‘Careful. You don’t want to flood the engine.’
He remained silent as he slowly started to count to fifty.
*
‘Mum, no one else wears pigtails in my class.’
‘If everyone in your class jumped off a cliff, would you follow?’ Alma continued to stitch the starched ribbons with their perfect bows onto Catherine’s hair.
‘No, Mummy.’
‘Exactly.’ Alma snipped off the thread. ‘There, that will survive gym class. Now, let’s check your bag.’
Catherine opened up her school bag, which had been her Christmas present. It was gleaming soft tan leather with her initials in gold, under the lock. Alma had painted over the brass lock in clear nail varnish to ensure that her clumsy daughter didn’t scratch the plate with the key. The books and tools of school were laid out neatly, every text book and jotter double lined in brown wrapping paper. Alma had been shocked when the nuns had started to allow wrapping in coloured wrapping paper, and the subsequent competition that had then begun, to see who had the most stylish covers had irritated her no end.
‘I’m not spending money on fancy wrapping paper! Your father works hard enough as it is, it’s not fair to him. You shouldn’t pester him so... it’ll be the death of him!’
Catherine had sighed as she put away the bright red paper her dad had brought home for her, and rewrapped her maths book with the brown paper wrapping. Dad, hiding behind his newspaper, had grumped and rustled the pages.
‘Don’t you have something better to do?’ Alma’s tone had pierced through the newsprint. Dad had got up and gone to his shed, taking his paper with him.
‘Not that he ever does anything useful down there...’
Catherine had watched her father walk down the path with a queer sense of pain in her heart. She wasn’t allowed in the shed...it wasn’t suitable for a young girl to see all that rubbish and clutter lying around. The door had banged shut and Catherine had known he would switch on Radio 4 and light up. He wasn’t allowed to smoke in the house, it was smelly and unhygienic: her mother hated that he’d started to smoke.
‘...did you hear what I said?’
Catherine dragged her attention back to her mother, who had finished counting off the books and checking the homework schedule.
‘How you manage to pay attention in class, I do not know!’
Catherine knew. Anything was better than the leather belt the nuns used, and the shame of being made to kneel in front of the blackboard, your knees aching from the hard wood as you were made to recite ten Holy Marys and ask for forgiveness. Catherine had only been subjected to the kneeling once: once was enough. Not like poor Theresa Reddy, whose hair always came loose, who dropped things and who was never quite sure of what she should be doing. Teresa had patches in her blazer as it was a hand me down, and her shoes were scuffed. Mum tutted every time she saw Theresa and said that the school standards had dropped. Teresa’s father was the school caretaker and Alma was furious that he got a reduction on the fees. Theresa spent so much time on her knees in front of the blackboard, her back to the class, that the others teased her she was going to be a nun.
Catherine had never wanted that said to her, and so she had never, ever, missed the teacher speaking to her again. Her mother continued to prattle as they went through the pre-school ritual.
‘And I want to see an improvement in your spelling today. Sister Mary Gabriel said you got one wrong yesterday.’
Catherine blushed. ‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Don’t take that insolent tone with me.’ Alma pulled up Catherine’s chin so they were looking into each other’s eyes.
‘I only push you as I want the best for you, sweetheart.’ Alma’s eyes misted over, her voice wavered. ‘I just want the best for you, darling. I want you to have everything I never had. I want you to shine.’ A tear dripped out of the corner of Alma’s eye. Catherine’s eyes misted over.
‘Oh please, Mummy, don’t cry! I’ll get all my spelling right, I promise.’
‘That’s a good girl.’ Alma took a handkerchief out of her cardigan pocket, wiping first her own eyes, then Catherine’s.
‘I know you’re a good girl at heart, you just need to learn to listen.’ Alma smiled brightly. ‘Now, look at your lunch!’
Catherine looked at the little Tupperware box.
‘What is it, Mummy?’
‘Look and see! I’ve worked extra hard!’
Catherine swallowed the sigh. Alma had taught Catherine to swallow sighs well.
She clicked open the box. Inside were three little boxes. She put the big box down on the hall table. The first little box contained a sliced apple.
‘I’ve dipped them in lemon juice to keep them from growing brown. And lemon dissolves fat!’
Catherine smiled, swallowing hard.
The second box contained some cottage cheese with green bits on it.
‘That’s dill. It helps the digestion!’
Catherine smiled and swallowed again.
The third box contained grated carrots with brown lumps.
‘That’s the big surprise. I know the recipe said to use currants but dried fruit like that is just a parcel of sugar. So those are little lumps of prune, to help keep you regular.’
Catherine looked at her Mummy and smiled.
‘Thank you so much.’
Alma beamed at her.
‘That’s okay, darling. Anything for you, to keep you healthy and happy. We can’t have you getting any fatter, can we..?’
Catherine carefully packed her bag and put her water bottle in the pocket of her school overcoat.
Alma fussed them into the car and drove them off to the school gates. They were in Daddy’s big car, as Mum had said he could only smoke in the little second-hand one. No point in smoking out a new car: it just lost more value.
As Alma watched Catherine disappear into the school gate she spoke out loud into the empty car.
