When Daddy Comes Home (13 page)

The work was not difficult and it was a friendly enough place. The girls who worked there were not like the middle-class lady-like types at the college; they were more like the ones she had gone to the dances with; but there was one difference when it came to making friends with them. When she had gone dancing, she had the confidence boost of several fortifying drinks but she couldn’t do that in daytime and
without the artificial bravado that alcohol provided, her confidence drained away. It was impossible to join in the light-hearted banter of the stylists. As a result, they thought she was aloof and after a few attempts at being friendly, they ignored her.

In a perverse way, that was what she wanted. While she yearned for the friendship of other young people, she was petrified of allowing anyone to become close. Her colleagues might tolerate or even like the girl she pretended to be, the one who had just left secretarial college and who talked with a middle-class accent. They would shun her completely if they discovered her past. Everyone assumed that she lived at home and she had no intention of them ever knowing the reality of her living arrangements. But she couldn’t get out of the bedsitter until she had more money and replenished her savings, which had been almost used up by the cost of her course and supporting herself without working.

Until then, she would continue to keep herself to herself, and bear the loneliness as best she could.

A
ntoinette did not want to open her eyes again. One attempt earlier had been enough to tell her that daylight was going to hurt them but the need to go to the toilet had become a pressing one. Reluctantly she swung her legs out of the bed and shakily placed her feet on the cold lino that covered her small bedsitting-room floor. As she stood, the room spun and she had to place her hands on the wall to steady herself. She lurched to the door and then staggered into the cold passageway.

With legs that had become heavy during the night, she shakily took the few steps to the communal bathroom and looked at her reflection in the mirror. A pale face looked back at her, the only colour two bright red spots staining both cheeks. Her throat hurt, her head pounded while her whole body ached.

She knew she was suffering from a bad bout of ’flu and felt tears prickle as she thought longingly of her bedroom at the gate lodge. A year before, when she had succumbed to a similar attack, her mother had brought cups of tea and sympathy to her room, along with cool drinks and tasty snacks designed to tempt her appetite. As she thought about it, Antoinette could almost feel the comforting sensation of her mother’s
hands tenderly brushing her hair, damp with perspiration, back off her face. When Ruth had returned from work in the evenings, she had plumped up Antoinette’s pillows and cooked her supper to eat on a tray on her knees. When she had finished, she would snuggle down to sleep and Ruth would gently draw up the soft wool blankets around her shoulders.

That was the time before
he
had returned. That was the time when Ruth had been able to show the maternal love for Antoinette that her daughter craved. It had seemed as though Antoinette’s illness had made her feel needed when her daughter was helpless and had brought out an affection that she rarely allowed to surface. Antoinette had basked in it, smiling up gratefully at her mother from her warm bed. The child she had been so recently reappeared for the duration of her sickness and she had wanted to hold on to her mother’s hand as she had done ten years before. But instead, she kept her fingers on the inside of the blankets, curling them tightly shut as she hid that need.

As she remembered, Antoinette felt an overwhelming longing to be there and to feel loved and looked after again.

Mummy would put me in my old bed, she thought. She would let me sleep and bring me cups of tea and heat up tins of tomato soup and serve it with thinly sliced bread and butter. It was invalid food which would soon make her feel better. Then later, when she was well enough to venture downstairs but not well enough to leave the house, she would wrap herself in her old pink candlewick dressing gown and sit in front of the fire. There, with her feet on the small round padded stool, she could watch her favourite programmes on the black and white television.

She was overwhelmed by the need to see her mother and be cosseted as she had been before. Just thinking of what it
would feel like being at the gate lodge surrendering to Ruth’s ministrations again made her feel better. She completely blocked from her mind the picture of her father, his anger at her and his jealousy at any attention her mother gave her.

Could I go back, she wondered. Just this once?

She had ventured back only once or twice since she had moved to the bedsitter and then only when she was sure her father would be out. She had her parents’ work timetables written down in a small notebook and went home when she was certain of finding her mother there alone. Then, her mother had seemed pleased to see her and had even given her small packages of food to take back to the bedsitter.

