by Emmy Ellis
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Carmel! Wake up!”
Mam’s strident tones pierced the fug of sleep—an ice pick on apple skin. I jumped, sat upright. Head heavy, I flopped back down again, my flat pillow no comfort to the ache at the base of my skull.
“Carmel? You fucking ignoring me, girl?”
I strove to respond, but my tongue felt too big for my mouth and brought to mind the time I’d bought sweets instead of a sandwich. Marshmallows. So hungry, I’d stuffed half the bag into my mouth, and that’s what my tongue felt like: marshmallows.
I staggered out of bed on unsteady legs, legs that seemed too brittle to carry my weight. They wobbled, and I wondered: If I fall and black out, will I see the star-steps again, make it to the top this time? However, my legs betrayed me, and I managed to walk to the top of our stairs and grab hold of the newel post to stop myself from swaying.
Mam stood at the foot in her bottom-of-the-stairs pose and blew out a plume of smoke. “You look a bit peaky, kid. Feel rough, do you?”
I opened my mouth to answer. Couldn’t.
Mam sucked on her cigarette, blew smoke out again. “What’s up? Cat got your tongue?”
A shiver whipped up and down my spine, and gooseflesh sprung up on my arms. I glanced down at myself—naked.
Why don’t I have my pyjamas on?
“Gotta make yourself scarce. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s Saturday and you usually get to hang around, but I got a couple of specials on today. Also got some important people coming round with Bob. So, get a move on and get the fuck out.”
Mam moved away from the bottom of the stairs. Her bare feet slapped against the floor, quieted when she trod on the living room carpet. I turned around. My knees buckled, and I stumbled into the bathroom.
Leaning over the sink, I dry-retched. Saliva dangled from my bottom lip, my innards jitterbugged, and my arms slapped against my sides. I groped for the cold water tap, twisted it on, and, with my elbows wedged inside the sink, cupped my palms beneath the water. Bringing my hands to my mouth, I guzzled the cold liquid, never so glad to have a drink to soothe my sore throat, my arid tongue. The water shot down into my belly, and I imagined the splash of it in my stomach as it hit the base and pooled there in an icy sea. It threatened to come back up—my jaw shook, my guts roiled, but I swallowed, inhaled deeply, and kept it down. Another sip, another, and I stood upright.
Shutting off the tap, I plunked onto the toilet and peed. I lowered my forehead to my knees, hugged my shins, and thought about what I would do that day, where I would go. With no destination in mind—did I ever have one?—I readied myself for the hours ahead.
Once I was downstairs, my equilibrium returned to near normalcy. Nelson hung from my hand, and I placed her on the kitchen work surface so she could watch me make Mam’s tea. Mam sat at the kitchen table, a newspaper in front of her, as well as her near-finished cigarette perched in an ashtray. The kettle weighed heavy in my hand, wrenching at my elbow, pulling the muscles in the tops of my arms. I could quite happily have dropped it, but the ramifications ensured I stayed my grip. Kettle on top of its base, ON switch flicked down, I slouched over to the fridge to fetch the milk.
“My, my, we’re tired today, aren’t we? Had a good sleep, too. You were out from teatime until this morning. Lazy bitch.”
I retrieved the milk and returned to the work surface, shifting various items to make enough space for Mam’s cup. A mug tree, devoid of mugs, sat towards the back, a twig body with too many arms. A stick insect. I shuddered.
Dirty cups sat on two dinner plates in the sink. Sighing quietly, the sting of tears near, I squirted washing-up liquid into the bowl and turned on the tap. A gush of water had me longing for a bath, the smell of the washing detergent better than my current odour.
“You’re only doing that because I called you lazy.” Mam’s lighter clicked. “Still, I’m not complaining.”
A page of the newspaper turned over. Its crackle hurt my head.
I switched off the tap and washed the dishes, the cups. The kettle flipped off, the sound of bubbling water loud. Drying a cup, I turned and plopped a teabag and two sugars into it like an automaton.
“Haven’t you fucking made that tea yet? Guts think my throat’s been cut. Hurry up.”
Another turn of a newspaper page. A gasp.
