by Emmy Ellis
Standing from the grubby sofa, she teetered for a second in her high heels then righted herself. “Well, go on. Don’t just stand there. Get in the bath while I have me medicine.”
I turned from her and left the room, slinking upstairs.
“And don’t forget to put that dress on!” she screeched. “Didn’t stand there ironing it for nothing. You crease it, and your arse is dust.”
“Okay,” I said.
Our bathroom—what can I say? One bar of shitty white soap, the surface marred with ravines from lack of use. No bubble bath, and only one bottle of shampoo. Thoughts of Belinda’s bathroom filled my mind, and I frowned, trying to comprehend why our homes were so different. Too young to understand, see. Too small to realise the real reason for the differences.
We didn’t have any family that visited, or anyone we went to see. All I knew was our small, shabby little house and everything that went on in it. Why would I query my life pre-Belinda when I had nothing to compare it to? Fuck, I watched TV, but to me, those people weren’t real. Mam said they were all actors and nobody really lived like that. Mam said people who worked in shops and offices weren’t our kind. We should mix with our own. But who were our own? Were they Bob and Pete and Frank and…?
A grey ring circled the inside of our bath. I had to fill the bath to the ring and not go past it. Usually, the water sloshed above the ring with my weight once I got in, and if I managed to stay in there long enough, the ring got soggy and I smudged it. If I tried really hard and used my fingernails, I scraped letters of the alphabet into the ring to pass the time and pretended I was a teacher writing on a blackboard. The whole class would listen to me, find what I had to say interesting. I remember thinking I might try to be a teacher when I grew up.
Mam’d had a bath before me, her water still there, so I undressed and climbed in. The ring had been soaking for some time, so I eased back in the dirty water and, using the handle of Mam’s Bic razor, I scraped out letters. It must have taken some time—the bath water got cold—and Mam shouted, “Get the fuck out of that bath, Carmel. Now.”
I hastily washed with the odourless soap and rinsed my body. Pulling the plug out and wrapping the chain around the tap as many times as I could—I had a thing about doing that—I stepped out of the bath. Mam had used the only towel we owned. Its cold dampness and the sharp chill in the room slapped my skin, and I took a quick intake of breath. Dry. Must get dry.
Before leaving the bathroom to run into Mam’s room and put on my dress, I turned to look at my handiwork on the bath ring.
QUEEN DOLLY.
* * * *
“Carmel! My favourite little girl.” Bob swept me into a hug.
I lit up inside. Only on Thursdays, though. Any other night he came round, unease settled in my gut, and I never understood why. His demeanour seemed different on Thursdays. He looked at me kindly, spoke to me nicely. Every other evening I was plain Carmel, the kid who had to get out of the house and out of the way for an hour or two.
We stood in the middle of the living room. The rough brown carpet grazed the soles of my feet. I hung my head while he hugged me. Grit and dirt nestled between my toes, and I remember thinking: I must make sure they’re clean before any pictures are taken. Mam had smacked the living daylights out of me that time when the pictures had showed a smudge of jam on my cheek.
Bob held a bag. He drew away from me. “Carmel. I’ve got something for you. I think you’re good enough now to wear a new, different outfit, don’t you?”
A new outfit? But I loved my pretty dress.
“Answer him, Carmel,” Mam said. “You’re a damn rude kid.”
Mam’s medicine obviously hadn’t worked yet, or she hadn’t had time to take it. Or maybe she hadn’t taken enough. She got like that sometimes, where her body must have screamed, “More H. Give me more H, Annette.” It would depend how many Harrys or Freds had been to the house—they determined Mam’s medicine and her mood. And my treatment.
“I’ll love the new outfit, Bob,” I said.
Bob stared at me, his eyes glassy—like the dolls’ eyes at Belinda’s. “Yes,” he finally said. “It’ll look good in the pictures.” He held the bag out to me. “Get it out, then. Take a look.”
He smiled.
I smiled.
I sat on the edge of the couch and opened the bag. Material wasn’t in it. Well, not the material of another pretty dress, anyway. My first close-up glimpse of leather. And silver chains, the links larger than any necklace I’d seen. I reached into the bag, grasped the outfit, and pulled it out.
