by Louise Beech
I looked in the mirror; the word ‘tiger’ appeared above my head in a cartoon bubble. Tiger. It was just a harmless word I’d heard and used many times. Now it sounded sharp, dangerous. I squinted and it dissolved.
Then a rabbit lolloped along the bath behind me. I spun around. Nothing. Of course, nothing. Had I expected to see a bunny in the bathroom?
I thought of my dad. He’d loved rabbits. He used to do this card trick where he’d ask me to pick one from the deck and tell him what it was. Every time I’d ask why, and he’d say that it was part of the magic. I’d tell him and slide the card back among the others and he’d say, ‘I bet I know what your card was.’ Fooled me into telling him every time.
I yanked the strap and the dress fell to my feet, a pool of fabric blood.
Tiger.
My dad had never called me that, only ‘Angel’. I kicked the dress to the corner of the room. I’d not been an angel since I was eight and believed his words. I’d only been clumsy and foul-mouthed and raw-handed and difficult. The last time he’d played his trick the card had been the joker, which means a surprise, the unknown. I’d kept it under my pillow until the joker’s face faded.
Now I climbed under the duvet on the sofa but didn’t think I would ever get warm or find sleep. I did. Mercifully it was dreamless.
12
Sweet milk gone sour
Mother never told me I was beautiful.
But she told me she was. Heads turned, she said. Boys wanted to be near her; girls wanted to know her, she said. So, when I was very small I’d look at my mother as though I had a mirror in my hand. I’d pretend her face was mine, that my eyes weren’t ice blue but chocolate brown, and my skin wasn’t white but olive, and my bluntly cut hair flowed like her silky mane. The only pictures I had of my real mum were too faded and out-of-focus to mimic. Though Dad brought her to life for me during our chats, I could not follow her, watch her, try to be her.
Before Dad died my mother took time with her make-up and wore perfume and beads; afterwards she devoted that time to baking. She was still pretty. Pearl earrings still complemented her elegant neck and a simple twist of her hand had her hair in an upward-sweeping style.
I remember following her around, aged perhaps four, trying to mimic her swinging walk. I couldn’t. I clomped like a boy. Like your father, she said. Clomp, clomp, clomp. And though she loved him and said it fondly, no daughter wants to imitate her father’s style. She wants to be her mum – and if her mum isn’t there, then her mother.
Dad said I was an angel but I wanted my mother to think so too.
There came a time – and I’m not sure when it was – that I fell out of love with her. Maybe it was after Dad died. She changed. But so did I. Where she had treated me well (if a little coolly) during his lifetime, she now grew impatient, was less willing to talk. Perhaps it was during my forgotten ninth year that I stopped trying to please her and no longer wanted to copy her elegant style. Instead, I did all I could do to oppose and annoy and argue.
When I later tried putting all my memories together – like a child making a scrapbook from remnants – some stood out more than others. Forgetting Nanny Eve’s birthday was one. Asking Dad what he’d wanted to be when he grew up was another. And a clifftop slap from my mother had never faded either. It was the first time she had raised a hand to me.
She met Graham when I was twelve, and a year later he moved into our large home, filling the cavernous space left empty by the deaths of Nanny Eve and Dad. Our first holiday was to Devon. We all went – Celine and her brother Stephen came too. I sulked because Celine got the better bedroom at the cottage, one with oak beams, a white bunk bed and a window that looked out over the sea. I slept in a box room full of stuffed otters and owls.
Every morning I woke early, long before Celine or Stephen, and took off along the beach. It was all mine at that time. Perhaps there would be an old man walking a dog, or a lady sitting on a rock, reading, but no crowds. Just me and sea and sky. I’d put bits of shell and unusually shaped stones in a bucket. I thought they might look pretty on my windowsill or make a nice gift for Anna.
Anna and I had been friends again since the day out skating with Rebecca Houghton and the whole class. We’d bonded over shared troubles at home and would swap magazines. At the same time – perhaps coinciding with us going up to high school – Barry Hudson realised it wasn’t cool to hang around with a girl. It eased my guilt a little at having dropped him so fickly.
