Queen Dolly

by Emmy Ellis

  Oh, I remember, all right.

  “So you opted—that’s the word used in this letter here—to speak to one of those nut doctors, then?” Mam said and blew a cloud of smoke in my direction. “What d’you need to speak to one of them for?” She glared at me; her eyes glittered. Waving her hand in the air, she continued without waiting for my reply. “Best you don’t be telling them anything, kid. Last thing I need is the Social Services knocking on the fucking door. Especially when I’m so close to you buggering off out of here.” She cackled. “Well? You gonna answer me or what?”

  I swallowed, said, “I just go for someone to talk to, that’s all.”

  “Aw, hasn’t Carmel got any friends, then? Is Carmel a Billy-No-Mates? What’s happened to that Gary kid you were hanging around with?” Mam chugged on her cigarette, a steam train.

  “Nothing’s happened to him. I just wanted to speak to someone different.” I sat in the chair by the living room window, staring at Mam through the haze of smoke that loitered around her.

  “I’d talk to you, but guess what? I don’t want to.” She threw her head back, rested it on the sofa, giggled.

  Boldness straightened my spine, lent me a little courage. “Mam, you’re just as childish as those bitches at school.” I waited for her to sock me one. Surprise raised my eyebrows when she continued to laugh. Laugh and smoke.

  “Ah, fuck off out of it, Carmel. Can’t be arsed with you.”

  I went to my room.

  If you opened a dictionary at the words selfish, conscienceless, spiteful, hypocritical, nasty, cruel—your mam’s name would be beside every one.

  Memories, they hurt my eyes, made them sting.

  I trudged towards the school, lifted my head. The man stood beneath the tree, his image distorted by the rain that fell like mist. As I got closer, I squinted. He appeared faceless. A black void inside a fur-rimmed hood. I sniffed—the end of my nose would be numb by the time I got into class.

  You sniffed. Are you sure you’re not crying?

  “My nose is cold, that’s all.”

  Tears, hot on my face. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they froze. The man looked away so that the back of his hood faced me.

  Like I said, my nose was numb. I shuffled into school. The girls’ toilets smelled like a dirty hamster’s cage, the mirror above the sink spotted with what looked like rust. Made me appear to have ginger freckles. If they were real, those freckles, I’d have had character. Instead, I’d been blessed with pale skin—so transparent, the miniature vein rivers beneath stood out, easily seen. A grey circle surrounded each of my sunken eyes. I tilted my head to the left, the right—a bird, an ugly bird. I was a bird, otherwise, why that urge to fly, to be free? I stared at myself, tried to see what they saw. Would I stare at me if I wasn’t me? Would I think me weird?

  The restroom door jerked open with a creak. Previous toilet visits invaded my mind: head pushed from behind, nose cracked on porcelain. The pain had spread like volcanic eruptions, with blood as the lava, splashing, dirtying the sink. Laughter, curse words—my ears rang with those sounds in anticipation of a recurrence. Eyes squeezed tight. If I didn’t look, it wouldn’t happen. If I didn’t breathe, they’d leave me alone.

  Bullies. Bitches.

  I scooted into a toilet stall, let the door close behind me, and snapped the lock loudly. The sound echoed off the tiles and the mottled windows (people can still see through those, you know). Breath left my lungs, ragged. Hitch-gasp-hitch.

  “What are you crying for?” asked Belinda, her voice kind and smooth. Alien.

  “Not crying.”

  “Sounds like you are. Sorry, my mistake.”

  I sniffed quietly, fearing if I didn’t, I’d be made out to be a liar. And I couldn’t be one of those. Mam said lying to her was bad. That lying deserved punishment—How come your mam hasn’t been punished?—yet I could lie about other things, to other people. I didn’t understand. Just didn’t get the hypocrisy.

  The ominous creak sounded again—who was in the restroom with me? The man? The girl?—and I stumbled out of the toilets, shuffling down the corridor, arm brushing the wall, foot against wainscoting.

  Lean on the wall, keep out of the way. Don’t bump into anybody.

