‘Peter? I’m sorry. Can we please start again? I’m so sorry.’
‘I’m hungry.’
‘Let me get you some cornflakes?’
I looked to the shelf above the fridge. The chocolate was gone. I was saving it for that evening, as Dad had instructed. The loaf of bread was half eaten too. The banana was missing. And there was only half a carrot left.
‘You ate my food! You ate my chocolate.’
‘I did. I had to. Can’t you see? He starves me here. There’s still enough for your dinner.’
I said nothing, but I put on my clothes quickly and tied my shoelaces, before I went over and kicked her as hard as I could with my leather shoes, repeatedly, in the face, in the head, in her fat belly. She rolled herself into a ball, whimpering and crying. Dad was right. She knew I was in charge now. She didn’t try to talk to me again for ages. She got under her blanket and sobbed there, and every so often she would cry out in pain.
I shouted at her to shut up.
I got my own cornflakes and sat on my camp bed. I tried not to cry. I wanted my dad. I hated the ghost. I rattled at the door and looked at where the window had been. There was no glass in it. Just planks of wood. I could see chinks of light coming through but could not see the garden. I read my book and played with my matchbox cars and tried to forget where I was. I missed television. I wondered if Dad had sent me here as punishment. But what had I done to deserve it?
21
Sally
On Christmas Day, I got up early and lit the fire in the sitting room. Our Christmas Days after Mum died were usually the same: a turkey lunch, mostly prepared by me. I would drink a glass or three of red wine, which made me feel warm and giddy and then sleepy. We ate in front of the television because there was so much to watch. We both liked Raiders of the Lost Ark and that was on most years on some channel. Indiana Jones was handsome and when I thought hard about him, I felt a tingle in my knickers. I asked Dad what that meant, and he said it meant that I was heterosexual, theoretically.
On this first Christmas morning without Dad, an old Abbott and Costello film was on TV. I had my tea and toast in front of the television. Dad used to laugh out loud at these films and I would join in laughing even though I found the antics of the two men stupid, but Dad liked it when I laughed. Sometimes I laughed spontaneously. There used to be a show called You’ve Been Framed and it was full of short videos of people falling over in stupid ways and hurting themselves. That was funny.
But I realized nothing was funny when you watched it on your own.
At 11 a.m., the phone rang. It was Nadine. ‘You were invited for Christmas lunch and the invitation still stands, but if you ever hurt Angela again, I’ll hit you so hard that you won’t know what day it is.’
‘I think that’s fair,’ I said.
‘And another thing,’ she said. ‘That stupid teddy bear is not to be mentioned in this house.’
‘Okay.’
‘Can you be here in half an hour?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
When Nadine answered the door, I put my hand out to shake hers, and she took it and I shook very firmly to show I meant I was very sorry indeed.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘You’re a nutcase, but you’re our nutcase.’ She laughed and I laughed because she was right and it was nice to feel that I belonged to someone. I apologized again to Angela. The frozen peas had worked because her face was unmarked.
I asked a lot of questions that day but I didn’t get many answers. Angela didn’t know anything except that I’d been adopted. She had looked up my story on the internet and could glean bare facts. The date my birth mother was abducted, the date we were discovered. Conor Geary’s date of birth and family circumstances （he had one sister from whom he had been estranged）。 The date of my mother’s death. She did not know how exactly she died but that it was ruled a suicide. The reports that I had been adopted abroad.
Apart from that, we had a nice day. I hadn’t thought to buy them gifts, but Angela and Nadine had bought me a purple sweater that was soft and bright. I was amazed that they didn’t turn the television on at all. They played with Spotify and tried to get me to join them in dancing. They drank a lot. I drank three glasses of wine and that is my absolute limit. Even then, I was feeling sleepy, but I was glad to walk home.
The minute I got in, I turned on the central heating and the television. I was disappointed not to get answers from Angela about what had happened to me. I went into Dad’s office and opened the box marked PRIVATE. There were old Polaroids labelled ‘Denise and Mary Norton’。 My birth mother was so young and frail, and in most photos she looked terrified. In photos where her mouth was open, I could see that she had no visible teeth. In the majority of them, she had her arms wrapped around a small child. In bed, on an office chair, standing by a radiator. She wore clothes that were mismatched and seemed to swamp her emaciated body. It took me a moment to realize the child was me, despite the label. I did not, do not, resemble Denise, although she must have been young when she died. I compared photographs of me when I was in my late teens and early twenties. There was no likeness. In the photographs where she was on her own, her face was tear-stained and her arms reached out. For me?
I didn’t recognize her, but with close inspection, I recognized me. My face was taut and pinched, unlike the photos of my seventh birthday party, where I looked well fed, albeit unhappy. Denise looked gaunt. In some of the photos, we are smiling at each other and she appears to be talking to me. I don’t look at the camera. Despite the circumstances, I look like my smile is genuine and voluntary. My sunken eyes sparkle. Toby isn’t in any of the photos.
I went to the mirror and tried to replicate the smile, but I am an adult woman. It is stupid to try to smile like a child.
In the box, also, there were small cassette tapes and a Dictaphone. The tapes were numbered and dated. I slipped the first numbered tape, dated 11/04/80, into the slot, but the batteries were long dead. I replaced them and pressed play. I recognized Dad’s voice immediately.
Tom: Denise, come in, no need to be afraid, this is a safe place. Nobody is going to hurt you here. And this is your little girl, Mary?
Me!
Denise: [screaming] Leave the door open, please open the door!
Child: [whimpering]
Tom: I’m so sorry. Jean, will you leave the door open wide, please?
Denise: Where is she going? I don’t want her to go!
Jean: Tom, it might be better if I stay?
My mum’s voice!
Tom: You’re right. Now, Denise, is that better? Jean will stay and the door is open. Would you like to sit down there, and Mary can sit – oh I see, well, you can sit together. Wherever you are comfortable.
Denise: [mumbles]
Tom: Did you sleep last night, Denise? I know everything must be strange to you after being … away for so long.
Denise: [mumbles a question]
Child: [whispers an answer]
Tom: There is no need to whisper any more, Mary.
Denise: Don’t talk to her!
Jean: Will I take Mary over here to the play area?
Denise: No!
Tom: It’s just a few steps away. You can watch.
Denise: No. I said no!
[A long silence. Jean coughs]
Tom: You saw your mother and father last night, Denise, how did that feel?