Authors: Ricki Thomas
“Did your Mum respond to the help?”
Hope leant heavily on the armrest, her chin settling into her hand, and let out a deep, fatigued sigh. “Sometimes. She tried. She still drank, but she had the occasional good day, and they were great. I loved her on those days. She started going to something called Gingerbread, it was something for single parents. I started going to a thing called the Girl’s Group. And I still went to the Friendly Club. Griffin started coming over after I told him about Mum’s overdose. He was my special friend.”
Dawn’s brow furrowed with concern. “Oh? How old was he?”
Hope had a light smile, her face a picture of innocence as she shrugged. “I don’t know, never asked. I guess he would have been in his twenties. Wore those man sandal things, I call them Jesus Creepers, bloody ugly things!”
“You say he started to come to your house? Under what guise? I mean, what was the Friendly Club? Who ran it?”
Hope laughed, holding a mental ‘stop’ sign up. “Whoah! One question at a time!” She chuckled a little more, oblivious to the apprehension Dawn was emitting. “Um, Friendly Club? Friendly Club?” She patted her lips in thought. “Ah, yes, church. St Paul’s Church. It was a spin off from Sunday School.” A quick glance at Dawn by way of explanation. “It’s okay, they never did anything religious there, it was just a bunch of kids playing about. I just went to keep Tracy company.”
“So in what capacity did Griffin start visiting you at home?” Dawn’s misgivings were loud, but Hope couldn’t hear them.
“He was a trainee vicar, I think. But he didn’t just visit me, he talked to Mum, too.”
“Faith? Charity?”
The furrowed brow to recollect, then a proud, childlike smile. “No, just me and Mum.”
In unison, they both glanced at the clock, the session was up. Dawn was still at a loss for words, she had some terrible suspicions, but realised she would have to tread carefully. She so wished Pat was still alive so she could bounce some questions, ideas. She felt a tug at her heart, and mentally willed it away. Returning her concentration to Hope, she spotted the cheque book was out and Hope was scribbling across it. She waved her hand. “No, Hope, I’m not charging you for last week, and you’ve paid this session.”
Hope tore the cheque out and held it up for Dawn to take. “I’m paying for last week. It may not have been about me, but I got a lot out of it. You were so frank and open with your emotions, it made me realise that I can be in front of you too. I would have cried today, but…” she pointed exaggeratedly to her face, “the make up would have been ruined, and it took an hour to do that!” She laughed. “This cheque is for the next ten sessions. You’re really helping me, Dawn.”
Dawn took the cheque. “Thanks. I’m pleased you’re seeing this through, Hope, you’re making headway, real headway.”
Hope stood, smiling, and shook Dawn’s hand when she rose to join her. She went to leave, efficient and organised once more, but swung back at the door. “Oh, I meant to tell you, I can’t come next week, we’re going down to Mum’s for a pre-Christmas get together.”
“Oh, lovely, okay, two weeks. Where’s Mum’s, by the way?”
“Cornwall.”
“Nice.” The two women held eye contact for a while, both aware that the conversation wasn’t quite finished. “Hope?” Hope cocked her head to the side. “Do me a favour. Can you spend some time on your own with your mum to discuss Griffin? Just see what she has to say about him.”
Going to Cornwall
Hope had gathered the children together, towing present stuffed suitcases to the car, before setting off on the tedious journey to Cornwall. They had decided to leave on the Friday, although the main event wasn’t planned until Saturday, so they could do the trip in two parts, stopping over at Medmenham for the night. Reading would have been a more direct place to stay as it was en-route, but the town reminded Hope too much of Lucy, of her disastrous childhood, for her to re-visit yet.
Danesfield House was a beautiful place, wasted on the children, but Hope had dreamed of staying there in her twenties, never imagining that such affluent dreams could come true. She awoke on the Saturday, having managed an unbroken sleep in the plush, encompassing covers, and, having breakfasted, they returned to the journey. The views over Salisbury Plain and the Dartmoor Forest were stunning, the air crisp, sharp, with the harsh glow from the low winter sun blinding through the windows.
After a tiring few hours, they finally reached Pendoggett, driving through the automatic gates to reach the mansion Wanda Ferris had bought with the inheritance money her daughter had left after her untimely death. It was a beautiful home, approximately two hundred years old, the stonework ornate, the render freshly whitewashed. As Hope drove the car along the lengthy drive, she surveyed the landscaped gardens appreciatively, admiring the clever mix of colours, of textures, as they sparkled in the cold sun.