  I turned the corner. Searing light stung my eyes. A huge skylight in the ceiling appeared like a cathedral painting. You know, the ones with cherubic angels, their legs podgy, hair in ringlets. I’d half-listened in the lesson where we’d learned about the paintings, one ear tuned to Mr Hicks’ voice, the other on the titters from behind.

  “Carmel’s got nits. See them crawling?”

  “I see ‘em. My mam said she’s filthy dirty, lives in a house that’d need fumigating if they ever moved out.”

  “The Sistine Chapel has paintings depicting…”

  “Wonder if she knows she smells?”

  “What, like, can she smell herself? Doubt it. She’s probably so used to her own stench…”

  “Settle down, class. Yes, yes, I’m well aware the paintings are of naked people. Stop being silly now…”

  “Don’t reckon she’s ever heard of deodorant.”

  The classroom, warmed by our body heat, grew uncomfortable. I couldn’t sit by the heater—home invaded school, then: the smell of Mam and her cigarettes. I needed to separate the two places. One mustn’t overlap the other. I longed to be unseen at school, but those people, they stared at me, taunted me. Yet on the other hand, I wanted to be seen. Really seen.

  It worked at home. I’d only be visible when Mam wanted a cup of tea, or for me to run to the shop. Or when a bad dose of medicine ensured anger flowed alongside the heroin in her veins, urging her hands into fists. She’d taken to packing quite a punch, her strikes like a bowling ball, me the pin. I’d topple over, hear Mam shouting, “Lucky strike!”, her laughter a gargle, her needing a dentist springing to mind. I’d be prone on my back, skull-sore. Prostrate on the gritty carpet, eyes sore, eyes salty sore.

  * * * *

  “What would you like to talk about today, Carmel?” The counsellor entwined her fingers and rested her palms on her stomach. A round stomach, probably comforting to rest my head on.

  I shrugged the images out of my mind, blinked them away, and lifted my shoulders. I didn’t know what I wanted to talk about, wasn’t sure… Oh yes, I wanted to ask about the man by the tree, about the girl who’d looked at me but over my head. And Mam. I wanted to talk about Mam, but I didn’t know what to say or how to say it.

  I toed the carpet. Blue carpet, my sea of hope. The first time I visited the counsellor, I’d stared at that carpet and told it some of my secrets. Not the dark ones. No, I didn’t talk about those. Counsellor was The Lighthouse, steering me clear of the rocks, yet she urged me towards them, light beckoning. Crash time imminent, she bellowed her foghorn, catastrophe averted. The blue carpet knew many things about me, but not enough. No. Not enough.

  Counsellor cleared her throat.

  I looked up, inclined my head, and stared at The Lighthouse, at her enlarged eyes behind her spectacles, nose like a jackdaw. Her smile—thin, so thin it seemed as though she didn’t own any lips. A skeleton at Halloween—except The Lighthouse had hair, scraped back in a bun. Her follicles must have been screaming.

  “What about telling me what you’ve done since last week, hmm?”

  My gaze returned to the blue sea—choppy waters, storm brewing, white crests upon the waves. Salt tasted sharp on my lips; that morning’s tears lingered.

  “Kept out of Mam’s way all week. It’s been okay.”

  “Anything happen that you’d like to get off your chest? The blue sea is listening, Carmel. It doesn’t tell a soul, you know that.”

  “I know. Except the sea’s choppy now. The water’s jumping up and spitting on me, stinging my eyes.”

  “I understand. What about moving your thoughts away from your mother. Anything else you’d like to discuss?”

  I nodded. Like my head rested on a spring. “The people. I’
d like to talk about them.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “This man. Well, I think it’s a man. He stands behind the big tree just outside school, you know the one?” I looked up.

  The Lighthouse nodded.

  “Well, he’s there every morning. Like he’s waiting for me. Stares at me when I’m walking towards the school gates.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Dunno. His hood stops me from seeing his face.”

  “Do you feel scared of this man, Carmel?”

  The sea calmed a little.

  “No. Not like the way Mam scares me. I only get butterflies in my tummy with the man. I can see him from right up the other end of the street. I get to the tree, walk past it, turn around, and he’s gone. Like he ran away or something.”