Tea made, I took it to Mam and placed it on the table on top of a stack of women’s magazines. Why did Mam buy those? I never saw her reading them.
Mam didn’t look up from reading. A bold, black headline stretched across the top of the page. It took me a minute to read it.
“What are you standing there for? Go on, fuck off. There’s a fiver on the coffee table. You can have it all. You gotta stay out all day, evening, too. Don’t come back until past nine.”
I left her there, swirled the headline round in my head. MAN ARRESTED FOR KIDDIE PORN. I shrugged. It meant nothing to my young mind. The fiver, crisp and new, crackled against my palm. I’d go to the shop and buy something for breakfast. Maybe I’d feel more like myself then. I pulled Belinda’s plimsolls out of my school bag and slipped them on, placing the five pound note inside beneath my right foot. The house harboured a chill; outside would be colder. After shrugging into my coat, I slipped past Mam again and grabbed Nelson from the worktop. Mam stared out of the glass in the back door, her finger pointing under a line of text on the newspaper, still open on the same page.
* * * *
A breeze gusted through our street, bringing with it a biting chill. In breaks between wind bouts, the air felt quite pleasant. The sun shone—maybe this afternoon would be warmer?—and I dawdled to the shop.
Bit nippy, isn’t it, Carmel?
“It is, Nelson, but Mam’s busy today so we can’t play queens and have a sleep this afternoon.”
Will you buy sweets at the shop?
“Dunno. I might buy some later. Reckon I need to see how much I have left after I get my breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
Oh.
The heater above the shop door blasted a welcome that brought on a smile. I made straight for the bread aisle. It being early, I might find a cut-priced loaf left over from yesterday. I swooped down to the floor and rummaged towards the rear of the rack and found a treasure of sorts. A yellow reduced-price sticker attached itself to the back of my hand. Glancing up and down the aisle and seeing no one, I ripped the sticker off and placed it on the cellophane of a freshly baked, uncut loaf at the front of the rack.
The warmth of the bread seeped into my palms, and I worried whether Mr Hemmings would spot my duplicity. Deciding the risk was worth being caught for, I walked to the fridge and selected a pint carton of milk. The contrast of the cold milk in my hand and warm bread held against my chest brought on a shiver that flicked through my body. My tummy growled. I clutched Nelson tightly in my other hand.
At the counter, I waited behind two chatting women. No one worked the till—something I’d never seen before.
“You’d never have known, would you?” said one lady in a loud whisper. She fingered her chin.
I stared at her perfectly painted nails then looked at my own.
When you’re older, you can have nails like that, Carmel.
I nodded.
“No. I’m absolutely stunned,” whispered the other lady, her back to me. Her voice triggered a memory—of piss-sullied floors and hosiery-clad legs. Belinda’s mam! What was her name…? Ma…Mar…Margo?
I wanted to shrink or run. My bladder pained, but with no fluid inside it, it didn’t issue its usual stream. I clutched the bread, and the cellophane crackled. The woman with the fancy nails made an odd eye movement, jerked her head, and Margo spun round to face me.
“Why, Carmel! Hello, love. How are you?”
I looked into her beautiful eyes, smiled, and tension slipped away. “I’m all right.”
“Good, good. What have you been up to?” she asked.
“Nothing much.”
Painted Nails jabbed at
the brass counter bell, dinged it several times, and huffed out a sigh. “If someone doesn’t get behind this counter soon, I’m walking off without paying.” She laughed, as did Margo.
“You could leave your payment on the counter,” said Margo, turning back to her companion.
“What, and have some little scumbag steal it?” Painted Nails stared at me. “Not bloody likely.”
Margo smiled at me. “Carmel wouldn’t take the money, would you, love?”
I shook my head and stared at the floor—Painted Nails’ glare proved too searching, too intrusive.
“Well, I’ll take these things and pay for them next time I’m in, all the same,” she said. “See you at the group on Friday?”
“Yes, yes. I’ll be there. See you then,” said Margo.
I looked back up. Painted Nails trotted out of the shop on impossibly high heels. I wished she’d trip over the threshold, but she didn’t.
