Read Living With Evil Online

Authors: Cynthia Owen

Tags: #antique

Living With Evil (10 page)

 

Daddy was in bed with me now. He’d said something quietly to Mammy downstairs, and she didn’t shout. I could hear the chink as Mammy’s cider bottle hit the rim of a glass, and the slow chug of the drink filling up her tumbler again.

 

Daddy was tucking himself in behind me now. Not long, I thought, until I can let myself fall asleep next to Daddy. Just let him get comfortable. Don’t wriggle. Don’t let him know you are awake in case he gets cross. His breath smelled worse tonight, like he’d eaten something that had gone off. It reminded me of the smell of the plughole in the kitchen sink, when old food and dirty plates had been left all night, or when he had done a wee in there. I tried to take in shallow drops of air through my nose, but his smell was getting nearer. He was pushing himself up against me again, but harder than he did last time. It felt stranger, too, like he was rubbing up and down my whole back. I felt the rubbing on my bottom.

 

The only noise I could hear was his raspy breathing, which seemed to be getting louder and quicker. It didn’t matter. ‘Don’t let it scare you,’ I told myself.

 

My thoughts stopped dead, as if my brain had suddenly come up against an invisible wall. I felt something warm hit the back of my neck and my hair, but it wasn’t Daddy’s smelly, burning breath this time. I didn’t know what it was, but it made Daddy stop too. He pushed me away from him roughly, and minutes later I heard deep, slow, snores rumbling round the bed.

 

I touched my head slowly and carefully and didn’t like how it felt. There was something sticky and unfamiliar about it. I wiped my hand on the sheet and opened my eyes warily. The inky blackness frightened me and made me snap my eyes shut again, but then I had shapes dancing inside my eyelids. I couldn’t escape from the scary blackness, and I lay awake for hours listening to Daddy snore. At least he was asleep. I always felt better when he was asleep.

 

 

I was getting told to sleep in Daddy’s bed about once or twice every week now. I didn’t really like what he did, and my hair was itchier than ever since I slept next to Daddy. It wasn’t just the lice. Lying with it damp and sticky after Daddy’s close cuddles seemed to give me a rash.

 

I tried not to think of that when the day of the school trip arrived. This was a real treat, and as I walked behind Mother Dorothy and my classmates, I marvelled at the sights and sounds. Howth was all I dreamed it would be.

 

We settled in a park for lunch, and I pulled out my bread and butter and bottle of water. It was the first time in my life I’d been allowed to take a packed lunch, and I sat on the grass with my classmates feeling as pleased as Punch.

 

I was just about to bite into my bread when I felt curious eyes looking my way. It reminded me of the first day I started school. What were they looking at? I immediately thought about my hair. I knew it was messier than normal. It was sort of matted up the back where the itchy rash had bubbled up. Did it look terrible? I glanced around to see why the other girls were staring at me, and my eyes fell on their packed lunches. Instead of carrying their food in a plastic carrier bag, they had colourful tins and tubs. Inside, they had neatly cut sandwiches wrapped in tin foil, bottles of lemonade, homemade oatcakes, crispy apples and squares of chocolate.

 

I looked down at the grass and saw Mother Dorothy’s heavy black clogs stomping towards me out of the corner of my eye. ‘Eat up now, children!’ she ordered. ‘When you’ve finished your lunch, those of you whose mammies and daddies have allowed you to bring spending money can form a queue at the icecream van.’

 

My tummy felt scraped out it was so empty. I always had Shredded Wheat or Weetabix for breakfast, with sugar sprinkled on top if there was any left in the packet, but breakfast had been hours ago.

 

I was starving hungry, but my throat felt like someone had pulled it out, tied a big knot in it and shoved it back down my gullet. It felt so bad I couldn’t even chew, let alone swallow. Why had Mother Dorothy told me to bring bread and water when everybody else had treats and goodies? I felt so embarrassed I just wanted to go home.

