Baba Lenka

by S E England

“Don’t take on now, Eva. You just need a bit of straightening out. Your mother’s been far too slack with you, if you ask me.”

  Never before had I yearned for nighttime. Other people were another species. I didn’t belong and didn’t fit in. I wasn’t like them. I couldn’t even stand to hear them eating, to watch their mouths – hated the food, the smells, the noise. What was wrong with me?

  When she finally shut the bedroom door behind her, it was a blessed relief. Her footsteps thudded heavily down the stairs, and the familiar sighs and murmurs of bewilderment drifted up. After a while I moved over to the bed and lay down, staring up at the changing shapes on the ceiling. Their anger would pass. Soon they would turn on the television and watch a sitcom just like my parents did, and later Grandma Hart would come up and peep round the door.

  I prayed for sleep. Now that I’d accepted Baba Lenka’s request to tell her story, dreams no longer seemed daunting but an escape route – a different world awaited like the open pages of a fairy-tale book, complete with illustrations of castles and snow and forests and mountains. I couldn’t wait for the story to start, for this other me to begin the adventure that was Lenka’s. Think of it, I told myself, like watching Fiddler on the Roof at the picture palace. It would be exciting. It felt as if it might be…

  Only it wasn’t like going to the pictures at all. It was real. I slipped inside her skin and became her so completely, so perfectly, that it was less a dream sequence and more of a memory. I walked in her footsteps as if they were mine. I breathed the same air and had the same thoughts. Her heart bounced with a powerful joy that infected mine; her body danced, and her mind glittered like diamond dust. Her fingers tingled, and excitement skittered along her veins. It felt as if there were others around her, invisible yet mischievous beings, and as if anything she wanted could be achieved. She knew it, had been born with it, and intended to use it. Lenka was, in short, magical and wonderful, her life so very much more desirable than mine.

  As predicted, Gran did come back to check up. Plonking down a glass of water, she swished shut the thin flowery curtains, then kissed my forehead, her breath sour with cigarettes, milk and gravy. I had been falling, falling, falling down the rabbit hole to a sparkling world, about to blossom into beautiful Lenka, when she sat heavily on the side of my bed and shoved me gently on the arm. “Eva, love?”

  Please go…

  “Your grandad’s not best pleased, I ’ave to say, but we’ll bring ’im round between us, eh?”

  Please go…

  “Been a bit of a day, ’asn’t it? All right, I’ll let you sleep. See you in t’ morning. You’ll ’ave a boiled egg, won’t you?”

  Oh God… “Please could I just have toast?”

  Her shoulders sagged. “Aye, all right, love. We’ll do you some toast over t’ fire on a toasting fork. Have you ever had it like that? Nice, thick white bread with butter and treacle? I’ll get your appetite back. You leave it to me. Mind you, yer dad were never this fickle. Right greedy little sod, he were!”

  Eventually she left me in the darkness again. They always did. Only this time, it was not in terror but in thrilled anticipation of what was to come. The first page of Lenka’s storybook was opening, and I plunged back in. Sleep took a while to return, but when it did, a cold wind blew against my face. My heart clenched a little.

  Don’t be afraid…

  No, I won’t be…

  And then she was standing before me, more than a dream, so real – a voluptuous girl in a long red skirt and billowing white blouse. Around the waist she wore a deep-laced black corset. Flame hair framed a high-cheekboned face with slanted grey eyes. The face was bewitching, mesmerising and twinkling with mischief, but there was something odd about one of her eyes: one was fractionally different from the other – something I was homing in on, trying to work out what it was, when she raised one finger and beckoned.

  Come, Eva, let me show you…you must see die Heimat. Komm und sieh!

  I followed the call of the piper’s tune as eagerly as a Hamlyn rat. Destiny is destiny, after all, particularly if it’s ancient sorcery passed down through generations. No rites, no initiations, no studying or covens needed – the knowledge and power is for always and is hereditary. Of course, I had little concept of the kind of force we had aligned with. At the time it seemed like a magical world of make-believe, a Grimms’ fairy tale of spectacular colour and infinite fascination. This was my gift, and I was going to accept it.

