The Library

by Bella Osborne

‘Have we got anything to eat?’ I shouted, with my head still inside the cupboard. I was seriously hungry but then I’m starving most of the time. I’d already checked the fridge but all that was in there was milk, salad cream, beer and some dodgy-looking cheese. It’s not like when Mum was alive when there was always food. I wish we had cake in the house or at least something decent to eat.

  My dad appeared in the doorway. ‘You went out earlier. Where’s the stuff you bought?’

  I guessed Dad would be pissed if I told him I gave the cash away, even if it was to an old lady. I did some quick thinking. ‘I ate it.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Tom. You’re like a bottomless pit. It’s not normal.’

  ‘Yeah it is.’ I know this to be fact as the few friends I have say their parents are always moaning about how much they eat and that it’s like a swarm of locusts descending as soon as they unpack the shopping. ‘What can I eat?’ I scanned the tins of tomatoes in the cupboard. We never ate tinned tomatoes. What were they even for? They were probably out of date.

  ‘Bread and butter.’ Dad almost threw the loaf at me. It would have to do. I stuck two slices in the toaster. ‘You need to realise how much stuff costs.’ Dad was shaking his head. He does that a lot. ‘I’ll be glad when you’re working,’ he said.

  I snorted. ‘That’s not for years yet.’

  Dad looked like he’d sat on something sharp. ‘I was working full-time at your age.’ He likes to talk about the good old days which, to be honest, sound rubbish – no internet, no mobile phones and only four TV channels is not my idea of good.

  ‘I’ve got a paper round.’

  It was Dad’s turn to snort. ‘It’s a couple of days a week. That’s not work. But when you leave school you need to have something lined up.’

  I stared at him not quite believing he wasn’t joking. The toast popped up and broke the freeze frame. ‘But I’m going to do A levels and go to university.’ I knew I needed to work hard, but still, everyone went to university these days. Didn’t they?

  Dad continued to shake his head. ‘I can’t afford that.’

  ‘I’ll get student loans.’

  ‘Tom, have you any idea how much this place costs to run?’

  For some reason I took a fresh look at our murky little kitchen. ‘Dunno. But if I’m not here eating stuff you’ll save loads of money.’

  ‘Don’t try and be clever. I work my arse off to put a roof over your head.’

  ‘Some roof,’ I muttered. I knew as soon as I’d said it that it was the conversational equivalent of lighting the end of a firework.

  Dad took a moment to build his anger before going off on an epic rant. I kind of switched off. A bit like putting on imaginary headphones. I’ve heard it all before – it’s really boring. And I don’t like rowing with Dad.

  I buttered and ate my toast, hoping he’d soon stop shouting.

  ‘Are you even listening to me?’ He was going an unhealthy shade of scarlet, not that any shade of red is healthy.

  ‘Yep. I’m ungrateful. You do everything. I do nothing. We have no money.’ A fair summary, I thought.

  Stand back; rocket number two ready for launch. ‘Don’t get smart with me!’ He wagged a finger in my general direction. ‘You’re going to get an almighty shock, Tom. I don’t know how much longer I can keep juggling all the bills. You need to wise up.’ He pulled a whisky bottle out of the cupboard, scowled at the small amount of liquid in the bottom and tipped it into a glass. I tried some of it once when he was at work. It was disgusting.

  He scowled at me while he drank his whisky. ‘Have you been fighting?’

  ‘No,’ I said it like a reflex and then realised he was studying my eyes.

  ‘You’ve got a black eye.’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I fell over.’ I don’t know why I lied. I was getting the feeling I couldn’t do anything right. He made a lot of tutting sounds and shook his head.

  Dad finished his drink and stormed out. I made more toast and took it to my room. I guess a few hours passed while I was on my Xbox but I’m not sure. Dad made me jump when the bedroom door banged open. He almost fell inside. His face was red and sweaty and he was shouting but I couldn’t make out exactly what the words were. He looked furious. I pulled my headphones off one ear.

