by Abby Davies
Mother doesn’t lie.
The article didn’t mean anything. The label on the dress didn’t mean anything. There was no need to say anything or do anything about it. Mother need never know.
She came back in and cleaned my hand with disinfectant, her movements slow and soft, her brow creased with concern.
I watched her bandage my hand. She knew what to do. Mother always knew what to do. She had trained as a nurse before she had me. Nurses cared for people. A nurse would never do anything bad. Mother would never do anything bad.
‘There,’ she said. ‘Now tell me what happened.’
She moistened a cotton wool ball in the bath water and gently removed my make-up.
I closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation of soft, warm cotton wool stroking my face.
‘Mirabelle, tell me.’
My eyes snapped open. Mother continued to wipe off the make-up but the pressure she applied was more forceful. Panic nibbled at my insides.
‘I, um, fell,’ I said, staring at my hand, hoping she could not hear the frantic pacing of my heart.
She carried on wiping my face. The pressure lessened a little.
‘You fell?’ she prompted.
I stole a glance at her eyes. They were fixed on a space above my head. Zoned out almost.
I cleared my throat. ‘Yes. I went to the bathroom and when I was coming out, I thought I heard a noise, so I ran downstairs and I tripped and fell and my hand slammed down onto something sharp on the carpet.’
There. I’d lied. Guilt exploded in my chest. The bath suddenly felt too hot.
‘Mother, can I get out now, please?’
She nodded and left the room without saying a word.
Worry chewed and gnawed at me, but I pulled out the plug and climbed out of the bath. I wrapped a towel around myself and dried my feet on the bathmat before going out onto the landing. Mother was unlocking Clarabelle’s room.
‘Mother?’ I said.
Either she did not hear me or she pretended not to. She went into Clarabelle’s room and closed the door. I moved closer to the room. Was Mother angry? Why had she left so abruptly? I made my way to Clarabelle’s door and put my ear to the wood. I could hear Mother whispering loving, soothing things to the little girl. In that moment, a sharp pain twanged in my heart. I longed to be that little girl again. That perfect, innocent, unspoiled child who believed everything Mother said and who, in Mother’s eyes, was a perfect doll who was not about to die.
I turned and walked back to my bedroom. Dried blood soiled my bedsheets. I slowly removed the sheets and retrieved some fresh ones from the airing cupboard. I did not change my pillowcase.
Exhausted beyond tears, I got into bed and tried not to think about the newspaper article underneath my head and the dress in the rubbish bin.
I woke up, surprised to find that I had fallen asleep. My head felt groggy and my hand throbbed. I pulled on a nightgown and went downstairs as quietly as I could, unsure where Mother was, unsure whether she was angry with me. I did not know how long I had slept; if I had slept against Mother’s wishes, she was sure to be cross.
‘Mother?’ I said when I reached the bottom of the stairs – the stairs I had used in my lie.
There was no sound, no response, so I crossed the hallway and entered the living room, my heart jolting as I took in the scene.
Clarabelle sat at the table in my seat and Mother sat beside her, painting her face. The dead roses were gone, the vase empty.
‘Mother? I’m sorry.’
Mother did not reply. It did not even seem as though she had heard me.
I approached the table. ‘Mother?’
‘Yes?’ she said, continuing to paint the girl’s face.
Clarabelle’s eyes moved to mine. Her eyes looked sleepy.
‘I’m sorry I slept for so long. I didn’t mean to.’
‘That’s all right. Sit down and wait your turn. I’ll make you up in a second. I’ve nearly finished Clarabelle.’
Relief burst in my chest and I sat down, happy to wait, grateful Mother still wanted to paint me.
‘There!’ Mother said, clapping her hands and beaming at Clarabelle. ‘Isn’t she beautiful? Such a pretty little doll. Now what do you say, Clarabelle?’
The little girl yawned. She looked so strange with all that make-up on.
‘Thank you,’ she said groggily.
‘Thank you, what?’ Mother said.
‘Thank you … Mother.’
