A Whisper to the Living

by Ruth Hamilton

‘You’re asking for it, you are,’ he whispered, his spittle wetting my face. ‘And you’re going to get it. Know what I mean?’ Yes, I knew what he meant. And no, there wasn’t time for him to start on me just now.

  ‘Are you going to do the fire?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And make the tea?’

  ‘Just let me go.’ He stank of beer, sweat, tobacco and bad teeth.

  He released me so suddenly that I fell back against the range oven, banging my head on the mantel shelf. Whether it was the sharp pain, or simply a culmination of all that had happened that evening, I didn’t know, but something in me snapped and I flew at him, my hands clawing at his face then beating against his chest. Someone was screaming, sobbing, cursing and only when his hand came over my mouth did I realize that these sounds had been coming from me. His breathing was laboured now and he had to struggle to hold me still.

  ‘Listen, you little bitch,’ he gasped. ‘I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again – you do exactly as I say. If you don’t, then I’ll get your mother and you, the bloody pair. Understand?’

  I tasted salt. Something warm and thick was dripping from my mouth. He howled like a wolf and sprang back, but even then my teeth maintained a bulldog grip on his finger until he brought up the other hand and sent me reeling across the room with a single flat blow. I caught sight of myself in the flower-bordered mirror, saw blood on my face and ran to the kitchen to swill his filth down the sink. My stomach heaved and I vomited noisily into the white porcelain, my hands gripping the edge to stop me sliding to the floor. I must hold on, had to keep sane. This was not the way, could not be the way. I was behaving like an animal, a wild beast – no. Animals did not carry on like this – they had order, a kind of discipline in their lives. What was happening to me? Where was my order, my discipline?

  Some time later he came through to the kitchen, the stink of Dettol, with which he had no doubt bathed his hand, mixing with all the other scents that clung to his malodorous person.

  ‘Try that again and I’ll kill you,’ he announced, his voice dangerously quiet.

  Kill me, I wanted to say. Kill me and you’ll hang. But this was not the time. Today had been a disaster and yet, out of this series of storms a plan was forming, spreading its tiny roots in my brain. Although I was uncertain of the details and felt very unsure of the outcome, the seeds were sown and I knew I would have to be not just cool, but icy cold to carry it out. So I shovelled coal and made the tea while he nursed his damaged finger.

  When my mother came in, she commiserated with him about his poor hand, said that people should be sued for leaving nails sticking out of window frames. My, it was a mess and no mistake – if she didn’t know different, she’d swear he’d been bitten by a mad dog. As she knelt at his side to apply a bandage, he looked at me over her bent head, a smile of triumph playing over his ugly, weathered features.

  My skull ached where it had hit the mantelpiece and I was tired to the bones of all these charades. Yet I summoned up the energy to feel annoyed at the sight of my mother kneeling at his feet, the soles of her shoes crusted with steel rings, her hair dotted with cotton, the back of her work frock still damp from her labour.

  ‘I hope you’re well insured,’ I said to Higson. ‘You can get lockjaw from a rusty nail – there’s no cure. It’s a horrible death too.’

  ‘Ooh, Annie.’ My mother glanced up from her task. ‘What an awful thing to say.’

  ‘Well – I’m only being practical. It stands to reason – anybody who climbs ladders for a living should be well insured. It’s just common sense, that’s all. He might break his neck, mightn’t he? I’m off to bed now.’

  She got up off the floor wearily. ‘Just you wait there, our Annie. Is that alright, Eddie? Not too tight?’ He grunted and she turned to lean against the table as she spoke to me. ‘All I ask, Annie, is for some peace when I get home from the job. Going on about him getting lockjaw and breaking his neck – it’s not very nice, is it? Can’t you have a bit of respect?’

  ‘People have to earn respect,’ I said, as calmly as I could.

  ‘Have you two been arguing? Have you? Can’t I even go to work now without worrying about you giving cheek, Annie? What’s got into you these days, eh?’

  ‘Ask him. He’s your husband, supposed to be the man of the house . . .’

  ‘Annie!’

  ‘Oh leave me alone, Mother. Just leave me alone!’ I stamped out of the room and slammed the door behind me.