 

Watching the other girls run off giggling to the icecream van made me feel so left out I wanted to cry. It wasn’t fair. Why did things always get worse when I hoped they’d get better? It simply wasn’t worth even hoping things would turn out all right, because they never did.

 

Chapter 6

 

‘Please Stop, Daddy’

 

‘Cynthia, you’re to take your brother Martin to school with you tomorrow. I’ve enough to cope with without lookin’ after him as well!

 

Tell those nuns I’m sick. I’m too sick to look after him. If he’s not with you there’s nobody can look after him!’

 

Martin was just two years old. I looked at him strapped in his stripy nylon pram and felt full of pity. His face was caked in dirt, and he had food stains around his mouth. He was wearing a lilac-coloured sweater that would suit a girl much better, and he had on a pair of faded brown trousers I’d seen go in and out of the cupboard under the stairs lots of times.

 

‘But, Mammy, what will I do with him? What about my lessons? The nuns’ll wallop me if I don’t pay attention!’

 

I didn’t normally dare answer Mammy back, but this seemed like a terrible idea, especially because I’d been in big trouble at school lately.

 

Since taking our First Holy Communion, Mother Dorothy had been taking the whole class to attend regular confession.

 

We’d been taken yesterday, and Mother Dorothy warned us all the way there that we had to confess every one of our sins. ‘I don’t want to hear any nonsense about you not having committed a sin. You are all sinners. The only way to avoid burning in hell and eternal damnation is to confess your sins.’

 

I felt panicky when I was led to the confession box, where Father O’Brien sat hunched up in the half-light inside. I didn’t know what to say, but I knew I had to come up with something convincing. It wasn’t like the mock confession in the classroom, where Mother Dorothy punished me for my confession. This was private, so I didn’t have to worry so much about the consequences. But I still had to come up with something.

 

I quickly invented three imaginary sins in my head and whispered them as quietly as possible. ‘I’m sorry, Father, for I have sinned. I stole 10p from my mother’s purse.

 

‘I’m sorry, Father, for I have sinned. I stole a copy book from the school office.’

 

Father O’Brien shook his head solemnly after my first two confessions, repeating them after me in a disgusted voice.

 

‘I’m sorry, Father, for I have sinned. I cursed my mother,’ I ended.

 

‘What did you say to curse your mother?’ he quizzed me angrily. I felt very uncomfortable, because he spoke very loudly and his voiced echoed around the confession box.

 

‘Well then? What was this curse you used against your mother?’

 

I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. I had to say the first curse that came into my head. It was the one I’d heard Mammy and Daddy say most often: ‘Fuck off,’ I muttered apologetically.

 

‘You sinful child!’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘You must pray to the Virgin Mary to save your soul. Pray for twenty extra minutes at bedtime and say ten Hail Mary’s and two Our Father’s!’

 

I left the confession box with my head bowed in disgrace, and a pair black shoes and the hem of a nun’s habit loomed into my line of vision.

 

I looked up in horror. Mother Dorothy had been standing outside and had clearly heard every single world. Her skin had turned the colour of a ripe plum, and she was so angry she was visibly shaking.

 

‘How dare you! You wicked child!’ she blustered, strands of spit wobbling precariously between her lips, like a spider’s web caught in the wind.

 

She grabbed my ear and dragged me to the front of the church, shouting all the way down the aisle: ‘You are not fit to sit with the rest of the children! You are a sinner! You are forbidden from talking to the other girls!’

 

Back in the classroom, she was still apoplectic with rage.

 

‘Cynthia Murphy, come and do this sum on the board!’ she goaded. I was still smarting from the humiliation of being told I wasn’t worthy of sitting with the other girls, and I hadn’t been concentrating at all.

 

I got the sum wrong, prompting Mother Dorothy to bellow triumphantly: ‘I give up! You are a stupid child!’ Then, I was sent to stand in a corner wearing a large hat with the letter ‘D’ on it for dunce.