On our fifth morning at the Devon cottage everyone got up early so I had no secret time on the sand, looking for treasures. Alone I was calm and sweet and happy; when surrounded by the family – especially my mother and Celine – I soured. That was the best way to describe it. I went off like milk. Curdled. Became grumpy and awkward and sweary. I didn’t know why, or how long I’d been that way, and I sometimes tried not to be but I just couldn’t seem to help it.
So, when the whole gang joined me at seven with plans for a clifftop breakfast picnic and then a boat trip, I stomped around the kitchen and growled.
‘Get out of bed the wrong side?’ joked Graham, ruffling my hair.
‘Ignore the grumpy madam,’ said my mother.
They packed this and that, and we set off for the overgrown path that took you up the cliff. Wind buffeted the foliage. Celine skipped and twirled, and my mother laughed and chased her. Their dresses billowed like multicoloured clouds. I hissed words I knew Mother would admonish, but quietly so I’d not have to go to bed early. One word I always got into trouble for saying was ‘Sharleen’. But I just couldn’t bring myself to say Celine. It hurt my mouth. My mother had once talked about a ‘common’ woman at number nineteen who had cheated at the Loveliest Garden competition. Her name was Sharleen. And I thought it suited Celine.
When we reached the top of the cliff Stephen helped his dad lay breakfast out on a checked blanket. There were cold sausages and hardboiled eggs, bread and jam, and flasks of tea. The sun hung low in the sky and I thought it looked like it was bored. I was bored too. Small talk about Celine’s upcoming dancing competition always sent me looking for something else to do. But here there were no cupboards to escape to. No bathrooms to lock the door in.
‘I’m off to explore,’ I said.
‘Must you?’ sighed my mother. ‘We’re having a lovely time. Why do you have to ruin it?’
How was I ruining it? By not being there I probably made it better. They could all talk endlessly about frilly frocks and bastard ponies, I thought.
I headed higher up the path. Stephen watched me, perhaps a little envious that I had the courage to go.
‘Stay away from the edge,’ called Graham, eyes darkened with concern.
I climbed, higher and higher. The sun rose with me. Burned my cheeks. I looked down at the frothing water. Stones fell into its whirlpool. A little lower, on a craggy ledge, something shimmered. Something silver. Perhaps diamond. Had someone fallen and lost it on the way down? Had someone dropped it on the path for the wind to steal? Was someone now looking for their precious gem? If I retrieved it, I would take all the attention away from Celine.
I looked back; my family were small dots now. Sod them. That was what my Aunty Hairy (really Mary) said about sales people who called: ‘Sod them.’ I wanted that shiny treasure. Not for myself, but to give back to the owner. And the danger excited me. Stephen would be impressed. And Graham. And my dad, if he’d been there.
And my mum if I’d known her.
I crawled on my front through the long grass to the cliff-edge. Then I turned, and worked my way down backwards. My feet reached tentatively for any rock or protruding twig, hoping it would support my weight. I was skinny and this probably saved me. My hands gripped clumps of grass or prominent stones. A few times I felt my feet go and panicked, clinging on tighter.
I looked down. The nearer I got, the further away the glittering prize seemed. I had underestimated the distance. I had also forgotten that I would have to climb back up. And I was ve
ry high above the water where it crashed against the rocks. I was suddenly and unexpectedly scared. Really scared. I didn’t think I could make it to the ledge where the gem waited, or back up to where I’d started.
I don’t know how long I clung to the cliff-face in the same position. The sun burned my back. Nearby, birds sitting on ledges pecked at discarded food. Below, water waited. No one came looking for me. I desperately wanted them to. The idea of my mother’s voice calling my name – any of my names – now seemed wonderful. Seeing her, I would be sorry for all my behaviour. I’d be a good girl and go quietly on the boat trip and call Celine her proper name. I would be all my mother wanted me to be and she might call me beautiful and I might fall in love with her again.
But no one came. Hunger began to gnaw at my insides. Thirst dried my lips. I needed a wee. I thought of being safe, in Dad’s study. I thought of running on the beach every morning. But that just made this the loneliest place in the world.