Mam barked out a brittle laugh. “I thought you were joking when you said you’d be buying that, Bob. Fucking hell, you’re priceless. How did you get one to fit a kid?”
Straps. Straps linked with silver chains.
Ugly.
I didn’t want to wear it.
“Someone made it for me. Get extra money for these kinds of pictures, Annette.”
“Good,” she said. “I want to make the rest of this place nice like the back room.”
“Take her out the back and show her how to put it on. I’ll get the camera from the car.” Bob left the living room.
I couldn’t shift my gaze from the outfit.
“What are you standing there like that for, Carmel? You heard him. Out the back with you. I’ll help you put on your new clothes.”
Mam laughed again, a spiteful sound that jarred my nerves.
* * * *
The back room was posh, or so Mam said, and I’d believed that until I’d gone to Belinda’s house. Posh to Mam obviously wasn’t the same as reality. Red, painted walls. Black silk curtains that matched the sheets. I know now that that room was gaudy and trashy and all the things people associate with prostitutes. A red fluffy carpet covered the floor—no dirt there.
“Get out of that dress, Carmel, and hurry up about it. Bob hasn’t got much time tonight—gotta be somewhere else by nine.”
I took off my dress, put it on the bed, and stood naked.
“Right. Let’s have a look at this thing.” Mam held the outfit in front of her, turning it this way and that, obviously trying to work out which way up it went. To me it looked like a web of dog leashes. “Ah, here we go. Come over here.”
I took the few steps needed to reach Mam, and she bent to my level, still holding up the leather. “Put both your feet inside these loops.”
The cold chains moved up my legs, and I shivered. Two more loops for my arms, a rough twist of my body from Mam so I faced away from her, and the metal’s jangle told me she’d secured the outfit.
“Turn round and face me, kid.”
Bob came into the room at that moment, stopping in the doorway to stare at me. I used to think of Mam and Bob and all the other men as old when I was small, but now I know they were in their twenties at this point in my life. Still young themselves, perhaps they didn’t realise the wrongs they committed. Or maybe they didn’t care.
Bob wasn’t a good-looking man. Made me wonder if that’s why he came round to our house—no other female would give him a second glance. His cheeks, pitted with scars, possibly from chickenpox, gave him a ruddy complexion. He reminded me of a burns victim. And his nose…how was it possible to have one so big and hooked? I used to wonder if it was a fake one stuck on with glue, but I pulled it once and it didn’t come off. A bird of prey, that’s what he was. His dark hair—always greasy—hung long and lank about his shoulders. Sometimes he wore it in a low ponytail, and I’d think he looked like a girl. I remember he wore a tan suede jacket, the pockets fat and filled with Mam’s medicine and all manner of things to do with it.
He smiled, one I didn’t like, and said, “Well, my favourite little girl. You look so pretty.”
I didn’t feel pretty. I smiled anyway.
“Looks better than we thought she would, eh, Bob? Think of the fucking money.” Mam’s laugh—she laughed a lot that night—made me want to cry.
“Best get down to business then.” Bob fli
pped his dark fringe off his forehead.
At his words, I moved to get on the bed, the chains a melody of sound as I walked.
“No. Not on the bed tonight, Carmel.”
* * * *
That Thursday night it took a long time for me to get to sleep. I licked my sore lips to soothe them.
My new outfit hadn’t made me feel special—not like the pretty dress had. I didn’t mind having my photos taken and Bob hugging me if I wore that dress, but that new outfit—no, I didn’t feel special anymore. Didn’t feel loved.
Didn’t feel anything.
Afterwards, alone in the back room, I walked to the full-length mirror to see exactly how I could be so pretty in such a thing. I decided I didn’t look very nice at all, but if it meant Mam could earn enough money to make the rest of the house posh like Belinda’s then I’d wear the outfit again and again.
I scrutinised my features. I owned hair and eyes and a mouth, everything Belinda had. Apart from my raggedy clothes and shoes, my tangled hair, to a stranger, I could possibly have resembled any other kid, one of a crowd. But as an adult now and seeing the same kinds of kids running riot in the street—I don’t think so. People must have known I wasn’t cared for properly.
