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Gloves Off

Page 4

by Louisa Reid


  and his fist encloses my palm and holds it there – tight.

  i wasn’t always like this, lily,

  i dream i hear mum say.

  i dream again

  see her stand up from the towel and run across the

  beach

  towards the sea, her skin bright white.

  i see her dive beneath the water,

  disappear for a second and then emerge

  on wings.

  BERNADETTE (5)

  How can they be so cruel?

  Joe doesn’t answer me,

  But I can see

  He’s simmering, boiling, ready to blow.

  “Didn’t you know?” he asks.

  And I nod.

  I knew.

  I see it all,

  All the invisible

  Scars.

  The marks

  That living leaves behind.

  The fingerprints,

  Faded footprints

  On paths she trod alone.

  Ghost palm prints of

  Hands that held hers

  When I was not there.

  Teeth marks.

  Tiny incisions.

  Pieces of her nibbled out of existence

  By sharp words or faces.

  Great chunks removed with a sneer.

  How to shore up a body against the onslaught of

  eyes?

  Fool to think love is enough,

  My child.

  Did I make the world

  This way?

  Did I teach you to be afraid?

  You’d think

  Our skin

  Would be

  Thick enough

  By now.

  YOU GET KNOCKED DOWN?

  “where’s the fight in you?” dad says.

  it’s late.

  he’s come up to my room

  (he never comes up to my room)

  and is perched, awkward, on my bed,

  elbows on his knees, hands clenched,

  staring at me

  with eyes that insist i listen.

  i can see the rage in them

  they fire at me,

  strong words –

  come on,

  be brave!

  and although everything in me wants to

  look down

  to crawl under my covers and

  hide,

  i nod, just a little.

  “don’t cry,” he says,

  “come on,”

  he insists.

  “where’s my lil?

  you want to change things?

  well,

  don’t be a victim,

  right?

  you hear me?”

  his hand on mine,

  i stare at the tattoos on his arm

  our names

  inked there.

  his words are hard,

  but soft, i guess, for a man who works all day,

  and then comes home to us

  to face the facts

  that we’re not right.

  probably not the family he dreamed of

  loving

  and being

  proud to walk beside.

  what am i supposed to do? i say.

  dad doesn’t mean to shout

  when he tells me to fight back, and

  i don’t mean to cry.

  maybe it is because he cares

  and not many other people do.

  “that’s self-pity that is,”

  dad says,

  and he shakes his head.

  “that’ll get you nowhere fast.”

  i want to

  scream at him,

  you don’t know what it’s like,

  i want to tell him that when you’re in the gutter

  you’re litter,

  with the leaves that fall

  and the trash

  that’s thrown

  out of car windows,

  careless –

  you’re

  crap.

  down and out,

  done.

  but

  he’s up and off,

  shrugging on his coat,

  standing at my door.

  “i’ll be back later,”

  he says.

  “me and you,

  we need a plan.”

  EXPLANATIONS

  my aunty clare comes to visit with her kids,

  mikey tears around our house while

  my mum’s sister sits outside and smokes.

  her boyfriend’s useless, and she’s broke.

  mum smiles and helps mikey to create more fun,

  monsters out of empty boxes, string and glitter.

  glue goes everywhere, he laughs

  and daubs his painty fingers in her hair.

  i watch them, amazed

  that all it takes is

  hearts that are not sour.

  when i first started school

  my mum went back to work.

  she loved the little ones,

  the busy, funny days.

  the kids she cared for loved her back,

  and cried sometimes

  when their own parents came and pulled

  them from her arms.

  one day a woman came to look around

  the nursery to see if it might be good enough

  for her precious child.

  mum gave the tour.

  tried to chat and handed toys to the little boy,

  showed him books,

  explained the day.

  said she understood how hard it was

  to let them go, and walk away.

  the woman looked at her and didn’t smile.

  “she didn’t like the look of me,”

  my mother says.

  “i lost my job because of her.

  i should have had a thicker skin.”

  why? what do you mean? what did you do?

  my mother waits

  and then she says

  in a voice that doesn’t sound like her,

  “that woman called my boss.

  she said

  that she couldn’t leave her child with

  me,

  she said

  that she did not believe that I could

  take care of him or

  do my job.

  not with me the way i am.”

  i still don’t understand.

  mum sighs.

  her face is closed.

  like this all hurts

  too much to tell.

  like she’s sick of explaining herself away,

  her words come out, slow and low.

