So Pretty, page 8
Albie squeals. ‘I’m four now.’
‘I know. You’re a little man, aren’t you? I brought you some pressies. Go and have a rummage in my bag.’
He rockets back out of the kitchen. Jerry smiles. ‘A few puzzles and books. I think he’ll enjoy them. He smells gorgeous. I love that sweet smell babies and little kids have. You’re so lucky. My boys just smell of shit now.’
‘How’s Phil?’
‘He’s still Phil, so he’s a lazy bastard. But, yes, he’s good.’
‘How did you get the time off?’
‘Blackmailed my boss.’
‘Should have guessed.’
She shrugs. ‘Had to be done.’
‘How long are you staying? Can you stay for the week?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I have to leave tonight. I’ve only got a few hours with you.’
‘Oh.’
‘But we can make them count, can’t we?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tea, tea!’ she says.
Two years have chalked some grey into her hair, drawn a few wrinkles under her eyes. But otherwise, she is much the same. During my pregnancy, she was the one with a bottomless supply of mints and salted crackers in her pockets, the one who guarded me from her poking, and from questioning boys, and who let me live in her home rent free.
‘Here we are.’ She presses a mug into my hand. ‘Eighty percent milk, twenty percent sugar. Just how you like it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘That’s a serial-killer’s tea, that. It’s frightening, “screw-loose” tea.’
I laugh. ‘I like it. Milky and sweet.’
She shivers. ‘It’s not even proper tea, just sweetened milk. A thimble, that’s all I can take. Pinch of sugar. Half a pinch.’
We look at one another.
‘I love that you’re here. I do. But you’re here for a reason. You have a family, you have a busy life. You taking time off is unheard of.’
She sighs, pats my hand. ‘We’re getting straight into it, are we? Alright. I spoke to your dad. He thinks you’re lonely. That you need help.’
There are roses in my cheeks, a cold screw burrowing into my gut. ‘We’re … alright.’
‘He told me you’re finding it difficult with Albie.’
‘I wish he hadn’t done that.’
‘Why? I’m your aunt, aren’t I?’
‘It’s not that, Jerry, and you know it. Did he tell you he refused to take Albie? A grandad who wouldn’t have his grandson for a sleepover. Because of her.’
‘Yes, he did.’ She taps my finger, makes me look at her. ‘But that’s part of the reason I’m here. Your mother.’
‘What do you mean?’
She knocks her mug and a creosote wave of tea laps at the rim. ‘Oh! Shit. Sorry.’
‘It’s fine.’ I mop up the spillage with a tissue. Check on Albie in the next room, close the door.
‘Your parents wouldn’t want me to tell you any of this. I feel like I’m breaking their trust. But I’ve thought you should know for a long time now. It might help you understand.’
‘You’re being really obscure.’
‘The last time you spoke to your dad, you asked him why your mum is the way she is. He told you that she had a difficult upbringing. That’s all he’ll ever tell you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He tries to be honest with you because he loves you, Ada, darling. So much.’
‘Just tell me, Jerry.’
She gulps in a breath, and her body grows, then shrinks as she exhales. ‘I don’t know the whole story, your dad kept a lot of it back. He’s protective of her. Private. But he told me a long time ago that your mother was abused as a girl.’
My left hand is shaking suddenly, so I stuff it under the table. ‘She…’ My other hand starts, and I stuff that under too. ‘By who?’
‘Her father. He was a devil. No sense in holding back with you, darling. Your grandfather was a devil.’
‘What did he do?’
She leans back, face older than it looked before. The grey in her hair is paler, the wrinkles under her eyes deeper, brushstrokes in her skin. ‘He abused her, sexually, psychologically.’
‘Oh my God.’
She takes my hand; her fingers are damp. ‘The very bones of that man were bad. You know, when a woman would walk by him, he’d lick his lips, like there was sauce on his chin he couldn’t reach, like he wanted to eat her up. That’s what your dad told me. He put a fear inside women.