  ‘Let her go, Nancy,’ I heard him say. ‘Bloody priest’s been down again mithering her – she’s got a right bee in her bonnet over it.’

  ‘She still won’t get confirmed then?’

  ‘Nay. She as good as threw the drunken old bum out of the house.’

  ‘Oh Eddie – she didn’t . . .’

  ‘Just let it go, woman. For goodness sake – can’t you see she’s at a funny age . . .?’

  Yes, he’d said that before, hadn’t he?

  I switched on my light and looked across into the Cullens’ front room. Martin was standing in front of the fireplace staring into the mirror. He did that a lot these days. The single bare bulb in the centre of the parlour (as Mrs Cullen called it) shone down on Martin, making his hair a lighter red than it really was. He was a strange lad, the odd one out in that large family. Although he was Josie’s twin, the two of them were like chalk and cheese. While Josie continued open and voluble, Martin seemed very reticent at times, as if he, like me, were planning something, a secret he could not share.

  I took the diaries from the drawer and added the notes about Angela, who had confirmed what I already suspected. The plan unfolded as I wrote and I scribbled furiously in spite of my aching head. It was dangerous, but wasn’t my situation already fraught with danger? This would simply accelerate matters, take me off the knife’s edge, put me in charge. If I lost my gamble, then at least I would go down fighting instead of remaining as I was now, a sitting duck for him to take pot shots at whenever he pleased.

  To ensure that I would not weaken, I forced myself to go back yet again through these notebooks, reaffirming that I was right, that these things had really happened to me, that none of it was my fault. I must fuel my anger, feed my resolve, make sure that I would not relent at the last moment.

  Oh Mam, Mam . . . what would you say if you could read all this now? What did you think of me all those years ago when I told you I hated him, that he made me shiver, that his eyes were sly? Did you care? I bet you thought I was an odd little thing because of all I’d been through, losing my Daddy and all. Then that stray bomb had been enough to frighten any small lass and make her wary . . .

  I pushed the book away and stared blindly through the window. Yes, she probably thought I’d been shell-shocked for a long time, because the blast had been deafening, terrifying. We had sat there under the table for hours until a warden, his feet crunching on splintered glass, had dragged us out. We were the lucky ones, we residents of Ensign Street, because half the next road had been blown to kingdom come. For weeks after that, I had searched for Rosie Turner, not believing, not wanting to accept. Then gradually, Rosie had faded, slipped away out of focus, leaving just a vapour-trail of memory. Now that too was gone and I could not even imagine what she had looked like.

  Everyone had said that I was an unusual child, ‘highly-strung’ according to my mother’s family, ‘precocious’ in Sister Agatha’s book. My mother probably never expected me to react to Eddie Higson in a normal way, because I had not led a normal life. Few war babies had enjoyed a normal life.

  I left the table, switched off my light and went to lie on the bed. Yes, I would do it – I would, I really would! Remember, I told myself. Remember the first beating . . .

  We got back to the house on the wedding night. For reasons I could not fully understand, I shut myself in the small front bedroom with a pair of scissors and painstakingly cut to ribbons the awful pink dress I had been forced to wear. He beat me that night and my mother
did not succeed in stopping him. So, on the night of my mother’s wedding, I received the first of many such beatings, beatings I would never forget, would not allow myself to forget. Because my mother did not approve of his hitting me, he always got me on my own after that first time. I could not fail to notice how his face changed as he hit me, those small piggy eyes glazing over, the mouth wet, wide and panting.

  I groaned and turned over, forcing myself to recall line for line what was written. I must face up to the past before I could organize the future.

  Christmas 1946. My mother out shopping. Higson bending over me. Faded colours in the peg rug, handmade on winter evenings from strips of clipped-up skirts and coats. A shine on the range, black-leaded earlier that day. Festoons on the ceiling, an orange lantern in the doorway. On the dresser a small Christmas tree with arms like bottle brushes. Smells. Pie, yeasty bread, mince tarts. Cherry Blossom polish on the boot that rolled me over towards the heat. A bitter taste in my mouth, vomit laced with hatred. Sounds. A hiss as an air-pocket exploded from the fire’s red depth. Breathing. Panting. Gasping. He was dying. Only a dying man would make such noises. Following him. Standing in the doorway as he leaned over the slop-stone, his back towards me, legs apart, one hand moving in front of him. A splash, then a groan as he reached over to seek support from the wall . . .

