Page 3 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
My eyes widen.
‘But I won’t. Listen, children can be awfully cruel. In my experience, they decide who they’re going to be mean to and then come up with a reason for it.’
I think this is something I’ll need to pick apart later. But for now I have questions. ‘But why don’t I, when everyone else does?’
Granny Rose sighs. ‘Because some men don’t stick around and do the right thing, I suppose. And your dad was one of them.’
‘Where do you think he is?’
‘I don’t know, love. I never think about him. He chose not to be part of this family, and it gave me the opportunity to step in and live with you both, and I’ll never be sorry for that.’
I nod solemnly. I want to ask another question, to prolong this time snuggled up next to Granny Rose, who smells of floral hand cream and home, but I can’t think of one.
‘You know,’ she says, ‘you’re a good girl. Such a good girl.’
I am. I make a point of it. Dad left and I don’t want to risk anyone else deciding to go, do I?
‘You’re a good Granny Rose,’ I say, and she laughs.
‘Night night, love,’ she says, getting off the bed slowly, one hand on her back. She slides the book back into its spot on the bookcase and leaves the room, turning off the light on her way out. In the pitch darkness, I feel around the bed until I find Big Ted and Small Ted. I lay Big Ted next to me and place Small Ted in the crook of my neck, and I think about Mum, who won’t get back from work until the middle of the night but will still get up to have a coffee and a cigarette in her dressing gown while I have my Coco Pops tomorrow morning before school. I’ve been to the pub a handful of times, have drunk orange squash and eaten bags of crisps sitting on the high bar stools on the occasional Sunday afternoon, so I can picture Mum there, making drinks and taking money to put in the till. Having three different conversations at once, throwing her head back in laughter, and generally being impossibly glamorous.
I want to work in a pub when I’m older, but when I said that to Mum, she just looked a bit sad and said I should aim higher than that. I didn’t understand. In the pub, Mum is like a queen, everyone wanting to talk to her, everyone knowing her name. I want that. I ache for that.
Sleep is tugging at me as I ponder what aiming higher means. I know that Annabelle’s mum and dad both work in offices andshe goes to a childminder after school every day while I go home with my mum and play Snakes and Ladders. Is that really better?
3
NOW
A petite woman comes to my bedside and introduces herself as Fern. She’s one of those women whose age is hard to determine. She’s got sharp eyes that flit around the room and shiny, dark hair that’s tied up in a neat bun. She says she’s a physiotherapist. Like Angela, she tells me she’s been looking after me while I was unconscious. Which begs the question – how long have I been unconscious?
‘What does that mean?’ I ask.
‘Well, it’s important to keep your body moving, so we just come in a couple of times each day and do some gentle stretches of your limbs, your fingers, that kind of thing.’
It’s so strange to think of someone stretching out my limbs while I was unconscious that I don’t ask another question.
‘It’s good to see you awake,’ she says, and her voice is kind, and I believe she means it.
‘You were lucky to catch me. There’s a lot of sleeping going on.’
‘Good. Rest is essential for recovery.’
Who are these people who choose this life? Working with patients who are at the gateway between life and death, trying to ensure they go one way and not the other. How do they do it?
‘Do you know when the police will come?’ I ask.
She looks slightly taken aback. ‘The police?’
‘To take a statement. About my husband. He’s the reason why I’m here.’
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Gosh, I’m sorry. I don’t know. I think maybe you’d need to talk to your nurse. But rest assured, you’re safe here, Shelley.’
Angela said that too. About me being safe. How do they know?
I look at Fern, take her in. She’s not the kind of woman who would end up in an abusive relationship. At least, I imagine that’s what she’s thinking. She is neat and contained and I bet she has a boyfriend or a husband who does his fair share of unloading the dishwasher and hanging out the washing. But nobody thinks it will happen to them. That’s the tragedy of it. One of the tragedies.
There’s a part of me that wants to take hold of her hand – which is small, with flawlessly French manicured nails – and tell her to be careful. To be alert. But how would she see me? Just another sad woman who was taken in by a cruel man. And I suppose that’s what I am, at the end of it all.
