'You should
be here for Sunday dinner. It's a family day.
Honestly! Just one day of the week – is that too
much to ask?'
Courtney doesn't answer, and with the sigh
of a thwarted saint, Mum goes tutting away.
Courtney starts peeling the potatoes.
The drone of the vacuum cleaner hums out
from the dining room.
'How are you doing?' Mum is back, pulling
a mustard-gold duster from the cleaning unit.
'Make sure you get all the eyes out, won't you?
And cut away any bruises.'
Courtney's hand moves mechanically. The
knife has a thin blade, slightly curved. The
serrated edge catches a spark of light as it
strikes in through the window. Every eye is off.
Every bruise is out. She is a potato-peeling
machine. Seven. Eight. Nine. She has to do
more. Ten-year-old boys eat roast potatoes as if
it's the last chance they'll ever get to eat
anything ever.
As if on cue the front door slams open.
Seconds later, the boys spill in. Jamie and
Lucas. Cheeky blue eyes and dimpled grins,
their faces freckled with flecks of mud.
Courtney keeps peeling, listening as Mum
fusses about the dirt on the carpet. 'I've just
spent ALL afternoon cleaning up.'
Courtney is always glad that they are boys.
She could never have coped with the worry of
sisters. She would have had to keep sisters very
safe. She can love them, but she doesn't have to
protect them. They'll never need her like that.
Then she feels her back stiffen. Something in
her stomach curls. He is there in the doorway.
She knows it before he speaks. Over the years
she has grown antennae that can pick out every
tiny trembling vibration of his key in the lock.
His breath in the hall. His tread on the stairs.
'We did eight miles – all along the river's
edge.' His voice is as eager as the boys. She
won't turn round, but she can picture his lean,
tanned face and knows his eyes will be all lit up.
'You should've thought about the puddles.'
Mum is still fussing, telling the boys to 'get
those things off' so she can put them in the
washing machine. The boys rattle out stories
about mega skids and Jamie falling in a puddle
that was 'this deep'. Courtney knows that, in
spite of the fussing, Mum will be all lit up too.
Mum sparks like light on steel for Dad.
Courtney lays the knife on the edge of the
sink.
'Potatoes are done. I need to go now.' She
says this to Mum, not letting her eyes move to
Dad, edging away as he comes over to pour
himself a glass of water. If he touches her, even
brushes against her, she will carry the touch for
the rest of the day.
Not that he touches her now.
It's been four years.
But it wouldn't matter if it was forty years.
Four hundred. Four thousand. She'll never
escape from the horror of the times when he did.
* * *
'Wednesday then. Afternoon.' The bright up for-anything
smile slides from Alix's face as she
clicks off Dale's mobile. She stays staring at it,
as if it holds secrets. Which in a way, it does.
She heads back to the kitchen, watching
Fern stir the chilli. It bubbles up slowly,
whispering soft phuts of sound.
'Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble,' mutters
Courtney. She is washing the salad, blasting
cold water over everything.
Alix wishes she could get Courtney on her
own. She has been running an idea through her
head all day. A bad idea. A wicked witch of an
idea. But every time she thinks about it, she
feels less shocked – and more excited. 'I need
some wine,' she says, taking a bottle from the
fridge and putting it on the side.
Fern looks round and widens her eyes at her.
'You said you'd never . . . '
'Changed my mind.' Alix rummages through
the clutter of cutlery in her top drawer, and pulls
out a corkscrew. 'There's still loads left from last
night. It would be criminal to waste it.'
Courtney rinses three glasses for her, and
she carries everything through to the table in
the front room. Fern passes her on her way
back out, taking the chilli. She smiles at Alix
anxiously, and Alix smiles back. What a
lovely time they're all having.
She
be here for Sunday dinner. It's a family day.
Honestly! Just one day of the week – is that too
much to ask?'
Courtney doesn't answer, and with the sigh
of a thwarted saint, Mum goes tutting away.
Courtney starts peeling the potatoes.
The drone of the vacuum cleaner hums out
from the dining room.
'How are you doing?' Mum is back, pulling
a mustard-gold duster from the cleaning unit.
'Make sure you get all the eyes out, won't you?
And cut away any bruises.'
Courtney's hand moves mechanically. The
knife has a thin blade, slightly curved. The
serrated edge catches a spark of light as it
strikes in through the window. Every eye is off.
Every bruise is out. She is a potato-peeling
machine. Seven. Eight. Nine. She has to do
more. Ten-year-old boys eat roast potatoes as if
it's the last chance they'll ever get to eat
anything ever.
As if on cue the front door slams open.
Seconds later, the boys spill in. Jamie and
Lucas. Cheeky blue eyes and dimpled grins,
their faces freckled with flecks of mud.
Courtney keeps peeling, listening as Mum
fusses about the dirt on the carpet. 'I've just
spent ALL afternoon cleaning up.'
Courtney is always glad that they are boys.
She could never have coped with the worry of
sisters. She would have had to keep sisters very
safe. She can love them, but she doesn't have to
protect them. They'll never need her like that.
Then she feels her back stiffen. Something in
her stomach curls. He is there in the doorway.
She knows it before he speaks. Over the years
she has grown antennae that can pick out every
tiny trembling vibration of his key in the lock.
His breath in the hall. His tread on the stairs.
'We did eight miles – all along the river's
edge.' His voice is as eager as the boys. She
won't turn round, but she can picture his lean,
tanned face and knows his eyes will be all lit up.
'You should've thought about the puddles.'
Mum is still fussing, telling the boys to 'get
those things off' so she can put them in the
washing machine. The boys rattle out stories
about mega skids and Jamie falling in a puddle
that was 'this deep'. Courtney knows that, in
spite of the fussing, Mum will be all lit up too.
Mum sparks like light on steel for Dad.
Courtney lays the knife on the edge of the
sink.
'Potatoes are done. I need to go now.' She
says this to Mum, not letting her eyes move to
Dad, edging away as he comes over to pour
himself a glass of water. If he touches her, even
brushes against her, she will carry the touch for
the rest of the day.
Not that he touches her now.
It's been four years.
But it wouldn't matter if it was forty years.
Four hundred. Four thousand. She'll never
escape from the horror of the times when he did.
* * *
'Wednesday then. Afternoon.' The bright up for-anything
smile slides from Alix's face as she
clicks off Dale's mobile. She stays staring at it,
as if it holds secrets. Which in a way, it does.
She heads back to the kitchen, watching
Fern stir the chilli. It bubbles up slowly,
whispering soft phuts of sound.
'Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble,' mutters
Courtney. She is washing the salad, blasting
cold water over everything.
Alix wishes she could get Courtney on her
own. She has been running an idea through her
head all day. A bad idea. A wicked witch of an
idea. But every time she thinks about it, she
feels less shocked – and more excited. 'I need
some wine,' she says, taking a bottle from the
fridge and putting it on the side.
Fern looks round and widens her eyes at her.
'You said you'd never . . . '
'Changed my mind.' Alix rummages through
the clutter of cutlery in her top drawer, and pulls
out a corkscrew. 'There's still loads left from last
night. It would be criminal to waste it.'
Courtney rinses three glasses for her, and
she carries everything through to the table in
the front room. Fern passes her on her way
back out, taking the chilli. She smiles at Alix
anxiously, and Alix smiles back. What a
lovely time they're all having.
She
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