I am standing in the hallway of our house. It’s freezing and my legs feel pimply, sticking out of my nightie and when I look down my feet are bare. My hands are bruised from where I banged on the door as I screamed and begged my dad to come back and then kicked and cried even more when Mum dragged me away.
It’s like I am a time traveller, borrowing my little girl body, popping in to watch my mum as she clomps up the stairs in her green dressing gown, pink slippers flapping with each step.
I can see her blonde hair, a frizzy hive of white candyfloss, messy with a flat patch at the back that shows her dark roots. She’s carrying a cup of tea in one hand, a cigarette in the other leaving smoke swirling in her wake, adding to the stale smell that is so alien to me. Our home is always clean and tidy and yet there’s this stench that I can’t get rid of, like it’s sticking inside my nose.
Don’t go in the kitchen.
I ignore my own voice. It’s always the same and why my feet automatically take me in that direction, the smell getting worse with every step, my curiosity egging me on. The kitchen is the same as it was on Christmas Eve, two days ago. A pile of peelings lies wrapped in newspaper, a pan of vegetables at the side and at first I think that’s the source of the smell. Going over I pinch my nose. It’s reminding my brain of the compost heap at Dad’s allotment. I take the pan and peelings to the bin, lift the lid and throw the lot inside. It’s only when I turn to put the pan in the sink that I realise where the true cause of the stench is coming from.
On the draining board under a bloodstained tea towel is the chicken. Again I pinch my nose and with my free hand I pull back the cloth, stupidly allowing a waft of rancid air to escape from the grey, slimy flesh and my stomach rolls as bile slides up my throat. I have to get rid of it and the forfeit is letting go of my nose so that two hands can grab the plate. In one panicked, nauseating motion I throw the whole thing in the bin, plate included, then grab the lid and slam it down hard on top.
A voice from behind, harsher than the clatter of metal on metal makes me jump.
‘Carmen!’
I am jolted forward in time, the next morning, in my bedroom. I am wearing my best coat and woolly tights and on top of the mattress is a suitcase, the lid open and the contents of my wardrobe and drawers folded neatly inside.
‘You can take whatever will fit on top. Don’t dawdle. The taxi will be here soon.’ My mum looks nice today. She’s wearing her pencil skirt and black turtleneck, and high heels that make a clomping sound on the floorboards as she goes from room to room.
‘Here’s your toothbrush and toothpaste, save me buying new. Now, are you taking Tiny Tears? Let’s squash her in the end, and pass me Mr Bunny.’ She makes a flicking motion with her fingers that I know means hurry up.
‘But Mum, why do I have to take my toys? We never take them when we go to stay with Aunty Mavis.’ She quickly takes Mr Bunny who is resting on my pillow and I pass Tiny Tears to her.
Why won’t she look at me? She fusses with the suitcase and answers sharply, the sting makes my eyes water. ‘Because we’re not going to see Aunty Mavis. We’re going on an adventure and I don’t know when we will be back. That’s why you have to take as much as you can now.’
I can feel my heart pounding, something isn’t right. It’s as Mum moves towards my bookshelf and starts to remove my Enid Blytons that I notice the two large suitcases in the hallway.
‘Is Dad coming too? Have you packed his clothes? Where is he? The taxi is coming so he needs to hurry up. Mum, where’s Dad? Where’s my Daddy?’ My last question comes out as a shout and my mum responds the same way.
‘Carmen stop! Just shut up, please. Just be quiet.’ Mum has closed her eyes tight and is pinching the bridge of her nose between finger and thumb. She looks like she’s in pain.
I wait.
When she opens her eyes she takes a last look around my room, grabbing the Etch A Sketch and my pack of felt pens, throwing the colouring books on top before zipping up the case, squashing Tiny Tears’s face and for a second trapping Mr Bunny’s ears.
I start to cry, not because I’m worried my doll can’t breathe and my rabbit is hurt and that my Beatrix Potter books won’t fit in. It’s because I don’t want to go. So I tell her. ‘Mum, where are we going? Please don’t make me go without Daddy.’
Dragging the case off the bed she ignores me for a second but when I don’t move she stops. ‘Daddy isn’t coming with us.’
‘Why not? Has he gone to live with that nasty lady who was shouting at him? Why would he live with someone horrible like her, Mum, when he can live here with us?’ I am so confused. I want answers.
She holds my stare. My mum always says it’s wrong to lie. But I can see she’s trying to think of what to say and I panic. I can’t bear the thought that she might tell me a fib so I give her a get-out. ‘Has he gone to sea? When will he be back?’
Again she wavers and again I panic. ‘So if he’s gone to sea and we go away I won’t get his postcards and letters so we have to stay, then I can read them when the postman comes.’ I’m pleased with myself for giving Mum such a sensible and easy solution, until she speaks.
‘No, your dad hasn’t gone to sea, Carmen, and I have no idea where he is right now. So please don’t ask me any more questions. And I don’t want to talk about that woman or the other night so go downstairs. Here, take your satchel and wait in the parlour. Go on. Now.’
My lips begin to wobble and so do hers and as much as I am angry with her, I don’t want her to cry. So instead of putting up a fight I follow the direction of her pointed finger, holding tight to the banister because I can’t see the stairs properly through my tears.
The second I enter the parlour it’s as though he’s there, the scent of him, his presence is everywhere, squashed into the cushion on his armchair where he was sitting when the woman banged on the door. His ashtray is on the arm, half a cigarette perched on the side and his slippers are by the fire. Looking up I notice that there are photographs missing from the mantelpiece, Mum’s mum, me and mum. The happy wedding photo is still there. Mum and Dad outside the town hall.
I turn when I hear a noise, cases bouncing down the stairs and I am going to ask about the photographs when she goes straight back up to collect mine, at the same time as the light dawns. She doesn’t want photos of my dad, but I do.
My head flicks towards the sideboard. Knowing there’s no time to spare I rush over and pick up two photos of my dad. One on the deck of his last ship, the other of the two of us, the week he came home to see his new baby girl. I put one in each pocket. My eyes then fall on the bookshelf and my heart lurches. I can’t leave the atlas behind or his storybooks but mum is on her way back down. I watch and wait, listening as my case is dragged to the door and then her heels clip-clop towards the kitchen and then I pounce on my satchel, dragging it across the floor to the bookshelf where I kneel, fumbling with the buckles.
Hurry, faster, she’ll be back soon.My chest is tight and my fingers tremble as I grab the atlas,please let it fit.It’s a squeeze but it slides in and then I remove the photos from my pockets and put them in, too. Then the books. I takeThe Swiss Family RobinsonandHeidibut there’s only room for one more and I know which I have to choose,The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Our poem.
She’s coming back.
