The Butcher's Daughter

by Jane E James

  Dr Moses calls these sudden flashbacks “bogus” and promises they will soon fade, to be replaced with happier memories, but they feel real to me. Glancing sneakily at Daniel’s profile, I wonder what happy memories I can expect to unearth about him and feel myself blushing. I have no recollection of Daniel and I being together as man and wife.

  Neither of us glance to our right when the beach and the relic of the burnt-out gypsy camp comes into view, although I can tell, by our stiff body language, that we are both aware of it. That it means something to each of us.

  When we turn off the main road and hit the dirt track, my heart pounds. The house by the sea is up ahead.

  As we crawl past the whitewashed building, I realise with a stomach-churning jolt that it has been restored and I don’t know whether to feel relieved that the menace of it has finally been obliterated or horrified, for my father’s sake. Not only has it been given a fresh coat of paint but the barred windows have been pulled out, like rotten teeth, and replaced with shiny glass windows. Pressing my nose up against the passenger window, I strain my neck to watch it fall away in the distance, ignoring the pressure of Daniel’s fingers that seem to want to take my attention away from it.

  He is nodding encouragingly at me, and smiling, but I can tell by the way the corners of his eyes crease, that this is not the main surprise of the day. That something even bigger is waiting for us. As we pull up in front of my father’s house, I feel my heart sink.

  The house by the sea has been painted a white so brilliant, I am at once reminded of the bleached teeth of the smiling nurses at Thornhaugh. Even the broken picket fence has been repaired and stands straight backed and erect, like a child in trouble. A new swing hangs invitingly in the neatly manicured cottage garden and white lace curtains flutter at every window. Not to be outdone, the wooden porch is decorated in bunting and a long picnic table covered in a checked tablecloth heaves with party food. This is not my home. I do not know this place, I think, feeling bereft.

  When Daniel gestures to the rear of the house, where I can see the cliff edge looming, I spot the “Welcome home” banner for the first time.

  Almost falling out of the car in shock, I resist the urge to run away. My drained face must give me away though, because Daniel looks as guilty as anything. He must be kicking himself for agreeing to go along with this, and I feel for him, really, I do, but neither of us can do anything about it now.

  As we watch people get up from their chairs as if they might wander over and hug us, I am unable to stop myself from backing away. My eyes fill with uncertain tears when I see Bob Black among the crowd, cheerily bouncing Darkly up and down on his lap. This stings in a way I didn’t expect it to. I was not permitted to spend time alone with Darkly at Thornhaugh, in case I inadvertently said something that would upset her, yet somebody, Daniel presumably, had deemed Bob Black a suitable guardian. Unable to fight off a rising anger, I turn my attention to the tall ginger-haired youth, who is turning meat on a barbecue. Once again, I am reminded of the orderly at Thornhaugh.

  Everybody else is a stranger. Only the obese woman careering unsteadily towards me with a handkerchief pressed to her eye, obviously intent on hugging me to death, seems to know what to do. When Daniel’s hand takes control of mine, I lean gratefully against him. Only with his help and support will I get through this day.

  The House By The Sea

  Bathed in warm sunshine, this room is barely recognisable as my parents’ old bedroom. The walls have been painted the same colour as honey, and fresh floral curtains hang at the window. At the bottom of the king size bed, I wonder which side is mine, there is a pretty chaise longue that matches the curtains. The creaking floorboards have gone; replaced with a soft carpet that my feet sink into, like wet sand. Daniel tells me that we waited a whole year after my father died before moving in here, but it still feels wrong. My parents’ presence is all around me. If I listen hard enough, I imagine I can hear their raised voices arguing through the walls. Worse than that, I sense my mother’s eyes are on me. She wouldn’t like me in here, touching her things.

  Looking at my reflection in the dressing table mirror, I am surprised yet again by how much I resemble her. I’m told I grow more like her every day, yet I think my eyes are blacker than hers ever were. Picking up her silver-plated brush and hand mirror set, which have been polished and shine like new, I brush my hair, thinking it might be time to lay old ghosts to rest, but I am wrong.