‘None more so than your mother. He played terrible games with her mind. He made her doubt her own thoughts, her own perception. “What’s this?” he would say and hold up an orange. She told him, and he would hit her, stop the breath in her throat, “No, it’s an apple.” He did it so often, she started to believe it. An orange was an apple. An apple was an orange.
‘She was bent up inside. So much so, she started to mirror his behaviour. Your grandfather would fold up a cigarette, suck fallen tobacco off his fingers, and she would stick her fingers in her mouth too. He would fiddle with his earlobe, pick at the piercing, so would she. And when a woman walked into the room, she would lick her lips, looking for sauce.’
There are tears in my eyes and on my lips, between my fingers, sliding between hers. ‘Mum never let me have any oranges. She wouldn’t have them in the house. So Dad would sometimes buy me one at the market on Saturdays.’
She smiles sadly. ‘There are reasons for everything. Your dad told me that when she was a girl, she’d cover bruises on her face with paint. Pink paint she found in the shed behind her house. She used to say it looked like she was blushing.’
I touch my cheek. Roses.
‘No one knew? No one helped them?’
‘Your dad met your mother in a grocer’s. He was smitten. He helped her, guided her, and eventually, he took her away. He had to wait for her to be ready though. Your dad is a kind man.’
‘What happened then?’
She sighs. ‘With your mum’s permission, your dad rang the police. More than enough evidence. The man was arrested.’
‘I feel … I feel sick.’
She pushes the mug into my hand. ‘Drink. Come on. You have it so sweet, darling, get some of that sugar into your body.’ I close my eyes and her hands are holding the mug to my lips, they are stroking my head, they are firm and strong on my shoulders. ‘Another sip, darling. Come on.’
I breathe, wait for the sickness to fall away. Then I open my eyes. ‘Thanks.’
‘It’s OK. It’s a lot to take in. You’re getting some colour back now.’
‘I … I … didn’t know any of this. Why didn’t they tell me?’
‘Your mother doesn’t speak of it. Ever. And your father promised her when she was fifteen that he wouldn’t breathe a word. And he hasn’t. Except to me. Still hates himself for it.’
‘Why did he tell you?’
‘He couldn’t keep in. It was a lot to carry. I think he just reached his breaking point.’
‘What happened? After they left?’
‘Your dad persuaded her to see a doctor, a professional who could help. As you can imagine, it was … difficult for them. Your mum had been severely abused for many years. It takes twice as long to be mended than it does to be broken. If ever.’ There are tears in her eyes. She smothers them with the back of her hand. ‘Eventually, bits of that man faded, and bits of her came back. She studied. She passed her exams. She was a smart bean, your mum. Still is.’
‘But…?’
‘But she’s still got all that inside of her, Ada. To this day, when a woman walks by, she’ll lick her lips. She won’t have oranges in the house. There are things … left over.’
‘Why is she this way with me though? She doesn’t love me. She never has, despite what Dad says, but why be so…?’
‘She does love you. She just doesn’t know how to use it, how to show it.’
‘When I was a kid, she’d kiss me. But it wasn’t a kiss, not really. She’d just touch her cheek to mine, as if it was too intimate, too personal for her. I used to think I tasted bad.’
‘And what do you think about that now I’ve told you all this?’ Jerry sighs. ‘Your grandfather wasn’t kind when he kissed your mother as a child. He was not gentle. Perhaps, Ada, she was worried she would hurt you. After all, all the affection she has ever known has hurt her.’
I nod. ‘I hadn’t thought about it like that.’
‘I remember when you were five, you and your mother were dancing in the garden, twirling, twirling, I lost count of all your circles. Your mother didn’t smile, she just watched.’ Jerry rubs the veins in her wrist, tracing each river with the nail of her finger, eyes changed, as if she is far away from herself.
‘I don’t remember this.’
