Read Online The Girl From Barefoot House by Maureen Lee - Free Book Online
Authors: Maureen Lee
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bet she did, the sly bitch.’ She picked up a crocodile handbag off the sideboard. ‘I’m off. You be good, and if you stay good, behave yourself and keep out me way, we’ll get on just fine. You should be grateful you’ve got a nice, respectable home.’ Her lips twisted in a sneer. ‘I know what your mam was up to. If you’d stayed in Huskisson Street with that crowd of slags, you’d have ended up on the streets in time with your slag of a mam. That’s right, isn’t it, miss?’
Josie was pleating and unpleating the chenille cloth between her fingers, because her hands couldn’t keep still. Her aunt’s words, horrible words, beat against her brain, like tiny nails being tapped into her head. She felt as old as Sister Bernadette, a hundred, as memories returned, scenes flashed before her eyes and she recalled things that Mam had said.
I couldn’t live without my little girl, my Petal .
Hello, Petal. I’m home .
She visualised her beautiful mother standing at the foot of the bed, arms outstretched. She used to think Mam was weak, but last Friday she’d been ready to defend her daughter with her life. Josie firmly believed she would have killed the two men if Irish Rose and the black man hadn’t come. I’ll swing for you , she’d said. Mam was strong. And she would be strong. No one would insult her and get away with it. No one . She wouldn’t be sneered at or called names. And the same applied to her mother – she had no idea what a slag was, but it sounded horrible.
Aunt Ivy was still waiting for a reply. She returned to the table and tapped her foot. Josie, boosted by her newly found confidence, decided that if her wrist was pinched again, then her hand could drop off before she’d admit her aunt was right. She looked up at her, and felt hate burning in her eyes.
‘Don’t you dare call me mam a slag,’ she said slowly in a voice so deep it surprised herself. ‘You’re the one who’s horrible. You chucked her out, she told me. And I’d sooner be living in Huskisson Street any day than here.’
‘Oh, Oh, I see.’ Aunt Ivy was momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered. Her face darkened. ‘Oh, so now we know where we stand. You know, all I have to do when I get to work is pick up the phone and you’ll be in an orphanage by tomorrow. Don’t imagine I want you here.’
‘I don’t want to be here.’
There was silence. A clock ticked loudly on the wall. It was an extremely grand clock, with peculiar letters instead of numbers on its pearly face.
Aunt Ivy’s face turned dark with anger. She said abruptly, ‘I haven’t time to argue. I’ll see you later, miss.’ Her heels clicked down the hall. She called, ‘We’ll soon see who’s boss.’ The front door closed.
Josie was shaking. She realised she’d won something that she hadn’t wanted to win: a minor battle. But she didn’t want to be at war with Aunt Ivy. Suddenly, all the hideousness, the misery, of the last few days came washing over her and she began to cry. It was the first time she’d cried since her mother died, and the sobs racked her body till it hurt. Her chest was sore, her throat was sore, hot tears scalded her eyes. She couldn’t believe that she would never see Mam again, or hear her voice,touch her, live with her in the attic room. It seemed she was destined to live in Machin Street with Aunt Ivy for ever. The future, so bright a few days ago, stretched ahead of her, black, miserable and lonely. Everything had changed in the twinkling of an eye. She put her hands to her ears, to block out the future, to block out the fact that Mam was dead.
Why, then, could she hear screaming? Not so much screaming as a thin, pathetic wail, as if a small animal were caught in a trap, pleading to be rescued.
The screaming, the wail, came from herself, and she was running round the house, running upstairs, slamming doors, kicking furniture, beating the walls with her fists. And screaming. She pulled at curtains, threw
Josie was pleating and unpleating the chenille cloth between her fingers, because her hands couldn’t keep still. Her aunt’s words, horrible words, beat against her brain, like tiny nails being tapped into her head. She felt as old as Sister Bernadette, a hundred, as memories returned, scenes flashed before her eyes and she recalled things that Mam had said.
I couldn’t live without my little girl, my Petal .
Hello, Petal. I’m home .
She visualised her beautiful mother standing at the foot of the bed, arms outstretched. She used to think Mam was weak, but last Friday she’d been ready to defend her daughter with her life. Josie firmly believed she would have killed the two men if Irish Rose and the black man hadn’t come. I’ll swing for you , she’d said. Mam was strong. And she would be strong. No one would insult her and get away with it. No one . She wouldn’t be sneered at or called names. And the same applied to her mother – she had no idea what a slag was, but it sounded horrible.
Aunt Ivy was still waiting for a reply. She returned to the table and tapped her foot. Josie, boosted by her newly found confidence, decided that if her wrist was pinched again, then her hand could drop off before she’d admit her aunt was right. She looked up at her, and felt hate burning in her eyes.
‘Don’t you dare call me mam a slag,’ she said slowly in a voice so deep it surprised herself. ‘You’re the one who’s horrible. You chucked her out, she told me. And I’d sooner be living in Huskisson Street any day than here.’
‘Oh, Oh, I see.’ Aunt Ivy was momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered. Her face darkened. ‘Oh, so now we know where we stand. You know, all I have to do when I get to work is pick up the phone and you’ll be in an orphanage by tomorrow. Don’t imagine I want you here.’
‘I don’t want to be here.’
There was silence. A clock ticked loudly on the wall. It was an extremely grand clock, with peculiar letters instead of numbers on its pearly face.
Aunt Ivy’s face turned dark with anger. She said abruptly, ‘I haven’t time to argue. I’ll see you later, miss.’ Her heels clicked down the hall. She called, ‘We’ll soon see who’s boss.’ The front door closed.
Josie was shaking. She realised she’d won something that she hadn’t wanted to win: a minor battle. But she didn’t want to be at war with Aunt Ivy. Suddenly, all the hideousness, the misery, of the last few days came washing over her and she began to cry. It was the first time she’d cried since her mother died, and the sobs racked her body till it hurt. Her chest was sore, her throat was sore, hot tears scalded her eyes. She couldn’t believe that she would never see Mam again, or hear her voice,touch her, live with her in the attic room. It seemed she was destined to live in Machin Street with Aunt Ivy for ever. The future, so bright a few days ago, stretched ahead of her, black, miserable and lonely. Everything had changed in the twinkling of an eye. She put her hands to her ears, to block out the future, to block out the fact that Mam was dead.
Why, then, could she hear screaming? Not so much screaming as a thin, pathetic wail, as if a small animal were caught in a trap, pleading to be rescued.
The screaming, the wail, came from herself, and she was running round the house, running upstairs, slamming doors, kicking furniture, beating the walls with her fists. And screaming. She pulled at curtains, threw
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