  My things. Mine.

  As soon as I hear the voice—an uneasy memory stirs. Closing my eyes, I recall a vicious blow to the head and the sensation of blood dripping from my ear.

  Drip. Splat. Drip.

  Imagining I am alone, afraid, and in danger, my eyes flash open and I see my mother’s haunted reflection staring back at me. When I drop the brush, her image disappears.

  I do not have time to figure out what any of this means because at that moment the door opens, carving a deep groove in the carpet, and Daniel comes in. His cheery whistling and inability to leave me on my own for more than a few minutes grates on my nerves, but I smile anyway, because I do not want to hurt his feelings. Part of me longs to have the creaky old floorboards back so I might know where he is at any given time.

  When he comes to stand behind me and runs his hands up and down my bare arms, I try not to flinch, but it is as if a stranger had assaulted me. His eagerness for contact makes me increasingly nervous and I want to shrug him off, but I keep reminding myself that he is my husband. A good one too by all accounts, judging by how patient he has been with me so far. I have no idea what is going on in his mind, but he seems preoccupied with the skin on my arms. They are only faintly scarred.

  ‘Good as new. Smooth as silk,’ Daniel mumbles, slipping the strap of my nightdress down on one shoulder, so he can put his lips to the cool white skin there.

  I shudder uncontrollably but he seems oblivious to my real feelings. In fact, he goes one step further, circling the top of my thighs through the silky material. As I watch him through the mirror, I see his eyes flare with desire.

  ‘You don’t know how long I have waited for this,’ he murmurs breathlessly.

  When he pulls me to my feet and presses his body against mine, my legs threaten to give way. The terror of this moment has been haunting me since I first arrived home.

  ‘Daniel, I don’t think I’m ready,’ I say quietly, trying to avoid his hands and mouth.

  ‘You’re my wife.’ He takes hold of my hand and steers me towards the bed. ‘And we’ve done it a thousand times before.’

  When I pull back the bed sheets the next morning and expose the blood smears on them, my irritable mood increases. Having woken up with a thumping headache, I feel angry and confused about last night. Daniel must have realised I wasn’t ready for what happened, yet he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So much for his being patient and understanding, I think bitterly. All that went out of the window the moment we were alone.

  I may not be experienced in the ways of sex but I am sure he was not as gentle as he could have been, as I am feeling sore and bruised inside. Not only was his lovemaking clumsy, he resisted all my efforts to get him to slow down. At one stage, I even cried out in pain, but he silenced my protests with his mouth. Should it have hurt that much? Do women grow to like it, as they appear to in movies and books? The thought of my own parents doing that fills me with disgust.

  When Daniel comes out of the adjoining en-suite bathroom, which is a new addition to the house, and sees me pointedly looking at the blood, he has the grace to look ashamed.

  ‘It’s been a long time. I expect that’s why.’ He shrugs apologetically, allowing the towel wrapped around his lower half to drop to the floor, where he casually abandons it.

  Chapter 60

  The sun is already fierce in the sky, causing me to squint, but despite the heat which everyone predicts will reach thirty degrees by the end of today, I have covered up well, to avoid any possibility of burning. With my fair com
plexion I cannot be too careful. In the last few days I have already witnessed the return of freckles on my nose and cheeks, which I haven’t seen since I was a girl. Glancing down at Darkly’s olive skin and suntanned hands, I wonder at how different we are.

  As always, she holds my hand as if she will never let it go. Lord help anyone who tries to pry her off me, I think with a smile. Her hair is matted as usual. No matter how I try to tame it, it bounces right back again, turning her into a feral looking little thing. On that thought, I am reminded of another wild-looking creature, and for some reason my mind wanders over to the whitewashed building. But the memory vanishes quickly, leaving me with nothing to go on, so I turn my attention back to my family.

  We have come out to see Daniel off. Every day he insists on this ritual as if it is important, but Darkly and I would much rather be off somewhere by ourselves, making our own memories. If I didn’t know better, I would say that Daniel feels excluded by our close mother-daughter relationship and wants us to bond more as a family. Yet the Daniel I have come to know of late is not that sensitive to what other people think and feel.