The entrance to the mansion was colossal, grand white pillars framing a huge stepped entrance, shielded with heavy oak doors, but, as always, Hope and the children walked from the parking area to the small, unostentatious side door. The main entrance was only used by people living in the women’s refuge Wanda had created in the bulk of the house. Her living area was modest compared to the rest of the property; a living room, five bedrooms, each en-suite, which she insisted on to house her family when they stayed, a large farmhouse style kitchen, complete with a massive pine table, and a bathroom.
Hope was the last of the siblings to arrive, and the first ten minutes were engulfed with kisses, hugs, and ‘so good to see-you’s. Wanda’s wife, Belinda, a marvel with youngsters, whisked away the grandchildren, bribing them with fizzy drinks and goodies, leaving the husbands to chatter over a whisky, whilst Wanda showed her daughters how the refuge was developing. Stepping through an internal door, the girls found themselves in a substantial, yet functional hallway. In its prime, the walls would have been bedecked with mouldings and precious family paintings, but now they were littered with notice boards and information leaflets. Beside the front door was a reception desk, covering the entrance to two offices, where the charity’s administration took place.
As they strolled through the corridors, Hope marvelled at her mother’s hefty size. Since marrying Belinda the weight she’d lost had piled back on through the contentment of finding her life partner, and the years of dieting were now a distant memory. Her figure irrelevant nowadays, Wanda’s pride in her venture was palpable. For the first time in her life she had found a true passion for something. Helping women and children who had suffered at the hands of domestic violence. “We’ve got twenty seven bedrooms now that we’ve converted the reception rooms and the old servant’s quarters, each one has four beds, enough for a woman and three children. If she should have more than three, we have z-beds, which we can find a place for in the larger rooms. This one’s empty at the moment, the family should arrive soon, I’ll show you.”
Wanda unlocked the door using a weighty ring of keys, and they stepped into the fresh, homely room. The beds were made neatly, a small sofa fronted a television, and a kitchenette in the corner provided a kettle, sink, and microwave oven. A further door led to an en-suite bathroom, functional and white, with a smattering of colour- coordinated cosmetics.
“It’s very luxurious, Mum, don’t you think it’s a bit much, I mean, half these women are druggies and thieves.”
Wanda’s glare silenced Charity. “These women are victims of domestic violence. They have been beaten, hospitalised, beaten, hospitalised, until one day they have taken the brave step to move away from their bullying partners. They come from all walks of life, but the one thing they share is their strength. It is my duty to return their dignity to them, and that I do by showing them love, support, kindness, and respect. I haven’t had a problem with any of the families so far, nobody has taken advantage of my hospitality. And we have nearly a hundred percent success rate at rehabilitating the families in a safe and suitable environment.”
Charity skulked away, rebuked, still hostile, but Wanda bathed in the proud eyes of her other three daughters, the blue from behind the glasses twinkling, her chubby cheeks holding a smile. She continued with the tour, showing them the main kitchen, the canteen, the ballroom, which was bedecked with sparkling decorations, and a towering, chunky Austrian pine, branches weighted with tinsel and baubles, in the far corner. “We’ll be having our dinner this afternoon, then partying in here with the ladies and their children after. It should be a great evening.”
Charity held her hand up, words struggling, eyes wide. “Er, now, hold on a minute. Let me get this straight. You want me to bring my Ava, only just in remission from leukaemia, into a room full of druggies and yobs, for a party. You have got to be joking, mother.”
Happiness giggled, alongside Hope and Faith’s gasps. Wanda fixed a stare, mouth set firm, but Charity wasn’t about to back down. “No, I’m sorry, but you can party without us, I’m not mixing with the likes of this riff-raff.”
Breaking the malevolent atmosphere, a gentle voice tinkled from the doorway. “Mrs Ferris. The latest family, the…” Gilly, the receptionist, checked her notepad, “Reeves, they’ve arrived.”
In the distance a cacophony of whining, crying children could be heard. Wanda threw a final glare at her eldest child, settled a beaming smile onto her face, and strode from the room, raising her arms welcomingly as she left. “Mrs Reeves, oh, hello, you must by Kyle, aren’t you a big boy, oh, and you must be Jake. Come on, let’s go and see your new room.” Immediately the crying ceased, and as they headed for their destination, chuckling could be heard.
