Queen Dolly

by Emmy Ellis

  I walked downstairs. She slapped a fiver in my hand. I curled my fingers around it and ducked under her arm and into the hallway, reaching up to the lock. I snagged the latch and opened the door.

  “You got a big bruise on the side of your face, Carmel. Just shows you what dropping a coin will do, doesn’t it?”

  I stepped outside onto the path. My bottom lip quivered, and I pressed it against the top one to still it. Mam’s laughter drifted after me, and I shut the front door and ran as fast as I could to the shop. The carton of milk cold against my fingers, I dashed to the counter and paid for it, said a hurried hello to Sharon, the Saturday assistant, then raced back home. I pressed Nelson’s cheek to mine once I got back into our hallway, kissed her forehead, and went into the kitchen.

  “Christ. Devil on your tail?” Mam asked.

  I re-boiled the kettle, slopping hot water over the worktop as I poured it into her cup. Mam sat at the small kitchen table and smoked, waiting for me to make her tea.

  She sucked on the cigarette and blew the smoke out with force. “What you up to today, kid?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “Not going to your friend’s house to play? I mean, you spend so much time with her you may as well live there. I’m obviously not good enough for you. Ungrateful little cow. To think I kept you when I could have aborted your arse and led the kind of life I wanted. Kept you, though, didn’t I? And look what it got me. A scutty little kid who gets in my way all the time.”

  I didn’t reply. There wasn’t any need to. Mam obviously wanted to rant. She did that a lot. I shut out her voice and squeezed the tea bag against the side of the cup, imagining it was her head, and as the tea infused into the boiled water, I fancied it was Mam’s blood.

  With so much time on my hands, I thought too much. What else was there for me to do? I didn’t have my mind stimulated by Mam. She wasn’t one to spend time with me, wanting to nurture me and help me grow into a well-balanced adult. I knew early on I’d only have myself to rely on. Still, hope grew inside me, a pretty flower in the soil, even if that soil was badly fertilised. I had my dreams and desires. They kept me going.

  I added milk and two sugars to her teacup. Her voice droned on in the background, and I remember while I stirred that tea and created a small whirlpool in the cup that the most vivid memory I’d take with me into adulthood was the damp air that smelled of dust and piss. I’d never forget it—it followed me every second, latching onto my clothing, a leech on skin. Of course, I’d remember Thursdays, too, but who wouldn’t?

  I carried Mam’s tea to her, and she thanked me by blowing a stream of smoke in my face. My eyes watered, and I coughed. Her raucous laughter reverberated inside my head, and I thought of what we’d learned at school on Friday. I imagined I sailed on choppy seas and Mam was Scylla, grasping all those men, creating an eddy in my ocean so vast it became Charybdis. I’d get sucked into that whirlpool and be devoured if I let it happen. Tempting, so enticing to allow the waters to wash me away, drown me in its vitriolic swirls, fill my lungs with its badness and carry me away dead…dead…

  I stood still, for some reason unable to move away from Mam.

  “What are you staring at, dumb kid? Piss off out of my face.”

  As always, Dragons came to mind, what with Mam taking another drag of her cigarette and exhaling through her nostrils. She was a dragon all right. Big and scary—only lashings of verbal abuse replaced flames. Maybe one day someone would come and douse them out, but until then I was stuck with her. Much as I wanted to run and flee—where would I go? I had no one to run to. Besides, she was all I knew. Better the devil you know and all that.

  I managed to walk away from her, my mind filled with bad things—dragons, snakes, and giant lizards. Monsters like Scylla with six ugly heads, six sets of gnashing teeth, tongues lapping at me ready to feast on my young flesh. No different to Thursday nights when I think about it now, although at the time, I confused that shit with love and affection.

  Any touch was better than none.

  * * * *

  That afternoon, I played queens with Nelson for hours until daylight fled from my room and the blackness of night took its place. Hunger nudged my guts, and I ventured downstairs, hoping that Mam’s afternoon of work had ended. I poked Nelson’s face round the living room doorjamb and peeked into the room myself. Mam was on the centre seat of the sofa, chin against chest, eyes closed. I scooted past her into the kitchen and sat Nelson on the worktop so she could learn how to make supper. The fridge, bare except for half a pint of milk, dampened my spirits. How I longed for it to be full of yoghurts and jellies, processed cheese slices, and slabs of ham. Did Mam ever do a weekly shop? I don’t recall that she did.