  Patting his trouser pockets, as if making sure he has everything he needs, he hurries over to kiss me sloppily on the forehead. I can tell that his mind is already preoccupied with work. In many ways, he and my father are alike, I realise belatedly.

  ‘Ring me if you need me,’ he tells me distractedly.

  ‘Daniel?’ I say quickly, before I can change my mind.

  ‘What?’

  Although I have his attention, I can tell he wants to get on. Deep down, I suspect his patience with me wore out some time ago, although he does a good job of hiding it.

  ‘What exactly do I do all I day?’ I ask. ‘I mean, what did I do before?’

  He pulls a face, as if unsure how to answer. ‘I don’t know. Wash. Iron. Cook. Women’s stuff, I guess.’

  ‘Women’s stuff.’ I am scathing, unable to hide my annoyance. He is in too much of a hurry to hold this against me, so he shrugs.

  ‘Don’t forget Mam will be popping by later,’ he reminds me, pressing a finger to my nose. I am sure he knows this habit of his irritates me, yet he refuses to give it up. I rather suspect he finds my response to it amusing.

  ‘Why?’ I fold my arms.

  I have met his mother enough times to know that we will never be friends. But I have also learned that Daniel will not tolerate any criticism of her.

  ‘To check up on you two,’ he jokes but we both know he is being deadly serious.

  Fuming, I watch him get in the truck and drive off. As soon as it is out of sight, I glance down at Darkly, whose bright blue eyes are waiting for mine.

  ‘We don’t need checking up on, do we?’ I smile mischievously.

  I mourn this room like no other. Every bit of my mother has been stripped from its walls. The rocking chairs have gone, as has the fireplace—newly plastered walls taking its place. The pine dresser and kitchen table have also disappeared. I have no idea what happened to my mother’s willow-patterned bone china and cannot bring myself to ask. I do not know whose idea it was to rid this house of anything that might remind me of my parents or my past, but I suspect Daniel’s mother’s involvement. She means well, I am told, but when I glance around at the new contemporary-style kitchen, I feel I no longer belong. It is Daniel’s home now. It has the Harper stamp on it.

  Because I don’t know where anything is, I have opened most of the cupboard doors in my quest to find what I am looking for. When I first come across the integral dishwasher and digital microwave I am baffled by them. I have no idea how to use such trendy appliances and I suspect I am not the only one because both are pristine and look as if they have never been touched. While I rummage through the cupboards, finding not one single thing I recognise, Darkly plays on the floor, making buzzing sounds. I have to step over her several times, until I have everything I need, including a rolling pin and a packet of meat from the fridge. It’s time to face the mess I have created on the island in the middle of the room.

  The slate worktop is scattered with flour and broken eggs. I know, without having to look in a mirror, that my face is also dusted with flour. If my father were alive, he would vouch for the fact that I have never been much of a cook. I find the whole process daunting, especially when looking at the recipe book photograph in front of me of a perfect meat pie with golden pastry. I don’t know how I will ever be able to successfully replicate it.

  I thought I liked keeping house but now I am not so sure. Maybe it’s the cooking part that doesn’t agree with me. My attention is easily diverted, which is why, instead of rolling out the lumpy pastry, I find myself watching Darkly instead. She has something in her hand which appears to fascinate her and I can tell by the way her shoulders are hunched over it that she doesn’t want me to see it. This piques my interest even more.

  ‘What have you got there, Darkly?’

  ‘Busy bee, busy bee,’ she chants, reluctantly holding up a bumblebee fridge magnet, which a small part of me instantly recognises. As yet, I don’t understand its significance but seeing it bunched up in my daughter’s hand makes me feel faint.

  ‘Let me have that,’ I demand, storming across the kitchen.

  Unused to hearing me speak so sharply and sensing that she is about to have her new toy taken away, Darkly crawls under the breakfast bar and hides, wrapping her chubby little legs around the metal frame of a bar stool, in case I should try to pull her out.

