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My mother’s smile disappears.
‘He asked me to bake his favourite dessert. And so I did.’
‘Oh, Annie.’ My mother relaxes. ‘Look at you, all grown-up. Just yesterday, you were my bonnie baby bouncing on my knee and now here you are, pretty as a picture all dressed up and ready to dance.’
My father appears at the door of the kitchen. He’s leaning with one shoulder against the wall and one leg crossed over the other. There’s a whiskey bottle tucked under his other arm, and he looks as if he might topple over anytime.
‘What’s this I hear about a dance?’ he slurs, unscrewing the cap of the bottle.
‘You remember,’ my mother says, trying hard to stay calm, but I notice the twitch in her hands. ‘Mr Talbot spoke to you about it.’
‘That stinking old farmer said he wanted you to go to the dance.’ He points a long, shaking finger at my mother. ‘He didn’t say nothing about our Annie going,’ my father barks, suddenly sounding convincingly sober.
A dry cough scrapes up my mother’s throat. ‘Well, Mr Talbot might have worded it badly, but I’m pretty sure he wants both of us to go. Annie and me.’
‘You’re pretty sure?’ My father growls, pulling himself upright. ‘You’re pretty sure of nothing.’
He raises the bottle to his mouth, and I can hear him guzzling from across the hall. The cap slips out of his fingers and rolls along the tiles, coming to a stop just before my feet. My father strides across the hall, taking giant steps. The familiar redness creeps across his forehead and cheeks and comes to a meeting point on the bridge of his nose. His temper is rattled, I know that for certain. His eyes are on the bottle top, and I wonder if he’s furious that I didn’t bend down to pick it up straight away.
‘Where did you get those?’ he bellows, pointing at my feet. His hot, foggy breath laced with spicy alcohol blasts into my face.
‘I… I…’ I can’t gather my words.
‘You, you what?’ he mimics, the redness of his face edges close to maroon. ‘Did you spend my hard-earned money on them?’
I want to scream. I want to shout in his face and tell him that it’s my money. Money I genuinely work hard to earn by cooking and cleaning, but of course I don’t. He’d take his temper out on me. Or worse still, my mother. And she’s so looking forward to this dance. I can’t do anything to spoil her evening.
‘A friend loaned them to me,’ I explain, my breath heavy with fear.
‘You don’t have friends,’ my father snaps.
‘You’re right,’ I say, backing away slowly. ‘We’re not really friends. Her name is Bridget. We were in school together. I don’t know her any more. Not really. But she said I need to look respectable.’
‘And what’s wrong with the shoes I paid for? The shoes I used my hard-earned money to put on your feet? Are those shoes not good enough for your friends?’
I hold my breath. I rack my brain for something to say. Any answer I can think of will be wrong.
‘These are dancing shoes,’ my mother interjects. ‘Annie can’t dance in her good workin’ shoes. She’d ruin them with all that waltzing and quick steppin’.’
My father’s stiff neck relaxes a fraction, and I allow myself to breathe out.
‘Take them off,’ he orders.
‘But Pa.’
‘Now, Annie,’ he growls. ‘Take that girl’s shoes off your feet right now or I will.’
I look at my mother. The excited sparkle I’d noticed in her eyes is gone, and instead, I see the usual cloud of sadness.
‘Do as your father says. That’s a good girl.’ Ma keeps her voice steady, but I can sense her heartbreak. ‘Hurry now.’
I bend down and unbuckle one shoe at a time. I slip them off, and my father snatches them out of my hand before I stand straight. He swings them over his head and throws them across the room. They crash against the far wall with a loud bang, and when I look down at them on the ground, I can see the heel on the left one has smashed clean off. Bridget’s beautiful shoes lie battered and broken on the ground, just like my soul.
‘Johnny, please,’ my mother begs, reaching out to stroke my father’s arm. ‘Take a moment to calm down.’
My father’s eyes darken even more as he shrugs my mother’s hand off him as if her touch is dirty and he can’t bear to be contaminated.
‘This,’ he hisses through clenched teeth. ‘Where did you get this?’ He grabs a handful of my skirt and scrunches the pleats between his fingers until his knuckles turn white and shake.