And then I heard them, far away at first; Graham calling my name. Then Stephen’s voice. And then my mother. She used my full name. Catherine-Maria. No one had called me it in forever. It floated down the cliff: ‘Catherine-Maria…?’ She must have missed me.
‘Catherine-Maria…?’
‘Here!’ I shrieked, and my voice was a dry croak. ‘Here!’
Their faces peered over the top like puppets above a box. Graham. Mother. Then, just as I had hours ago, he climbed down. I feared for him. He was heavy. Twigs might snap, sending him crashing and smashing to the bottom. How terrible I would feel then. I began to cry.
In no time Graham was at my side.
‘The view is great from here,’ he joked.
But I couldn’t stop crying.
‘I don’t want you to die,’ I sobbed.
‘No one’s going to die,’ he said gently. ‘Now, you’re going to slowly climb up ahead of me. I’ll be just here. Right behind.’
So we climbed. It was easier than I’d imagined. Just being with Graham gave me confidence. At the top Stephen helped pull me over the edge. Now I could joke, as Graham had. Now it all seemed so silly – my hanging there, my fears.
‘Bet I had you all worried,’ I said.
Mother marched over; her face was wet. I thought she might hug me. Maybe kiss me.
But she slapped my face. Twice. I recoiled.
‘Worried?!’ she cried. ‘You stupid, selfish, horrible girl. You’re always thinking of yourself. Always going off and causing trouble. Why can’t you be more like Celine? Why can’t you just be … be … pleasant. I never should have taken you on. God, if I’d known!’
Graham put an arm around her, tried to interrupt, but she shrugged him off.
‘Believe me I’ve thought about that,’ she said. ‘Many times. Thought how lucky you are I stood in for your real mother – and this is my reward!’
She turned and ran off down the path, her words floating in her wake. She had resented being the standin for my mum. All this time.
Graham touched my cheek, said she’d just been frightened and was in shock. She didn’t mean any of it. But he hadn’t heard the truth. My real name; her real feelings.
I looked down at the silvery treasure. Someone else would claim it. Today was not my day of bravery or reward. Today was a day of truth.
My mother never told me I was beautiful but she did tell me she regretted standing in for my real mum.
I no longer tried – to be beautiful, or to be a worthy daughter.
13
All birthdays are not equal
‘Look at this one, Catherine; you’re about twelve. Until then I really thought you might turn out to be a late bloomer, but it never happened.’ Mother held up a photo of me perched on the edge of a boat, skinny legs dangling in the water and too many ribs sticking out between the top and bottom of a lilac polka-dot bikini.
Of course, I remembered this picture being taken: the Devon holiday. After the clifftop slap, we had still gone on the boat trip, drifting past pretty banks and lush meadows, Celine pointing out certain flowers. I’d not spoken all day. And neither my mother nor I ever mentioned the cliff adventure again. To this day, I don’t know if my mother remembered her cruel words to me.
‘Christ on a bike, I look like a piece of string,’ I said.
‘Why would Christ be on a bike?’ My mother put the picture back in the shoebox with the others and rummaged for another.
‘The question is why would I want to look at old photos on my birthday? I’m not ninety-eight and dying of cancer.’
‘Catherine, it’s thoughtful of Aunty Mary to bring them for us.’
‘I was having a big clear-out,’ said my aunt, as if it justified the collection of faded memories I had to endure. She rifled through the snaps with fat hands.
Mary was Dad’s only sister, and I’d always called her Aunty Hairy because she had a black moustache and chin stubble; as a child I hated having to kiss her when she visited. But I never said it to her face; at least, not after I’d been sent to bed for saying it once during tea.
‘Martin said I have too much stuff,’ she sighed. ‘So I filled ten boxes with clothes and books and souvenirs, gave them to Help the Aged up the street.’
‘Graham, look at this one!’ cried my mother. ‘Remember the feather hat? Goodness me, you did look a fool.’
‘I think I look rather debonair.’ He winked at me.
‘Where on earth did you get it?’ Aunty Hairy squinted at the image.