  “she thought that i might

  influence him. that he might catch

  bad ways,”

  mum says.

  as if she is a germ.

  as if she could infect that kid,

  as if she could not be trusted to

  take care of that child as if

  he were her own.

  she takes a breath.

  “too fat,

  that woman said I was,

  too fat

  to move.

  health and safety, my boss said.”

  mum shrugs.

  “maybe it’s true.”

  she was a bitch,

  a bully, that’s discrimination.

  “that’s the world we live in, love.

  so i was hurt.

  i came home.

  i shut my door,

  i thought about those words

  i tried to change.

  well, here i am.

  i’m sorry, love, i’ve let you down.

  it’s all my fault.

  i’m going to try from now on,

  to be better,

  get out

  a bit more,

  i’ve let this go on too long.”

  my fingers sink into my skin.

  i’d tear that woman,

  limb from limb.

  stop it, mum. it wasn’t you, i say,

  a
nd think about how cruel we are to one

  another every day.

  PART TWO

  BOMB

  the thing swings there in the twilight darkness.

  dad slaps it with his outstretched fist.

  huge and black and ominous,

  it dances

  daring me,

  not to back away from this.

  my hands are strapped,

  confined inside the clumsy gloves,

  stiff and snug,

  hefty, hard to manage.

  really? I ask

  “yes,” dad says, “why not? why shouldn’t you?”

  and so i do.

  i swing.

  first strike.

  the bag waltzes out of reach and i sink

  into the soft mat,

  my legs leaden, slow.

  how long we stand out there in the cold

  getting warm.

  how long dad patiently

  explains that there is a technique

  and if i want to learn, i’ll have to try.

  what’s the point? i ask, panting and sore,

  my arms aching with the effort of swinging

  and punching again and again but failing

  and glancing off into the air.

  i won’t be any good, i say and he

  takes my face between his hands and stares at me.

  “when you were born,” dad says,

  “i didn’t know

  that i could love another person quite

  so much.

  your granddad came to see you

  and he took one look at your face and said –

  she’s a bloody little belter, joe.

  so don’t you ever tell me you’re no good.

  just give it a go, lil.

  see that bag there,

  imagine it’s those girls.

  imagine their faces.

  imagine you’re smashing them into pieces.”

  YOU GET UP AGAIN

  i’ve spent years making peace and keeping it.

  easier to swallow pain and smile

  than to say,

  No.

  You’re wrong.

  No. You lie.

  it’s guts

  i need. can i become the kind of girl

  who feels

  that winning is a right?

  mum stands on the back step

  in the darkness watching me.

  if i can do it –

  so might she.

  all right, i tell my dad, i’ll try.

  “good,” he says,

  “one two.

  like this.”

  he demonstrates, his own old gloves

  fast but slow enough for me to see.

  and something changes on his face.

  intense,

  he thrusts again,

  hits harder,

  shows me what i have to do.

  then, pausing, smiles,

  teacher, father,

  as if there’s no way i can lose

  “it’s been years.

  don’t know why i stopped.

  your mum,

  she didn’t like it.

  – said she liked my brains right here,

  inside my head.”

  he taps his skull,

  “but it feels good.

  now you.”

  i don’t look at dad as the punchbag swings

  away from me again,

  mocking,

  too swift

  andcunning

  to be

  caught.

  i try again.

  he’s patient, waiting,

  but everything depends on this.

  i see their faces on that bag. their smiles.

  their lying smiles.

  stacey.

  aidan.

  mollie too.

  my breathing’s harsh, just standing here,

  remembering.

  they blur, dissolve,

  eyes flashing, lashes sweeping over

  cheeks that glow, long legs that run too fast

  for me to chase and catch.

  just one, then, pin her there, yes,

  clear skin, dark hair, fake smile.

  and her eyes

  so wide

  and cruel

  looking at me for all these years,

  then the whispers, flickering glances

  that say it all.

  i hit it hard. i think i scream.

  dad laughs.

