I run to the door and kneel, peeping through the keyhole as Aunty Beryl grabs my arm and tries to guide me away. I stiffen and resist, for a moment anyway.
Yellow. That’s the colour I see first. Then brightly coloured birds, and flowers, reds and greens, a block of dress fabric. No body, no face, just a screeching banshee with the angry voice of a woman who is cross with my dad and wants to tell my mum something really important.
The next voice is my mum’s. She sounds angry, or is she scared? More likely embarrassed that the neighbours will hear. She slams the front door before trying to calm things down. ‘Martha. I’m sorry but I have no idea why you’re here, but let’s go into the parlour and talk there. You’ll be upsetting our daughter, so please, if you will.’
The bird lady moves, and then my mum and the last thing I see before Aunty Beryl heaves me upwards and takes me out the back door to her house, is my dad’s arm, hanging by his side. The anchor tattoo that I love to trace with my finger as he tells me stories of his voyages across the sea, disappears from sight.
Blackness swallows me. I’m not scared. This is how it goes. Every dream the same.
I open my eyes and I am upstairs in my bedroom, covered by a blanket but still wearing my clothes from earlier, not my nightie. I have no recollection of how I got there, or when I came back from Aunty Beryl’s. It’s cold so I sit and pull the thick eiderdown and wrap it round my shoulders. There’s a light on in the hall: I can see it under my door. And then I hear voices coming from next door, Mum and Dad’s room. And crying, soft and low.
Then Mum speaks. ‘I knew, I knew. I just wouldn’t admit it. I kept telling myself I was wrong and you wouldn’t do this to us. I thought Christmas, us all being together would make it right. I tried so hard to make it perfect. I wanted to stick us back together.’
My dad mutters something and whatever it is makes my mum erupt. ‘Then go. Go now. Go on. Get out. I don’t want you here for a second longer if that’s how you feel. You make me sick, do you know that? You disgust me–’ She stops, interrupted by three loud thumps on the wall. Not from Aunty Beryl’s side. It will be nasty Mrs Smith who nobody likes.
Mum says terraced houses have ears so when she falls silent I understand why. Whatever Dad has done is bad and she doesn’t want anyone else to know, especially Mrs Smith.
I hear footsteps, Mum’s. She goes to the bathroom, the light clicks on and then she closes the door. Movement in their bedroom, drawers being opened and shut and I can’t bear it any longer. I have to see him. I have to see my dad one more time so I push back the covers and slide off the bed. The wooden floor is cold beneath my socks but I don’t have time to put on my slippers. If I don’t hurry I will miss him. I might be able to change his mind. This time.
Four steps along the landing and I am at the bedroom door and I watch him in silence as he pushes clothes into a duffel bag that lies sideways on the bed and my little heart breaks.
‘Dad. Where are you going?’
He turns and runs one hand through his hair, pushing the quiff back over his forehead. His face is a mix of worry and shock but he carries on with his task, takes a sideways step and grabs socks from the top drawer, answering as he stuffs them inside the bag then pulls the cord, sealing in his belongings. ‘I just need to go away for a bit. Nothing to worry about, pet. You go back to bed. Go on, there’s a good girl.’
‘But it’s Christmas Eve so you can’t go away now. You’ll miss all the fun.’
He pulls the bag off the bed, steps towards me then kneels. Both his hands gently rub each of my arms while he speaks. ‘I’m sorry, pet, but I have to go now. You and Mum will have a nice day, don’t worry. Father Christmas will be here soon so you have to get back in bed and go to sleep.’
‘Are you going back to the sea? Is that why you have your sailor’s bag? Mum doesn’t like it when you go away. Stay here, Dad. Go after Christmas. Please, don’t spoil it. Me and Mum have made it all nice. It’s going to be special.’
And then it happens. The most terrible thing because Dads aren’t supposed to cry. But my dad does. I see tears that make his eyes look like glass, then they leak and roll down his cheeks, like someone is pouring a jug of water on his face. No more words. Just the force of him pulling me to his chest, holding me so tight I can’t breathe and I think my back will snap. And into my neck, a sob, his warm breath on my skin.
Then he lets go, stands and picks up the duffel bag and before I can speak he rushes, almost runs, from the room. Fast now. Everything happens at once.
Mum opens the bathroom door, a bright light shows the lines of black kohl that run down her face and she holds out her hand for me to go to her. Instead, I follow my dad who takes the stairs at a run. He’s in the hall, wrapping his scarf round his neck, pulling on his donkey jacket, picking up the bag and I get to the bottom step just as he opens the front door.
One last try.
‘Dad, Daddy, please don’t go. Please Daddy, please stay here for Christmas.’ But as I look at him one last time, at the face I’ll try so hard to remember, it’s as though his tears are washing away his features. A watercolour fading to white. So I hold on to his voice, his words, some hope.
‘Be good for your mum, pet. Be a brave girl. I’ll be back soon, okay.’
‘Daddy, no. Please.’ The door opens. I know I have failed so I ask the same question I have asked so many times before. ‘When, when are you coming home?’
He pauses, looks up the stairs and I follow his gaze to my mum who is standing there, halfway, mute, frozen. Then back to my dad but it’s too late, his face has disappeared, a white misty hollow is all that remains. He doesn’t answer my question. I start to sob so hard my throat hurts, reaching out as he steps into the night, slamming the front door.
And then he is gone.
1
Carmen
Appleton Farm, Cheshire
2021
Carmen’s eyes snapped open. It was over. The dream. Relief allowed her heart to beat a steadier pace as she swiped at her eyes, brushing away the tears of a six-year-old and the lingering touch of old ghosts.