‘Your father and I wondered why she didn’t smile. You held your stomach so tight, as if you thought all that happiness would spill right out of you.
‘You fell, cut yourself deep. I remember a single spot of blood landing on your mother’s white sock. You cried and cried, your little hands on either of her shoes, trying to remind her you were there. But she wouldn’t be moved. She watched the sky as if she was seeing strange birds. As if her legs were roots in the earth. She wouldn’t calm, you, she wouldn’t say a word.’
She stops, gulps in a breath, her face pale as chalk.
‘And then she slapped you.’
‘What?’
Jerry nods, opens her hands. ‘It wasn’t hard but you fell on your back and started screaming. You father rushed over to you and your mother walked away.’
‘I … I don’t remember any of this.’
‘I saw something in your mother’s face, Ada, after you fell. And I’ve never been able to get it out of my mind.’
‘What?’
‘Confusion.’
‘What do you mean?’
She pats my wrist, looks at the veins there, deep inside my skin, as if she wonders how and why she is old. ‘She didn’t know what to do, Ada. I could see it as she watched those birds. No one had ever comforted her when she was a child and she hurt herself. She didn’t know what it looked like, or how it felt, or what words to use. So she did what her father might have done.’
‘She hurt me.’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened after?’
‘I followed her into the kitchen. She was eating a biscuit, boiling the kettle for tea. I asked her why she hit you. She said she thought that was what she was supposed to do.’
I nod. ‘I think I understand.’
She pats my wrist again. ‘When you were young, you gave your mother so much love, and she didn’t know what to do with it. How to manage it, shape it into something she could hold and could carry. Parental love reminded her of her father and so naturally you reminded her of him too. Of unkind love that spills into violence.’
‘What did Dad say?’
‘He was furious. He didn’t speak to her for days. But I explained what I’d seen to him and he knew it was the truth. He knew already, deep down, your father. He forgives your mother everything, because she needs him to. She is afraid and confused and angry with herself for not being able to be a mother.’
‘Did she realised what she’d done was wrong?’
‘Yes, afterwards. She never touched you like that again.’
‘She has so many sharp edges.’
‘She sharpened them herself when she was a girl. To cut her father’s fingers.’
‘I wonder what it’s like. To feel how she feels all the time.’ My fingers are numb, I pick at the skin round my nails until I meet blood. But I do not feel the sore.
‘I imagine it must feel like tiredness.’ She looks at the blood coating my nails, mops it up with a tissue. ‘I have a video tape from when you were young. It’s short, barely a minute long, but you might like to see it.’
‘What is it of?’
‘You and your mother. But I think it will help you understand some of those edges.’
‘Why are you telling me now?’
‘Your dad told me he wouldn’t take Albie for a sleepover, and I could imagine how that made you feel. When you have kids, things cut in a different way. Someone rejecting your son hurts more than someone rejecting you. I’ve wanted to tell you for years, Ada, darling. But I told myself I couldn’t because it wasn’t my truth, and I didn’t want to break your dad’s trust.’
‘You’re right.’
‘About?’
‘It hurting more because of Albie.’
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have left it this long. I’m sorry, I am.’
‘Thank you for telling me. I needed to know.’
She kisses my forehead when we part. We wipe our eyes, we smile.
‘I used to take her cups of tea, you know, when I was about seven. I would get Dad to help me pour the kettle. I knew exactly how she liked it. Strong, dark. No milk. Half a spoon of sugar. She never drank it though. Not if it was from me. Full teacups, gone cold outside the office door.
‘One night, I asked her to read me a story, but she refused, so I sat by her bed and read one to her. Do you know what she did?’
‘No.’
‘She said to Dad, “Get her out. Move her. Now. And lock the door or she’ll try to get back in.”’
‘Perhaps she did that because she was frightened. She didn’t know how to be with you. What did your dad do?’
‘He did as he was told. But I understand now. Why he does what he does.’