  “Where do you think he goes, Carmel?”

  “Dunno.” I shrugged, stared at the blue sea.

  The Lighthouse’s beam shone on the top of my head. Her stare burned.

  Nothing is ever silent. It’s quiet, but not silent. It never will be, so long as the sound of blood frantically pumps through my veins.

  I thought that then, in the quiet that descended upon us. Poked the toe of my shoe into the blue sea, splashed a little. The Lighthouse sighed. A gust of wind—an anticipatory or impatient breeze? I didn’t want to look up, to see her features and find out.

  “I’m gonna go.”

  “Your session isn’t over yet, Carmel.”

  My chair toppled backwards, its steel leg scraping mine.

  “Burning calf, sea salt eyes. What a little baby you are!” Belinda said.

  “Gotta get home, because Mam…”

  “Carmel…sit.” Lighthouse brooked no argument.

  Eyelids at half-mast, I turned and righted my raft, perched upon it, knees beneath my chin, hands clasped over shins. A ball.

  They get kicked around.

  “Mam ignores me most of the time.”

  “Go on…”

  “And the people, the man behind the tree, and that girl, they stare at me then look away. But at least they stared in the first place. Tried to see me. I don’t want to be looked at, just seen.”

  The droplets from my eyes morphed the blue sea from choppy waves to circular ripples. The circumference of each ring reached the walls, rebounding off them, creating small eddies.

  “There are times when your mother notices you, Carmel. It’s just unfortunate she notices you in the wrong way, hmm?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can help you with that. You know, find somewhere to go when you’re sixteen. We’ve discussed this before.”

  “I know. But if I leave her, she’ll have no one.”

  “Sometimes, people don’t deserve to have anyone.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll help you with it when you’re ready, Carmel.”

  I nodded. Felt safe.

  “Do you want to talk about why you need to leave home yet a part of you wants to stay? I can help you understand those feelings, if you’d like.”

  I shook my head. “What about the man. What do I do about him?”

  “I’ll watch for him out of my office window in the morning. If he’s there, I’ll go out and ask what he’s doing. Sound good?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  * * * *

  It rained all that week. Even when it didn’t fall from the sky, it was still there. Dreary, wet, residing in my eyes. I wondered, when I grew older, just a little older, and I turned sixteen, would it all stop? I mean, if I moved out of Mam’s, doing that wouldn’t mean everything would get better, would it? I’d still have memories. Things swirling around in my head.

  I thought of The Lighthouse, so right, so clever. She had an answer for everything. She told me once that even she got scared sometimes, but I didn’t believe her. She appeared too comfortable with herself to be scared of anything. Besides, she didn’t have a mam who liked bowling. At least, I didn’t think she did.

  Must be nice not to be frightened, tormented, used, worried…

  I forgot my umbrella the next day. The rain dashed into my eyes, made me think I couldn’t see the man.

  He must be there. He’s there every day.

  I quickened my pace, drawing closer to the tree. He wasn’t there looking at me, and the realisation hurt my chest—painful not to be seen. Even though I didn’t want him there.

  I didn’t!

  I sighed. What did it matter? Who wanted to be seen, anyway? I hurried past the tree, turned back to catch him out. Maybe he’d hidden while I’d made my way towards the oak? No. He hadn’t. The Lighthouse must have ushered him on. I rushed into school, out of the wet, and bumped into the counsellor in the corridor.

  “He wasn’t there today,” I said.

  “I know, Carmel. I watched for him.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t looking at me after all.”

  “That’s entirely possible. Maybe he’d been waiting for a lift to work each morning.”

  The corridor filled up. People jostled The Lighthouse. She shouted, “Have some manners. And walk, don’t run.”

  Foghorn.

  School shoes squeaked on the tiled floor. Giant mice.

  The Lighthouse wore a lamb’s-wool jumper. Expensive, chic. I saw one in the window of Debenhams once, the mannequin slender and headless.

  Would you like to be a mannequin? Sightless?

  “I have a free slot available right after school of you want it, Carmel.”

  “No, thank you. I’ll be all right now.”

