Lullaby Girl (8 page)
#
Wednesday.
My face looks slightly wrong in the bathroom mirror. Puffy. Cobbled together. As if my body was dismantled as I slept an’ put back together in the morning. Today I was rebuilt in too much of a hurry, so I’m stuck with this patchwork face till bedtime. I don’t like it. It doesn’t feel right. I’m scared to look people in the eye, in case they see it too. They might force me to see someone other than Rhona, then. But I won’t stand for it. Joyce can’t have me. Nobody can. I’ll turn my face to the floor.
I’m the first person to arrive for breakfast, an’ the cook is not in sight. When I’m halfway through my porridge, Aggie walks in, an’ we jump at the sight of each other. She hovers in the doorway, her face flushes, an’ I see she’s wond’rin’ whether to come in or not. Obviously I’m not the only one who wants to be alone. My spoon is still clamped halfway to my mouth, but I manage to drop my eyes from Aggie’s to the dog-shaped slippers on her feet. Their little pink tongues hangin’ out, all happy. A second or two, then the dog slippers start to walk. I hear the spatula scrapin’ the scrambled eggs tray, an’ the whirrin’ of the coffee machine. A couple of clinks, then the dogs walk back the way they came. I wait until the sounds have stopped, an’ look up through my hair. There’s Aggie, sittin’ in the corner with her back to me. Suits me jus’ fine. I neck my porridge an’ leg it back to my room.
#
Mrs Laird calls me to her sittin’ room after lunch. There’s a telephone call for me, she says. For a second I’m scared. Then I realise what it means. There’s only one person they’d make me use a telephone for.
Mrs Laird cradles the receiver to my ear an’ I try to make my fingers grab hold.
‘Hello?’ I say, but as I breathe out the telephone makes a
hwooszzzhh
noise in my ear. I shrink away. I look at Mrs Laird. But she pushes the telephone back to my head. When I listen again, a voice is talkin’. Rhona’s voice. To me.
‘Hello?’ I say. Rhona stops talkin’. Then starts again.
‘Katherine? Can you hear me?’
‘Yes. I can.’
‘This is Rhona.’
‘This is Katherine.’
Rhona laughs. It’s strange to hear her laugh but not see her face.
‘Are you coming home soon?’ I ask. This time Rhona pauses.
‘Not yet, dear. I’m still in Skye. How are you doing?’
‘I want you to come back.’
Rhona sighs. I don’t like that. I wonder if she’s still angry about the nail varnish.
‘Listen, dear. Vera and I have been talking, and … Well … We thought it might be best if you had a meeting with Joy—’
‘No,’ I say.
‘I know how you feel, dear. But the thing is … It’s not good for you to go so long by yourself.’
‘Then come back!’
Rhona doesn’t speak. I look at Mrs Laird, but she’s over at her desk, cleanin’ her glasses. I look at the doorway, an’ a picture flashes through my head, of my hidin’ place on the moor. But I don’t want to run away. I jus’ want Rhona to come back.
‘What have I done?’ I say, an’ it sounds more like I’m cryin’ than talkin’.
‘It’s nothing you’ve done, love …’
‘I’m sorry about my birthday … I didn’t mean … Can’t you forgive me?’
‘Look, you obviously need to talk to someone, and—’
‘No! I won’t!’
In the corner of my eye I see Mrs Laird gettin’ up from her chair.
‘You know that my … mother is … dying …’
Rhona’s voice wobbles.
‘Bring her here then. Bring her home with you …’
‘Listen, Kathy. I’ve arranged it with Joyce that—’
‘I won’t talk to her. I want to talk to
you
!’
‘Katherine. Listen to me. This is not forever. But right now, it’s how things have to be. There’s no other choice. My mother doesn’t have—’
‘I wish your mother would jus’
die
!’ I yell.
At this point, Mrs Laird tackles me an’ pulls the telephone from my hands. I make a break for the door but push Mrs Laird too hard. Backwards, mouth open, she tumbles over the coffee table, an’ with a
plop
, the telephone unplugs from the wall. I look back an’ see her clutchin’ her side.
‘Little rat!’ she yowls.
I scuttle round the door frame on my hands an’ knees. Mary’s in the corridor, but I push her out of the way. We crash into the wall, like we do when we’re dancin’. Then I untangle myself an’ flee for the porch. I don’t stop runnin’ till I’ve reached the bite.
#
The crisis room is a twin bedroom on the ground floor, with permanently closed shutters. When they think someone’s too sick to sleep alone, they stick ’em in here. There’s one bed for the jailer an’ one bed for the prisoner. Tonight the prisoner’s me. Mrs Laird’s still mad, so they picked Joyce to stand watch. It took ’em hours to find me. Joyce says they even called the police, cos they thought I’d gone over the fence. It was dark when they brought me in, an’ they haven’t been out of my face since. To be honest I could have held out longer, but I heard the search party comin’ an’ thought they’d find my secret place. There’s no way I’d risk them takin’
that
away from me. So I crawled uphill an’ turned myself in by the outhouses.
