Toffee

by Sarah Crossan

  to be awful.

  I kept out of his way.

  A hurricane was coming.

  The air stank of a storm.

  I used a little jug to fill the iron with more water;

  steam sizzled through the holes in the hot plate.

  It was a Sunday evening.

  I was just sorting out my uniform.

  Where’s my wallet? Dad grunted,

  appearing out of nowhere,

  breathing heavily.

  I haven’t seen it, I said

  without looking up.

  I didn’t want to instigate anything.

  Plus,

  I’d started to hate him.

  You’re sulking

  like you did that time

  about the fish, he said.

  I kept my back straight – eyes on my school skirt.

  How are storms defeated except by

  hunkering down defensively?

  I don’t know what you mean.

  He rested his fists on the ironing board.

  Look at me when we’re speaking.

  Sorry, Dad, I said quickly,

  remembering myself.

  You heard from Kelly-Anne? he asked.

  Well.

  I heard from Kelly-Anne a lot,

  knew she was living by the sea.

  Happy.

  No.

  He closed one eye, peered at me with the other.

  I’ve heard from Kelly-Anne myself.

  I inched away.

  The iron hissed.

  She told me she’s spoken to you loads.

  Full of secrets aren’t you?

  So what else are you hiding?

  What else is there?

  His voice was calm,

  serene before

  the savage.

  Your wallet, I said, spotting it and

  snatching it from the empty fruit bowl behind him.

  I turned to reveal his treasure,

  but he didn’t care,

  he had the iron

  in his hand,

  and

  he was

  swinging,

  swinging,

  swinging,

  putting all his

  weight behind him,

  his face fire.

  Get Up

  I was a ball on the floor by the fridge,

  shivering and shuddering

  and wondering if it was all over

  or if he had more fight in him.

  It was navy dark outside

  but the Sullivans were still in their garden,

  drinking beers and playing backgammon,

  making neighbourly noises.

  I thought:

  Why can’t my life be a bit more that,

  a bit less this?

  Less of him.

  The Sullivans squealed.

  Their new puppy yapped like it was being teased.

  Delighted squeals.

  Happy yapping.

  My face throbbed –

  a red hot pain too tender to touch,

  bruised and swollen.

  I lay on the lino

  shaking,

  aching,

  watching his feet near my face

  pace

  up and down.

  You aren’t hurt. Get up, he said.

  But my body was a brick –

  heavy and crumbling at the corners.

  Get up, he said again,

  and I wanted to,

  staring at the dust and dried up pasta

  underneath the oven.

  All that hidden dirt.

  I wanted to say, Help,

  but didn’t.

  I wanted to get up.

  Before I got the chance he was

  toeing my tummy with his trainer.

  Are you OK, Allie? he said,

  sounding surprised,

  like he thought I was made of metal,

  like he didn’t hear me whinny,

  see

  me

  fall.

  He sighed finally. I’m going to be late.

  Clean up before you go to bed.

  I tried to blink away the burning.

  I tried to push away the pain.

  It didn’t work. I couldn’t.

  Understanding

  We are still beneath the duvet.

  Marla holds my hand.

  You didn’t deserve that.

  Thing Is

  A big part of me believes I did deserve it,

  every bit,

  and all the years before it too.

  I wasn’t, wasn’t, wasn’t.

  If it was about someone else,

  why didn’t he stop?

  Acceptance

  Marla lets go of my hand.

  None of it was ever about you.

  It was about him.

  It’s always all about them.

  Surely you know that?

  Different Lessons

  When teachers gave me problems to solve,

  numbers to conquer,

  shapes to calculate,

  no matter how hard it was,

  I always figured out the answers

  with time and a pencil.

  Mrs Sanders said,

  You aren’t a genius, Allison Daniels,

  but you’re smart enough.

  What use is smarts now?

  She said,

  Keep it up

  and you’ll go places, young lady.

  But she never imagined my life.

  She didn’t know I needed

  different lessons.

  Advent

  They turn on the Christmas lights

  along the high street.

  The promenade glitters

  with bright white snowflakes.

  I have looked at dancing shoes

  for Marla.

  I have spent two pounds

  on mince pies.