  See, it was easy after all… So much suffering and all for nothing…

  Yes, yes, I see that…

  Ultimately, the full enlightenment was a process that took many years, but acceptance, as every skilled manipulator knows, is best instilled at the youngest possible age and done gradually, so silkily and surreptitiously that the victim is, in fact, a willing one. This particular point was to be underscored on many levels, as Lenka’s terrible story was drip-fed into my subconscious over the best part of a decade. Because of its enormity, the slow feed was crucial in terms of acquiescence, in order to avoid madness or suicide. Had it not been accepted by my growing mind, I realise now that I would not have been able to take the path chosen for me, cross so many bridges of disbelief, or wander so far into the unknown that there would be no way home again.

  And she did a good job; she really did. Because when the time came for the most horrific shock imaginable, I was exactly as she had said, primed and ready, and insanity did not come.

  ***

  Chapter Nine

  It took nine months for Eva Hart, the child, to fully reject mundane life.

  The tricky part at the time was managing those around me, protecting them from what was happening inside my mind, concealing what was secret, dangerous, and incredible. In effect I had to become an invisible ‘good child’ in order not to attract attention. She. Me. Strange, I know, but I think now of Eva as someone else, more of a vessel for what was incubating.

  Looking back, perhaps ordinary life was supposed to verge on intolerable – perhaps, well, almost certainly to push her ever further into the world of the occult. And it was intolerable. It was Earl, you see? Poor Eva. I see her now as she was, so alone, terror having almost killed her night after night, rejected by her parents, then ultimately forced to fit into the world of Earl and Maud Hart. Every word of Earl’s had to be listened to attentively, acknowledged and obeyed, and the painful pretence began at seven every morning with breakfast on the table, seven days a week.

  Everyone must have chores, said Earl, and Eva’s was to set the table for meals, help with potato peeling, and do the washing-up. She must also keep her room tidy and go to church on Sundays. If Earl Hart was speaking, then she did not interrupt, and if she didn’t clean her plate at mealtimes, then there would be nothing more. Anything left on the plate would be reheated and served again next day until she was hungry enough.

  On Saturday afternoons Earl and Maud watched the wrestling, both of them yelling and shaking balled fists at the set. Eva was to sit quietly and do a jigsaw or get on with the knitting Maud had set her. And on Sundays after church, Earl would go to the pub and Maud would put on a big Sunday dinner.

  “You peel them spuds, Eva, love,” she said that first Sunday. The day I found out who or what my grandad really was.

  It was all right doing that; I didn’t mind. The scullery was cold, and my fingers were numb, but I learned quickly, peeling and chopping while the rain pummelled the corrugated iron roof and Grandma Hart smoked and whisked up batter for the Yorkshire pudding. On the stove, carrots and cabbage simmered, steaming up the windows until they ran with condensation, and a joint of beef roasted in the oven.

  She seemed agitated, though, constantly watching the clock. And I wondered why.

  I never had to wonder again.

  At ‘chucking-out time’, which was two o’clock, Grandad Hart rolled in through the kitchen door, smashed it back with his elbow and stumbled in. His nose was purple with veins, eyes glassy and unfocused, and the stink o
f him fair sent you reeling. The smell was new to me, like a jar of pickled onions. He lurched from table to doorway and into the living room, knocked something over and swore loudly. “Why the fuck did yer put that there? Yer stupid cow! I’m hungry. Where’s the bloody dinner, woman?”

  Grandma Hart’s hands were shaking. Stubbing out her cigarette, she finished mashing the potatoes and quickly drained the cabbage. “Coming! Two minutes, love.”

  He banged the table with his fist, his voice thick and syrupy. “For fuck’s sake, what’s tha been bloody doing all bloody morning? Fannying about? Gossiping?”

  Hell, he was coming back to the kitchen.

  She’d been cooking ever since we’d returned from church. Why was she letting him speak to her like this? He seemed like a different man.