‘Try and swap any of that for the crap the other girls have!’
*
‘Why can’t we go and visit Daddy’s grave, Mummy?’
‘It makes you too upset. You cry, and it’s pointless.’
‘But Mum, I’d like....’
‘THAT IS ENOUGH. Do you not think I work my fingers to the bone for you as it is? It’s costing a fortune to keep you in that school and I’ve had enough of this. A grateful daughter would be making her mother a cup of tea now, not screeching on about how UNFAIR LIFE IS. LIFE IS UNFAIR, CATHERINE, how many times have I told you about that? It’s not as if...’
Catherine sat very still. If she could just make herself as small and still as possible, whilst still looking attentive...
‘And don’t you dare give me that look! Don’t you DARE look at me like that! What have I ever done to deserve your cheek, and your stubbornness? No wonder you put your father in his grave...without pestering him there as well!’
Catherine sent herself to her room where she swallowed it all down with the chocolate she’d stolen from the local shop.
*
‘I just don’t see how you can do it. I just don’t know how you can get through the day, knowing you look like this.’
Catherine was laid out on her mother’s lap. A cushion from the couch was on her mother’s lap and Catherine’s head was on the cushion. They’d already done the left hand side of her face, and thus they’d moved the end of the couch they were on, so the right side of Catherine’s face could be presented to her mother, whilst she, Catherine, kept her attention glued to Top of the Pops on the television in the far corner. Alma had laid out her instruments on a cushion beside her: a needle kit, tweezers, a match for sterilising and cotton balls.
Catherine was trying to listen to David Cassidy as her mother dug into her ears.
‘How you do not know how dirty you are, is beyond me... it’s not like I don’t make you wash...’
The needle was being pricked into her ear. Catherine flinched.
‘I’ve told you n
ot to move. I don’t want to make a red mark. I never make a red mark.’
Catherine remained still.
Alma’s nails dug into the skin on the inside of Catherine’s ears.
‘Oh my god! LOOK AT IT. It’s huge!’
Alma continued to press down.
‘Oh, and the smell...’
Alma made as if to gag.
Catherine kept staring at David Cassidy’s face, although she’d lost the ability to hear the words. His mouth kept moving, his eyes kept shining, and his hair kept gleaming. Catherine filled in the words under her breath.
‘Look at it.’ Alma’s voice had dipped low, to concern and care, as she leaned her hand over into Catherine’s vision.
On Alma’s impeccable nail, in a long squirm of worm, was the blackhead that had been squeezed out of Catherine’s inner ear. It was thick and whitish.
‘Just look at THAT!’
Alma had used the needle to zero in on the round black plug at the end of the string of sebum.
‘Look at that dirt. That’s what people can see when they stand next to you. How can you bear it? You might not be able to see into your ears, but other people can. What will they think of me, you being out in this sort of state?’
Catherine apologised for her failings. Alma bit her tongue and continued the attack on Catherine’s face, moving to her nose and forehead.
What was the point? The child never listened. Had no pride. She was just wasting her breath. She dug the needle back in to the annoying pore at the end of Catherine’s nose that would not close, no matter what she painted on it. Catherine closed her eyes and counted to twenty.
*
‘I’m so happy you could come this evening, it’s been such a relief to talk to fellow grown-ups. More wine...?’
Monica giggled as Alma filled up her glass. George offered his glass up.
‘And how is the practice going, George? Settling in?’
‘Oh yes, very well. They’re a good bunch, I was lucky to get the partnership.’ George quaffed the wine. ‘How’s that delightful young girl of yours?’
Alma’s face fell a little. Monica looked over in concern.
‘I’m so glad you asked. It’s been difficult...’ Alma’s voice wavered, and a tear slid out of her eye. Monica leaned over and patted her on the shoulder whilst George concentrated on his wine glass.
His retreat was firmly halted, as Alma launched at him.
‘I did want to speak to you, George, if you could speak to her... as you are a doctor..?’
George stared, a little open mouthed, Monica pincered in.
‘I did say to you, George, how worried Alma is...?’
George stared at his joint doom and nodded, trying to move sideways again.
‘It’s just that as I told you, Monica dearest, if Alma is that worried, she should see her own GP and have Catherine referred to a dietician... I can’t...’
Alma looked as if she was going to burst into tears but was containing it, just. Monica launched full frontal.
‘Oh think of the shame, George! Everyone would know about it. It would be the gossip of the school! Alma doesn’t deserve that, especially since she’s sacrificed so much for Catherine.’
Alma made another effort to contain her crying. A single tear slid from her left eye. George watched her dab at it with her napkin.
‘Oh very well, I’ll have a word with her, if you like.’
‘Oh thank you, George, I’m so grateful. Brandy?’
George drank two down in quick succession. How to get out of this...
The nightmare unfolded with meticulous planning. They retired to the living room to find a set of scales had already been placed out. George tried to settle on the arm chair, had a chair even been made more uncomfortable? Alma filled up his brandy glass as she settled into her own chair. Monica sat beside her, hugging her Baileys Irish Cream. George felt he might suffocate.
In front of her Alma held a chart.