Knowing that this was a morning that Ruth would be at home and her father at work, she pushed aside any lingering doubts she had. The great need to retreat back into childhood when her mother had made everything better decided her. She would go home.

Antoinette hurriedly dressed, threw her pyjamas and a change of underwear into a bag and still burning with fever walked to the bus stop. On the short journey home, she dozed until the bus delivered her almost to the doorstep. Clasping her small case in her hand, she walked unsteadily to the front door of the gate lodge, then remembered that she no longer had a key. She’d left it behind the day she went to Butlins, as her parents had requested. She knocked on the door then leant against the wall as dizziness threatened to overpower her.

She heard footsteps then the noise of the key being turned. The door swung open and her mother stood in the hall facing her. A worried smile failed to reach her eyes.

‘Darling, what a nice surprise. Why aren’t you at work?’

‘I’m not well.’ As the words left her, helpless tears filled her eyes and overflowed down her flushed cheeks.

‘Come inside, dear, quickly.’ Her mother ushered her in away from the prying eyes of any neighbour. With her fear of gossip and need to keep up appearances, Ruth certainly didn’t want anyone wondering what Antoinette was doing crying on the doorstep. They went in to the hall and Ruth shut the door.

‘I need to lie down. Please can I go to my bedroom?’ As the words tumbled out, she felt her mother’s hesitation.

Ruth’s voice softened as she asked, ‘Antoinette, whatever’s wrong with you?’ She touched her daughter’s forehead briefly. ‘Well, youDre certainly burning up. All right, dear, your bed is still made up. Just get into it and I’ll bring you up a cup of tea.’

With those words Antoinette felt cared for and protected for the first time in months. No sooner had she climbed into her old bed then her mother appeared, drew the curtains shut, placed the tea by her bed and gently kissed the top of her head. ‘I’ve rung work to say I’ll be in late,’ she said. ‘Now you get some rest.’

As soon as the door closed behind her, Antoinette fell into a fitful sleep. When she awoke a few hours later, she did not know where she was for a couple of moments. Disoriented, she stared into the gloom then realized she was back in her bedroom at the gate lodge. Something had woken her and she raised herself on to the pillows. The sound of raised voices filtered through her window – it was that which had disturbed her. She recognized the harsh pitch of her father’s voice and the anger in it frightened her. She couldn’t distinguish what was being said but she knew that her father was furious and that she was the cause. Her
mother’s softer tones suggested that she was trying to placate him.

Why are they outside, wondered Antoinette, puzzled. Her mother’s distaste of showing any discord in public had always ruled out any disagreement outside the house.

As she had done so often when she was a small child, Antoinette slid down the bed and pulled the blankets over her ears. If she could not hear them maybe they would go away. Nevertheless, she could hear the creak of the stairs followed by the muffled sound of her mother’s footsteps as she entered the bedroom. Instinct made Antoinette feign sleep. Her mother’s hand touched her shoulder lightly, then she heard the words she had been dreading.

‘Are you awake? You have to get up. Your father says you have to leave.’

Groggily, Antoinette opened her eyes and looked into her mother’s face, searching for some reassurance that for once she was not going to obey her husband. A flash of guilt crossed Ruth’s face, quickly replaced by a steely resolve.

‘He’s refusing to come into the house until you’ve gone. He says you’ve left home now and you can’t just come back when it suits you. You have to stand on your own two feet.’

Instead of her usual condescending tones, Ruth’s voice held a note of pleading.

Antoinette looked for the solicitude that she had seen earlier in her mother’s face, hoping to see some softness in her expression that hinted she might relent. But there was no trace of Ruth’s earlier concern and in its place was an expression of long suffering. Once again, Ruth had become the woman who never took responsibility for anything, but who placed the blame for all her misfortunes squarely on another’s
shoulders. This time, her expression said clearly that it was Antoinette’s fault.

Too ill to fight her mother, or even to react, Antoinette hauled herself out of bed, dressed and picked up her bag.