Joyce is a horrible lady. I’ve never trusted her or enjoyed her company. She shows up for her shift with a cup of cocoa an’ a
Christian Weekly
shoved under her armpit. She doesn’t bother offerin’ me a cocoa, an’ in the back of my mind I know that that’s on purpose. A sort of extra punishment. The room is very small, with no furniture besides Joyce’s plastic night-stand, an’ no pictures on the wall. Joyce controls the lamp an’ decides when we go to sleep. I’m allowed to talk if I need to, but Joyce is not the sort of person I want to tell anything personal. We barely speak all night, an’ I get the feelin’ Joyce is as happy as me about that. As she reads her magazine, I turn my face to the wall. I miss my soft mustard-coloured bedspread. This one’s pink an’ scratchy, an’ far too heavy. The bed, too, is hard. I lie still so that the springs won’t squeak, an’ breathe through my mouth so I won’t smell Joyce’s cocoa. The wallpaper is a repeat pattern of flower posies, linked by a trailin’, criss-crossin’ ribbon design. If I look at it long enough I can see a dog’s face in the petals. The dog has one pointed ear an’ one curved, an’ a dark spot above its nose. Both eyes are on one side of its head.
I think I had a dog once. Or … a cat. A small animal. It lived with me. I fed it an’ played with it. An’ I loved it. Yes … definitely a cat. Not a dog … I wish I could remember its name.
Iss hard to think straight when other people are there. I feel Joyce over my shoulder, like my very own bad angel. Ready to correct me if I do anythin’ she doesn’t like. I’m a grown-up. I shouldn’t have to deal with this. But then, I
was
free once, an’ look how well I dealt with that. I had a normal life, an’ somewhere, somehow, I managed to mess it up.
I hate that they all
want
stuff from me. The huge, scary facts an’ all the little reasons why. These are the things the newspaper men ask. That the people over the fence want to know. All of ’em want to solve me an’ fix me. To dig that treasure chest out of me an’ yank it wide open. An’ I know that that’s possible. I could please ’em all so easily, if I dared. I feel the chest inside me, as clearly as I feel my feet on the ground, an’ I think if rooted deep enough I could find the key to open it. But the chest scares me so much. I feel the darkness in it. The evil. Sometimes, when I’m not lookin’ for them, small bits float to the top, an’ I get a tiny peek at that life.
Her
life. But I can’t stand it. Not for long. Iss like lookin’ right into the sun. If I stretch my eyes too wide, I’ll do myself damage.
Joyce coughs into her cocoa, sendin’ a sug’ry whiff my way. This sets off a chain reaction in my body, an’ before I can stop it, my stomach makes a long, low groan. Suddenly I realise I’ve not eaten since lunchtime. But that rumble will please Joyce. If she feels I’m sufferin’ in that way, she won’t try to hurt me in others.
There is no clock in the crisis room, an’ no daylight, so I must trust Joyce when she says iss night or day. Bein’ in this room is about lettin’ someone else take control. Goin’ along with their view of the world. With any other staff member, that’s okay. But not Joyce. I don’t want to see the world her way for longer than I absolutely have to. Besides, iss not good for me to be away from the clouds. I think I’d miss the clouds more than the sun, if I were locked in here for a long time. I must be good.
Be normal
. If I’m normal, they’ll let me out.
#
Pink fades into off-white. Yellowing round the edges, with a sun that makes me sneeze. I stand in a cornfield, talking to the local children. I have come to help them bring in the crop. They are glad of my help. I am useful. They hand me a hooked knife with an old, weathered handle. It is very sharp, but nobody tells me to be careful.
We bend our backs and work until our faces are red. My dungarees are covered with seeds and my wellies covered with mud. A dog runs around us, searching for attention. It is the youngest, the old farmer says. It has not yet learnt to be calm. We should not pet it, as it is not a pet. It is a worker. These dogs are different.
When we go back to the farmhouse we ride on a cart behind the tractor. The other girls have sandwiches wrapped in smooth paper, and they offer one to me. It is spread with red jam that has no seeds in it. Afterwards we play on the swing, and the mother brings an old woman out of a caravan to look at me. I walk round a darkened sitting room, between old people in brocade chairs. The clock on the wall has golden pine cones hanging from it. At bath time the water that comes from the taps is brown, but Mummy says it isn’t dirty. We eat meatloaf, and soft peas which come from a tin. Tomorrow we will have the special meat pie from the butcher’s. If I’m good I can have a stick of tablet, and they might let me ride the tractor again.
#
A hand shakes me awake. I flinch. But iss jus’ Mary. I fling my arms round her, an’ she hugs me back. I look round the room. We’re alone. The walls are the same colour as when I fell asleep, but I see by the freshness in Mary’s face that iss morning. Mary points at Joyce’s perfectly made bed. Then she points to the door. Makes an
eating
sign.