  The larder held a tin of beans, half a loaf of hardened, uncut bread, and some tinned corned beef. And a mouse. It sat at the back on the middle shelf, black beady eyes glaring at me, whiskers moving. The tiny thing lifted its front paws and sniffed the air, nose twitching. Its mouth hung open, showing white teeth, and I conjured images of huge scary mice the size of houses, spittle slithering from their chops.

  Abruptly, the mouse darted to the far corner of the larder and disappeared through a hole, its tail the last thing I saw—a pointed worm.

  I wished that I were a mouse, able to get through small spaces and scurry away from the life I led. I’d be a princess mouse with a pink tutu for a dress and a golden crown, each of its points topped with a marble-sized emerald. I stared at the hole the mouse had escaped into for what seemed a long time, lost in thoughts of feasts fit for a king, a table laden with such palatable delights that my mouth watered.

  “Carmel? You in the house?” Mam’s harsh, grating tones jolted me from my daydream. “If you are, make us a cuppa and something to eat. Fucking starving, I am.”

  Uh-oh. Your mam’s awake.

  “I’m just making some supper now, Mam.” Sighing just a little so Mam wouldn’t hear, I cleansed my mind of childish yearnings and busied myself preparing the food. I burned the toast, having cut the bread too thickly, and warmed the beans for too long, the end result more like mushy peas.

  “Good. Make sure mine’s a large portion. Literally worked my arse off this afternoon, if you know what I mean, and I reckon I’ll be doing the same tonight. You don’t need anything to eat anyway. I’ll give you some money to go up the shop.”

  She had her medicine, Carmel?

  “I’m not sure,” I whispered.

  My bottom lip wobbled. I’d wanted to surprise Mam and make us a meal and just once eat it together like a proper family. I backhanded my tears and concentrated on using the little metal key to open the tin of corned beef. Vision impaired, my hand slipped, and I cut a slither of skin from my finger on the sharp tin edge. It bled, but not profusely, and didn’t hurt nearly as much as the ache in my chest and the lump in my throat.

  I served all the food onto one plate, corned beef sliced after a fashion next to beans on toast. I opened the cutlery drawer and reached inside.

  “What’s up with you, kid?” Mam said directly behind me.

  I jumped. My hand slammed against the knives and forks; the sound of metal jangled too loudly. How did she sometimes creep up on me so stealthily? My ears were usually so well-tuned. Captive to her warped care, I’d grown accustomed to looking out for myself, knowing when she was coming. Perhaps I’d lowered my guard? I didn’t know, but my heart beat fiercely, and that lump in my throat swelled enough that I struggled to breathe.

  Voice strangled, I said, “Nothing’s wrong, Mam.”

  You sound like that mouse in the larder might. Squeak-squeak.

  She leaned over my shoulder and said, “Looks like shit but I’m sure it’ll taste all right.” Her bare feet slapped against the lino as she made her way to the small table and chairs behind me. The chair legs scraped on the floor, and the plastic seat cushion hissed when her backside met with it, sounding much like the cruel exhalations she made through the small gap in her front teeth.

&nbs
p; Selecting a knife and fork, I picked up the plate full of food and turned, took Mam’s supper that looked like shit, and placed it in front of her on the table. She snatched the cutlery from me and began to eat.

  It may not have looked appetising, may not have been the best meal in the world, but my stomach voiced its hunger, the hollow growl protesting against what my eyes saw but would not nestle in my gut. Mam tucked in as if ravenous. Baked bean juice dripped down her chin and plopped onto the plate.

  She’s dirty. I don’t want to look at her anymore, Carmel.

  My brain ignored Nelson, and I continued to stand and ogle Mam.

  Her mouth full of beef, she didn’t turn to me when she said, “Stop staring at me, kid. Always bloody staring. You’re weird, you know that?” She swallowed and shovelled more beans and toast into her spiteful trap.

  “Yes, Mam.”

