turn on the lamp. It’s too dark in here,’ she said.
I switched it on, blinking to adjust my eyes to the sudden in-pouring of light. Mother’s shadow loomed larger than life on the wall behind her. Her head looked huge, alien-like. I had read all about aliens in Mother’s science-fiction books. Science fiction wasn’t my favourite genre, but Mother liked me to read a bit of everything. She said it widened my vocabulary and made me more interesting to talk to. But I knew I wasn’t interesting, or Mother would want to talk to me more often. I was about as interesting as a toilet roll.
I waited for Mother to speak, wary of asking too many questions. If I asked too many questions she could close up or get angry and I would never find out more about the little girl in the spare room.
‘There’s something I haven’t told you about grown-ups in the outside world,’ Mother said.
I waited, leaned forward a little, suddenly feeling very grown up.
She hesitated. Frowned. ‘Grown-ups can be cruel. Very cruel. They can have … evil urges.’
I gasped inwardly, struggling to wrap my mind around the implications of Mother’s words.
‘Clarabelle’s father,’ she said, ‘abused Clarabelle. He abused his own flesh and blood.’
‘That’s why you had to rescue her!’ I said, latching on at last.
Mother nodded and clasped her hands together on her lap. She sat up straighter and raised her chin. ‘If I hadn’t taken her away from that evil man, I just know she’d have ended up dead – or worse.’
‘How can anything be worse than dead?’ I said.
Mother snorted, ‘Believe me, people can suffer a lot more if they are kept alive.’
A distant smile touched her lips. A smile that didn’t make sense, given what she had said.
I ignored an unpleasant twisting sensation in my tummy and asked, ‘How did you know Clarabelle’s father was hurting her? Did you see?’
Mother looked off into the distance, perhaps into a memory. ‘I’m very intuitive, Mirabelle, and when I saw the way he dragged her around the supermarket, I just knew. You know what I mean?’
I nodded, trying to understand, telling myself to look up the word ‘intuitive’ in Mother’s mammoth dictionary later.
‘She reminded me ever so much of you when you were little, and I knew it was up to me to rescue her.’
‘What about the police? Did you tell them?’ I said, thinking about Sherlock Holmes. If there was a policeman like that, I was sure he’d be able to catch a horrible man like Clarabelle’s father.
Mother shook her head. ‘They wouldn’t do anything. It takes years and years for the police to find all the evidence they need to build a case against bad parents, and by then it’s too late.’
‘What about her mother?’
Mother frowned. ‘The mother’s irrelevant. All that matters is that I’ve taken her away from that evil man. I can take care of her properly.’
‘Like you take care of me?’
‘Exactly,’ Mother stood up and grabbed my wrist. ‘Look, I’ll show you.’
I let her pull me out of the bedroom and across the landing. She released her grip on my wrist and wrestled with the keys at her belt. I watched her unlock the door, suddenly nervous. Did I want to see what was in that room?
But Mother closed the door behind her, careful not to let me look inside. She came out with a sleeping Clarabelle in her arms. Mother had changed her into one of my old white nightdresses. A bubble of envy surfaced in my heart and floated for a second until stronger feelings of pity and sorrow pushed themselves forward and popped the hateful bubble. The little girl was a victim. An innocent, helpless child who had done nothing to deserve the evil actions of the person she probably trusted more than anyone else in the world. I still wondered about Clarabelle’s mother, but I didn’t say anything.
Mother laid the little girl on the carpet at my feet and knelt beside her small body, stroking her cheek. The girl didn’t stir at all. She looked peaceful, but I could see dried tear stains on her pale cheeks.
Mother pulled up the girl’s left sleeve to reveal a horrible bruise on her tiny upper arm. ‘Look, Mirabelle, look! Look what that evil man did to her!’
The bruise looked like fingers – strong, angry fingers that had gripped Clarabelle’s arm so viciously that blood had climbed to the surface, pooling under the girl’s delicate skin like squashed plums under a piece of paper.
‘That’s awful,’ I whispered. ‘But you’ve taken her away from him now. She’s safe, isn’t she?’