‘That’s better. Good little doll.’
Mother proceeded to brush Clarabelle’s curly blond hair. I watched, fighting a creeping sensation of unease. Why was Mother telling Clarabelle to call her Mother? I thought about how Clarabelle had insisted her name was Emma. Emma Hedges. I thought about the similarity between our names. Mirabelle and Clarabelle. Was it a strange coincidence or was the little girl’s name really Emma? And why did the child seem so groggy today? Just a few days ago she was screaming for her mummy and now she was behaving like this. So calm and obedient. Was it the medicine Mother had given her in the syringe? Was Mother … I could not complete the thought.
‘Go back up into your bedroom now, Clarabelle. I’ll be up to tuck you into bed soon. I know it’s morning, but you need to rest.’
Clarabelle obediently left the room. I watched her go. She moved sluggishly, as if invisible weights were tied to her ankles pulling her down.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ I said.
Mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
I swallowed, regretting my words. ‘Nothing, Mother.’
‘She’s tired, that’s all. When you’ve been through something like she has, you become tired very easily.’
I nodded.
Mother picked up her red purse.
I looked down, feeling something wet between my legs. Mother’s eyes followed mine. She screamed and jumped up from the table.
‘You filthy girl! Go and wash yourself. Stuff your knickers with a flannel. I knew this was going to happen soon. I just knew it!’
‘What? Oh! What’s happening to me? Am I dying?’ I began to sob. I looked down at my nightdress, at the blood turning the white cotton bright red.
‘No, not yet. Don’t be so ridiculous. It’s only your period, which means …’ she trailed off, waving her hand at me. ‘Never mind. Go on, get out of my sight. I can’t bear to look at you like this. I knew your time would come, but I hadn’t imagined it would be so soon.’
‘But, Mother, please! What are you saying? Am I going to die?’
She buried her face in her hands. Her whole body shook. ‘Get out! Get out! GET OUT!’
I stumbled backwards out of the room. I ran upstairs and shut myself in the bathroom, chest heaving, heart pounding, confused and frightened. A period. What did that mean? A period was another word for a full stop. Did that mean my life was coming to an end, like a sentence? Was it another sign that I was dying?
Sniffing back tears, I recoiled as Deadly scurried across the room, heading for the crack in the wall. Once he’d disappeared, I did as Mother had told me as quickly as I could and then went into my bedroom and changed into one of my prettiest dresses, hoping Mother would approve, that seeing me looking like her little doll again would calm her down.
Before I left the room, I checked my reflection. The dress was a bit tight. I chewed my lip, scared the seams might split. I tried to smile at mirror-me and told myself the dress would be fine as long as I didn’t breathe too heavily or make any big movements.
‘Mother?’ I said, hurrying downstairs. ‘Mother? I did as you asked. Mother?’
Mother ignored me. She moved away from the record player as the Eagles’ music blasted into the room, the volume so loud it hurt my ears. A song about a witchy woman pounded against the walls. I noticed the red purse on the floor in the middle of the room, its contents spilled over the carpet.
‘Mother? Mother, please,’ I said.
She closed her eyes and swayed to the mu
sic. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She held the photograph I’d found behind the grandfather clock against her chest. Without looking at me she pushed me backwards out of the room and shut the door in my face.
Chapter 8
I sat on my bed and stared at the printed wall. Mother refused to talk to me. She would not even look at me. She had begun to act like I didn’t exist. I knew I had done wrong by sneaking up into the attic, but Mother didn’t know I had done that, so that could not be what was making her so angry at me. In my aching mind, I replayed her reaction to the blood between my legs. That was what had made her so angry, and yet that was not my fault. Earlier in the day, when Mother had been in Clarabelle’s room, I had been naughty and looked in her Medical Encyclopaedia. According to the big book – which was non-fiction and therefore full of honest facts – every girl’s body did that sooner or later. To bleed was natural. It meant I was developing properly. It was a sign that I was entering a thing called puberty and my body was getting ready for pregnancy – which was a weird idea – but was not, I told myself forcefully, a sign that I was dying.