And no one did a thing about it.
At school the next day, Belinda said, “Will you be allowed at my house again after school? I reckon my mam will say yes, and we can play queens again. Or if you don’t want to play queens we can do jigsaws and stuff.”
Friday. Mam would treat herself to extra medicine. She wouldn’t even notice I wasn’t there. “Yes. I can come to your house.”
I would be Queen Dolly and wash myself with the pretty soap when I visited the bathroom. I thought I might even cop a spray from one of the perfumes on the windowsill. If I got really brave, I could shit my knickers. Maybe I’d get a bath then.
Smell clean. I just wanted to smell clean.
CHAPTER FOUR
Like Mam, Belinda’s dad always seemed angry. Deep ravines lined his forehead even if he wasn’t pissed off. I didn’t like it when he came home from work. Belinda’s mam changed upon his arrival. She didn’t smile much, and a frown wrecked her brow too. My tummy always tightened at the sound of his key in the lock, and I awaited the change in atmosphere. Belinda didn’t seem to notice and carried on as usual.
This one day we sat in the living room. He walked in and slapped his briefcase down so hard on the coffee table that I jumped. My heart thudded, and I really thought he was angry because I was there. Belinda and I had been making jigsaws at the little table, and the pieces bounced in the air and scattered on the carpet.
“Aw, Dad.” Belinda sighed and picked up the pieces.
I followed suit.
Belinda’s dad left the room, the acrid smell of his aftershave lingering in his wake. Murmured conversation filtered through from the kitchen, but I couldn’t make out what they said.
Belinda interrupted my concentration. “You haven’t got a dad, have you, Carmel?”
I hadn’t thought about it much before that. “Nah, just a mam.”
“Reckon it might be nice to just have a mam,” she said. She threw puzzle pieces into the jigsaw box. “What’s it like with just you and your mam?”
I put a piece of jigsaw away. “It’s all right.”
“My dad said you got lots of uncles. I haven’t got an uncle. Got some aunties, though.”
Uncles?
“Nah. I haven’t got any uncles. Just me mam.”
“Well, my dad said…”
Belinda’s dad walked into the room with a small white dessert bowl, slammed it on the table, and said, “Your dad says you talk too much. Your dad says you can both have some sweets before dinner if you shut up.”
My tummy clenched, not at what he’d said, but his tone. However, the possibility of sweets soon made the discomfort fade. Belinda’s dad—I never did learn his name, but secretly christened him Arsey—opened his briefcase and pulled out a large bag of Bassett’s Liquorice Allsorts. Belinda ripped open the bag and filled the bowl. Arsey left the room again, and we both feasted on the sweets.
Dinnertime came, and the four of us sat around the big dining room table. I sat opposite Arsey. A little uncomfortable, I hung my head and pretended he wasn’t staring at me. That night we had tuna and pasta bake. I’d never had pasta before. The cream-coloured sauce looked so appetising that my mouth watered. Filled with sweets or not, determination to clean my plate took over me. Belinda fussed with her food and poked it around with her fork.
“Stop messing about, Belinda,” Arsey said.
I chanced a peek at him. His face was frightening and hard, cheekbones standing out like the pole under a tent.
“How many sweets did you have?” he asked.
Belinda didn’t answer. Arsey scraped his chair back and stomped into the living room.
“Margaret! Come in here a moment, please.”
Belinda’s mam quietly sighed and left the dining room. I strained to listen.
“That fucking scabby kid’s eaten all the sweets,” Arsey said.
“Oh. Well, I think…it’s just that Belinda’s the one who isn’t eating her dinner so—”
“Sticking up for the scab-bag, are we?”
“No, I—”
“I don’t want her here anymore. Teaching Belinda to be greedy. Besides, she stinks. How am I supposed to enjoy my meal with that stench? Her mother’s a bloody tart, and God knows what state their house is in. And you’re happy for our child to be friends with that?”
“Well I…I feel sorry for her. I didn’t think it would hurt for Belinda to make friends with someone less fortunate than herself. Learn some compassion.”