  ‘Mine! Mine!’ she screams, as incensed as I am.

  Her angry words stop me. This time, I know for sure that I have heard them before. In this very house.

  My things. My man. Mine.

  Fighting back a wave of nausea, which threatens to knock me off my feet, I want to sit down and rest, but first I must get to the bottom of this.

  ‘I’ll swap you for a biscuit,’ I whisper deviously, moving towards the biscuit barrel.

  Darkly eyes me with suspicion. She is not usually offered sugary treats at this time of the day, so it is natural for her to be mistrustful. Crouching alongside her, underneath the breakfast bar, the exchange gets made when she sees the proffered biscuit in my hand. While she contentedly nibbles the edges of the oatmeal snack, leaving crumbs all around her, I study the bumblebee magnet.

  Now you must give me a present.

  A woman’s voice, young, with a soft Irish accent, echoes around the room. It shocks me to know that another exchange of a different kind took place in this kitchen, although I get the feeling it was the old kitchen, not this new monstrosity. I vaguely remember that this somebody also made me feel like a stranger in my own home. For the briefest of seconds, I see a flash of green eyes and a toss of glossy black hair.

  ‘Natalie! Are you in there?’

  As soon as I hear the voice, which is whiny and brash in comparison to the one I heard before, I panic and shoot upwards, hurting my head on the breakfast bar. Glancing quickly around, I wonder if the voice is real this time. My heart sinks when I spot the pink multiple chins of Daniel’s mother squashed up against the kitchen window.

  Chapter 61

  Mother-in-law disapproves of me. I get that. But does she have to make it so obvious? She doesn’t even pretend to smile when I come back into the room, just sits there, with a smug look on her face that immediately puts my back up. She doesn’t need to tell me that I could do better. It’s there on her face, for all to see.

  ‘She’s gone down at last,’ I sigh, ignoring the way her stubby fingers drum impatiently on the high-gloss kitchen table. I long to have the old pine table back, the one I carved my young initials into. Deciding that whatever I do will never be good enough for my mother-in-law, I put on the kettle and find her a slice of cake. That usually cheers her up.

  ‘A bit of a handful, that one, if you ask me. Wilful streak,’ she whines, wiping imaginary dust off the edge of the table. ‘Daniel was always such a good baby.’

  ‘She’s not even three yet,’ I utter stiffly. Truth
fully, I am not sure how old my daughter is, but I am not going to admit this. The last time I saw her, when I was myself, that is, she was still a baby. When I turn to glare at Daniel’s mother, I realise I might as well be talking to myself because she isn’t the slightest bit interested. Her whole focus is on the broken eggshells and the floury mess splattered across the island worktop.

  ‘What on earth were you trying to make?’ she asks, shaking her head.

  ‘Steak pie.’ I sigh, but then I realise I should be feeling proud, not putting myself down. ‘It’s Daniel’s favourite,’ I add boastfully. Surely, even she should be happy that I am going out of my way to please her son.

  ‘That’s what he says about mine, any road.’ She huffs, obviously offended.

  When our eyes next meet, neither of us bothers to hide our mutual dislike. I am starting to wonder how long we can continue in such an uncomfortable silence when she puffs out her already ample chest and gets to her feet. Dusting her hands together, as if she means business, she takes an apron out of her bag and slips it on over her floral blouse and stretched-to-the-limit polyester trousers.

  ‘We’d better get started. Houses don’t clean themselves, you know,’ she bustles.

  I am so taken aback, it takes me a few seconds to reply. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, Mrs Harper…’

  ‘Mrs Harper! Call me Mam. You always used to.’

  ‘Mam,’ I declare uncomfortably, ‘it’s just that… I’d like to get back in the swing of things by myself. If you don’t mind.’

  As soon as my little speech is over, I glance away, in case she is nursing one of her infamous hurt expressions in the hope I will take back my words. She is an expert in manipulating people. I expect her to bite back, but she seems to think better of it.