  “that’s it! again!”

  and then the pummelling begins,

  i’m swinging wildly,

  madly,

  crazy,

  with all that i might do. holding the

  bag, throwing myself at it,

  battering the thing like i want it to break,

  like i could knock the stuffing out.

  and

  for the first time

  there’s no pain.

  HOW COME

  they hate me?

  what did i do?

  questions roll around

  behind my eyes

  as i lie in bed,

  trying to sleep

  and i mutter my prayer

  dear god

  please let me wake up

  someone new.

  GET UP AND GO

  doing this means

  crawling out of bed

  too early the next morning,

  pulling on

  a hoodie and sweatpants,

  dragging myself

  downstairs, aching already, from the backs

  of my arms, to my shoulders, my thighs, my bum.

  every bit of me

  complaining.

  dad is already dressed.

  the lights are too bright.

  i squint, gulp juice, feel old

  before i’ve started.

  “good, right then, let’s go.”

  i pull on my trainers. at least it’s dark outside.

  dad hadn’t realized i am so slow.

  he’s not much better.

  “better give up the fags,” he says

  stopping to cough and hack

  into the morning mist.

  we move in the shadows,

  street lamps flicker and buzz.

  he stops.

  waits.

  jogs beside me again,

  doesn’t say a thing. we make it round the estate.

  i walk a bit, run a bit, try not to notice

  him beside me, try not to think the things

  he must be thinking.

  i stop myself from saying

  let’s give up,

  forget this.

  forget me.

  BERNADETTE (6)

  Off they go.

  My girl is strong.

  I swallow,

  Skin prickling

  Pride and fear.

  They disappear.

  I pick up my mug

  Sit in the dark,

  Tea hot in my hands.

  When she was small

  My Lily wouldn’t even hurt a fly,

  Cradling spiders, ants, in her tiny hands

  Rescuing bees from puddles,

  Making homes for snails,

  So soft.

  And now

  I have to watch her

  Hammer out another way.

  Joe’s right, I suppose.

  Something needs to change.

  DAY ONE, DONE

  “well done,” dad says as i crawl back home.

  the sun is coming up. it’s too bright now.

  i squint into the street,

  search the windows, the road, for signs of life.

  no one has seen us.

  “same time, same place, tomorrow,” he says,

  his face is set.

  he reaches out, puts an arm around me.

  “proud of you,” he tells me.

  i pull back.

  don’t. i stink.

  it feels good to wash it all away.


  not so good to know that now there’s school.

  school happens whatever you do.

  “just this year to go, love,”

  mum says, handing me my bag.

  “it’ll pass. all this will pass.”

  i smile at her, nod.

  i know. thanks, i say,

  and wonder if

  i’m too young to wish my life away.

  NOISE

  “it’s not just violence,” dad says to mum,

  “it’s about taking control.

  handling things

  that are hard to handle.”

  he slaps the table with his palm.

  he doesn’t sound like dad.

  dad doesn’t do feelings,

  asks us how we are and only hears:

  fine.

  in fact, i thought he’d run a mile

  from pain;

  i’ve never seen him cry.

  they’re still at it.

  he pulls the dress from mum’s hands –

  the rows of tiny pearls she’s been sewing for weeks,

  and

  something tears

  and

  someone swears.

  it is new, to hear them disagree.

  like this.

  “i don’t want her thinking it’s right,”

  mum says,

  “my daughter isn’t one to fight –

  she might get hurt.”

  dad speaks, too firm – it makes me flinch.

  “our daughter,

  is already

  hurt,

  bernie.”

  and then there’s

  quiet.

  i should go in there, tell them to shut up,

  that i don’t need them talking

  about me.

  my dad goes on, insistent, strong.

  “and she needs something.

  otherwise those little sods, they’ll just keep up with

  this.”

  mum’s voice rises,

  the old refrain,

  “there’s one more year. that’s all.

  then she can move.

  a sixth form college. make new

  friends—”

  dad interrupts.

  “there’ll be others, won’t there, though?

  no.

  life’s tough.

  she needs to be strong,

  to hold her own.”

  BERNADETTE (7)

  I never promised to be

  Beautiful.

  You found me

 

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