A Whisper to the Living (18 page)

I groaned and turned over, forcing myself to recall line for line what was written. I must face up to the past before I could organize the future.

Christmas 1946. My mother out shopping. Higson bending over me. Faded colours in the peg rug, handmade on winter evenings from strips of clipped-up skirts and coats. A shine on the range, black-leaded earlier that day. Festoons on the ceiling, an orange lantern in the doorway. On the dresser a small Christmas tree with arms like bottle brushes. Smells. Pie, yeasty bread, mince tarts. Cherry Blossom polish on the boot that rolled me over towards the heat. A bitter taste in my mouth, vomit laced with hatred. Sounds. A hiss as an air-pocket exploded from the fire’s red depth. Breathing. Panting. Gasping. He was dying. Only a dying man would make such noises. Following him. Standing in the doorway as he leaned over the slop-stone, his back towards me, legs apart, one hand moving in front of him. A splash, then a groan as he reached over to seek support from the wall . . .

Remember Tom. ‘Are you alright, Annie?’

‘Yes.’ I could never tell Tom about the beatings could not let him know how naughty I was. Just as I couldn’t tell my mother. Why? Why couldn’t I say
Mam, he hits me when you’re out
 . . .? Because she might side with him, might agree that I deserved my punishments. There was always a reason for the beatings. I’d been playing on the bombsite, giving cheek, answering back . . . always a reason. But what had triggered him? He was alright at first, just ignored me. This question I could never answer.

Don’t sleep, not yet, not now. Allow the anger feel the pain. Where were you, Mam, all those time when I needed you, when it first began in Ensign Street? At the mill? Shopping? Passing the time of day with a neighbour, a friend? Shall I blame you my mother?

The move to Long Moor. The baths. Soap bubbles, lather on my chest, calloused hands caressing my body. A huge finger, topped by a black rimmed nail, forcing, pushing, tearing . . . no!

Sweat bathed my head, ran in small rivers down towards the pillow. There is me, just me. But my memory is clear, my anger deep, my body strong. He will never know my fear, my sweat, my tears. No-one to help. No-one to trust. Just me, only me. I am Annie Byrne. Annie Byrne is a thirteen-year-old girl with a secret. Holy Mary, Mother of God, where are you? Sleep is coming. My thoughts are disjointed, I am wandering lonely as a cloud, Mr Wordsworth. Too tired to get up and take off my clothes. Tomorrow, I shall be all creased. Like his face, tramlines on the forehead, white in ugly brown skin. A shallow forehead. No brains. Shallow. A pool of water, a pool of blood. Soon there will be blood. Every month, my blood. Whose blood, Annie? Whose blood? Wake up, that’s it, wake up! Whose blood, Annie?

I stumbled out of bed and tore off my clothes, flinging them carelessly on to the chair, groping in the dark for my nightdress. Strange, I thought, how a plan could be finalized in a dream. It was complete. Before my blood came, I would have his. Or die trying. The proverbial worm was about to turn.

The dreams were bad that night. I was hitting out at everybody, screaming at Dr Pritchard and Simon, setting fire to Edna Pritchard’s lace curtains, yelling at my mother, calling her a traitor. He eluded me completely. Always there was a long corridor between me and him. He stood far away, yet near enough for me to see the leer, the Woodbine smoke curling from a corner of his lip. I walked, but could not run. They reached out from doorways trying to stop me and although I eliminated them one by one, my mother, the doctor, Father Cavanagh, I still could not reach the right one, the one at the end with the ladder on his shoulder. Obscenities poured from my lips, echoing, bouncing off close walls.

I woke sobbing in the miserly light of dawn, my pillow saturated with tears, the dream shattering into fragments for which I groped desperately, trying to piece them all together before true consciousness would deny me access.

Remember . . .

There was a gap at the end of the bath, a space between end panel and wall where the wooden maiden sometimes stood with towels airing on its rails. With my eye, I measured the gap, then I climbed, fully clothed, into the empty tub as I ran through this final rehearsal of my piece. The mechanics might prove easy in comparison to the real acting I would have to do, the smiling, the sigh of pretended pleasure, the encouraging flutter of eyelashes.