I thought about the evil photographs in the attic and Mother’s reaction made sense; I had to be more understanding and kind. If I showed Mother sympathy, maybe things would go back to normal.
I spent the morning trying to complete a really hard comprehension test on Oliver Twist. I loved the story, especially the bit at the beginning when Oliver asked for more food, but answering questions on the book wasn’t as fun as reading it.
I heard the front door slam and listened to the grumble of Mother’s car as it drove away. Even though I hadn’t seen her all day, I felt tension whoosh out of me like hot air.
Almost straight away a mewling sound came. I recognized it instantly: Clarabelle. She was crying. She started calling out, her voice high and croaky so I couldn’t hear what she was saying.
I left my desk and opened my bedroom door. The landing was a pool of gloom, the air stale and dry.
‘Clarabelle?’ I said, thinking about the name she’d mentioned before. Emma. Should I use that name? I didn’t know. Mother had told me that Clarabelle was confused, that the girl’s father’s evil actions had damaged her brain and made her think strange things – like the idea that her name wasn’t Clarabelle. Was Mother right?
‘Mir-a-belle? Mir-a-belle?’
My heart twanged at the wobble in the little girl’s voice. I hurried along the creaky landing and knelt outside her bedroom door. ‘Yes? You OK?’
‘Mirabelle? Is that you?’
‘Yes. It’s me.’
She sniffed. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi. Why are you crying? Are you hurt?’
‘No. I’m sad.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. My new mummy’s nice to me and she says she loves me, but I want to go home.’
My tummy lurched and my heart twisted at the phrase ‘new mummy’. I thought about the article and the blue dress. Told myself not to think about them.
‘Home? What do you mean?’ I said.
‘Where my other mummy and my daddy are.’ I tensed at the word daddy. Mother had said she’d rescued Clarabelle from her father. She’d told me he was evil. That he’d been hurting the little girl.
Yes, but she also said Clarabelle came from Utopia.
‘Where’s that? Where’s your home?’ I said. ‘Where are your other mummy and your daddy?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh.’
She began to hiccup. ‘Mirabelle?’
‘Yes?’
‘I miss my mummy and my daddy. Will I see them again soon?’
I hesitated and bit my lip. I was already being bad by talking to Clarabelle without Mother’s permission, but I had to know. I had to find out what was going on. Mother was very sad from what had happened to her and her twin sister when they were young. Maybe she had made a mistake. Maybe she had made more than one mistake. If she had, maybe I could put it right. I couldn’t bear to hear Clarabelle so upset. She was my new sister. It was my job to look after her. I thought about Little Women and Pride and Prejudice and how much the sisters in those stories looked after each other, and decided I would do the same. If Clarabelle was upset, I would work out why and try to fix it.
I also needed to find out if Mother had done the right thing by bringing her here.
‘Tell me about your daddy,’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean … what does he look like?’
She hiccupped and giggled. ‘Mummy says Daddy looks like James Bond. But with a big bottom.’
‘Who’s James Bond?’
‘A man in films at the pictures.’
‘The pictures?’
She went quiet.
‘Clarabelle?’
‘I’m Emma.’
‘Oh, sorry. I forgot. Emma, tell me about your daddy. Is he kind?’ Inside, I winced – she sounded so sure that Emma was her real name. Who was right – her or Mother?
‘Oh yes! My daddy is kinder than any other daddy in the world! He buys me presents and he tells me stories from his head and he carries me upside down to bed. He makes silly faces and pretends to pick his nose when Mummy’s not looking!’ She giggled and hiccupped.
‘He’s never hurt you?’
‘No. Once he shut my hand in the door, but it was an ax-dent.’
I frowned. Her father didn’t sound bad at all. He sounded like the sort of daddy I dreamed about. Like Captain Crewe from A Little Princess. Had Mother made a mistake?
Is she lying?
‘I miss him. I miss Mummy. I miss Mummy’s cuddles. I like my new mummy, but she doesn’t smile properly and she doesn’t cuddle me very much. I want to go home.’ She started to cry again.