‘Oof.’ She sits up straight and her back cracks. ‘Bloody old age, that. It’s a musical. Popping bones, wet farts, coughs, moans. My own orchestra.’
I smile. ‘I’ve really missed you.’
‘Only right. Now, I haven’t got long. Why don’t we go and play with that little boy in the next room? I expect he’s found those Polos I had hidden in my bag.’
TEDDY
Bones and Stones
I take a breath, open Gilly’s diary and begin to read. Almost instantly I want to close it again.
I thought I could made him stop. I can’t. I need help. But I don’t want to tell Dad. He and Mum are so happy. And I am happy they are happy. If I tell them this, things will change.
There’s something about the shop now that’s just not … right. I’m in there, and I smell something, lick my lips, my teeth: death. The shop tastes of death, of something that has turned. No one else seems to notice it. Only me, which makes me wonder if it’s only in my head.
I wonder if it’s all in my head but, no, it’s not. I know because of the ache in my body. Fear, such a short word, such a light word on the lips. But inside my bones, it is heavy, and when I wake in the morning, I struggle to move. I tell my heart to move, move! But it is full of stones. I even think I can hear them sometimes.
Yesterday, Dad had me pricing a new batch of books. I used to like the yellowed pages, the greasy thumb prints and annotations, often too messy for me to translate. As if it was a secret language, which only the characters and reader were privy to. I don’t read them now, not since Mr Vincent started moving those nice old books to his bedroom. A trail up the stairs, especially for me. I do not follow it, but seeing those books, used like that, hurts my insides.
Then he appeared as if my mind has called out to him. Dropped down next to me, his knees touching mine. His hand was touching mine. It was touching my hair, looping it round his fist, his wrist. It seemed like he had more hands than he ought to have. They were everywhere, all over me, then they were near that private place of mine.
My mind emptied, thoughts falling like buttons from a jar. It took me a moment to understand what was happening, what it meant. I heard Mum’s voice, so close in the back room, I wondered how she did not hear me, my heart full of rocks, thumping.
I leapt up, ran. From the shop, from him.
And that night, my pillow was soggy with tears and shame and fear. I could still feel his fingers digging, rifling through my clothes, looking for that part of me.
I don’t want to leave Rye. But I don’t want to stay either.
He’s following me. He followed me to the park yesterday. No one saw. He’s careful. I don’t know what to do.
What do I do?
When he presses himself into me, I want to scrape his parts off mine. I want to scream and scream, but I don’t. I bite my tongue and swallow the screams down with the blood. They sit in my stomach then, I can feel them there, rattling like pennies. What will happen when my body is full and I cannot bite another one down?
Well, I will scream. For days. I will stand in the shop, and scream, emptying my body of all this noise.
Oh God. He’s doing it to Mum. He’s started on Mum.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.
Mum’s face has changed. Like mine did. She is quiet. Withdrawn. Her eyes are open but they are empty. Sometimes my heart jumps because I think she has died. I touch her chest, look for her own beat, and she panics, asks me what the Hell I’m doing. I say nothing.
She’s hiding it from me. I’m hiding it from her. And we’re hiding it from Dad.
I’ve told them. I’ve told them everything. That in the beginning what he did to me was so much simpler than what he does now. Pulling my hair, poking at my neck, pinching my arms. Like a boy. A silly boy. But when a man does boy things, you have to wonder who it really is in there. And what he will do next.
I’ve told them about opening day. And everything since.
Mum cried. Roared, is a better word. I’ve never heard her roar before. It was a wild noise. Not a scream like those in my belly. It was something else. Dad went all quiet. It took him a minute to come to terms with it. Then Mum told us her secret, admitted it finally. I already knew. I guessed. I’d seen things. I’d just not known what to do.
Mum held me. And I screamed those screams. It felt good to clear out my body like that. Our bones went soft, we slipped to the floor. And Dad held us until our bones were bones again.