  I need a tree, she tells Donal excitedly.

  Waste of money, he replies.

  She doesn’t argue.

  It is decided.

  Hamless

  Last Christmas … was it last year?

  It was after Mammy died.

  Was it Mammy who died?

  She spots something in the distance,

  shakes herself back.

  Daddy made the dinner.

  But didn’t he forget to cook the ham?

  He sent us all out to mass

  and afterwards we went down to Granny’s

  to give her the scarf Niamh had knitted.

  Niamh’s great at knitting.

  A bit addicted. A bit boasty.

  Good at everything.

  Butter wouldn’t melt.

  She’s got grandchildren now.

  Granny loved the scarf.

  The priest looked hungover.

  Too many baby Jesus beers the night before,

  if you know what I mean.

  We got home half starved.

  I set the table.

  I couldn’t smell meat.

  Niamh helped Daddy dish it all out.

  ‘Daddy,’ she says.

  ‘Where’s the ham?’ she says.

  And holy Santy balls, that was it.

  She might as well have called him

  a heathen.

  Back of the hand, she got.

  Upstairs she was sent.

  So it was just me and Daddy at the table

  in these gold paper hats,

  eating fecking carrots and rock-hard spuds

  for Christmas.

  He was a gobshite after Mammy went.

  She left him.

  No, she died.

  She left us all.

  He hit her too. He shouted. Still does.

  Shall we go to the pictures?

  We could ask Roger for an advance on the money.

  Do you have any money?

  We could ask Mary maybe.

  I kiss her cheek.

  I’ll get our coats, I say.

/>   Let’s go out.

  The Beach

  Seagulls swoop, owning the sky.

  Each one has their own war cry

  and can identify another’s tune.

  Would anyone know my voice

  if they heard it ring out?

  In my pocket, my phone pings.

  Please

  Another email from Kelly-Anne.

  I’m travelling to Cornwall

  tmrw in case you’re down there.

  Please tell me you’re safe.

  CALL ME. I’ve tried a hundred times.

  KA xxxx

  I do not reply.

  I do not know what to say

  any more to anyone

  I used to know.

  Grease

  I was an extra in the school concert of Grease.

  Sophie got the part of Sandy

  and had to wear stupid tight trousers

  and platform shoes in the last scene.

  Not really a feminist statement, Sophie, Jacq said to her.

  Changing your appearance for a bloke and whatever.

  Sophie ran her hand over her arse.

  I look good though. Admit.

  Dad and Kelly-Anne

  came to watch the final performance.

  They sat at the back,

  Dad with his face in his phone.

  Afterwards he said, Your pal was good.

  Pair of lungs on her.

  She’s in the choir, I explained.

  Kelly-Anne put an arm around my shoulder.

  You were excellent, Allison.

  Dad was laughing.

  Choir?

  It’s a long way from church she’ll end up.

  I predict that with complete certainty.

  On the walk home we stopped for snacks,

  Dad letting me choose between a Cornetto

  or a bag of Hula Hoops,

  but not both.

  Well done on your singing, he said,

  handing the cashier a fiver.

  I almost managed a smile

  until he added,

  You did your bit admirably.

  Not everyone is born to be a star.

  I Am Allison

  Watching the news,

  politicians peddling lies

  dressed up to look like promises,

  Marla turns.

  Who are you? she asks sadly.

  I’m Allison.

  I’m here because I’ve nowhere else to go.

  Oh. Marla nods.

  I’ve nowhere else to go either.

  The Sea

  The sea does not care

  whether I am smiling in silk

  or sobbing in torn skirts.

  The sea

  will come in

  and out

  will breathe

  and rage

  and settle

  despite everything

  I am shouting

  at the shoreline.

  The sea listens only to its own voice

  and not the noise of those who’d tell it

  how to behave.

  I wish I could be more like the sea.

  Fallen

  I stop.

  Watch a girl skateboarding down some steps.

  I dawdle.

  Missing the lights at a crossing.

  I examine a notice in the newsagent’s

  for a paper delivery person.

  I don’t want jobs from Lucy any more.

  I walk slowly,

  and by the time I am home

  Marla is mewling,

  crumpled at the bottom of the stairs,

  a red blood-pillow beneath her head.