‘I only asked you tonight as she had been doing quite well. She lost two pounds the week before last and three the week before that…’ her light and hopeful tones had slowed, and dropped to a pained whisper ‘but only one pound last week.’ Alma looked at George as as if she were a half drowned kitten and he the rescue services . ‘I felt a little encouragement from you would help so much. Keep her on the right track.’
George swallowed down the brandy, not tasting it. Jesus, he needed to get out of here.
Catherine, who had been called to attend downstairs as they’d settled into the living room, came in.
George’s heart leaped. She was such a timid little thing. She’d been and had her bath whilst they’d eaten, and was wrapped up in her winceyette pyjamas and dressing gown. Her eyes stared at him as she realised the room held others. She was the same age as their Timothy; and a chubbier, more unnoticeable thirteen year old could not be found. George had always felt, however, that she would be the beauty of the family once she’d stretched. Her fine skin and clear eyes were perfect, her cheeks had a sharp slant, and there was a length of bone waiting to blossom out of her in good time. Under the layer of puppy fat an elegant and graceful young woman was waiting to emerge. George felt his ears flush. How had he got roped into this?
‘Catherine, dearest, Monica and George have asked to be able to support you in our... little struggle...’
Catherine looked at her mother the way a mouse might look at an owl. George swallowed down the brandy, finishing the glass.
He wasn’t sure who was more miserable, himself, or the ghastly, fated, Catherine. Alma, her clip board and her chart in hand, had instructed the teenager to stand on the scales. Catherine looked frozen, her hands on the belt of her dressing gown. Alma observed the panic and tut-tutted it.
‘Catherine dear, you know George is a doctor! And it’s not as if Monica hasn’t changed your nappy once or twice. Don’t be so dramatic, you’ve not got anything we’ve not seen before.’
Monica giggled. George heard the note of hysteria. Oh lord, let this be over.
‘Don’t make her take her gown off if she doesn’t want to, Alma.’ There, he’d found his voice.’
‘Don’t be silly, George. She has to wear the same clothes every time. She knows that.’ Towards George, Alma’s voice was warm and comforting. It sharpened and thinned, when addressed to Catherine. ‘Take off your dressing gown and get on the scales.’
George watched, aghast, as the child fumbled and blushed and then went white. She dropped the gown on the floor and stood on the scales. She was lumpier, and redder, under the gown. She looked at the floor and crossed her arms in front of herself.
‘Eyes up and arms down, Catherine.’
Catherine did what she was told, automatically. George saw the flame blaze across her cheeks. His own gaze dropped to his shoes.
Monica giggled.
Alma stood up and went over to the scales. ‘Well that’s....’ her voice stopped. Georges felt his heart racing and his pulse skip a beat.
‘You’ve put on THREE pounds!’
What George remembered most about what followed, was how powerless he had felt. It niggled him for years that he should have spoken up, or at the very least, walked out. But somehow, in the face of Alma’s shouting, and pleading with him and Monica to get through to the child, what he’d actually done was agree that putting on weight was very dangerous, that it put a strain on the heart and yes, her mother was right, no decent man would look at her whilst she was fat.
His patients gained from the horror of what he took part in that night. He always treated a woman complaining about weight, either for themselves, or their child or husband, extremely sympathetically. However, he could never forgive himself for the tirade that had been opened up on that poor child’s head, and how he’d sat back and watched her shake.
For Catherine’s part the night was branded into her soul. She lay in bed and wept silent tears. At no point had she felt able to mention to her mother, remind her mother, that her pe
riod had started that morning, and she was ‘allowed’ the benefit of water retention on those days. Alma had hoped that there wouldn’t be a little spike in that week, just no actual weight lost... which is what Catherine fervently wished for when she was being weighed whilst bleeding. She’d been too horrified at having to take off her dressing gown in front of everyone. Terrified the bulge of her sanitary towel would be seen through her pyjamas. The thought of speaking up and asking for the circumstances to be taken into account... for saying anything that might have caused her mother to refer to what was going on in her body in front of the others, the man...
That night she bled heavily into the sheets. Faced with her ruin in the morning, she balled up the mess and pushed the sheets under her bed. She remade the bed with clean sheets.
It was four months before Alma found the sheets. Catherine was having a sleep over with Clare and Emily, and Alma decided to clean out the bedroom, see what secrets were being hidden. She found the balled up sheets, surrounded by empty chocolate and sweet wrappers. She burned the sheets and cleaned out the entire bedroom of its shameful treasures.
Nothing was said but sweet wrappers and chocolate crumbs were never found in the room again.
*
‘But Mum, I don’t like him.’
Alma sighed, long and deep.
‘I know you are jealous of him. I know you like having me all to yourself. It’s natural to be unsure of a new... father.’
‘He is not my father!’ Catherine could not swallow that down.
‘He is my husband, and you will respect him.’
Catherine’s head dropped down, she stared at her shoes. Alma felt the defiance radiate out in waves. She decided ‘softly softly’ was the better option here.
‘Catherine, darling.’ Her hand reached out and lifted up her daughter’s chin, pulling her into contact with her. Alma’s eyes swam with unshed tears, her voice trembled in longing and hurt.
Fragments Page 5