‘I won it for him,’ I said. ‘At that funfair on the seafront. Can we have some cake now? I’ve got a screaming headache.’
The box of photographs seemed to be taking precedence over the gifts and food on the table; forgotten and remembered images were spilling all over my birthday treats. As promised, my mother had made a cake. It was perfect – square, white, a single candle and blue lettering that said ‘Happy Birthday’. No name, no fuss. I wished the day were as simple.
‘I’ll get the matches,’ said my mother, but Graham offered his lighter.
‘I’m not ten,’ I said. ‘I don’t need you to sing. My head’s pounding. Can we just cut it so I can go home to bed?’
‘Up to no good last night?’ Aunty Hairy’s chuckle made her three chins wobble.
I picked at a sausage roll, wondering if eating it would make me feel better. Arranged with precision on Mother’s best cloth were two plates of egg-mayonnaise sandwiches, a ham quiche, seafood sticks, a bowl of salad and various dressings. The smell was dreadful.
‘She was with Fern last night.’ Mother put paper napkins on each plate. ‘You know – that raucous thing with red hair who writes that disgusting column? I bet Catherine was with this mysterious man she doesn’t deem fit to bring home to meet us.’
‘There is no man,’ I snapped.
Mother lit the candle with Graham’s lighter and the flame flickered like a woman swaying in a fiery dress. Robin’s confused expression came back to me in a crimson flash, and I tried not to think of the word. I would not think of him whispering it while stroking my nipple.
I shoved a whole sausage roll in my mouth.
‘So what’s that about you and a new man in her column, then?’ demanded my mother.
‘Just her idea of fun.’
‘Lying is not fun. Isn’t it enough that she makes a mockery of the sacred institute that is marriage?’
I rubbed my aching head.
‘You should’ve drunk a pint of water before bed,’ chided Graham.
‘Let’s sing.’ Aunty Hairy kissed my cheek, tickling it with her stubble. ‘Come on, sing to the lovely Catherine. “Happy birthday to you / happy birthday to you…”’
I endured the half-hearted song, glad there were only four of us and that my mother sang in a hushed, deferential tone as though it were a hymn.
‘Make a wish,’ said my aunt.
‘Fuck, I don’t do wishes.’
‘Catherine, do we have to have fuck on your birthday?’ My mother’s hand floated ne
ar her throat, and I wondered if she wanted to strangle herself; I certainly did.
‘My birthday was yesterday.’
‘Just make a wish,’ she said. ‘It’ll make Aunty Mary happy.’
I closed my eyes, pretended to be wishing, and blew out the candle.
‘Didn’t work,’ I said. ‘You’re all still here.’
Graham laughed; my mother shook her head. She cut the square cake into even fingers. Aunty Hairy helped herself to sandwiches and sat at the table near the walnut cabinet. Graham piled a plate with food and joined her. I couldn’t decide if I felt better or worse for eating.
‘What about your gifts?’ said Mother.
I’d ignored the small pile at the end of the table. There would be no surprises. That said, I liked the predictability, this equality of birthdays. There’d be perfume I’d never wear from Mother, a high-street voucher from Aunty Hairy that I’d pass onto someone at Christmas, maybe something of interest from Graham. One parcel was wrapped in red foil, at odds with the rest. I felt the cool fabric of last night’s red dress on my heated skin and closed my eyes.
Fern had found it in the corner of the bathroom earlier. She’d held it up so the sun shone through the cocktail stains, highlighting the rip, and asked what the hell had happened to it. I’d buried my face in the pillow.
‘There was a fight in the club, it got yanked,’ I’d said.
‘Must have missed that. I was too busy fighting off some fool called Carl who thought four drinks entitled him to grope me near the fire exit. I’d only been talking to him for ten minutes!’
‘Sorry about the dress,’ I’d said. ‘I’ll sew it up.’
Making me feel even guiltier, she’d told me not to worry and asked how my night went. I told her I’d bumped into the builder from my house and regretted it immediately. She smiled and sat on my feet.
‘Did you two get it on, then?’ she’d asked.
‘No,’ I’d lied. ‘He was dull; I came home alone.’