Mother dragged her hands down her face. She looked like she was about to cry. ‘That’s just it. I’m afraid the damage has been partway done.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, Clarabelle’s mind. It’s damaged. I think – I hope – given time, the damage can be reversed, but …’
‘But what?’
Mother exhaled heavily. ‘She’s not making sense. Her name, for example. She thinks her name is Emma, which of course is complete nonsense. It’s a brain thing, you see. She’s all confused because of what that evil man did to her.’
‘Does she need to see a brain doctor then?’ I said.
‘No, don’t be so ridiculous,’ Mother snapped. ‘All she needs is my love and care.’
I looked down at Clarabelle’s small face and murmured, ‘I can help too. I want to help make her better.’
Mother patted my arm. ‘Best if you stay away from her for now. Too many new faces will be all the more confusing for poor Clarabelle.’
I nodded, trying not to feel hurt.
‘Now, off you go back to your studies. I’m popping out to get some fabric to make Clarabelle’s dresses. By the time I get back, I expect you to have completed all of Section B. If you finish before I return, you may read your new book.’
‘Thank you, Mother!’ I said, excited by the prospect of reading The Secret Garden.
‘You know, I was rather like Mary Lennox as a child.’
‘How do you mean?’ So far, Mary seemed spoiled and strange and not very nice to other people at all.
‘I was very lonely, I suppose. Even though I had a sister, I—’
‘You had a sister?’ Mother told me before that she was an only child.
Mother’s eyes burned. ‘Did you just interrupt me, Mirabelle?’
‘I’m sorry, Mother.’
She exhaled and nodded. ‘It’s all right. Don’t do it again. Now off you go.’
I walked back to my bedroom and turned to watch Mother pick up Clarabelle then take her back into the spare room. Mother was so kind, so good to rescue poor Clarabelle. She had taken it upon herself to take care of a broken doll and fix her, and the extra burden was clearly taking its toll on Mother.
At my desk, I tried to concentrate on subordinate clauses, but something niggled and gnawed away at my concentration. I wanted to know about Mother’s sister and I had more questions about Clarabelle. The questions were attacking my brain and hurting my tummy. I tr
ied and failed to crush them. Finally, I got up and did one hundred star jumps, part of my daily fitness routine. The surge of adrenaline boosted my mood a little and I did another hundred and twenty, stopping when my heart felt like it was going to burst. I went into the bathroom to use the toilet then ran downstairs to grab a glass of water. When I returned to the landing, glass in hand, I heard a quiet voice from the spare room.
‘Hello?’
It was Clarabelle. She was awake. Her voice sounded wobbly but at least she wasn’t crying.
I hesitated. Mother wanted me to stay away from Clarabelle. She had said ‘too many new faces will confuse her’. That meant that, as long as Clarabelle didn’t see me, I might be able to help her feel better without confusing her and making her feel worse.
‘Hi. It’s me again – Mirabelle. How are you feeling?’
There was a long pause. I knelt down next to the door.
‘Clarabelle?’
‘My name’s not Clarabelle,’ she stumbled a little over the name. ‘My name’s Emma. Emma Hedges.’
I frowned. She sounded so convinced. Mother was right. The little girl was very confused.
‘Help me,’ she said, beginning to cry, ‘I want my my my mu-u-mmy.’
I couldn’t stop myself from asking, ‘Your mummy? Where is she?’
‘I don’t kn-know.’
‘You’re safe here. No one will hurt you any more. Mother will take care of you like she takes care of me.’
Clarabelle’s crying grew louder. My heart hurt; I hated hearing her so upset.
‘We’re going to be a bit like sisters,’ I said, trying to sound excited.
‘I do-do-don’t want you to be my sister. I want my mu-u-mmy! I want my mu-u-mmy!’
She began to scream the phrase over and over again. I tried to calm her down but her cries became more and more frantic. Feeling like I’d made her worse, I backed away from the door and shut myself in my room. I sat on my bed, hugged my knees and covered my ears, desperate not to hear the little girl’s terrible screams and terrified that Mother would come home any second and realize what I’d done.