The Butcher's Daughter

by Jane E James

  The two men are the same height but my father slouches with his hands in his apron pockets, his eyes hiding in the pavement, whereas the young man has his chin in the air and is staring boldly after me. I would give anything to know what they are saying.

  Little Downey

  Frank

  Frank rolls a set of keys around in his apron pocket until the metal feels warm against his fingers. As he watches his only daughter turn troubled eyes in his direction, the corner of his mouth twitches, as it sometimes does when he gets a whiff of bad meat.

  He can feel today closing in around him like a dark cloud. And it is only going to get worse. All the same, there’s nothing he’d like more than to cross the street and yell at everybody to go back inside.

  What the hell do they think they are looking at? They should be minding their own business not poking their noses into his. He feels like kicking the hell out of the butcher’s bike. Doesn’t know why he bothered keeping it.

  Frank Powers and Daughter be damned.

  His young shop assistant, Daniel, who is no better than he should be, finally quits staring after Natalie and turns to frown at him. Frank wants to tell him that he is the boss and nobody gets to look at him that way, but he does not.

  ‘Is she going to be trouble?’ Daniel wants to know.

  ‘I’ll take care of my own. You worry about that delivery.’ Frank grunts.

  Little Downey Beach

  Natalie

  I am a quarter of a mile from home, there’s that word again, when I see the gypsies. They have set up camp on a patch of rough sandy grass, seeking shelter from the sun under the giant shadow of the cliff edge. They are far enough away not to be bothered by the incoming tide but close enough to enjoy the spoils of the beach. Every window belonging to the battered caravan is wide open, the metal door pinned back. Whoever is inside must be sweltering. From within, I can hear the whistle of a kettle getting louder as it prepares to scream. I close my eyes because I know exactly how this feels.

  There are two deck chairs outside and a collection of tea towels hang from a makeshift washing line that barely moves in the stillness. An inflatable paddling pool, empty of water, sags in the heat—the air almost gone from it. Seagulls must already have been at the rubbish bags because a trail of litter spills onto the pebbled sand.

  Parked up behind the caravan is a dusty old Mitsubishi Shogun with a flat rear tyre. I can only see half of it but I know its rusting chassis and damaged bodywork will not be tolerated long. It is an eyesore in an otherwise unspoilt location. Yet when I look up and see the house by the sea peering disapprovingly over the cliff edge, I find myself smiling. My father’s house would throw stones down on the campsite if it could.

  Raised among folk who refuse to have any truck with gypsies and who would have them run them out of town without any hesitation at all, I remember that my mother envied their unconventional lifestyle and thought their superstitions and fortune-telling were romantic. Because of this, I tend to think that they cannot all be bad.

  As soon as I see him I change my mind.

  He has his head buried in the 4x4’s engine, which is why I did not spot him sooner. Had I known he was there I would have turned back and gone the other way but now that I am here I stand my ground. This is your home. Not theirs, my inner voice tells me.

  Naked from the waist up and wearing torn jeans stained with engine oil, I watch the ponytail of hair, which is almost as black as my own, swing back and forth over his sun-harmed shoulders. He is thin and about the same height as me but the tattoos on his arms ripple over muscle, making the scantily clad women appear to dance over his perspiring skin. Even from here, I can tell that these tattooed women have voluptuous hourglass figures and I know a moment’s jealousy because of it. Allowing my imagination to run away with me, I sense that the women are from the gypsy’s past; that they are very much real and known to him. Perhaps because of this, I make up my mind he is not to be trusted.

  He looks up and sees me at the same time his dogs do. The two lean lurcher types immediately bark a warning and circle me, warily sniffing my ankles. I do not move, not because I am scared, but because I am transfixed by the gypsy’s different-coloured eyes, one is blue—the other brown. I have never seen eyes like this before. They are hypnotic. Womaniser’s eyes. The warning comes from nowhere, but I heed it all the same; viewing him with even more suspicion than before.

  ‘They won’t hurt you.’ Gesturing to the dogs, he speaks with a soft lilting Irish accent. The kind I could listen to all day. However, I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing this, so I tear my eyes away and keep on walking, all the while conscious of his mismatched eyes crawling over my body.

  ‘Don’t talk much, do you?’

  Who is he to mock me? I think indignantly, throwing him a look that is meant to put him in his place. But when I see him standing there—hands on hips, cockily miming a silent whistle of appreciation—I feel my face flush with embarrassment. At that moment, a beautiful girl with waist-long hair comes out of the caravan. She carries a sleeping baby in her arms and appears hot and bothered; but when her flashing eyes alight on me there is a welcoming smile on her sultry mouth, as if she half recognises me. Or do I imagine this? But when her glance takes in my red cheeks and the gypsy’s amused expression, she scowls.

  The House By The Sea

  My father’s house is as dark and as quiet as it ever was. Just as he likes it. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been punished for laughing, crying and running within these walls—another of Frank’s laws. Even the old-fashioned wall clock dares not make a ticking sound; yet memories lurk in every shadowy corner. Try stopping them, Father.

