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‘But look at her, Johnny,’ Ma continues, her voice shaking as much as her body. ‘She’s all dressed up. She’s ready to dance.’
‘You’re right again, my love.’ Pa chuckles, and I cover my head with my hands recognising the familiar sadistic laugh.
Pa crouches on his hunkers. I try to back away, but the corner of the hall table digs into my spine like a spear, preventing me from retreating any farther. Pa stuffs his hands inside the collar of my dress and tugs. I close my eyes, fearing he might divert his anger from ripping my dress to ripping my skin clean off my bones. The beautiful blue cotton creaks, and I hear it stretch. The comfortable dress suddenly chafes against my shoulders as my father tries desperately to rip it clean off me. But the stubborn material refuses to give in. My beautiful blue dress is standing up to my father, and I’m so ready to do the same.
‘Annie, are you there?’ Sketch shouts, his voice muffled as it carries through the door.
Pa stands up with a speed that defies his age, and he’s standing next to my mother quicker than I can pull myself up off the floor.
‘I won’t tell you again, Mary. Get out.’
Ma cranes her neck to peer around my father’s broad shoulders. I nod as I stand straight and try to act as if my lower back isn’t on fire.
‘Go, Ma. Just go. Please,’ I say.
The corners of Ma’s cherry lips curl as she tries to hide her worry with a pretty smile. Ma’s hand trembles as she turns around and reaches for the door handle, but when she breathes out and pulls herself tall, it’s almost believable that she’s calm.
‘Arthur,’ Ma says breezily as she swings the door open as if nothing has just happened, and steps outside without looking back. ‘Lovely to see you again.’
The door closes quickly behind her, and my heart sinks with the heaviest sadness I’ve ever known. Some mumbling follows outside, and I think I can hear pacing. I have no doubt Sketch is quizzing Ma about my absence.
My father dominates the hall. He keeps an eye on me as he presses his ear to the door.
‘They’re gone,’ he finally says at the sound of Sketch’s engine starting and driving away.
I choke back tears. Part of me expected Sketch to come barging through the door to rescue me. Of course, deep down, I know it’s for the best that he didn’t. A giant fight would have surely erupted and someone would have ended up hurt. Maybe badly. Even though I know Sketch has done the sensible thing, my body is pinned to the spot by the weight of sadness. I was so excited about the dance; snatching the dream away from me at the eleventh hour is by far my father at his cruellest.
‘Clean this up,’ Pa orders, pointing at the empty whiskey bottle on the ground. He drags his finger across the air and clicks at Bridget’s broken shoes. ‘And get those the hell out of my sight.’
He walks away and flops into the fireside chair, putting his feet up, comfortable and content.
THIRTY-FIVE
ANNIE
I complete the list of mundane tasks that my father rattled off the top of his head. My fingers hurt from carrying in a box of logs too big for the fire and too heavy for my back. My knees are black and dirty from kneeling on the ground trying to light the fire with the large damp logs. The small of my back was already sore from falling on it, but when my father’s heel collided with it when the fire wouldn’t take light, the agony was almost unbearable. But I didn’t cry. No physical pain he could inflict would hurt more than Sketch and my mother leaving for the dance without me.
Exhausted, I flop onto my bed. I’m too tired to change out of my dress into my tattered nightdress. I decide to sleep in my clothes tonight. I gaze up at the ceiling as moonlight streams in through the flimsy curtains. The darkness of a summer’s night has turned life outside and inside my room into a matching chalky grey. Trees sway in the gentle breeze, sending shadows dancing around my room, and I pretend the dark silhouettes are people. I hum gently and sway in beat with the moving branches, imagining I’m wrapped up in Sketch’s arms, dancing the night away.
I’m in the blissful state somewhere between conscious and not when a light scratching on my window pulls me awake. I drag myself off the bed and my feet barely come in contact with the cold timber as I bounce across the floor. I quickly draw back the curtains and press my nose against the glass and squint, trying to make something out of the shapes and shadows that sway outside. There’s nothing there. I swallow the bitter pill of disappointment and resign myself to the understanding that Sketch isn’t coming back for me. Of course he isn’t.Real life is nothing like books, I tell myself, even though I want so desperately to believe in the fantasy.
But then there is another scratch on the glass, and I spin on the spot. A silent, startled scream hitches in the back of my throat, and although I’m delighted to find Sketch standing on the opposite side of the glass, my heart still palpitates with shock and surprise. Sketch takes a step back and reaches out to me. He wants me to come outside, I think, overwhelmed by sudden nervous excitement. I hold up my index finger and signal for him to wait. I hurry to my bedroom door and wedge the back of a chair under the door knob to create a makeshift lock. I scamper back to my bed and slip my feet into my shoes.
I squint as I make my way slowly towards the window. I’m gentle on my feet, taking mostly baby steps, despite my haste. I’m a dab hand at making sure my feet make no sound as I cross the floor. My hand shakes dramatically as I reach for the window handle. I’m glad it’s dark, so Sketch can’t see my flushed cheeks.
The window is stubborn and doesn’t want to open. The hinges creak as I push, and I curse its lack of cooperation. I let go and shake my head.
‘It’s too noisy,’ I whisper.
Sketch looks back in confusion. He can’t hear me through the glass.
I point toward the rusty hinges. Sketch nods confidently and grabs the frame on his side. He tugs. The window flies open with a brief screechy groan. The noise hangs in the air for a second, and then it’s gone, carried away on the breeze. Sketch and I stand still and silent, and I guess he’s holding his breath too. Life outside and inside the house is calm. My father doesn’t seem to have stirred from his position, passed out blind drunk in his fireside chair.
Sketch reaches his arm through the open window and I take his hard-working hand. It’s warm and safe, and I exhale sharply as I pull myself up and crouch on the window ledge. Sketch lets go of my hand and settles both of his hands on my waist.
‘Are you ready?’ he whispers.
I nod.