  Remember Tom. ‘Are you alright, Annie?’

  ‘Yes.’ I could never tell Tom about the beatings could not let him know how naughty I was. Just as I couldn’t tell my mother. Why? Why couldn’t I say Mam, he hits me when you’re out . . .? Because she might side with him, might agree that I deserved my punishments. There was always a reason for the beatings. I’d been playing on the bombsite, giving cheek, answering back . . . always a reason. But what had triggered him? He was alright at first, just ignored me. This question I could never answer.

  Don’t sleep, not yet, not now. Allow the anger feel the pain. Where were you, Mam, all those time when I needed you, when it first began in Ensign Street? At the mill? Shopping? Passing the time of day with a neighbour, a friend? Shall I blame you my mother?

  The move to Long Moor. The baths. Soap bubbles, lather on my chest, calloused hands caressing my body. A huge finger, topped by a black rimmed nail, forcing, pushing, tearing . . . no!

  Sweat bathed my head, ran in small rivers down towards the pillow. There is me, just me. But my memory is clear, my anger deep, my body strong. He will never know my fear, my sweat, my tears. No-one to help. No-one to trust. Just me, only me. I am Annie Byrne. Annie Byrne is a thirteen-year-old girl with a secret. Holy Mary, Mother of God, where are you? Sleep is coming. My thoughts are disjointed, I am wandering lonely as a cloud, Mr Wordsworth. Too tired to get up and take off my clothes. Tomorrow, I shall be all creased. Like his face, tramlines on the forehead, white in ugly brown skin. A shallow forehead. No brains. Shallow. A pool of water, a pool of blood. Soon there will be blood. Every month, my blood. Whose blood, Annie? Whose blood? Wake up, that’s it, wake up! Whose blood, Annie?

  I stumbled out of bed and tore off my clothes, flinging them carelessly on to the chair, groping in the dark for my nightdress. Strange, I thought, how a plan could be finalized in a dream. It was complete. Before my blood came, I would have his. Or die trying. The proverbial worm was about to turn.

  The dreams were bad that night. I was hitting out at everybody, screaming at Dr Pritchard and Simon, setting fire to Edna Pritchard’s lace curtains, yelling at my mother, calling her a traitor. He eluded me completely. Always there was a long corridor between me and him. He stood far away, yet near enough for me to see the leer, the Woodbine smoke curling from a corner of his lip. I walked, but could not run. They reached out from doorways trying to stop me and although I eliminated them one by one, my mother, the doctor, Father Cavanagh, I still could not reach the right one, the one at the end with the ladder on his shoulder. Obscenities poured from my lips, echoing, bouncing off close walls.

  I woke sobbing in the miserly light of dawn, my pillow saturated with tears, the dream shattering into fragments for which I groped desperately, trying to piece them all together before true consciousness would deny me access.

  Remember . . .

  13

  The Worst of Times

  There was a gap at the end of the bath, a space between end panel and wall where the wooden maiden sometimes stood with towels airing on its rails. With my eye, I measured the gap, then I climbed, fully clothed, into the empty tub as I ran through this final rehearsal of my piece. The mechanics might prove easy in comparison to the real acting I would have to do, the smiling, the sigh of pretended pleasure, the encouraging flutter of eyelashes.

  I was not old enough for this. Female survivors in the books had been mature. Young ones always fell prey to Vikings, Romans, Cromwell’s soldiers. Those who escaped were women of experience, twenty, thirty years old. But I had learned from them, hadn’t I? Hadn’t their small triumphs become mine? The books were fiction, I knew that. Yet writers must get their ideas from somewhere, from some central store of actuality and fact. I must believe, I must be prepared.

  It would happen right here on the bath mat, black and yellow with a penguin woven into the middle. That awful big thing would be pushed inside me, would tear me apart on the penguin rug. Afterwards, he would have to kill me, because once it had happened, I would not be able to remain silent. Already I felt half-crazy some of the time, my nerves stretched like tight wires, my whole body tense and waiting. Rape would make me crack, I knew it.