  I thought about this kitchen, the so-called heart of any home, a lot when I was in Thornhaugh and it is exactly as I remember, yet a feeling of loss overwhelms me. This is my home. I was born here. Obviously, it feels smaller now, but the house knows me. I sense this. Whose side is it on? Does it remember my mother’s soft touch or does it answer only to my father’s bullish hands?

  A mahogany trestle table runs the length of one wall and its chipped surface reminds me of the times I used to sit, legs swinging, waiting for my mother to take me to school. She was late for everything and my impatience with her sometimes got the better of me, leading me to gouge out bits of wood with my fingernails. My yellow anorak used to hang above the table, right next to my mother’s fur-edged coat, but neither is to be seen now. This hurts in a way I didn’t expect it to, so I move across the room to lay my hands on the back of one of the wooden rocking chairs that are parked either side of the fireplace. They are too uncomfortable to sit in but I recall the sound of their squeak on the floor from many years ago, and suspect my mother may have cradled me in one of them. As usual, whenever I think about her, the scent of her perfume surrounds me. The delicate floral fragrance is far more agreeable than the stale cooking smells that linger here now.

  The Belfast sink overflows with dishes. Greasy roasting tins are stacked on the wooden drainer next to it. A grubby curtain beneath the sink houses white porcelain crockery. From here, I used to pass imaginary cups of tea to my mother who would pretend to sip from the heavy earthenware, even though she hated the feel of it against her mouth. My mother’s preference for fine china lives on in the willow-patterned plates and serving dishes that take pride of place on the shelves of our farmhouse dresser. I am pleased for her sake that they have survived but doubt they have been taken down and dusted in years. Already, my eyes are smarting from the dust motes leaking in through the partially open back door.

  Through this gap I can see part of the garden that was once my mother’s pride and joy. Here, she would grow things that were “Good for nothing, except looking at”, according to my father—sweet peas, lavender, daffodils, poppies and grape hyacinth. “Something for every season,” she used to say. Whenever she entered the house, she would bring the smell of the garden in with her, and it remained long after she passed, fooling us int
o thinking she was still among us. Eventually, my father dug up the flowerbed and planted vegetables in it but his enthusiasm did not last long and the garden soon reverted to the wilderness it is now. I may decide to take it over myself one day, but first things first.

  Reminding myself that houses do not clean themselves, I try not to be overly critical of the home that was considered good enough for my mother but I cannot deny how depressing the small airless windows are, never mind the years of accumulative neglect, evident in the filthy range, grease-streaked walls and hanging cobwebs. The grandeur of Thornhaugh and years of being waited on are behind me and if I am to make a success of my homecoming, I must do something about the general grubbiness of the place.

  Somewhat begrudgingly, I start with the dishes and realise that I am having to bend to avoid the low wooden beams. It occurs to me that at five feet nine inches tall, I have outgrown my mother, who never once had to stoop in this kitchen to take care of her brood. At six feet three, my father still towers over me though. On that depressing thought, I roll up the sleeves of my shirt, exposing white skin that rarely sees the sunlight, and tie my hair into a loose ponytail. As I do so, I cannot help thinking about the gypsy’s thick black ponytail and the way it swung against his muscular shoulders.

  I have my back to my father when he comes in, noisily banging the door behind him and shutting out what little light there was. My unruly hair has escaped from the ponytail and my skin is glistening with sweat but that doesn’t stop me feeling empowered. Back at Thornhaugh, I was always being told to rest and take it easy. “You are not well, Natalie,” became like a chant in my ear, and for many years I believed this.

  Climbing down from the chair, where I have been perched, dusting my mother’s dinner service on the top shelves of the dresser, I wipe my cobwebbed hands on my jeans and stare at my father, who is cradling a bloody package against his chest. The sight of blood immediately makes my stomach churn but although he is finally looking at me, exactly what I wanted him to do earlier, my eyes are the first to drop away. His fierce expression is too much for me to handle. We are so close I can see the open pores on his skin glow red with sweat but at the same time we have never been more distant.

  Eventually, he lowers his own eyes and drops the parcel of meat on the table I have spent a good hour scrubbing and bleaching. Only then does it occur to me that my father might be sick rather than angry. There is a yellow hue to his skin that is less healthy than the white flesh belonging to the shoulder of pork on the table. While he washes his hands at the sink, I warily eye the meat but find I cannot throw off the past as easily as I would like, because the butcher’s daughter in me is already assessing how expertly it has been prepared.

  ‘I see you still insist on bringing your work home.’ The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  He turns to gawp at me, water carelessly dripping off his fingers onto the flagstone floor.

  Drip. Splat. Drip.

  I close my eyes and dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand, numbing the memory of that day in the slaughterhouse. Blood. So much blood. When I open my eyes again, my father is looking at me as if he is seeing me for the first time.

  ‘Are you trying to be smart?’

  Like him, I am baffled as to where my outburst of sarcasm came from. Clearly, he does not approve of my acid tongue, so I stay on safer ground.

  ‘I tidied up.’

  His eyes do not falter, nor swing to the side to investigate the room. So I try again.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think things were all right as they were.’

  I feel myself giving up. Everything is so much harder than it has to be. That is my father for you. One last attempt to make friends and then I am done.