“So, Carmel. Up to anything interesting today?” asked Margo.
“No. Mam’s busy so I’m to keep out of her hair.”
“Oh, right. And what will you do to keep out of her hair?” Margo’s smile warmed me just like the bread against my tummy.
“Dunno.”
“Well,” she said and hunkered beside me, “what do you think about coming to my house for the day? Would your mother mind?”
“No, but Arsey might,” I said, the words out before I could stop them.
“Arsey?” Margo’s smile grew wider before her lips formed a pout.
“Um, Belinda’s dad might not like me going to your house.”
Laughter barked out of Margo’s mouth, a pleasant torrent of sound. “Oh, Carmel, you are funny. Arsey won’t be there, my lovely. He’s never there now. So, would you like to spend the day with me?”
I nodded, willing my bladder to let out even the smallest of squirts so that I could have a bath in her tub.
“Come along, then. I’ll pay for what we’ve taken next time I’m here.”
Margo stood and held out her hand. Shoving Nelson into the crook of my other arm with the bread, I clasped Belinda’s mam’s warm palm.
Life would be good today.
* * * *
Belinda’s house didn’t smell the same as it had on my last visit. An odour I recognised but couldn’t place permeated the air. The living room harboured dust on the TV cabinet and the windowsill, and Margo’s usually clear-of-debris coffee table held glasses, an empty wine bottle, and dirty plates. Though untidy, it still wasn’t as filthy as Mam’s house.
Margo led me through to the kitchen. The same untidiness met me there.
“Sit yourself at the breakfast bar,” she urged, her hand on my back, “and I’ll make you a milkshake. Do you like milkshake?”
I nodded, still clutching my bread, milk, and Nelson.
“Put your things on the side, look. That’s it. Would you like me to make you some toast with your bread?”
“Yes, please.”
Margo made toast differently to the way Mam and me did. We used a decrepit toaster. Margo sliced my bread into thick hunks and placed them under a grill that hung over the hob of her cooker. She turned a knob and held a white implement under the grill that clicked when she pressed a red button. Blue flame created a sheet of fire as it lit; one curl of heat poked out like a tongue, licked the air, then settled back inside the grill. The toast cooked quickly.
Butter, my first taste of it. Mam used margarine—the cheap kind that left an aftertaste lingering at the back of my throat. And that butter, it was wonderful. With two slices of toast devoured, and a strawberry milkshake still to consume, I let warmth spread through me where I perched on that breakfast bar stool. Again, I thought about the many differences between here and home. And I realised how lucky Belinda had been. Previously, I’d thought her lucky because her lavish bedroom held everything a young girl could want, and her bathroom held things that had the ability to clean even the dirtiest of children. And although Arsey wasn’t particularly nice by any means, she’d had two parents. Two that gave a shit.
Other differences made themselves apparent now. The kind Belinda would most certainly have taken for granted. Butter, milkshakes, that sense of being cared for, that how you felt mattered.
Margo stared at me for a long time. Tears dribbled down her face, and she stood in front of the cooker wringing her hands.
She’s thinking of Belinda, Carmel. She’s seeing you sitting there and wishing things were back to how they used to be.
I sipped my milkshake and shoved Nelson’s words to the back of my mind.
“How come Belinda’s dad isn’t here anymore?” I asked and licked my milkshake moustache.
Margo blinked, snapped out her trance, and palmed her face. “Oh, after Belinda went, he went too. Things didn’t work out.”
“Oh. Don’t you get lonely?” A burp rumbled in my throat, and I swallowed it. The bubble of trapped air hurt my windpipe. I winced.
A sad smile tweaked her lips. “Oh yes, but I don’t miss him, not really. Besides, I’ve made some new friends at a group I go to. Kind of like going to school—lots of people there with the same alco…problem—and we learn to accept things.” She dived towards the sink with such vigour it made me jump. Preparing to wash up, she said, “Anyway, enough of all that. How about clean the dishes, do a quick tidy round, and we go and play in Belinda’s room? Would that be nice?”
I nodded. “I’ll help you clean.”