A Family Meal
Belinda proudly carried the oversized turkey to the table, laying it centrally amongst the crackers, party poppers, vegetable dishes, and candles. She was the wifely one of the partnership, mothering Wanda, making her feel secure and loved, making sure she ate healthily. And helping her to stay away from the demons of the bottle that had so nearly stolen her life on many occasions. Cooking was Belinda’s talent, and she had anticipated this day excitedly since Wanda had first chosen the date. Since Honesty’s death the annual Christmas get-togethers had become a welcome tradition for the family, and, in general, they were fun occasions. But this was the first year Wanda had decided to include the ‘ladies’ and that had produced faltering conversation during the afternoon, with neither Charity, nor her husband, Keith, agreeing with the development.
The extensive table was crowded, both the surface, with the delicious offerings and tenderly set crockery, and the surroundings, each chair squeezed tightly to the next. Wanda stood, ready to say grace as she always did since Honesty died, but briefly surveyed her flock before commencing. Her eldest, with Keith and Ava. Faith and Adam, with their children, Kitty and Reuben. Hope, with Penny, Olive and Bern. Happiness, who was lucky to be able to find a break in her hectic schedule to attend the party. And her beloved Belinda, boy, did she love that woman.
Hope glanced around as her mother said prayers, she hated religion, and was proud to be an atheist, but it surprised her that every other family member, including her own offspring, had their eyes closed and hands together. For the first time in a while, Hope felt like the black sheep she had been in her formative years, and a pang of loneliness coursed through her veins.
After a vast commotion of serving, spooning, ladling and pouring, the party had plates full to bursting with traditional Christmas fayre, and they tucked in with gusto, the complimentary wine flowing, uninhibited. Laughter, joking, catching up, the delicious food just added to the wonderful occasion. They sat, stuffed, for two hours, before Ava began to cry from tiredness, and Charity excused herself, along with Keith, to go and settle their daughter in her temporary bed. Gradually the group at the table dispersed, and Belinda began the arduous task of preparing the plates and platters for the dishwasher. Wanda strolled up behind her, putting her arms about her waist, she kissed Belinda’s auburn tresses. “Thank you for today, Bel.”
The Party
The music was loud, the beat thudding, providing a metronome for the crowds of women who danced drunkenly to the beat, carefree and happy, bravely devoid of the threat of violence. Most of the youngsters had been put to bed now, the hour late, and the mothers were relishing their freedom, drinking lager copiously, punch, cider, wine. They were safe in the knowledge that they could let their hair down, and not look forward to fisticuffs before bed.
Wanda and Belinda had proudly hosted the evening, meeting and greeting, dancing, serving the buffet, providing drinks. Hope had enjoyed herself, but at the back of her mind Dawn’s final words rang continuously, haunting and taunting, and she knew that she’d rather have a few drinks inside her to have the conversation with her mother, than to approach the subject sober. She had no idea why she felt the trepidation so strongly, Griffin had just been a friend to her. Why should the thought of speaking about him to her mother irk her so much.
She grabbed a bottle of Australian Shiraz from the table, and two glasses, before heading towards her laughing mother. “Mum? Can we have a chat? In private.”
Wanda excused herself from the small group of women, and led the way through the main hall, towards the door interlinking her private area to the refuge. Hope placed the glasses on the table that had seen so much hilarity earlier that day, the stark wood a contrast to the vibrant, Christmas-themed tablecloths that had adorned it so prettily. She filled each glass to the brim, needing the alcohol to say what she had to say. And to hear what she had to hear.
“Mum, you know the Brazil business this year?” Wanda nodded as she took a gulp of the wine, nodding appreciatively as the full, round flavour hit her. “A couple of months ago I started going for counselling to try and get it out of my system. I wanted to talk it through with someone, rationalise Lucy’s betrayal, get over it ready to move on.” Wanda supped some more, she had no words yet, which niggled Hope. Here was her mother, the one who openly cared for everybody, nurtured the weak, the sad, the hurt, yet didn’t appear to have any interest in her own daughter’s problems and angst. She wanted to rebel, just as she had done as a child, get a reaction. To get some attention. Hope sipped, a taster, then downed her drink, swiftly replacing the liquid before refilling her mother’s glass. The bottle was two thirds empty.