  “It’s nearly ready,” she trilled in a light, jovial tone belying the grim look on her face. “Go and sit down. I’m just serving up.” Then, turning to me, she hissed, “Hurry up, get them carrots on to t’ plates, Eva.”

  The scullery was as steamy as a chip shop. Frantically she stirred gravy with one hand while taking out of the oven the Yorkshire pudding she’d made with onions in a tin.

  “Cut him a slice of that and take it in. Hurry up.”

  I put the plate in front of him, and he wolfed it down.

  The atmosphere was charged like a bomb was about to go off. Gran served the lunch in silence, and then we tentatively joined him and sat down.

  “Where’s the bleedin’ salt? I’m looking for salt, woman! For crying out fucking loud!”

  She was the colour of cigarette ash, her great bulk shifting at speed to get the carton of salt.

  Noticing my wide eyes, she slightly shook her head. Don’t say a word!

  It wasn’t until after he had eaten, though, just before dessert was served, that he finally spoke to her properly. “Right bloody kickoff in t’ pub this lunchtime, Maud.”

  She was clearing the plates away. “Oh, aye?”

  On mine she had only put a small piece of beef and a tiny spoonful of mash with two carrot pieces. No gravy. She glanced at the lump of gristle I’d cut away and pushed to one side, pursing her lips, before immediately checking whether Grandad had noticed. Hopefully, she’d slip it into the bin and he wouldn’t force me to chew and swallow it.

  The purple veins on his nose were darkening to maroon. A rant was coming. “It were Bobby Waller who started it – telling us who’ve worked down t’ pit for twenty year we should accept what’s on t’ table.”

  “You mean, for t’ redundancy package?”

  “Course I flaming do. What the hell did you think I meant?”

  “Sorry, love, I—”

  He banged his fist on the table so hard the crockery juddered. “I won’t bloody ’ave it. I will not have that bloody upstart telling me, Earl Hart, what to accept and what not to accept, do you bloody ’ear me?”

  “I should think not. I hope you told him—”

  The conversation rapidly moved on to one I did not understand, but it seemed to revolve around pits being closed due to not being profitable and people being cast aside onto the poverty heap without getting paid properly. And I don’t know why I said it. I don’t. I should have kept quiet.

  But out it popped anyway, in a sing-song know-it-all voice, during a lull. “Well, sometimes it’s best to go along with things to keep the peace.”

  I don’t know where I’d heard that line before. Maybe it was from my dad. In fact, I’m sure it was something he used to say when my mother lost her temper.

  But the hands of time stopped. The bomb had been detonated.

  Both my grandparents turned to stare with open mouths.

  A good minute seemed to pass before Grandma Hart’s head swivelled oh so slowly on its stem, in the direction of Grandad Hart. Who was standing up. His fists were clenched on the table. His chair fell back with a thud.

  What happened next was fast as a hurricane. He lunged forwards, picked me up by the elbow, and cracked me hard across the face. I don’t recall the words. Only the blast of stars as his iron fist smashed into my eight-year-old skull like a wrecking ball.

  ***

  Chapter Ten

  The incident was never acknowledged or referred to. It didn’t happen.

  Earl Hart simply retrieved his chair, sat down again, and began to eat steamed jam pudding with custard. Globs of gloopy yellow clung to his stubbly chin as methodically he chewed and swallowed. And afterwards, he poured tea from his cup into a saucer and noisily slurped it down.

  One of them must have lifted me onto the sofa, because I woke to the sound of Gardener’s World. Tears burned my eyes, the left one so swollen that the sight was temporarily lost. The salty taste of blood trickled down my throat, along with the sensation my head was enlarging on one side, the pressure causing a dull, sickly ache.

  “You mustn’t speak to him when he gets like that, love,” said Grandma Hart when she tucked me up later. “It’s only when he’s been to t’ pub. He’s all right most o’ t’ time.”

  How was it possible to survive this? When would Mum and Dad come back? How could they have left me here? How could they? Did they know what my grandad was like when he’d been to the pub?

