CHAPTER - 10

10  

     

 

 

Mondays were usually a day of leisure for me. Up at the normal time, breakfast with Marge then a catch up with my social life. The one thing I always tried to do was visit my mother. She had brought her worried look to see Marge to check out where I lived the Monday morning after I moved in. I didn’t speak much. Marge made her a cuppa and did most of the talking so I wandered up to my room until mum shouted to say she was leaving. What they talked about I’ve no idea but when my mother left she smiled so from that I assume at least some of the words were good. Since then she’s only been once more. A bit of a disappointment for sure but then maybe trouble with my father kept her away. At least that’s what I told myself. One thing I felt quite strongly about, though, was if I didn’t go and see her perhaps there would be long spells of no contact.  

But she did take the time to phone which in a small way made up for her not coming over. Today, dead on nine, the phone in the hall rang. The ring never changed, of course, but the time, that was what told me who it was.  

“I’ll get it,” I said, taking a long sip of tea and a huge bite of toast and having no idea how things were about to explode. I picked up the receiver. “Marge’s place,” I cheerfully said. 

A slight pause. If she was ringing from a phone box there must be trouble. “Is that you Aubrey?” she said. 

I could hear the strain. Something was going on all right. “Yes, mum,” I replied. “What’s up?” 

“I’m in a phone box…” 

“I realise that… what’s going on though?” I hoped she didn’t hear the concern in my voice but I suspected she probably would.  

“I told your father I had to go out for milk,” is all she said but her voice was hollow sounding. 

“Is he at home?” 

There was a long pause, “Yes, so don’t come today… He’s…” 

I could tell straight away. The reluctant tone I’d heard so many times, “Has he hurt you?” 

“Not really… a bit… Not badly though.” The way she said it I knew how it was. She continued, “He came home late Saturday night and… you know how it is sometimes, Aubrey… he said he’d seen you at… you know, one of his jobs. Then he started. Smashed the bedroom up and…” 

“Are you all right?” 

Another long pause, “I’ve got to go. I just phoned to tell you not to come over.” she mumbled. Her voice shook and I suspected there were tears. 

I wanted to shout down the phone but took a breath and just spoke firmly, “I’m coming over…” 

“Please don’t… I don’t want there to be trouble.” 

“I can handle myself.” 

“I know that but when he’s like this, I’m not so sure… Really, Aubrey, I can handle it… Come next week.” Before I could say anything else she’d hung up. 

Slowly putting the phone down I knew I’d hit a wall. It was my fault all over again. I felt cursed. Every time something like this happened it was always my fault. I sat on the chair next to the phone table and that’s where Marge found me. Head in my hands. Tears in my eyes. She didn’t say anything straight away, just took my arm and led me into the front room. Sat me down and sat next to me on the sofa. 

Brushed her hand through my hair and turned my head to face her, “Nothing can be so bad,” she said. 

“It can,” is all I said and turned away to stare at my knees. 

“I know you’ve got troubles. I saw them all over your face the day I opened the door when you came about the room. Are they really that bad?” 

I nodded and glanced at the expression on her face and that made me want to really cry. That mixture of care and concern and love can be so powerful. 

“Do you want to tell me? Getting it all out can make a big difference,” Marge said so softly her words drifted in and I could instantly feel the soothing effect. 

I didn’t know what to do. I’d never spoken about this sort of stuff to anyone before. Not even to my mother. I’d just shoved it all away, maybe pretending it wasn't happening. 

I think Marge could sense my struggle because she said, “Come on, Aubrey don’t you think it’s probably about time? I’ve heard you, you know. Up at night. Not sleeping well. You know that’s when it all comes to the surface. All those worries that you shut away come drifting out in your dreams.” The words gentle and sincere.  