  ‘You okay?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I’m not bloody okay.’ His words were slurred. I hate it when he drinks. He jabbed his finger at the television screen where I’d paused my game. ‘This! This is the problem.’ He stumbled forward and I laughed. I couldn’t help it. It was a proper comedy stumble and it was funny. ‘You could be out working but oh, no! You’re too bloody lazy. You sit on your arse, wasting your life away on this… this…’ He struggled to find the word he wanted and I had to bite my lip not to crack up. It wasn’t that funny this time but I think it’s a nervous reaction that I sometimes snigger when it’s not appropriate. He stared at me almost daring me to laugh. ‘You think this is funny. Do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No… Because it’s not funny.’ I think he was hoping I was going to say yes. ‘And I’ll show you what else isn’t funny.’ He staggered over to the games console. Ripped out the cables and picked the box up.

  ‘Hey! What are you doing?’ I hadn’t saved my progress.

  ‘It’s time you grew up. Stopped playing games and found out what the real world is like.’

  ‘What, am I meant to get a job now? At…’ I scanned my alarm clock ‘…almost midnight on a Saturday?’

  ‘It’s up to you. But I’m keeping this until you do,’ he said with a classic bad-guy sneer. He gave a Disney villain sort of sneer.

  My Xbox is my life. ‘Seriously? Don’t be a dick.’

  His expression changed to one I hadn’t witnessed before. It kinda scared me. ‘What did you call me!’ he bellowed.

  ‘I didn’t call you anything.’ For the second time that day I held my palms up, to show I wasn’t after a fight.

  ‘I. Said. What. Did. You. Call. Me.’ He stepped closer clutching the console so tight his knuckles were white. A stark contrast to the dark red of his face.

  ‘It was more advice. I said, “Don’t be a dick.”’

  He turned and left and I breathed a sigh of relief. It was short-lived as I heard the sound of something crashing down the stairs. I leaped from the bed and took the two strides onto the landing. Dad was standing at the top of the stairs leaning against the banister for support. He was no longer holding my Xbox.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been as cross as I was at that moment. I could have happily thrown him down the stairs after it. I’d saved my paper round money, birthday and Christmas money to buy that. I was shaking with anger but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing he’d got to me. I shrugged, walked back to my room and shut the door. For a while I waited, expecting him to come back shouting and goading me into a reaction but he didn’t.

  I thumped out my frustration on my pillows. My Xbox. MY PISSING XBOX! What was he thinking? And more importantly what the hell was I going to do with my life now?

  *

  I was up early on Sunday for my paper round – I did the minimum number of rounds to be able to do the weekend one, which paid better. There was no sign of Dad. Only an empty bottle in the living room and the shattered plastic of my life at the bottom of the stairs. I ignored them both and went out. The chill of the early air did nothing to improve my mood, nor did the extra supplements with the papers weighing me down.

  When I got back the house was silent. For a moment I was worried that he might be dead. You heard of it happening. People getting so drunk they choked on their own vomit. I dashed upstairs and opened his bedroom door – my hand was shaking. The smell was rank. I remember when this had been Mum and Dad’s bedroom. I used to run in there and jump on the bed. I liked to snuggle down in the middle between both of them. Back then it smelled good. Sort of a fabric softener flowery kind of smell, like Mum. It smelled of home. But that was all gone now. Everything wa
s stagnant. There was a mound of my father in the bed. Still and silent. I waited in the doorway, not sure what to do. At last he let out a heavy breath – he was alive. I closed the door and retreated to my room.

  I stared at the blank screen of the television for a long time before switching it on and realising there was nothing I’d want to watch anyway. We couldn’t afford Sky or Netflix or anything interesting. Without my console I couldn’t even watch clips of Game of Thrones on YouTube. I switched it off and dropped the controller on to the bed. I looked around my room. Bed, wardrobe, shelf and TV. Not much. My rucksack was on the floor and I heaved it onto the bed. It was seriously heavy. I tipped out all the library books. All the stupid romance novels. Where was I meant to keep these until I could return them? If Dad saw them he’d rip it out of me.