I tried to shush her and move the conversation on to something else, but she wouldn’t stop crying.
Eventually, feeling like I’d only made things worse, I trudged back to my bedroom and got on with my work.
I spent the rest of the day attempting to understand Othello and trying not to wince every time I heard Mother and Clarabelle. They were downstairs together. I think they baked a cake, because the delicious smell of warm sponge floated into my room.
At lunchtime, when I went into the kitchen, it turned out I was right: Mother and Clarabelle were sitting at the kitchen table together eating slices of jam sponge.
‘Good afternoon, Mother,’ I said quietly.
Mother ignored me. She smiled sweetly at Clarabelle, who stared sleepily up at me. Jam dripped from her lip onto her chin. I glanced at Mother, saw her eyes narrow at Clarabelle’s mistake. Clarabelle had ruined Mother’s careful work. I poured myself a glass of water, expecting to hear Mother tell her off, but she did not utter a word.
‘Mother?’ I tried, taking a small sip.
She smiled again at Clarabelle, licked her finger and tenderly wiped the jam off the girl’s chin.
‘Mother? Please. I know why you’re so upset. I—’
‘Leave us,’ she snapped.
‘But, Mother,’ I said urgently, stepping up to the table, ‘I can help you. I want to help.’
Mother slowly stood up and walked around to stand in front of me with her back to Clarabelle, who stayed sat at the table eating her cake.
In a harsh, lowered tone, she stabbed her finger into my chest. ‘I said leave us. What, exactly, do you not understand about that simple instruction?’
My chin trembled but I sucked in a breath and whispered, ‘I know what he did. I know why you’re acting like this.’
‘What?’ she snapped. She seemed half-angry, half-puzzled now.
‘Your grandfather. I know what he did to you. And, and, to Olivia.’
The moment I said ‘Olivia’, Mother went crazy. She grabbed my hair in her fist and dragged me out of the room. I saw Clarabelle jump up from the table, her little face pinched with fright.
‘Mother, please! I just want to help you. I love you!’
I tried to pull and twist away
but I couldn’t. Mother hauled me to the front door and pushed my face against the wood.
‘Is this what you want? Is it?’ she screamed in my ear.
‘What? I don’t understand!’ I gasped.
‘You want me to kick you out? Out there? Where the light will burn you from the outside in? You want that, do you?’
‘No, Mother, no! Please. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’
But Mother wasn’t listening. She unbolted the door, unlocked it and opened it an inch. She shoved my face towards the opening; I scrunched up my eyes and tried to resist but she was too strong.
‘Please don’t. I’m sorry!’ I sobbed.
There was a moment of silence, then Mother actually laughed. It was a short, sharp laugh. A laugh that suggested she was enjoying this.
Her grip on my hair loosened. She brought her mouth to my ear and whispered, ‘If you want to stay here with us, inside where it’s safe, you will keep your mouth shut, do what you are told, and you will never, ever mention her name again. Is that understood?’
I nodded. Silent tears streamed down my cheeks.
She let me go and pushed me backwards. I stumbled onto the stairs and fell on my back.
Mother closed and locked the door, threw me a disdainful look then walked away towards the kitchen, singing sweetly, ‘Little Doll? Why don’t we read a story together? Wouldn’t that be nice?’
I stared at her retreating back, lost in a whirlpool of emotions, but there was one emotion battling against the fear, misery and confusion that I had never really felt before.
Anger.
Chapter 9
I shouldn’t feel angry at Mother. Mother was coping with things in her own way. She was simply trying to protect me, make me understand. Light was deadly to me. And there were men out there like her grandfather who would want to hurt me. It was no wonder Mother had always told me the outside was so dangerous.
But she laughed at you. She enjoyed tormenting you. And if she really loved you, would she do what she just did to you? Would she threaten to send you outside into the deadly light if it really was deadly? And the light didn’t kill you that time when you were on the stairs and Mother started throwing bags through the doorway. Think about the article. Think.