Over the years when she tried to remember that night she couldn’t. She only remembered that she left.

F
irst came the headaches.

In the early hours of the morning, the pain woke her. Her head felt as though it was clasped by a giant hand. She visualized the fingers pressing through her scalp, gripping her neck and then squeezing until the pain settled behind her eyes, distorting her vision.

During the day, when the headaches had passed, she felt lethargic, her limbs became heavy and her brain slowed until it felt sluggish. Her concentration faded and the print in books, which once had given her comfort, became blurred until even the short stories in magazines became too much for her, and she put them wearily aside.

Back at home in the bedsitter and trying to sleep, she found that there was no rest to be had. Her anxiety, her loneliness and her guilt poisoned her dreams, turning her nights into torment. She was deprived of rest; instead she was swept to dark places where demons chased her.

Sometimes she would have the sensation of falling and through her nightmare she felt her body twitch with the effort of trying to stop it. When she woke she would feel her heart pounding with lingering panic. Sudden sounds startled her and an overwhelming loneliness filled her mind.

Then the dream came; it came every night and it was so much worse than all the others that she would force herself awake. Then she would wait for daylight, determined to keep sleep at bay, terrified that if she closed her eyes it would return. The nightmare took her into a forest where tall trees grew so densely their foliage hid the sky and obliterated the light of the moon. Desperately, she searched for the way out as wet branches whipped her face and slimy tendrils curled snakelike round her legs and feet, hindering her frantic progress. The sense of being trapped was terrifying and it seemed that there were creatures hidden in the dense undergrowth. She felt animosity radiating from them as unseen eyes spied on her and somehow she knew her father was there amongst them. She could sense his shadowy presence watching and mocking her feeble attempts of escape.

Unable to see in the cold blackness of the forest, she only knew that she was terrified and lost. Then suddenly a gaping chasm would appear under her feet and she would feel herself begin to fall, sucked down by a force stronger than her willpower. She tried to touch the sides of the cavern and stop herself falling but her hands only grasped dank emptiness. Out of control, she fell blindly through the depths towards something unspeakable.

She knew she was asleep and would desperately fight to regain consciousness but not before a silent scream tore from her throat as she tumbled headfirst into darkness. Helpless mewing sounds escaped her mouth as panic broke through and released her. She would wake, sweating and breathless, still anxious and fearful as the nightmare faded. She knew that she had avoided hitting the bottom of the awful pit by seconds. Around her, the bedclothes were tangled where she had thrashed in her bed, her arms flailing.

Awake, she could not rationalize her premonition that something disastrous was about to happen, and was overcome by despair that she was still alive. Holding her wrists close to her face, she looked at the scars from two years before. Night after night, she would gaze at the fine blue lines that lay just below the surface of the skin and picture a razor slicing through them again.

She thought of swallowing a hundred aspirin as she had before, and then remembered the sickness that had racked her body hours after the stomach pump had been removed. She tasted again the bile that had burnt her throat.

If she managed to sleep again after her nightmare, then she woke at 4.30 exactly. It was as though a malicious spirit had set an alarm to rouse her. It was too early to get up, so she would curl up tighter and try to force herself to stay awake and keep her dreams at bay. As she dozed, images of the parents that no longer wanted her crept into her mind. Then she thought of her large Irish family that had scorned her and the people of her home town who had rejected her. She tried to push away thoughts of Derek and how repulsed he had been when he had realized who she really was. It seemed to her that Derek represented how people felt when the reality of her past was presented to them.

Antoinette’s world began to shrink.

She could no longer function enough to go to work and she rang in to say she was sick. She thought she must be ill, though she had no idea what was wrong with her. All she knew was that the world had become a frightening place.

When she ventured out, the noise of the traffic hurt her head and she wanted to place her hands protectively over her
ears to block it out. Crossing the road made her shake; every car seemed intent on her destruction and she was certain that they wanted to drive into her, run her over and maim her. Waves of panic made her legs tremble so severely that they almost refused to obey her as she hovered at the kerb. Each step across to the opposite side was an act of tremendous will.