I was not old enough for this. Female survivors in the books had been mature. Young ones always fell prey to Vikings, Romans, Cromwell’s soldiers. Those who escaped were women of experience, twenty, thirty years old. But I had learned from them, hadn’t I? Hadn’t their small triumphs become mine? The books were fiction, I knew that. Yet writers must get their ideas from somewhere, from some central store of actuality and fact. I must believe, I must be prepared.

It would happen right here on the bath mat, black and yellow with a penguin woven into the middle. That awful big thing would be pushed inside me, would tear me apart on the penguin rug. Afterwards, he would have to kill me, because once it had happened, I would not be able to remain silent. Already I felt half-crazy some of the time, my nerves stretched like tight wires, my whole body tense and waiting. Rape would make me crack, I knew it.

So now, I must become the aggressor, because if I continued to do nothing, then it might not even be rape. Sometimes, in the newspapers, it was not rape because the woman didn’t say no. My word against his – he would never risk that, because he knew I had ten words for every one of his. And I wasn’t a woman, I was just a girl, he’d go to prison with enough proof. Yes, he would kill me. Then he would sneak out of the house and get what they called an alibi, probably from his brothers. It would be murder by person or persons unknown. I could not allow myself to become a file in the police station, a file never closed.

Joannie Walker. I’d never met her, never known her, but her name was burnt into my brain by my mother and the
Bolton Evening News
. Joannie Walker had disappeared in 1948 when she was seven years old. She was used as an example to all of us, don’t talk to strangers, don’t get into a car or a lorry. Her body had not been found and the file remained forever open. Well, I had never talked to strangers, had never got into a car. I smiled grimly as I climbed out of the bath, my assessment complete. No, Mam. I don’t talk to strangers, but it happens all the same in your lovely bathroom with your delightful husband. The thing you don’t talk about because it isn’t quite nice – it’s already happening to your daughter. Dear me, what a terrible world. Isn’t fish an awful price these days and shall I put the kettle on?

No! NO! She did love me, she couldn’t know, mustn’t know . . .

Tonight. It had to be tonight or I might snap completely, lose my nerve and forget all my carefully made preparations. Now, while I was on my guard, I could and would orchestrate the whole thing. What if it didn’t work? What if he got me? No . . . better now, while I was keyed up for it. What if I killed him? They’d put me away – not quite in prison, I probably wasn’t old enough for that. But they’d put me away, wouldn’t they?

Oh stop what-iffing, Annie Byrne! No alternatives. Just you. Just you and him, you or him, one winner, one loser.

It was Thursday. My mother left early on Thursdays to work out her two rooms’ timesheets for the foreman. I went down to see her before she left, looking at her as if for the last time.

‘What are you staring at, Annie? Is my face dirty or something?’

‘No. I was just thinking how pretty you are.’

‘Me? Don’t talk so soft. Mind you, I was alright in my day, I can tell you.’

‘You’re still alright. It’s just that your face is a bit thinner than it was. How old are you?’

‘As if you don’t know! Anyroad, never ask a woman her age. She’ll usually lie through her teeth even if they’re not her own. If she doesn’t lie, you still can’t trust her, because a woman who’ll tell her age can never keep a secret.’

‘You’re only thirty-six . . .’

‘Aye. Going on ninety.’

She tied her mill apron round her waist, a large pocket divided into two sections by a single vertical seam. This was where she kept the spools when doffing, in this pocket she smuggled home empty tubes for firewood. I watched her as she dragged a careless comb through soft Titian waves, kept my eyes on her every movement while she found her bag and purse, changed slippers for work shoes, drew on the dark blue cotton-spotted coat.

‘Are you alright, Annie? You’re standing there like cheese at fourpence. Is there something you want to tell me?’

I stared at her and knew in that moment that I would never be able to tell her. Even if I ignored Higson’s threat to harm her, I could not destroy this little woman because I loved her too much. That it would destroy her I did not doubt. The idea of it, the thought of it, would tear her apart. And I knew her, better than he ever would. I recognized her power, knew her temper and her determination, saw the steel behind the softness, realized that a mighty though untutored brain nested beneath those gentle curls, behind the smoke-grey eyes. Yes, if I were to tell her now, or ever, she would take off the coat, pick up the meat knife and wait. Small she might be, cowardly she was not. The consequences would finish her. It was my battle and I would fight it alone.