  “You know, that’s kind of your cue to fuck off away from me. Bit slow, aren’t you? Stupid and retarded. It’s a wonder the school haven’t written to tell me you need to go to one of them special places.” Plate half-cleared, she ranted on. “Haven’t got that kind of luck, though, have I? That school you need to go to—the kids sleep over all week. Only go home at weekends. That’d suit me fine.”

  That’d suit you fine, too, Carmel. You’d get nice food and a clean bed, I bet. Reckon you should act silly in the head so you can go there.

  My feet leaden, unable to step away from the monster that had birthed me, I watched the food on her plate disappear.

  “Still,” she continued, “I’ll admit I’d be lonely if I lived by myself. Wouldn’t have anyone to be mean to, would I?” She laughed, a crazy-arsed sound that skittered round in my head long after it ceased flowing from her thin lips.

  “Carmel?”

  “Yes, Mam?”

  “Why are you still standing near me?”

  Mam turned to face me, her knife and fork poised midair.

  Quickly, I said, “I was playing a game. I’m a waitress and I’m waiting to take your plate away.”

  Did tears fill her eyes? Was Mam about to cry?

  She turned away, slapped the knife and fork onto the plate, set her jaw to its usual rigidity, and leant back in her chair. Arms crossed over her chest, she said, “Well?”

  “Well what, Mam?”

  “Take the plate! Jesus. Some fucking waitress you’d make.”

  I blinked to banish the tic flickering beside my right eye and reached forward to take Mam’s plate. Her hand shot out quick sharp and grabbed me round my thin wrist. My tummy churned, and I gripped the plate edge with sweaty fingers.

  “Hungry, kid?”

  “Yes, Mam.”

  “Well, guess what?” She smiled, and although her black-stained teeth should have made me shudder, a small part of me lit up inside, for that smile also reached her eyes.

  “What?” I said breathlessly, hope burgeoning within me like a forgotten plant receiving water, guzzling, grasping at the small display of affection.

  “I’m not!” Her laugh cut the air, a loud guffaw that came from the depths of her belly. She let go of my wrist and roughly shoved me backwards, but I managed to keep hold of the plate. The knife and fork clattered to the floor, yet I righted myself and stood before her still. “Waitress? Go and wash the dishes before I telephone your boss and tell her you’re crap at your job. You don’t want me to do that, do you? I’ve heard your boss is a mean old witch. Reckon she’ll shear off the hair on your head if she hears about your slacking.” Mam’s lips formed their trademark thin line, and she snatched a cigarette from a crumpled pack on the table and lit it.

  I turned from her, walked to the sink, and washed the dishes from the past week. No other words passed between us. The sound of water in the sink sloshed along with the seemingly constant exhalations of the smoke from Mam’s lungs.

  CHAPTER NINE

  On tiptoes, I hung my cardigan on my peg in the deserted cloakroom at school that Monday morning. Mam’s shouted reminder to steal a coat thudded around in my head, and I stored the request. I’d go to the lost property box later and see what I could find.

  Lunchboxes stood on the shelves above pegs that held many coats—I was late for school, as usual. Slipping off my shoes, I sat on the floor in search of a pair of plimsolls. Grotty socks encased my feet, and my toes poked from holes. Shoes weren’t allowed to be worn in class, so yet again, the other kids would snigger at me from behind palmed mouths. Just as I moved to get up, defeated, I spied Belinda’s white plimsolls sitting on the low shelf under the bench seat. I reached over, picked them up, then put them on. Even with the laces tied they gaped at the sides of my feet, but it didn’t matter. At least no one would see the holes in my socks.

  I opened the door between the cloak and classroom and could’ve sworn the air was filled with ill will. Children seated on the story carpet in the ‘home corner’ turned towards me as I entered, and Mrs Draper’s face looked pinched and drawn. She appeared so pale, as if her skin were the paper we would later paint on.

  “Ah, Carmel. Come and sit down, dear. I was just about to explain something to everyone.”

  I walked to the home corner and sat behind the assembled children.

  “Right, as I said before Carmel came in, I have some very sad news to tell you all.”

