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‘Holly, love,’ Nana’s voice rattles like a low hum in her chest and her eyes are too heavy and exhausted to open. ‘Be a good girl and get some tea. I’ll still be here when you get back.’
‘That’s me told.’ I try to smile. ‘Okay, Nana. I’ll be back in ten minutes. We can read more then.’
My grandmother drags a rusty breath up from somewhere deep inside her. ‘I can’t… wait.’
NINE
ANNIE
I hear a rustle and a clatter ahead. My father is awake. I recognise the sound of dehydrated legs colliding with the floor as he sways and staggers, attempting to get his balance. My shivering body quivers like a leaf in the wind as I lean my back against the front door and examine my dress. The heavy rain has turned it from a delicate sky blue into a winter indigo. If my father finds me freezing and dripping water on the floor like a drowned rat, he’ll be furious at my stupidity of getting caught out in the rain. Worse still, if he discovers I’ve failed to bring home groceries, I know he will beat me senseless. His temper mixed with the sting of last night’s whiskey terrifies me.
‘Annie,’ he growls, his voice as loud as the thunder outside. ‘Where are you, girl?’
I wonder if I can make it back outside without the door creaking and giving my whereabouts away. I could gather some firewood from the side of the house and pretend I got caught out in the rain doing chores. He’ll still be angry, but I can distract him by lighting a roaring fire and pray the heat soothes his aching head.
‘Annie, fetch me some vinegar and brown paper,’ he bellows.
His words are slurred, and his vowels overly round. I suspect he still has some alcohol lurking in his veins. Or perhaps he’s fallen on the way home and busted his lip. It wouldn’t be the first time. Just two weeks ago he split his left eyebrow open, and when my mother tried to wash the muck and stones out of the gaping wound, he squealed like a pig and put my mother spinning across the room with an almighty backhand across her face. It took two days for the imprint of his fingers to fade from scalding red to rosy pink on her cheek.
‘Annie, girl,’ he roars. ‘I won’t call again. Come here, now.’
I reach behind my back, and I find the door handle with ease. I twist it slowly, taking great care not to make a sound. I almost have it, when I jump and let go, startled by the sound of my mother dropping something in the kitchen. A pot or pan, most likely. The metal clangs against the kitchen tiles with a recognisable thud, and the sound seems to echo around the house for longer than it should, as if it climbs the walls, seeking out my father to come investigate.
When the ringing stops, I hear my father’s awkward legs cross the floor, making their way to the kitchen. The sound of his cumbersome winter boots is unmistakeable. My mother will no doubt have scurried to clean up whatever mess has been made, but she won’t have time before my father catches her. If she’s on her knees scrubbing, she’s in a vulnerable position and the blow of his temper will come crashing down in the shape of his fist into the back of her head. Or worse, he’ll use his knee or the sole of his boot.
‘Pa,’ I call, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice as I let go of the door handle and rush into the belly of the house. ‘Brown paper, you said. I’ll fetch it now.’
My father spins on the spot. He eyes me up and down as if I’m something he’s scraped off his mucky boots. I wait with baited breath for him to realise I’m soaked through to the skin. My mother scampers out of the kitchen almost slipping on the tiles. She’s carrying a tray with a cup of tea and a couple of slices of toast.
‘Here now, Johnny,’ she soothes, her eyes flicking towards me for a split second, checking on me. ‘You sit yourself down and I’ll look after you. I’ve tea ready for you. And toast. Buttered up all nice, just the way you like it.’
My father slowly makes his way towards the fireside armchair. There’s no need for him to move so slowly or take such exaggerated baby steps. I crane my neck, and I can just about make out the purplish-red hint of temper that gathers across his forehead and makes its way down his nose. Before I have time to call out or offer a distraction, my mother is right behind him. She carries the tray high and tight against her chest, taking care not to let any tea stray over the edge of the teacup and spill onto the saucer. My father reaches the chair and spins around, as slowly as ever, and for a moment, I believe maybe he really will just sit and enjoy Ma’s offering. Just as I dare to exhale, my father sweeps his powerful arm across the air and his open palm collides with the underside of the tray. The force knocks the tray clean out of my mother’s hands and sends it flying into the air. The tray, teacup, plate and toast rain down independently and land on the floor at his feet in a messy pile.
‘You clumsy bitch,’ my father shouts. Grabbing fistfuls of my mother’s hair, he tosses her to the floor like discarded rubbish.
Her knees collide with the floor, and the pain registers on the tired lines around her pretty eyes. I know better than to scream. Or go to my mother’s aid. Trying to help would only make everything worse. I’ve learnt that the hard way over the years. If my father thinks my mother and I are uniting against him, it boils his anger even more. My heart hurts as I stand back and watch the tears stream down my mother’s cheeks as she gathers up the shards of broken crockery and tidies them onto the tray, which has surprisingly remained intact.
‘Toast?’ my father says through gritted teeth as he towers over my mother. ‘What kind of meal is that for a hard-working man?’
I’ve never known my father as a hard-working man. The only income in the house is his disability pension. The Blackwell Tavern sees three-quarters of that go straight into their till every week. There’s so little left it really is difficult to keep a household going. Thank goodness for credit in the local shop or we may starve. It wasn’t so bad last year when my mother sold her beautiful cross-stitch in town to the farmers’ wives. But on Christmas Day last year, my father scalded her right hand so badly with boiling water as punishment for burning the potatoes, she can’t hold the needle properly any more. She’s trying to teach me the skill, but it has to be done in secret when my father is in the pub. We make sure to have everything tidied away and hidden in the shed before he gets home.
‘Annie.’ My father marches towards me. ‘Get in that kitchen and get cooking a decent meal. The day is half gone, and I haven’t been fed. Not many men in this town would tolerate this nonsense. I’m too quiet. Too quiet for my own good.’
I nod and force a dry smile as I step away from the door. I try to keep as much distance as I possibly can between us as I pass by and make my way into the kitchen.
‘Annie,’ he snorts as I hurry past. ‘Annie, get back here.’
I force a huge lump of air down, much too big for my throat, and close my eyes for a second before I’m brave enough to turn around.
‘Are you wet?’ he barks, pointing at my dress that’s become taut and rough against my skin as it dries.
I look down and wince as I notice the dry and wet areas at war with one another to reveal dual tones in the damp satin.
‘It’s raining,’ I explain meekly as if the unmerciful clatter of thunder every minute or so isn’t clue enough. ‘I… I…’
‘That’s your best dress and this is how you treat it?’ Clouds of anger gather in the corners of my father’s eyes, dragging his normally round blue eyes into narrow slits.
‘This is my only dress.’ I swallow, knowing I’ll pay the price for back answering as soon as the words pass my lips.