She was right, of course. I did spend hours awake trying to ignore the thoughts rolling around. Sometimes I would even wake up with a start, sweating with tears in my eyes. I knew she was right and the way she spoke had this kind of massaging effect. So, I told her. I took a deep breath and out it all tumbled. Not quite in a great big heap but close to it. All the years of trouble. The place to start: the beginning and my brother, Donald. Yeah, I know, but how do you think I came up with the name for my story? Donny, just under two years older than me and by a long way our father’s favourite. In fact so much so I think even then he actually hated me. Sometimes I wondered if he was a one son man and when I came along he resented me as an intrusion. If you think back to when I was ten, when I was packed off for those four weeks to stay with my uncle, I’m pretty certain my mother thought that as well. 

I told Marge everything. How one time when I was eight, in the summer holidays, my father was at home and short of a packet of cigs. Donny said he’d go and get them. The Doris in the newsagents knew us so there’d be no problem getting a packet. The shops, maybe a ten minute cycle ride for a nearly ten-year-old. As Donny left my mother shouted to him to take me. I’m not sure why but maybe it had something to do with me getting on my father’s nerves which was an easy thing to do with him being a bit on the hateful side as far as I was concerned.  

Anyway, I sat on the crossbar and away we went. Cycling on the road as usual. Then it happened. Donny in mid sentence as he talked to me. Saying nothing special, just normal stuff and we laughed. You know, despite how our father treated me we got on well. I didn’t hold a grudge. In fact quite the opposite. We were always having a laugh. We passed the first lane on the right then… whack. I didn’t see the vehicle nor did Donny. It came out of the next junction doing a fair speed. Hit us full on the side, ran right over the back of the bike and didn't stop. All I remember was flying through the air and landing on my left leg, felt the pain, then my head connected with tarmac. The next thing I knew I was in hospital with my mother sitting next to me holding my hand. 

The rest was pretty obvious. Two days later I discovered Donny had died. Two weeks later was the funeral which I was not allowed to go to. Two weeks that my father did not talk to me. Not a word. He just scowled. His mind slowly festering. In fact he said little except to row with my mother. She stuck up for herself until he hit her. Right in front of me. A viscous backhanded slap with his right hand that sent her stumbling backward into the fireplace. He turned on me. Raised his hand but I shot off down the corridor and slammed my bedroom door. That night was the first time he came with his whisky breath and leather belt. 

That was it really. He blamed me; if I hadn’t been on the crossbar then… and he blamed my mother; if she hadn’t insisted Donny take me then… The arguments were visited over and over and each time my father’s resentment grew. The thing was he wished it had been me who had died. That’s what he whispered close to my ear late at night with his sour breath stifling me. “It’s you who should be dead,” he’d say and other things that were much worse. And I can tell you, he had no intention of ever changing that. It took four months for my broken leg to properly mend and I’ve still got a shallow dent in my head where it had hit the ground. I told Marge about how I left home and all the other stuff that I kept blurting out until I was done and feeling drained.  

Marge didn’t say much all the time I spoke. The odd quick question but that was it. When I had finished I looked at her with tears running down my cheeks. Here I was a super tough, super confident sixteen, soon to be seventeen-year-old snivelling like a baby. But you know what, Marge was right and I did feel better. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t need to. She instinctively knew what I needed more than anything. Pulling me close, she hugged me tightly, so tightly I could smell rose scent on her neck and that’s what did it really. That hug meant so much. So much more than any words no matter how kind they were. It was the first real hug I’d had in over ten years. Over all that time my mother was too busy beating herself up about Donny and dodging the flack from my father that she sort of forgot about me. Sure she knew I was there and I’m sure she was concerned about me but… You know, I’m now convinced, even if it was in a very small way, there was just a part of blame she laid on me even if it was just to go some way to satisfying her guilt. 

Marge and I sat talking for a while. Nothing special. Nothing about what I’d just said. Just chatting. She suspected how I made a living although I’m sure she didn’t know all the finer details. She didn’t say too much, just reminded me to be careful. Then she said she had things to do and wandered to the kitchen. As I listened to the tap running and sound of plates clattering I happened to glance out of the front window. As if I didn’t have enough problems that day, across the road Take Six man sat, leant my way, in his shiny white Consul Capri staring at the house through the open passenger window.