  Hands in my lap between crossed legs, I stared at the kids in front of me. Every face appeared solemn, as if by our teacher’s very tone they knew to be good and still, not to fidget, or flick their fellow classmate. All eyes bar mine faced the front, riveted on the elderly woman before us.

  Mrs Draper cleared her throat. “Well, children. Something very sad happened. What I’m going to tell you might be very upsetting for some of you. If, when I’ve finished speaking, you want to talk about it, I’ll try to answer your questions. Now then…”

  I moved my gaze to Mrs Draper’s face. Crêpe skin sagged from her jaw line. Sometimes, when she shook her head, her jowls jiggled like living beings. Her mouth moved, yet I didn’t hear a sound coming from her lips—lips that didn’t match in size, the top one thin, the lower full. Decorated cerise pink, they opened and closed, stretched and twitched with her words. Mist shrouded my vision, a red mist that eddied and swirled before me, the dense fog of winter, where I spent freezing evenings outside, sometimes getting lost on the streets, my sense of direction deserting me like society had.

  “…terrible accident. Belinda won’t be coming back to school because…”

  I squirmed, uncrossed my legs, and moved them beneath me so I sat on my heels. My bladder needed blessed release, but I had to stay still, had to wait until Mrs Draper’s mouth stopped moving, until her fingers stopped wringing the hem of her cardigan.

  “We’ll maybe sing a song for Belinda at home time—perhaps her favourite—and she may hear it in Heaven…”

  At last, Mrs Draper’s lips closed. With watery eyes, she looked at us all, sighed raggedly, and placed her hands one upon each knee. Her fingers wiggled, reminding me of a spider’s legs.

  “Now. Does anyone have any questions?”

  A hand raised to my left.

  “Gary. What would you like to ask?”

  “My dad knows Belinda’s dad, right, and he said Belinda got killed at the park, and this spike thing went through her head, right, and she was all mashed up and stuff and she had blood all over her face and—”

  “Gary!” said Mrs Draper. “I don’t think that kind of talk is appropriate behaviour right at this moment. We don’t know exactly what happened to Belinda. Let us just know she had an accident and she’s now in Heaven watching us and looking after us, all right?”

  “But my dad reckons some messed up motherfucker is going round killing kids, and I’m not allowed out no more just in case—”

  “Gary! Your language is atrocious. That is quite enough from you. If you can’t stop telling scary stories—for I’m quite sure that’s what they are—you’ll have to go and explain yourself to Mr Kendry, and I’m sure you don
’t want to have to do that, do you?”

  I kept my gaze on Mrs Draper, but out of the corner of my eye saw Gary hang his head.

  “No, Miss,” he said.

  “Right. Does anyone else have anything to ask?” Mrs Draper looked at each one of us in turn. Her gaze met mine. “Carmel. You and Belinda were very good friends. Do you have something you want to ask, my dear?”

  All heads turned towards me.

  “No, Miss.”

  Mrs Draper frowned. “Anyone else?”

  Children shifted and shook their heads—rustling leaves in the wind, they fidgeted under Mrs Draper’s scrutiny.

  “Well, then. If you feel the need to ask me any questions during the day, you must know you are free to do so. A special letter will go out to your parents this evening just in case you find yourself getting upset later on. Who wants to choose this morning’s activity? I think we’ll spend today doing arts and crafts.”

  Arms shot up in the air, many waving hands, kids wanting to be the one to choose exactly what we would do. I didn’t raise mine. I wanted to learn—to read and soak up information that I could think about in the times I spent alone—not paint or do jigsaws or mess around in the sand pit. I shifted my position again and brought my legs in front of me.

  Stared at Belinda’s plimsolls.

  “Painting it is, then. Everyone select an apron and put it on. I’ll get the paints. First one with an apron on and tied properly can go to the paper drawer and hand out one sheet each. Second person can hand out the paintbrushes… No rushing!”

  A flurry of movement, and the classroom became a hive of activity, children bustling from one place to another. I watched them all—ants obeying their queen—and noted how clean and tidy everyone looked, it being a Monday morning and all. I thought of Belinda and her cleanliness, of me and my dirty appearance. With each child that brushed past me the stench of my clothes swirled anew—as did my resentment towards everyone in that classroom whose passing odour resembled flowers on a beautiful summer’s day.