  Choking back the sobs, the pillow wet with tears, Lenka’s glittering world pulled me down once more, and willingly I dropped into it, longing for the story to resume. If this was madness, it was preferable to reality. And perhaps insanity would have won out had life continued like that with Earl and Maud, but have you ever noticed how something or someone turns up during the darkest of days? That even during the unhappiest of times, there is a chink of light – just enough to keep you going? Perhaps there is a God? That would depend on who orchestrates the whole, and what do we know?

  For me, anyway, that someone was Nicky. She got me through.

  Nicky Dixon was the girl who lived next door but one. The same age as me, she was walking up the street with a satchel slung over her shoulder when I first spied her. Her head was down, shoulders stooped.

  I was kneeling on the storage chest in the hall, watching the kids walk home from school.

  “She looks sad,” I said.

  “The dark girl? The others call her names; I’ve heard them,” said Grandma Hart.

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s different, I suppose. You know what kids are like.”

  “Yeah, but why? It’s mean.”

  She stroked my hair, one of the few soft gestures she ever made. “I don’t rightly know, love. It’s just how it is wi’ kids. They can be ’orrible sometimes.”

  As she spoke, Nicky Dixon looked up and saw me. I suppose she must have spotted the ghost girl in the landing window a few times and wondered who she was. I thought she’d glare angrily or hurry away… But she didn’t. The little girl with the ripped blazer and the cut lip raised her hand and waved. And, like a sunbeam striking with iridescence the spray above a waterfall, smiled.

  That smile brought with it an explosion of complex emotion – feelings without words, a timeless moment.

  We know each other.

  I lifted my hand, and her smile widened to one of joy.

  “Can I go out and say hello?”

  “Aye, go on, then, but mind you don’t go further than Mrs Dixon’s. I want you back here at five sharp for tea! It’s oxtail tonight.”

  Nicky stood waiting on the street corner. “Don’t you go to school, then?” she asked as I approached.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, it’s not for long.”

  “I’m Nicky. Do you want to come and play at our house?”

  “Yes, please. I’m Eva Hart.”

  “Aye, I know. You’re the one that stabbed Maxine Street, aren’t you? They say you’re a Nazi and possessed by the devil.”

  “I’m not a Nazi; I were born ’ere like you. Anyhow, what happened to you? Your lip’s bleeding.”

  She swiped away the blood. “It happens all t’ tim
e. You get used to it.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t get used to it.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” she said as we walked to her house. “If I say I’m with Earl Hart’s granddaughter, they won’t dare touch me.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment to have a grandad known as the local hard case or to be thought of as possessed by the devil; all I knew was that I loved her instantly.

  “What shall we play?”

  Nicky had another go at licking her fingers and wiping away traces of blood before she opened the back door and we went inside her house. “Me mum’s gonna kill me with this ripped blazer.”

  “It weren’t your fault.”

  “Aye, I know, but you don’t know me mum.”

  Her mother’s anger was all show, though. She had a laugh inside her that was always bursting to come out, even as she shrieked at the sight of another ruined school blazer. She’d had her back to us when we walked into the kitchen, busy cooking. The whole house was filled with the aroma of exotic spices, several pans bubbling on the hob with chicken and sauces and what looked like green bananas.

  She caught me staring.

  “Mum, this is my new friend. She’s the one that stabbed Maxine Street!”

  Mrs Dixon threw back her head and laughed a great belly laugh. “Well, what an introduction. Are you staying for tea, love?”

  God, how I wanted to. “What is it?”

  Mrs Dixon laughed again. “Oh, so it all depends on what’s cooking, does it?” She looked me up and down. “Who’s your little friend, Nicky? She’s got no meat on ’er.”

  “Eva. She’s Earl Hart’s granddaughter, the one that—”

  “That’s enough talk, Nicky.” She bent down so her warm brown eyes were level with mine. “What’s your name, sweet thing?”

  “Eva Hart.”

  “And you don’t go to school, that right?”

  I nodded. “I’ve been poorly.”

  “Well, Eva, we’re having chicken and plantain in Cajun sauce. I’ll ask Maud if you can stay and eat with us. It’s nice for you two girls to have a friend each, Lord knows.”