  * * * *

  Mam’s house smelt of sick gone sour. Of greasy chips, dried baked beans, and stale air. I closed the front door and swallowed the rising bile. Inhaling deeply, I then emptied my lungs through shaky lips, counted to five, and walked into the living room. I would do it today. Kill her. I would.

  Mam was on the couch, dead to the world.

  Dead to the world. Don’t you just wish that were so, Carmel?

  Heroin had been her friend again that day.

  I left the room and trudged upstairs. It was like climbing a mountain, with nothing at the apex except dirt, dirt, and more dirt, despite my cleaning frenzies. I settled on my bed, flicking through catalogues, and imagined myself on the pages, curled up on one of those beds, quilt so puffy it hugged me whole. Through misted eyes, I gazed at my own blanket—thin, unhuggable.

  I sighed and dragged myself off the bed and into the bathroom. Seated on the toilet, the sting down below burned, and I gritted my teeth. That sting: a tribute to the thrush that always seemed to be there during those two years.

  Nerves, stress, nerves, stress…

  I returned to the living room, walked through on soft toes to the kitchen. Ferreted around in the drawers for a while.

  Quiet, must be quiet.

  Back in the living room, I stood beside the ratty sofa and stared at Mam’s inert form. Time passed. I blinked again.

  Mam on the sofa, dead to the world, dead to the world. But she’d wake up. My courage had failed me once again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The counsellor found a small bedsit that adequately suited my needs. The room, situated in an old Victorian house, measured the same size as Mam’s living room. What, eighteen feet by twelve? Yes, that was about right. I bought a second-hand, metal-sprung bed settee and pulled it out nightly. Mornings saw me proudly folding it back up into a sofa, quilt and pillows hidden from view.

  I finally got my eiderdown, one with a removable cover decorated with red roses—the bedclothes of my childhood dreams. It took some time to find one that closely resembled it, and although it didn’t have ribbons on each corner, I loved it all the same. The bed settee, a brown velvet affair, held four scatter cushions by day, one of each in red, blue, yellow, and green. Sounded ghastly, but when you’d been brought up in a life devoid of colour, where everything was grey…

  A kitchenette graced the left-hand side of the room. Four floor cupboards with drawers, a fake marble worktop restin
g on them, housed my pots and pans, drinking glasses, plates. I owned two forks, two knives, and two dessert spoons, all of them in a drawer with three tea towels. Gary, my only visitor, stayed for dinner some nights. Only beans on toast, egg and chips, that kind of thing, but I felt grown up, you know? And free. So fucking free. Cooking with that mini oven—I’d had some mishaps using that. Unused to a cooker that heated up to the proper temperature saw me burning pies, fish fingers and the like, but I got used to it in the end.

  A small side table with a lamp and a coaster served as the place I rested my teacup and my current reading book. I’d purchased a flat-packed single wardrobe that Gary and I lugged home from the shop and put together one evening after dinner. I bought a few items of clothing from the local market, the kind I could mix and match, and hung them on silk-covered hangers. Often, I’d open the wardrobe and stroke the fabrics, smiling at the fact that I owned clothes that hadn’t previously belonged to someone else, that had no holes and were clean.

  The Victorian house, one of eight in a row, stood opposite a parade of small shops. A newsagent, convenience store, and laundrette serviced all my needs. I remember wondering what on earth a tool shop would be doing there, squashed between the paper shop and the laundrette, and who would frequent such a place that was so far out of town. But, if I looked out of my window when bored, or passed the shop on my way to work, I realised Tool City had a brisk trade.

  Of course, I left school as soon as I could and secured a job as the predicted sales assistant in a women’s clothes shop. Hardly something I’d planned—I’d had such high hopes for myself—but I could go to college later on. My exam results, certainly not shabby, would afford me entrance. My wages wouldn’t stretch to the clothing in the store where I worked, even with my ten percent off. I examined the skirts, dresses, and tops when the new stocks came in, placed them on the rails with an idea of what the current trends were, and mimicked them with items bought at cheaper outlets. I paid six months’ rent up front for the bedsit out of Mr Lawton’s payment, and my wages would cover the small outlay after that.