‘Am I locked in?’ I ask. The smile fades from Mary’s eyes, an’ she nods. I return my head to my pillow. After a bit, Mary’s hand touches my shoulder. She strokes my arm, then my hair. When I raise my eyes again I find her starin’ at the floor. Not for the first time, I notice the lumps on her wrists.
‘What time is it?’
Mary holds up one finger. I nod.
‘Is it windy outside?’ I ask. But I barely get the words out before burstin’ into tears. Mary drags me to her shoulder. Her tight little fingers dig into my back. For ages we rock backwards an’ forwards. Then I dig my face in her side, an’ ev’rythin’ goes still.
By the time I look up, Mary’s eyes are back on the floor. As my breathin’ gets more normal, her eyes drift back, an’ we watch each other through the thickenin’ film of tears.
‘I’m scared,’ I say.
Mary does not nod or smile. She jus’ pushes the hair from my forehead. I droop back to the pillow, close my eyes, an’ try to breathe. Mary’s shadow casts a cool blindfold across my face, shieldin’ me from the light bulb. Mary makes no sound, but I know she is still there.
January 13th, 2005.
The Tyneside skies are the colour of charcoal as the ferry coasts towards the open sea. On the land, Mum’s face is so tiny I can barely tell it’s her. But my instincts tell me it has to be. Poor old thing. In the car park there, on the easternmost tip of the land. One hand fluttering endlessly, the other raised to her head, probably holding Dad’s binoculars. Can she see our smiles from there? I hope so, for her own peace of mind. Magnus’s hand is warm around my own. He has stopped waving, but I keep going for my mother’s sake. She hasn’t changed position for a full five minutes. Around her, couples break off and amble to their cars, which are parked in a neat line behind them. Isn’t that their Beetle? The rust-red one peeking out from behind the wall? It stings me to know Dad is sitting inside and did not come out to wave. Mum can’t drive, so he must be there. His last, clumsy insult replays in my head and drives an involuntary scowl from me. But this time I refuse to let the pain take root. Today, my real life begins. I have Magnus, and Magnus is a better man than he’ll ever be.
‘I am frightened to speak, in case she reads my lips,’ gottle-o-geers Magnus. I look at his face – uncharacteristically deadpan – and get a fit of the giggles. ‘Let’s start swearing,’ he says, ‘just in case,’ and reels off an increasingly colourful list of English profanities. I stop waving and push him in the chest. The trademark boyish smile beams through then, and for a moment I am paralysed by his beauty. Magnus brushes the hair from my eyes, and it looks for all the world like he’s about to kiss me. But a bloodthirsty cackle comes out instead, and he swoops to fake-bite my neck. I scream.
‘You are not a vampire,’ I scold, half-heartedly.
‘Mwah hah hah!’ he rumbles into my throat.
‘Wait … my mum …’
‘She’s gone,’ he murmurs, placing a kiss in the hollow above my collarbone. I look over his shoulder and find Mum still there. Alone now, and smaller, and still waving. Magnus puts his hands on my arse.
‘It’s champagne time!’ he declares.
‘Wait a minute.’
‘Come on. I’m freezing.’
I bat Magnus away and raise an arm to continue waving. Seconds later I hear the clack of the door. I look through the porthole and see him striding through the Stardust Lounge, hands jammed in the pockets of his skinny jeans. Is he angry? It’s difficult to tell from here. Well, let him have his tantrum. It’s nothing I can’t fix later.
At that moment an icy gust plasters my face, and I stagger as my hair does a full loop the loop. When I can see again, I find I’m the last one on deck. My mother is an inch tall now. Her red coat like a tea light on the asphalt. To her right, the industrial skyline could not be a more perfect symbol of my upbringing. Shipyard cranes rising from the wreckage like steampunk hand puppets – antique remnants of the Industrial Revolution. The North. A different north to the one I am going to, and in social terms a hundred worlds away. My new life stands before me like an unwritten page, intoxicatingly pure and simple, and I am drunk on the notion that anything is possible. The most basic requirement – a roof over my head – is sorted, as I will be moving in with Magnus, but other than that I am going in blind. Aside from Magnus’s tales, my knowledge of Norwegian society is limited to what I read in the
Learn Norwegian
manual. Shopping for groceries, ordering lutefisk, complaining about hotel room taps, that’s all covered – but when it comes to the intricacies of the social security system, I’m stumped. It’ll fall into place, as Magnus said, and with my university education I’m sure to find a job. Before, such disorganisation would have terrified me, but not any more. We could live in a barrel for all I care, because all that matters is that we have found each other. There is nothing left to wish for. Nothing else to achieve. I have found what all those millions of people have sought since the dawn of man. I have found him. We have found each other. I could cry with joy. I could sing. I could puke.