‘No. I’ve nothing to tell you. I thought I might go for a walk, freshen my brain up a bit.’

‘Good idea. But make sure you . . .’

‘I know. Finish my homework.’

‘And don’t backchat Eddie. You’re getting just a bit big for your boots, you are. I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘Give them a bit of education and they know it all.’

‘Would you marry him again, Mother?’

‘What a bloody daft question and me nearly late for the bus! The answer to that is for me to know and for you to wonder about . . .’

‘You wouldn’t.’

She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Keep it out, Annie. There’s things you just don’t ask about. He could be better, could be worse. And so could you. I’m off. Make sure the kettle’s boiled for him.’

After she had left, I felt lonelier than I had ever been in my life. Even the ticking of the mantel clock seemed slow and I found myself wishing that he would hurry up, come home, get this thing started and done with as quickly as possible. I sat still as a stone at the table, hardly daring to breathe as I heard the gate squeak. I listened to the scrape of his ladder as he dragged it up the yard, heard him walking slowly, so unbearably slowly, towards the back door. Sputum rattled in his chest and I felt myself flinch as he spat another of his vile messes on to the flags outside.

His brow was raised in surprise when he found me sitting in the living room. His meal was in the range oven and I got it for him, watching his eyes widen in further astonishment as I set the dish in his place. I usually left him to collect his own meal when my mother was out and I hoped, desperately, that my behaviour was not too uncharacteristic. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound – the old saying flashed across my mind as I hung the cloth on the oven door.

‘Stew again?’ he asked as he removed the pan lid from the plate.

‘Thursday’s always stew. Payday tomorrow.’ I tried to smile, but my face, numb and stiff, did not quite obey me.

He ate noisily like a pig at a trough, slurping the food, chewing small lumps of meat with his mouth wide open. He was revolting.

The spoon clattered into the dish. ‘Talking to me now, are you? What’s brought this on?’

‘Just trying to be civil. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’

I walked carefully across to the mirror and began to brush my hair. This, according to the books, usually got them going. I gripped the brush tightly so that my hand would not shake and tossed the waist-length hair over my shoulder, stroking it in what I imagined to be a sensuous way.

‘Somebody been looking at you, then? Some daft lad got his eye on you? I’ve told you before – if I find you with anybody . . . who is he?’

‘Nobody. Not that I’m aware of anyway.’

‘Keep away from the lads. Do you hear me? You do as I say.’

‘There are no boys. That’s the truth.’

I heard him scrape back his chair. ‘Taking an interest in yourself, aren’t you? What’s all this in aid of?’

I turned and placed the brush on the edge of the table. My voice trembled slightly as I spoke. ‘It’s dirty – my hair, it needs a wash. I’ll just go up and see to it.’ Again, I half-managed a tight smile.

‘Aye, well. Happen I’ll come up and rinse it out for you. It doesn’t do to go leaving soap in your hair – you might get nits.’ He licked his lips salaciously. ‘I’ll be up in a minute to give you a hand.’

Halfway up the stairs my right knee suddenly buckled and I saved myself by gripping hard on the cast-iron handrail. I was breathing fast, too fast and my head swam. I managed the last few steps with difficulty, stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the taps and crumbled a violet-scented cube into the water. For a few moments I sat on the rim of the bath, forcing myself to calm down and breathe at a proper rate. After removing my clothes, I took a last look at myself in the glass over the washbasin. Whatever happened in these next minutes, I would never be the same person as I was now. If he didn’t come up after all my preparations, my will would crumble. If he raped me, then I would probably not live to look at my own face again. I tried to say farewell to the white shape in the mirror, but I couldn’t quite do it. Because if I won . . . oh God, how could I win against a grown man? What the hell had I been thinking of? This was crazy . . . mad . . .

A creak on the stairs, then a heavier footfall. He is coming. Remember the plan, pull yourself together. I am in the bath. My hands are shaking as I reach into the space at the end. The poker is heavy, iron with a solid brass handle. I place the poker in the bath, not quite under my body but out of sight on the side nearest the wall. Bits of ash and coaldust float on the surface. Do something! I reach for a sponge and squeeze violet-scented water over my body. If I survive this day, I shall always hate the smell of violets.