  So now, I must become the aggressor, because if I continued to do nothing, then it might not even be rape. Sometimes, in the newspapers, it was not rape because the woman didn’t say no. My word against his – he would never risk that, because he knew I had ten words for every one of his. And I wasn’t a woman, I was just a girl, he’d go to prison with enough proof. Yes, he would kill me. Then he would sneak out of the house and get what they called an alibi, probably from his brothers. It would be murder by person or persons unknown. I could not allow myself to become a file in the police station, a file never closed.

  Joannie Walker. I’d never met her, never known her, but her name was burnt into my brain by my mother and the Bolton Evening News. Joannie Walker had disappeared in 1948 when she was seven years old. She was used as an example to all of us, don’t talk to strangers, don’t get into a car or a lorry. Her body had not been found and the file remained forever open. Well, I had never talked to strangers, had never got into a car. I smiled grimly as I climbed out of the bath, my assessment complete. No, Mam. I don’t talk to strangers, but it happens all the same in your lovely bathroom with your delightful husband. The thing you don’t talk about because it isn’t quite nice – it’s already happening to your daughter. Dear me, what a terrible world. Isn’t fish an awful price these days and shall I put the kettle on?

  No! NO! She did love me, she couldn’t know, mustn’t know . . .

  Tonight. It had to be tonight or I might snap completely, lose my nerve and forget all my carefully made preparations. Now, while I was on my guard, I could and would orchestrate the whole thing. What if it didn’t work? What if he got me? No . . . better now, while I was keyed up for it. What if I killed him? They’d put me away – not quite in prison, I probably wasn’t old enough for that. But they’d put me away, wouldn’t they?

  Oh stop what-iffing, Annie Byrne! No alternatives. Just you. Just you and him, you or him, one winner, one loser.

  It was Thursday. My mother left early on Thursdays to work out her two rooms’ timesheets for the foreman. I went down to see her before she left, looking at her as if for the last time.

  ‘What are you staring at, Annie? Is my face dirty or something?’

  ‘No. I was just thinking how pretty you are.’

  ‘Me? Don’t talk so soft. Mind you, I was alright in my day, I can tell you.’

  ‘You’re still alright. It’s just that your face is a bit thinner than it was. How old are you?’

  ‘As
if you don’t know! Anyroad, never ask a woman her age. She’ll usually lie through her teeth even if they’re not her own. If she doesn’t lie, you still can’t trust her, because a woman who’ll tell her age can never keep a secret.’

  ‘You’re only thirty-six . . .’

  ‘Aye. Going on ninety.’

  She tied her mill apron round her waist, a large pocket divided into two sections by a single vertical seam. This was where she kept the spools when doffing, in this pocket she smuggled home empty tubes for firewood. I watched her as she dragged a careless comb through soft Titian waves, kept my eyes on her every movement while she found her bag and purse, changed slippers for work shoes, drew on the dark blue cotton-spotted coat.

  ‘Are you alright, Annie? You’re standing there like cheese at fourpence. Is there something you want to tell me?’

  I stared at her and knew in that moment that I would never be able to tell her. Even if I ignored Higson’s threat to harm her, I could not destroy this little woman because I loved her too much. That it would destroy her I did not doubt. The idea of it, the thought of it, would tear her apart. And I knew her, better than he ever would. I recognized her power, knew her temper and her determination, saw the steel behind the softness, realized that a mighty though untutored brain nested beneath those gentle curls, behind the smoke-grey eyes. Yes, if I were to tell her now, or ever, she would take off the coat, pick up the meat knife and wait. Small she might be, cowardly she was not. The consequences would finish her. It was my battle and I would fight it alone.

  ‘No. I’ve nothing to tell you. I thought I might go for a walk, freshen my brain up a bit.’

  ‘Good idea. But make sure you . . .’

  ‘I know. Finish my homework.’

  ‘And don’t backchat Eddie. You’re getting just a bit big for your boots, you are. I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘Give them a bit of education and they know it all.’

  ‘Would you marry him again, Mother?’