I shiver at the dark memory. These unexpected recollections arethings I’ve pushed for years from my mind, not wanting to go there. And they’reunsettling me... puncturing my determination to get one overEddie. On impulse, I shake out a tea towel and start wiping away the dust,revealing the delicate, hand-painted red roses and green grass beneath. The box-shapedteapot, made in the form of a country cottage with flowers painted on itscreamy walls, was a permanent feature of our lives back then. Dad drank coffee(I guess it was good for sobering up) but Mum preferred tea and she always madea little ceremony of it, spooning in leaves from the blue tea caddy over there andleaving them to brew in the pot for four minutes exactly.
It had to be four minutes.
Strange, the things you remember...
Lying next to the teapot, sliding over the worktop, is thejunk mail that I scooped up when I stepped inside a few days ago. Even in the monthssince the estate agent first came round to list the house, a pile hasaccumulated. Pulling them together, a slither of shiny, colourful takeawayleaflets and other assorted flyers, I suddenly notice a handwritten letter,addressed to me, and my heart gives an enormous thump. But as I’m about to pickit up, I suddenly spot something far more relevant to my current mood andcircumstances, lying nearby.
A sledgehammer!
I eye the wall to be demolished, then I push up my sleevesand pick up the hammer. Eddie must have left it here in anticipation oftackling the wall. It’s much heavier than I was expecting and I handle it for amoment, getting the feel of it. Then I walk over to the wall that needs to begone.
Why wait around for Eddie?
I’ve been doing things for myself for years. I can change atyre, plaster a wall, and fix a leaky toilet. (YouTube videos are brilliant.)
So I’m damn sure I can demolish one pesky wall withouttoo much trouble!
I pull back the hammer with both hands, then I aim it at thewall, right in the centre, using all the force I can muster, along with anaccompanying martial arts cry.
Hi-yah.
The aftershocks shudder through my whole body, yet I’vebarely made a dent in the wall. I take aim and swing the sledgehammer again.And again. And yet again. It’s hot and sweaty work but it feels cathartic, likea therapy session...
All the pent-up frustration – hi-yah– and the angerI’ve felt over the years – hi-yah– is finally finding the perfectoutlet in the swing of this hunk of metal meeting solid wall. I’m taking aim atour father, who worshipped alcohol more than his own kids; and at our mother,who walked out on us when I was just a vulnerable fourteen-year-old and Dylan ayear older. Hi-yah. I’m slamming the care home that didn’t give mysensitive, loving but broken brother the support he really needed. Hi-yah.And there’s a special swing of the hammer for every one of those judgemental strangerswho looked at Dylan and me and thought they knew who we were, just because –through no fault of our own – we’d had to go into care...
Hi-yah.
And what about my brother, deciding one day to suddenly upsticks and ‘go travelling abroad’. That was pretty much all he said in thescribbled note he left for me, and he’s been gone well over a year now. Ihelped him face his demons and that was the thanks I got. He just walked out ofmy life one morning and never looked back...
Take that, Dylan!
A horrible gut-wrenching sense of loss rises up, minglingwith the anger and the bitterness already inside me. It’s a potent mix and itgives me a second wind. But maybe it’s the perspiration stinging my eyes, or mysweaty palms, but this time, when I pull back the hammer and aim it at the wideninghole, it suddenly slips from my grasp.
I watch in horror as it flies through the air – almost inslow motion – and comes to rest with an enormous clatter on the worktop. Itcollides with the ‘country cottage’ teapot, breaking it in two.
Next second, an urgent voice says, ‘Whoa! Be careful, there.Are you all right?’
For a split-second, I think:Eddie! He’s changed his mindand come back to do the work.
Breathing heavily, I swing round, my eyes blazing with asense of rebellious triumph at my achievement (which actually amounts to a verysmall hole in the wall plus several cracks).
But it isn’t Eddie.
The dark-haired man standing there takes a worried steptowards me. ‘You do realise you could bring the whole house down if you carryon like that?’
He’s staring at me incredulously, like I’m some kind ofcrazed, wild-haired witch woman who’s escaped from a nearby attic or the pagesof a Charlotte Bronte novel.
CHAPTER FOUR
Still panting from my exertions, I plonk down thehammer and glare at him. ‘Oh, great. So Eddie’s sent one of his minions to fobme off, has he?’
‘Er, no?’ Looking bemused, he folds his arms and plants hislong, denim-encased legs more firmly on solid earth as if to ward off thewitchy vibes I’m clearly giving off. ‘I just wanted to stop you killingyourself, that’s all.’
I snort. ‘Of course you do. I mean, you wouldn’t want tokill the goose that lays the golden egg, would you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Well, you’ll no doubt be hoping to screw some more moneyout of me. But I’m afraid you won’t be getting a single penny more until youactually do some work.’