  ‘I thought I’d cook something special tonight to mark my homecoming.’

  I watch my father’s eyes grow smaller than ever as he scrutinises me.

  ‘You thinking of staying then?’

  ‘If it’s all right with you, Father.’

  ‘People around here have long memories,’ he snarls.

  I do not know what to say to this, so I stay silent. As I watch him drying his hands on a grubby towel I get the feeling he would rather do anything than look at me. Sideways on, I can see his cheek pulsing angrily.

  ‘There’s sausages in the fridge if you want to cook something,’ he concedes at last.

  ‘I don’t eat meat, Father. I haven’t for a long time.’ I break this news gently, knowing that it will matter to him. It certainly gets his attention, because his eyes are rolling around in his head, like marbles tossed any old how into the air.

  ‘Whoever heard of a butcher’s daughter not eating meat?’

  His eyes search my face, but avoid clashing with my dark eyes, which I know must remind him of my mother. Perhaps for a moment his face softens. ‘You’d better not let on to folk around here.’

  My bedroom has not changed in thirteen years. The single bed with the patchwork quilt is still there. The books and glass-eyed dolls—still there. Unlike the clutter downstairs, the bedrooms, including this one, are sparsely furnished, frugal almost, and the walls in here are painted an icy blue, making the room seem cold even on a hot day. Blue for the boy that my father always wanted, I remind myself. Even after mother disappointed him by giving birth to a dark eyed baby girl, he refused to change the colour.

  Without knowing how I got into this position, I find myself sitting cross legged on the bare floorboards, imitating the girl I used to be—as I go through a cardboard box of old photographs. Having found the box under the bed where it has been gathering dust all these years, I am longing to reunite the one picture of my mother I was allowed to keep with me at Thornhaugh with the others.

  I sense his presence long before I see him. As a child, I used to think that the room grew dark at any mention of him. I find nothing has changed. Sure enough, when I look over my shoulder, his awkwardness is before me.

  Father has changed into grubby overalls and wrings his hands nervously, as if unsure of himself. Yet this is his house. I am his daughter. And it is his rules we abide by. Taking pity on him, I throw him an encouraging smile, as if to invite him over the threshold, but he won’t come in proper, just stands there hovering in the doorway.

  ‘I’ll be out and about till late. Don’t wait up.’

  This is a command. Not a request. Clearly, neither of us wants to spend any more time together than is necessary after the silent meal downstairs; when the chink of cutlery frayed both our nerves. I do not blame him for making his escape but when I notice his eyes resting on the box of photographs, I do blame him for my mother’s disappearance.

  ‘Some things don’t change, huh?’ His chin juts out defiantly, indicating the photographs.

  ‘Why won’t you talk about her?’ My own voice is barely a whisper.

  ‘Leave the dead where they belong, Natalie. And you and me will get along fine.’

  ‘Where do the dead belong, Father? If it’s in the cemetery, I’d like to know.’

  Little Downey Cemetery

  Little Downey’s graveyard might be the smallest of cemeteries, but it is the only one I have ever known. One day I shall be buried here, in the shadow of the church that keeps its distance from the dead. But with the cemetery facing the sea, I can think of worse places to end up. A solitary ash tree provides shade for the lucky few, and rooks, brave as you like, hop from gravestone to gravestone. Their calls are heard more often than church bells. It is a solitary place, a mile and a half’s walk from the village, and I have never come across another person here. Nobody comes to lay flowers for the dead in Little Downey.

  The grass is overgrown and ivy clings to the crumbling gravestones, making the epitaphs difficult to read. Some of the writing has faded away completely and I feel sad for the people who have been forgotten about. The cloying smell of decay is ever-present, but it is not altogether unpleasant; better than bleached corridors and old urine, smells I have grown
accustomed to. On that depressing thought, I realise I have been wandering around the graveyard for a good half hour, moving from one gravestone to the next, tracing my fingers against the engraved lettering and still haven’t found what I am looking for. The truth is, I never expected to.

  Giving up, I walk over to the wooden bench that has its back rudely turned on the dead; preferring instead the view of the bay. Because it is still early and the sun is not properly out yet, the bench is damp, but I sit down anyway, so I can face the sea. Up here, the wind is fierce even on the warmest of days. I feel its cold seep into me and liken its numbing effect to an injection of sedative travelling around my body; a familiar sensation for someone like me. With the cliff edge a few meters away, it is dangerous for me to imagine my mother is calling out my name, but I hear its whisper all the same; carried along on the breeze. I feel her with me. She is close. Yet not in the graveyard where she is meant to be.

  ‘Where are you, Mother? What did they do to you?’

  Little Downey Beach

  I could have avoided coming this way. Why didn’t I? It is not as if pushing a bicycle along a pebbled beach is easy. After skulking around the house for what felt like the longest week of my life, I had at last ventured into Little Downey, on my mother’s old shopper bike, to buy some essentials. The sort of thing I cannot ask my father for, although admittedly I did have to ask him for the money. Thankfully, he did not question why. Explaining that I needed tampons would have been embarrassing enough but any mention of razors would have raised alarm bells.