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I watch him sit down and get comfortable. I know he’s hurt her but he shows no remorse. I have to fight all my instincts not to run into her room. My eyes search the log basket next to the fire. It’s close to full, and there’s plenty of coal in the dirty black bucket on the opposite side. My father certainly didn’t fetch the fuel. I know my mother has placed it there just recently.
‘Put another log on, Annie,’ Pa says, noticing where I’m staring.
Tall flames bellow up the chimney. From a couple of feet back, I can feel the heat scald my face. More fuel could set the chimney on fire. But I nod obediently and bend down to fetch the smallest log I can find.
I notice colourful paper among the burning coal. My eyes round like pennies and I can’t breathe. Flames devour Sketch’s painting of the orchard. I watch as hot amber spears roar through the watercolour apple trees. Tears prick my eyes, but I can’t look away as the beautiful image burns into oblivion. I wait until the canvas is little more than crumbly ashes, and I throw a log on top. I stand and brush my hands down the front of my coat, straightening it out as if I can straighten out the twisting pain in my heart that Pa has viciously inflicted. I tuck my hair firmly behind my ear and raise my head tall as if he hasn’t just hurt me deeper than if he’d thrown my heart into the fire alongside the painting.
‘I’ll check on Ma,’ I stutter, concentrating on hiding my pain. ‘I’ll bring her tea.’
Pa takes off one of his shoes and flings it across the room, knocking a picture off the wall. The frame bounces on the cold timber a couple of times before landing flat on its face, and I hear the tell-tale crackle of broken glass.
‘You’ll get dinner on,’ Pa hollers in the same harsh tone he used when speaking to Sketch and me moments before, but it’s much too loud and frightening for the confined indoor space now. ‘And clean this mess up first, you clumsy girl.’
My legs tremble as I make my way to the kitchen to fetch the broom.
‘Annie,’ my father calls, sticking me to the spot. I don’t turn around for fear he might throw the other shoe. ‘I will tolerate the coat. But you will not bring another ugly gift from that boy into this house again. Least of all his affections. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly,’ I sniffle, hurrying my legs as I pray I’ll make it into the safety of the kitchen before they give way completely.
TWENTY-ONE
ANNIE
I wake up to the coldest day of the year so far. I drop my legs over the edge of the bed and drag air between my gritted teeth as a bitter October morning reminds me that winter is on its way.
I retrieve my coat from the bedside chair and slide my arms in, unusually excited for the season ahead when ice will cover the grass like a beautiful, twinkling blanket. I skip out my bedroom door and follow my usual path of chasing floorboards that won’t creak.
I meet my mother in the hall, and we smile at each other. I’m pleased to see Ma wrapped up in her cardigan. Now that I have a coat, she’s content to wear the cardigan rather than insisting I take it. It’ll keep her warm later if she has to venture out. I’ll fill the log basket before I leave. Pa gets his disability cheque today and will spend the afternoon propping up the bar in the Blackwell Tavern. Ma will only need to burn enough fuel to keep the fire from going out.
‘How are you feeling today?’ I whisper.
‘Better, sweetheart,’ Ma lies.
The bruising around Ma’s eye has gone down considerably since last night, and she seems to be blinking comfortably again. She’s masked the darkest parts with talcum powder and done quite a good job. It looks like she’s simply been a bit too heavy-handed with purple eyeshadow. The bruising under her eye that runs onto her cheekbone and down the bridge of her nose is a little trickier to cover up, but I don’t stare.
‘You look nice,’ I smile.
‘Thank you,’ she hums, wincing as she takes a breath too deep for her wounded ribs.
If the bruising on her face is anything to go by, I assume her chest is a montage of black and blue. I want to help her into the chair by the fire and cover her with a blanket, but we both know she won’t sit until after my father has breakfast and leaves for the pub.
‘I’ll make us some scrambled egg and toast,’ I suggest.
Ma shakes her head. ‘Your father left the milk by the fire again. It’s sour.’
I smile. ‘I left some in a cup with a saucer on top outside the back door last night. It’s freezing out there. If no wildlife has knocked the saucer over, the milk should taste as good as fresh.’
‘You clever girl.’ Ma beams. ‘Your father will need a good breakfast to soak up some of that whiskey later. Your clever thinking deserves a reward. There are three eggs in the pantry. Two for Pa and the other for you.’
‘One for each of us,’ I say. ‘You need one too, Ma. You have to eat.’
Ma scrunches her nose, and she grimaces as the movement reminds her of its delicate state. ‘One egg won’t keep your father fed. It’s okay, Annie. I’m not hungry anyway.’
Ma’s baggy cardigan used to sit better on her. It hangs off her shoulders now just as it does when she drapes it over the back of a chair. And her pleated navy skirt falls lower than it used to; she’s so slim the waistband slides down onto her hips. She’s taken it in twice in the last year, which reminds me that my father’s controlling behaviour has become worse than ever over the past twelve months. We used to at least enjoy a roast on Sunday. A whole chicken was too much even for my gluttonous father. But lately he’s been spending more and more money on drink, and Ma can only make credit with the corner shop stretch so far. I can’t remember the last time I tasted meat. My mouth waters just thinking about it.
‘I forgot something,’ I puff out suddenly. ‘I’m invited to breakfast with the Talbots. I think it’s some sort of an induction. Welcome to the workforce, or something like that. It wouldn’t do to be full before I get there.’
Ma smiles wryly. She doesn’t believe a word of it; I can tell because her eyes dance all over me but are reluctant to meet my gaze. She suspects more than a working relationship between Sketch and me, but she won’t ask. She can’t know more than Pa about anything. If he got whiff that she was keeping secrets from him, he’d beat a confession out of her, and we both know it.