Entering a shop was terrifying, for she saw animosity on every face. If other shoppers were silent, she knew it was because they had only just stopped talking about her. Unable to meet the eyes of shopkeepers, she would mutter her order and hurry out, clutching her goods tightly. She was sure that she was the cause of any laughter and the reason it turned into jeers that followed her out of the shop and chased her down the street.

When she got back to the house, she would creep up the stairs praying that the doors of the other tenants’ rooms would remain closed. She could hear more whispering coming from behind the doors and she shut herself away in the sanctuary of her room, far from the malevolent voices. When she had to leave it, she would rest her head against the door and listen for sounds of life in the house. Running water, the flush of the toilet and the creak of the stairs or soft footsteps all warned her it was unsafe to go out. Only when she was reassured that there was no one about would she summon up her courage to leave.

At weekends she would hear laughter on the stairs, the sound of doors opening and blaring music which invaded her peace. She placed her fingers in her ears as she tried to block out the unwelcome sounds that crept under her door and into her room. Gradually, her world narrowed even further and she barely left the house. There was no question now of her returning to work but she wasn’t well enough to worry about how
she was to pay the rent. There were still some savings left and what she would do when they ran out was not a thought that she was able to dwell on. Antoinette had become completely isolated, cast adrift with no direction, and her only escape from the unrelenting depression was the sips she took from her secreted vodka bottle. It was her last remaining solace.

The game of happy families that Ruth had orchestrated for so many years had come to an end. Antoinette simply could not play her part any longer. She could not join in her mother’s fantasy that they were a normal family and the comfortable lie that she was loved and needed like any ordinary daughter no longer had any power. From the night that her mother had thrown her out, sick and alone, the truth with its harsh facts had finally penetrated her defences and she was unable to deal with it. Now her mind had been invaded by a dark melancholia as she realized that throughout her life she had been fed a constant diet of deceit and despair.

Why couldn’t she feel glad that her parents no longer expected her to be a part of their lives? Wasn’t she free of them now? But Antoinette had been too controlled to learn independence. A dog that has been beaten for years will die if it is thrown out in the street to fend for itself. It will cringe in corners, not trusting a soul but always hoping for some kindness. The one emotion it will not feel is relief at its freedom.

Antoinette was incapable of seeking help; she was too ill to realize she needed it. Now the boxes inside her mind where she had locked away her memories had sprung open, spilling out the truth of her short life. All around her she could hear the whispers: they blamed and mocked her, said that nobody loved her, and that nobody ever would. They told her to disappear.

Petrified of re-entering her nightmares, she tried to avoid sleep and instead lay huddled up in bed, her eyes darting
around the lighted room, searching the shadows for threats until she could no longer fight her overwhelming tiredness. At dawn, when she woke, the bird song that welcomed the day became a harsh sound which resounded in her brain. She would lay silent, clutching the blankets, her body shaking, while the tears that never seemed far away slid down her cheeks.

Then, the morning came when even leaving her bed took too much effort. She curled up tightly, her thumb entered her mouth, whimpers shook her and the ability to move deserted her.

Disembodied voices were in her room; they swirled above her head and floated in the air. She knew if she kept her eyes closed and stopped herself seeing who they belonged to, they would disappear. The words took shape and forced their way into her mind but still she tried to shut them out.

‘Open your eyes, Antoinette. Can you hear me?’

She recognized the tones of her landlady but she curled up even tighter, not wanting to be disturbed. She heard footsteps as her landlady retreated. It seemed to her that only a very short time had passed when the voices returned.

‘What’s wrong with her, doctor? I can’t wake her.’

Then another voice spoke. ‘Antoinette, I’m a doctor. WeDre here to help you. There’s nothing to be afraid of. WeDre here to help you,’ he repeated gently.

Still she took no notice. She felt a hand on her face and fingers raised her eyelids.

She saw faces – the faces of her enemies staring down at her. Antoinette screamed and kept screaming.

For an instant she felt a sharp sting as a needle slid into her arm. Then, within seconds, she felt no more.