  This Time

  I cannot stop the blood.

  I’ve no choice.

  I have to phone for help.

  Paramedics

  Marla is alive,

  stretchered into an ambulance

  by paramedics

  who assume I’m her granddaughter.

  You can sit there, they say,

  and I am by her side.

  A plastic mask obscures her face;

  the blanket is up to her chin.

  Her eyes are on me.

  Toffee.

  I missed you.

  Where have you been?

  I needed someone to talk to about Mary.

  You’re the only one who would’ve understood.

  Did you ever get over little Oliver?

  Will I be OK ever again?

  You fell.

  You’ll be fine.

  Oh, yes. I did.

  But see …

  I have been falling for a long time.

  Passing On

  You’re family? the doctor asks.

  Yes.

  Well, she took a bad fall.

  I’d say she blanked. She can’t remember.

  We’ll keep her here a while

  but she’ll have to find somewhere

  with no stairs, I’d say.

  At the very least.

  Can I leave this to you to pass on?

  Yes. I’ll tell her son.

  My father.

  Her son.

  He frowns. Right. Well. Goodnight.

  Mine

  I leave a fake note from the paramedic

  explaining to Peggy what’s happened.

  I hear her downstairs.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  And on the phone.

  A fall … Yes … I don’t know …

  I’ll go to the hospital now.

  Then on the phone again:

  A fall … Yes … I don’t know.

  I spoke to Donal.

  Yes, he will.

  I will.

  OK, Louise.

  Yes.

  She leaves.

  She does not come back.

  The house is mine.

  Keeping Busy

  With nothing better to do, I clean:

  dishes, cupboards, floors;

  I mop, wipe, polish, rub, buff

  and ignore the silence coming from

  every place

  where Marla

  used to be.

  Asleep

  Her head is wrapped in clean white bandages.

  Her skin is like paper.

  Beside her a machine outlines her heartbeat –

  alive,

  alive, still alive.

  I sit by her bedside.

  She doesn’t wake up.

  I’ll have to go away, I say.

  I can’t stay in the house when you’re not there.

  It wouldn’t be OK.

  Marla?

  Behind me a nurse is checking

  another patient’s chart, tutting.

  Marla moans in her sleep.

  What?

  Stay, she says.

  Here or at the house? I ask.

  Stay, she repeats.

  And that is when Peggy appears by the bed too.

  Peggy Appears by the Bed Too

  Who are you?

  Her thick hands are on her thick hips,

  her thick lips are unsmiling, suspicious.

  I stand and reach out a hand.

  I’m Allison, I tell her.

  I’m Marla’s friend.

  I live down her street.

  The Call

  I’ve only had Messenger

  installed a few hours when the call

  comes through,

  and the voice I fear is there.

  Where are you, Allison?

  I stare at my screen.

  Why did I answer?

  What was I thinking?

  He has found me.

  He has found me

  and will make me suffer now.

  I’ve been asking everywhere, he says.

  I was so worried.

  Allison? Allison, answer me.

  Is Kelly-Anne with you?

  I’m not coming home, I say.

  I’m safe.

  Beyond the window, a car revs its engine.
r />   A girl shouts.

  A man laughs.

  Somewhere a lawnmower is grinding grass.

  So you did run away. There was me thinking

  you’d been murdered and dumped in a layby.

  I’ve been a wreck, Allison.

  A pause.

  You hurt me.

  You hurt me, Dad.

  And not just that last time.

  All the time.

  The words are spoken out loud.

  Not a murmur in my head.

  Not a question.

  Not an apology.

  The words are spoken out loud.

  You didn’t have to run away.

  We could have talked.

  Did Kelly-Anne put you up to it?

  And you hurt me too, you know.

  He coughs into the mouthpiece.

  Did she already have the baby?

  She wouldn’t even give me the chance to be sorry.

  One mistake. One mistake.

  The room buzzes,

  all the electricity running through the walls

  suddenly screeching.

  She was pregnant?

  She stole one kid and made the other one hate me.

  Of course.

  Yes.

  Pregnant.

  Of course.

  I close the phone,

  drop to the carpet,

  curl up