“If she had learned some compassion I wouldn’t mind, but all she’s been taught is to hog a whole bowl of sweets and is now currently wasting her dinner. Dinner I’ve provided by working hard, while you…”
I gobbled the rest of my meal and got up from the table.
“See you at school tomorrow, Belinda.”
“You going home?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, all right, then.”
Belinda’s mam and Arsey didn’t see me walk into the living room, move past them, and out of the front door.
Story of my life. Unnoticed.
* * * *
I let myself indoors. Mam was sprawled out, asleep on the sofa. Her mouth hung open, and I recalled one of Bob’s sayings. Shut your trap, looks like you’re catching flies.
The towelling material of Mam’s formerly peach dressing gown, now grey from filth, swamped her skinny frame. Her bare feet hung over the side of the sofa, ankles standing out like mountains. Raised veins, river-blue, snaked over the tops of each foot. Between her toes, small holes topped by scabs shouted her addiction. Heroin had certainly ravaged any beauty she’d previously had; the skin beside her eyes—earthquake cracks. I imagined being an ant and walking on her face, finding those wrinkles and wondering how I would get across their width to the other side. Far from the usual greasy look, Mam’s hair appeared cotton-wool dry. Perhaps she’d dyed it one time too many?
She stirred, snapped her mouth closed, and nestled her head in a more comfortable position against the filthy, ragged cushion beneath it. She mumbled in her sleep, and I tiptoed past her to the kitchen. I needed a drink of water to wash away the taste of bile on my tongue, which had risen on hearing Arsey’s words.
Rinsing a cloudy glass under the tap and filling it, I gulped the water and told myself I would never go to Belinda’s house again. Though I loved it there (I could forget who I was and pretend I was Belinda’s sister), I knew that today had been my last. I’d use my grubby white blanket as a petticoat and be Queen Dolly in my own room—tie the corners together to make sure it didn’t fall off.
Belinda’s mam had said I was less fortunate. What did that mean? Arsey had said I’d taught Belinda greed. I knew what the word greedy meant, but it wasn’t me who had been so. Belinda had eaten far more swe
ets than I had, said she wouldn’t get told off for eating the whole bowl because I was there. She assured me her dad wouldn’t tell her off in front of me. And he hadn’t.
I sighed and placed the empty glass in the washing-up bowl. It balanced precariously on top of other dirty crockery: tea-stained mugs, plates encrusted with tomato sauce. The air smelt like vinegar, so Mam must have been to the chip shop for her tea. Though the pasta at Belinda’s had been nice, chips from the chippy would have gone down a treat. We rarely ate those. Think it was only on our birthdays that we did.
Birthdays.
We’d been at school for three weeks since the Christmas holidays ended. The date that day—what was it? Well, the week before we’d put January fifteenth at the top of our letters to Santa, thanking him for our presents. I thanked him for the book I got that had a sticker inside proclaiming it belonged to Shorefield Library. I frowned at that, because didn’t the book belong to me?
I counted the days on my fingers. Five days since the Santa letter day. January twentieth.
My sixth birthday.
I left the kitchen and tottered into the living room and up the stairs. Maybe there would be a present on my bed? Perhaps the birthday fairy had forgotten that morning, or had been running late and couldn’t get to our house in time before I left for school.
My room smelt musty—dust and dried piss. One candy-striped bed sheet hung at the window on a piece of string, shabby with holes worn in the fabric. The blackness of the evening peeked through two of those holes that were close together and brought to mind the goblin’s eyes in the book our teacher read to us at school. My bed sheet was as I’d left it, a tangled mess, my white blanket a ball.
No present. Maybe I’d got the day wrong?
I grabbed my blanket and raced downstairs. Mam still lay asleep, so I curled up on the chair and tucked the blanket all around me and stared at her through the pattern of holes. Thoughts of wrapped gifts and birthday cakes filled my mind. I didn’t get excited at the prospect of having a cake, I somehow knew that wouldn’t be in the cards, but, young as I was, I knew I got a present on my birthday, on the end of my bed for when I woke up on the day.
