by Martina Cole
‘Your sister was used and abused by your father, and many others. Your mother passed Jordanna out to anyone who wanted her; that’s why she can’t keep a child inside her, you stupid bloody fool. Your mother might have been good at the business, as you so joyfully pointed out, but she tortured that girl and her breakdown was a long time coming. So I am sorry if you think she is a bit too strange for you, and I am sorry if you are ashamed of her, but next time your mother turns up on her doorstep shouting the odds, remember that Jordanna, God love her, has never opened her trap about what she went through as a child. I had to sit back and wait for the opportunity to get you two away from her. Jordanna looked after you because your mother, Saint fucking Imelda, only cared about her drugs. So, the next time you see your sister, try and remember that she has been used and abused nearly all her life, and your mother is the culprit. Your fucking mother might have gone away for her but, in my opinion, it wasn’t before fucking time. If I had my way I’d put her away for good.’
Kenny Boy had lost his usual ruddy complexion, he was almost grey. His deep-blue eyes, framed by long dark lashes, were almost closed as his grandmother’s words penetrated his brain. He knew she was telling the truth, he knew that somewhere inside he had known about this all along. He knew that his sister’s weakness bothered him because she had always been so strong in his eyes. As children, she had been the one to look out for him, he had depended on her to look after him. She had been the only constant in his life.
Mary knew she had spoken out of turn, knew that she should have kept the truth inside herself; after all, if Jordanna had not mentioned it then she had no right to broadcast it. But Kenny had needed to know why his sister had been broken like she had. He had needed to understand that she had actually survived her mother’s ministrations and that his sister had actually overcome more than he realised, that Jordanna was actually proof of how faith and self-belief could bring a measure of peace to even the most persecuted of people.
Kenny had needed to understand that he should be applauding her for the way Jordanna had clawed her way back from the abyss, not trying to force her to be happy because her chosen lifestyle irritated him. Because he felt she should want the same things as he did, need the same things as he did. Mary gulped at the whisky once more, and watched her grandson as he digested all the information she had just given him.
It was only as her grandson stormed out of her house a few minutes later, that the enormity of what she had done finally hit her.
Jordanna knelt at the altar of her local church. She looked better than she had in years. Her hair was brushed to a silky sheen and her slim frame had filled out so that she once more had a figure of sorts. She was dressed smartly, and she looked a shadow of her old self. She had lost her permanent frown, was much more ready to smile and her eyes had lost the dullness that had become a fixture. She looked almost happy, she was looser somehow, had a softness to her features that reminded people of how lovely she actually was.
As Jordanna accepted the Eucharist she prayed silently and, bowing her head, she walked slowly back to her pew. Kneeling once more, she prayed with all the energy she could muster. As her brother slipped into the seat beside her, she blessed herself quickly then, pulling herself up slowly, she sat beside him. They enjoyed the rest of the Mass together, and as the weak November sun forced itself through the stained-glass windows, Jordanna prayed for a final end to her sadness. She knew she was finally emerging from the darkness that had enveloped her for so many years, and she felt lighter, felt more involved with the world around her. She was once more in accord with her brother, and that alone was something she was grateful for. They were close again, and he had even professed to an understanding of her love for the church, and had helped her to assuage her guilt at her relief when she had been told of her mother’s death. She had tried to forgive her mother, had tried to tell herself that her mother’s addiction had been the cause of everything that had happened. But she knew that wasn’t true; her mother’s addiction had been something she had chosen, her addiction had been the only thing her mother had ever really cared about.
The sins of the fathers, Jordanna understood those words now. They didn’t mean that the sins a parent might commit would be visited on their offspring. The words actually meant that the mistakes a parent made while they were bringing up their children would be visited on the second, the third, even the fourth generation.
She was destined to be an auntie, her mother had seen to that. But she was also destined to find her own happiness where she could. She had recently met a widower with three children and she knew that he had been sent to her, that she had been looking for someone like him. It was early days yet, but she knew instinctively that he was her second chance at happiness.
Her mother had been found in an alley. She had been beaten to death and had choked on her own blood at some point during the attack. She had been there, scoring as usual, and the police believed that she had become involved in an argument with her dealer. Her mother had died as she had lived, pursuing the only thing that had ever mattered to her. She had been buried without any pomp or ceremony and with no mourners at her graveside. Even her own mother had declined to attend the service. The news had brought a measure of peace to Jordanna; knowing that she would never have to deal with her again had lifted her spirits, had brought her a measure of peace she had not known in her life before.
Her mother would never again turn up on her doorstop demanding attention, causing her daughter to relive the terror and the disgust that had made up her childhood and had eventually destroyed her chance of having any kind of real life. Her mother had eventually broken her both mentally and physically, and the worst thing of all was, Jordanna knew that the damage had been inflicted without any thought whatsoever. Whoever had come up with the idea that a child was better off with a parent, even an addicted parent, had a lot to answer for. Addicts’ children should be removed from their influence, and placed as far away from the offender as was humanly possible.
She had watched silently as her mother’s coffin had been lowered into the damp ground, had needed to see her mother finally entombed once and for all.
Kenny Boy had held her hand, had made sure she had not let the news get her down. As if. She had silently rejoiced at her new-found freedom. Kenny Boy had watched over her until the funeral was finished and life had resumed once more. In fact, he had been the one person who seemed to understand her relief at the terrible news, and appreciate her new-found lust for life. Jordanna guessed that Kenny Boy knew far more about Imelda’s death than the police did, but that was only her gut instinct. Her granny knew far more about it than she ever would, and that suited her down to the ground. If her mother had died at the hands of her beloved son, then that was God’s will. As long as that could not be proved in a court of law, she didn’t really care. He was even more damaged than she was but, unlike her, he really had no concept of that. Kenny had inherited Imelda’s knack for disregarding anything that might cause him a sleepless night, or make him feel a real emotion. He saw everything from his own unique point of view and, unlike her, he didn’t allow regret to colour his life in any way. All she knew for sure was that her mother’s death had somehow brought an end to her own suffering. She and Kenny Boy had lived with their mother’s shadow looming over them since she could remember.
Now, at last, it seemed that they were both free.