“Oh, what a good girl you are. Belinda would never have… Well, what a good girl you are, Carmel, that’s all.”
* * * *
We played queens. One of the petticoats fitted Margo—she’d lost weight since I’d last seen her—and a brief thought of Mam prancing about in the same garb flitted through my mind.
Mam would never play with you like this.
“I know.”
“Pardon, love?” Margo said, pausing in her walk up and down the bedroom.
“Nothing.” Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I glanced at Nelson, who sat next to Belinda’s dolls on the shelf.
Margo followed my gaze. “I wonder, would you like Belinda’s dolls?”
I stared at them all, glassy-eyed, their poses somehow sinister. “No, thank you. I love Nelson; don’t need any more dolls.”
Margo smiled. “What about a new dress for Nelson, then?”
“All right.”
She took Nelson from the shelf and handed her to me. “Which dress do you think Nelson would like? Pick any dress from any of these dolls.” Margo seemed over-bright, manic.
I’d like to wear the pink one with the ruffles.
I pointed to the dress Nelson had selected. “That one.”
“Righty-ho!” Margo reached up, grasped the doll, and undressed it quickly. “You know, I haven’t been in here since… Well, you know, and I really must take my group leader’s advice. Now then, is there anything in here you would like to take home with you? I should sort this room out really, start afresh, stop wallowing in the past. Oh,” Margo placed her fingers to her mouth, “what am I thinking? Talking to you like you’re an adult. I’m very sorry, Carmel, I shouldn’t burden you with this kind of talk. Silly me.”
I looked around the room. Though it was filled with most small girl’s dreams, I didn’t want anything in it except the woman who stood before me as my mother. And I couldn’t have that. I shook my head.
“Nothing? Nothing at all? What about some clothes? Would clothes be okay?”
Margo bustled over to the chest of drawers and yanked one open, bringing out a pile of T-shirts. She placed them on the bed, sat, and put her hand on the top garment. Her fingertips rubbed the material, picked at the sequins that rounded the neckline. Her face crumpled, and she closed her eyes, that action urging two fat tears to plop down her cheeks. She sat like that for many seconds, and I mimicked her actions, fingering the sausage of material around my waist.
Trousers, jeans, skirts, sweaters, all came out of the drawers and the
wardrobe. Some looked to be too big, Belinda being a plump child, but others would fit. I looked at the clothes longingly, wanted more than anything to wear the pinks, purples, yellows, and blues, but Mam would go mad if I took them home and said where I’d got them from.
Margo sat on the clothes-covered bed, a smile on her face. “Well? What do you think?”
I stared at Margo then shifted my gaze from her to the clothes. “Mam won’t let me have them. She reckons being given stuff is bad.”
“Hmm.” Margo looked at the ceiling, bit her bottom lip. Returning her attention to me, she said, “What happens if you find things?”
“Oh, I can have anything I find. And I’m allowed to take stuff.” I didn’t have any qualms about admitting this; after all, Mam said it was okay.
Margo’s eyes widened then narrowed. “Well, why don’t you say you found them? If your mother thinks it’s okay to find things and keep them, and you’d only be telling a tiny lie, do you think that would be all right? Though Lord knows I shouldn’t encourage you to tell fibs.”
“Yes. That would be okay. And telling lies is fine, because Mam tells me to do that sometimes, although I’m not allowed to lie to her, she said. If she finds out I’ve lied to her I’ll be in trouble.”
A sigh left Margo. “Well, I’ll go downstairs and get a black bag for some of these clothes. We’ll put the big ones in one bag, the smaller ones in another, and I’ll put them out by the rubbish bin. Perhaps someone will find them and take them away before the dustbin man collects them, eh?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After the clothes had been bagged and deposited next to the metal dustbin in the driveway, we settled in the kitchen for lunch. Using my bread, Margo made wedge-sliced sandwiches and filled them with grated cheese and cucumber. The butter thickly spread, its rich taste blending with the cheese was one of the best things I’ve tasted. A cup of tea, drank from a china cup, topped off the meal, and my eyelids grew heavy. I placed my hands, one above the other, on the breakfast bar, and rested my chin on them.