  I stacked them into a pile at the far side of my bed. The one on the top had an interesting cover. Sense & Sensibility. I picked it up, turned it over and read the back cover. It sounded vaguely interesting. I opened it up and had a quick read of the first page – I literally had nothing better to do.

  A few hours later I heard Dad put the shower on. If I wanted feeding today I’d be doing it myself. And if I was going to avoid Dad I needed to eat now. Reluctantly I put the book down. I hid it under my pillow and went to the kitchen.

  I found a tin of spaghetti hoops, microwaved the contents and dumped them on some toast.

  Dad looked rough when he came into the kitchen. He put the kettle on and then exited quickly to avoid the noise of it. It was a sign he had a raging hangover. He crept back in after it had boiled and made himself a coffee. I finished eating and dumped the plate and cutlery in the sink.

  ‘You not washing those up?’

  I always do the washing up but today I wasn’t in the mood. ‘Later.’ I tried to push past him but he grabbed my arm. I didn’t look up.

  ‘Tom, I did it for your own good.’

  Those words sparked my annoyance. ‘How is trashing the only good thing in my life for my own good?’ He always had an excuse. Always a reason to justify what he did. If it had been me he would have said I wasn’t taking responsibility for my own actions but when it’s him he’s doing it for my own good. It’s seriously annoying. He looked startled by my tone. I don’t usually engage.

  ‘It’s just a game.’ He shrugged and let me go.

  My Xbox is not just a games console to me – it’s my social life and my escape, but there’s no point trying to explain that to him. He doesn’t care, not anymore. Since Mum died he doesn’t care about anything much at all.

  4

  MAGGIE

  Maggie brushed out her hair, marvelling at how bushy it had become. It had always been thick and curly but the advent of turning grey had brought a new dimension to what had always been ‘difficult’ locks. She snatched it all up into a messy bun and stuck a clip in it to keep it in place. It wouldn’t stay that way but it didn’t matter; nobody would see her today.

  Looking at the day ahead, Wednesday had the potential to be a good day. She had things to do. There were the daily tasks of attending to the chickens and the sheep but some fencing needed some attention and she had her mind on making a rhubarb crumble, if she had any of last year’s crop left in the freezer.

  Maggie made herself scrambled eggs for breakfast, courtesy of her chickens or ‘The Girls’ as she liked to call them. Tidied up. Put her coat and wellies on and headed outside after a brief quarrel with the back door. Like a lot of the old farmhouse it was tired and in need of a little TLC. Outside it was windy and it shook the budding apple trees with force. It whipped around the yard and dismantled the bun in Maggie’s hair. Maggie filled an old metal bucket with water from the outside tap and marched down to the top field, with the wind whistling in her ears. She was glad of the noise. Most of the time life was quiet.

  Midweek was always the worst. By that point she’d not seen anyone for a few days and Saturday was a long way off. This week she had had the advantage of Saturday’s adventure to mull over. And it had been such an adventure. Revisiting what had happened in the alleyway had given her brain something to chew over and she was grateful for it. She knew she’d got off lightly. Everything still ached but not as bad as on Sunday morning when she’d had to roll out of bed because every muscle had seized up in protest. The bruise on her bum was colourful but she knew she could have been seriously hurt. She’d never been one for thinking through the consequences of her actions. Always a jump and then work out where to land sort of person. Impulsive her mother had said. Stubborn as a mule her husband had called her. Maggie was cross about losing her bag and it had made her realise how out of condition she was. She was flexible – the daily yoga saw to that – but her strength was lacking and her reflexes were diminished. The latter surprised her because she had to deal with Colin on a daily basis.

  Maggie braced herself and knocked on the gate. Colin was a young Jacob ram. Colin’s head shot up and he eyed her with disdain. Maggie always let him know she was there because he was even more aggressive when startled. He waggled his head as if limbering up for a fight. The ram tilted his head forward presenting his heavy horns in challenge.

  She lifted the fraying rope from the post, opened the gate and dashed in with the bucket. She sloshed the water into his trough and turned to face him. Colin came thundering across the field and she held the bucket in front of her for protection. Colin glanced off it and retreated in preparation for a second attack.

