Read Online V for Violet by Alison Rattle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alison Rattle
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She’d die of shame and embarrassment if she knew I was here. I feel grubby. I want to go home and fill the sink with warm water and scrub myself all over with a flannel. And I want to get home before Dad wakes up. For some reason I don’t want him to be on his own when he finally stirs and grunts and opens his eyes. He deserves a cup of tea at least.
I steal a last glance at Mum. She’s dabbing her eyes with a hankie now. I’d love to know why she’s crying, but I can’t exactly ask her. Instead, I creep away, back towards the entrance to the park. There are more people milling around now. I nervously check their faces, hoping I don’t recognise any of them. Not for my sake, but for Mum’s. Luckily there’s no one familiar.
I can’t stop wondering why Mum’s crying though. I think about it logically. There can only be a certain number of reasons.
1. She’s told Donkey Jacket Man that it’s all over between them, and she’s saying a painful goodbye.
2. She can’t cope with the guilt of cheating on Dad.
3. She’s agreed to run away with Donkey Jacket Man and she’s crying at the thought of having to tell me and Dad and Norma.
4. Donkey Jacket Man has told her it’s all over between them, and she’ll never see him again.
Whatever the reason, none of it looks too good for Mum.
I trudge the rest of the way home. I can’t believe that now, finally, when something so crazy, awful, exciting and terrible has happened, I’ve got no one to share it with. Now, when my life has been shaken up, stirred and turned completely upside down, there’s not one single person I can talk to about it all. A secret like this is a horrible thing to hold on to. It’s a life-changing secret; too big for one person to carry. I can already feel it filling me up to bursting point. I imagine myself growing bigger, my skin stretching as the secret inside me grows bigger. I imagine my head ballooning and my lips growing tighter and tighter as I struggle to keep the secret inside.
When I get home, Dad’s already awake. He’s sitting at the kitchen table sorting out his betting slips. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he asks. ‘And where’s your mother?’ He flicks his ash into a saucer and takes another drag on his fag.
‘I just went out for some fresh air,’ I say. ‘And I think Mum did too. ’Spect she’ll be back in a minute.’
Dad laughs. ‘Fresh air?’ he says. ‘What, in Battersea? You’ll be lucky.’ He pats his slips into a neat little pile and places them in the middle of the table then he grinds his fag out in the saucer. Mum’ll go mad. She hates it when he does that. It’s not like there isn’t a perfectly good ashtray on the windowsill. Dad yawns loudly and stretches his arms above his head.
‘Want a cuppa?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, go on then, love. Why not?’ he says.
As I fill the kettle, I picture Mum walking back up the road. I imagine she’s dried her eyes properly and taken a good few deep breaths. She’ll be dragging her feet, not wanting to come home but knowing that she has to. She’ll be preparing herself to tell Dad the terrible news. She might have her case packed and ready and hidden under the bed.
Or maybe not. Maybe she won’t say anything. Maybe she’s hoping that Dad’s still asleep, and she’s got a cover story ready just in case he’s not. I hope she doesn’t tell him she’s been to the shops. I hope she’s realised by now that was a stupid thing to say on a Wednesday.
I fill the teapot with boiling water and put it on the table to brew. Dad likes tea you can stand a spoon up in. I fetch his cup and the sugar bowl and put them in front of him. ‘Thanks, Vi,’ he says. He smiles and winks at me. He can be nice, Dad can, especially when it’s just the two of us. But I wish he wouldn’t be nice now. It makes this, waiting for Mum to come home bit, even harder. I feel like I’m waiting for a catastrophe to happen, for a bomb to explode in the middle of the house. I feel
I steal a last glance at Mum. She’s dabbing her eyes with a hankie now. I’d love to know why she’s crying, but I can’t exactly ask her. Instead, I creep away, back towards the entrance to the park. There are more people milling around now. I nervously check their faces, hoping I don’t recognise any of them. Not for my sake, but for Mum’s. Luckily there’s no one familiar.
I can’t stop wondering why Mum’s crying though. I think about it logically. There can only be a certain number of reasons.
1. She’s told Donkey Jacket Man that it’s all over between them, and she’s saying a painful goodbye.
2. She can’t cope with the guilt of cheating on Dad.
3. She’s agreed to run away with Donkey Jacket Man and she’s crying at the thought of having to tell me and Dad and Norma.
4. Donkey Jacket Man has told her it’s all over between them, and she’ll never see him again.
Whatever the reason, none of it looks too good for Mum.
I trudge the rest of the way home. I can’t believe that now, finally, when something so crazy, awful, exciting and terrible has happened, I’ve got no one to share it with. Now, when my life has been shaken up, stirred and turned completely upside down, there’s not one single person I can talk to about it all. A secret like this is a horrible thing to hold on to. It’s a life-changing secret; too big for one person to carry. I can already feel it filling me up to bursting point. I imagine myself growing bigger, my skin stretching as the secret inside me grows bigger. I imagine my head ballooning and my lips growing tighter and tighter as I struggle to keep the secret inside.
When I get home, Dad’s already awake. He’s sitting at the kitchen table sorting out his betting slips. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he asks. ‘And where’s your mother?’ He flicks his ash into a saucer and takes another drag on his fag.
‘I just went out for some fresh air,’ I say. ‘And I think Mum did too. ’Spect she’ll be back in a minute.’
Dad laughs. ‘Fresh air?’ he says. ‘What, in Battersea? You’ll be lucky.’ He pats his slips into a neat little pile and places them in the middle of the table then he grinds his fag out in the saucer. Mum’ll go mad. She hates it when he does that. It’s not like there isn’t a perfectly good ashtray on the windowsill. Dad yawns loudly and stretches his arms above his head.
‘Want a cuppa?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, go on then, love. Why not?’ he says.
As I fill the kettle, I picture Mum walking back up the road. I imagine she’s dried her eyes properly and taken a good few deep breaths. She’ll be dragging her feet, not wanting to come home but knowing that she has to. She’ll be preparing herself to tell Dad the terrible news. She might have her case packed and ready and hidden under the bed.
Or maybe not. Maybe she won’t say anything. Maybe she’s hoping that Dad’s still asleep, and she’s got a cover story ready just in case he’s not. I hope she doesn’t tell him she’s been to the shops. I hope she’s realised by now that was a stupid thing to say on a Wednesday.
I fill the teapot with boiling water and put it on the table to brew. Dad likes tea you can stand a spoon up in. I fetch his cup and the sugar bowl and put them in front of him. ‘Thanks, Vi,’ he says. He smiles and winks at me. He can be nice, Dad can, especially when it’s just the two of us. But I wish he wouldn’t be nice now. It makes this, waiting for Mum to come home bit, even harder. I feel like I’m waiting for a catastrophe to happen, for a bomb to explode in the middle of the house. I feel
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