Page 8 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
But it isn’t, is it? It’s awful. For someone who is supposed to love and protect you to do something like that. Before I realise it’s happening, I’m sobbing, my hands over my face because I’m embarrassed to break down like this in front of a stranger.
He comes a little closer, clearly unsure. ‘Should I get someone? A nurse?’
I shake my head. ‘Go,’ I say.
‘Go?’
‘Leave.’
‘Oh,’ he says, clearing his throat and backing away. ‘Sure, of course. I’ll come back tomorrow, see if you need anything.’
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say thanks, but I don’t do it. Instead, I wait until he’s been gone a minute or two and then tear into the KitKat, taking big bites until it’s gone. And then, as a distraction, I let myself slip back into my childhood. To GrannyRose. But it isn’t until I’m there that I realise this memory isn’t so soothing.
6
THEN
I look over at Granny Rose and see a tear tracking down the lines of her face. It’s fascinating to watch, like a tiny river overcoming obstacles and seeking out the low ground. I squeeze Granny Rose’s hand and swallow back my own tears. We are in my bedroom, lying side by side on my bed, which is where we come to escape. Outside the room, down the stairs, there are muffled thuds. Mick and Mum, arguing. I remember something a teacher said once after a playground scuffle.We don’t argue with our fists.Mick does.
It doesn’t give me any pleasure that I was right about Mick. I would much rather have been wrong. If he had proved himself as a good boyfriend for Mum and a good stand-in dad for me, then I would have gladly let myself love him, and we would have laughed about that night when he first came round for tea and I’d barely talk to him, refused the present he brought. But that isn’t what happened. Instead, there were a few months of fresh flowers and fancy chocolates, toys and magazines for me, and then he was staying over a few nights a week, and then, almost without me noticing, he moved in.
And soon, so soon after that, it started. The fits of rage, the bruises, the thuds and crashes of things breaking. I hate him. I lie in bed sometimes, thinking of things I want to do to him, if only I was bigger and stronger. I imagine him getting run over by a bus, or simply floating away on the breeze, like a balloon. I imagine us getting our lives back, the ones I didn’t know to treasure until they were gone.
Suddenly, silence. I feel a shift in Granny Rose, a slight loosening of her arms around my small body. There’s a pattern to this. When it is over, Mick leaves the house. Sometimes for an hour or two, sometimes for a day. Once, for a week. I hope it will be a long time. Just as I think this, I hear the bang of the door slamming. Granny Rose stands up.
‘I’ll go down, check on her.’
She looks so sad and I think I understand why. Once, Mum was a little girl like me and Granny Rose was her mum and she loved her and did everything she could to keep her safe. And now Mick has come along and made everything feel brittle and dangerous.
‘Can I come too?’ I ask. I don’t want to be on my own.
‘No, love. I’ll come back. I won’t be long.’
I know that Granny Rose doesn’t want me to see Mum if it’s really bad. I know I am being protected, but there’s a part of me that feels shut out. Before Mick, we were always a trio, a little team, me and Mum and Granny Rose. And now I’m on my own in my bedroom, hoping they don’t need to take Mum to hospital, and I hate Mick for that. Hate him, deep in my bones. It makes me want to throw things, and the only thing that stops me is picturing that tired expression Mum wears when I make everything worse by playing up.
It feels like a long wait, because I don’t want to pick up a book or play with my Barbies. How can I, when anything could be happening downstairs? Could Mum be dead? It’s somethingthat’s never occurred to me before, but recently I walked into the lounge when Mum and Granny Rose were watching the news and I heard something about a woman being killed by her husband. I don’t understand why people would hurt the person they’re supposed to love, but I know it happens. I know it’s not only in my house.
Granny Rose appears at the door, her expression hard to read. ‘She’s okay, love. Do you want to come down?’
I nod and follow Granny Rose down the stairs. In the kitchen, Mum is facing the corner, lifting the kettle that is just coming to the boil. I want her to turn, and at the same time, I don’t. But she does, and there is nothing to see. Just eyes that are red from crying. I blink away the thoughts I had of bloody noses and black eyes. I run across the small room to Mum and wrap my arms around her.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mum says. She whispers it into my hair. ‘I’m so sorry, baby. You don’t deserve any of this.’
I want to say it isn’t her fault, but I find that I can’t. It’s suddenly clear that if I say a single word I will crumble to dust here in the kitchen. So instead I just hold on to Mum as tightly as I can.
Mick doesn’t come back that evening, and the three of us have spaghetti Bolognese for tea, and it is my favourite because Granny Rose finds it hard to suck up the strands of spaghetti and always ends up getting sauce splattered across the tablecloth, and it makes me laugh. It is so strange, I think, to be laughing so soon after that awful clutch of fear. Barely an hour after I sat in my bedroom wondering whether my mother might be dead. But we all are, and I see, but don’t yet fully understand, that this is how life is. Tragedy pushed up against comedy like strangers sharing a bus seat.
At bedtime, it is Mum who sits beside the bed and reads me a story, and I am so grateful for that, but it isn’t something Ican convey, or understand. Mum isn’t going to the pub tonight, it’s one of her nights off, and I think that after I’m in bed, Mum and Granny Rose will sit together in the living room watching that programme they both love about a hospital and Mum might open a packet of fancy biscuits for them to share. I wish I could be with them, but I know I can’t. I lie back in the bath, submerge myself and hold my breath, and then I burst up through the water and Mum pretends to be shocked, and we both laugh again.
When Mum is tucking me in, after three stories, I gather the courage to say what I have wanted to say all afternoon.
‘I don’t like him. Mick.’ As if Mum could have possibly misunderstood.
Mum takes a deep breath in and when she lets it out, it’s quivery. ‘It’s complicated, Shelley. He does love us, you know.’
This is what she always says. But it makes me want to scream. Granny Rose loves us, and she would never hurt us. And we love each other, and wouldn’t hurt each other. It isn’t complicated, not to me. It isn’t.
‘We were fine, before,’ I say.