  He’d been hand-reared by a farmer she knew and she had jumped at the chance to borrow him to service her ewes. That had been back in August and some eight months later she now understood why the owners were in no hurry to have him back. Colin was permanently angry and slightly unhinged. Maggie hurried out of the field and shut the gate behind her as Colin charged at it, making it rattle. It was the same every morning.

  This time of year, Maggie had to check the ewes carefully. She bred Jacobs with Poll Dorsets to get lavenders, which had the most beautiful colour fleece. Of her flock she was hoping quite a few were pregnant and due to lamb shortly. That was assuming Colin had managed to put aside his hostile nature long enough but she wasn’t convinced he’d got the hang of it. She didn’t mind how many lambs – any would be a bonus as long as they arrived safely. The weather was mild, which was a blessing for lambing season. She’d spent too many nights in the cold and a couple of years ago she’d had two ewes deliver in the snow. The sheep all grazed naturally on the grass and wild herbs that grew in the pastures.

  She whistled and they all looked up, took a moment to register who it was and then her three favourites sauntered over. They were called Barbara, Nancy and Dolly. They didn’t know their names – sheep were fairly stupid and not capable of responding to individual naming conventions – but that hadn’t stopped Maggie taking a great deal of time over choosing their monikers.

  Since Saturday she’d been thinking about her son. She missed him all the time but he was right at the front of her thoughts now. She tried to picture what he might look like but despite her best efforts she couldn’t. Maggie wondered what sort of person he might have become. Would he have done what that young lad, Tom, had done and come to a stranger’s aid? She didn’t know. She’d thought Tom had been brave and not typical of what society would have her believe of youths his age. The newspapers in the library told of impending doom on most fronts – environmentally, socially and economically. A society unsatisfied with its lot but not prepared to make the effort to fix it. Snowflakes, knife-wielding thugs and the government were all to blame depending on which paper you read.

  Her memories of her son were like frayed newspaper cuttings from a long-forgotten scrapbook. It was the most unusual things that would trigger a train of thought that put him central in her mind. Sometimes she might go a while without thinking of him. Those days brought retrospective guilt but they were still the better days. It was selfish but it was the truth. Her memories of him inflicted deep wounds upon her peace of mind.

>   Maggie fed the ewes some sheep nuts and checked them over. Nancy continued to bleat for more, which gave Maggie an opportunity to give her a once-over. She was pretty sure she was pregnant but there were no tell-tale signs of imminent birth. They had a small lean-to for shelter if they needed it but generally they preferred to mooch around the field. They spent most of their day grazing. Not the most demanding of lives. She gave Barbara a fuss. Maggie had hand-reared Barbara two years ago but unlike Colin she was a gentle soul and enjoyed having her ears scratched. She’d check on them again later. Her little flock of lavenders in the next field were all doing fine. Their pretty coats would need shearing soon but for now they provided the perfect protection against the elements.

  Maggie let the chickens out, fed them and collected the eggs. The Girls were a mixed bunch. Some were rescue birds, some she’d raised from chicks and five she’d got from the free noticeboard at the library because someone had been keeping them in the back garden of a rental property and were utterly surprised that the landlord was none too pleased when he’d found out. They were a motley bunch and Joan was the ringleader. She wasn’t the biggest hen but she was the quickest and she’d fought her way to be top of the pecking order.

  It was a harsh thing to witness when the chickens went at each other, but it was nature’s way. It was how they agreed who went first at feeding time and who got which roost. Things were fairly civilised now and to see them when they settled in for the night you would have thought they were all the best of friends, huddled together. Maggie had gone to a lot of trouble to make their hut and run fox-proof and, so far, it was working.

  At one time this had been a thriving farm, so other people had told her. They had bought it shortly before her husband died. She’d sold off most of the usable land to surrounding farms since then, leaving her with about twenty acres of mixed woodland and hilly pasture. Her nearest neighbour was about a mile away, slightly less if she braved the field occupied by a large bull owned by the next farm. The smallholding was her island of distraction in a sea of boredom.