 

‘When you grow up you’ll be standing on the corner under the streetlight!’ she snorted loudly. ‘You’ll go up a lane and come down pushing a pram!’

 

The other girls looked at each other with puzzled expressions. None of us knew what she meant at all.

 

Now, as Mammy presented me with Martin in his new pushchair, Mother Dorothy’s remark popped into my head, diverting my thoughts from the dilemma of taking my baby brother to school with me.

 

‘Where did you get that pushchair from? Did you get it up a lane?’ I asked Mammy curiously.

 

‘What are you goin’ on about, Cynthia? Stop talking fuckin’ nonsense. You’re to take Martin to school in the pushchair. He’ll be no trouble strapped in there.’

 

‘I bet you went up a lane, and came down pushing that pram,’ I said to Mammy innocently.

 

Her fist landed on my cheek before I could blink. ‘What did you say? Are you callin’ me a prostitute?’ she crowed.

 

‘I’m sorry, Mammy, Mother Dorothy taught me that saying! I’m sorry, Mammy, of course I’ll take Martin to school in the pushchair.’

 

‘I know you will, because I’m saying you will. Calling me a prostitute and blaming your dirty mouth on those holy nuns! You little lying bitch, Cynthia!’

 

She thumped me again, on the other side of my face, and Martin started to cry and struggle against the straps.

 

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, look what you’ve done now! You’ve made poor Martin cry!’

 

That night, when Daddy got into bed beside me, I wondered if he would notice my sore eye and feel sorry for me. It had swollen up where Mammy had hit me, and she had sent me to the chemist to buy a patch.

 

‘Cover your eye with one hand when you are in the shop,’ she ordered. I could tell she was worried about me for once, because normally she never let me have a patch or plaster for anything. ‘Then cover your bruise with the patch before you walk back down the street. At school tomorrow, tell the nuns you have a stye. I don’t want them poking their noses into our business.’

 

If Daddy did notice my sore eye, it didn’t make him any more gentle with me. He rubbed up against me harder than ever that night. I don’t think he could have felt sorry for me at all, because this felt like a punishment, and I felt very scared and tearful. He was terrifying me.

 

I thought about it as I pushed the pram into school the next day. It made my head ache. I just couldn’t work it out. I didn’t want to think about it, but I couldn’t seem to get it out of my mind. My head was itching too, worse than ever. Martin was crying in the pram. His cries ricocheted round my head and I stared at the cloudy sky in front of me, wishing I could block everything out.

 

I could hear the girls giggling when I pushed the pram into the classroom: ‘What’s smelly Cynthia up to this time? Will you look at the state of that baby! What’s she thinking of? Has she no shame?’

 

The voices tried to get inside my brain, but my head felt like it was full of thick, damp sand. I felt very tired and I couldn’t think clearly at all.

 

Did I have no shame? I wasn’t sure. I just felt numb and exhausted.

 

‘What have we here, child?’ demanded Mother Dorothy, haughtily.

 

‘It’s my brother Martin, Mother Dorothy. My mammy says to tell you she’s very sick and can’t look after him. There’s no one else in the house, so I’ve brought him into class. I’ll make sure he’s no trouble at all.’

 

With that, Martin started roaring loudly, tugging at the side of his buggy and shouting, ‘Out, out!’

 

I didn’t know what to do. I was eight years old. I tried to rock the buggy discreetly with my foot, while Mother Dorothy stood over the pair of us, glaring.

 

‘Is there no end to your boldness? Settle the child immediately, and if you disrupt the class again there will be severe consequences!’

 

I wouldn’t have minded being sent out of the class that day. I couldn’t focus on a word the teachers said. My foot ached as I rocked the buggy, shushing Martin and pleading with him with my eyes to quieten down. Every time he grumbled and fidgeted, my heart lurched up into my throat.

 

I hated Mammy for making me bring him. I didn’t want to tell lies to the nuns. I didn’t want to be made fun of by the other girls. I didn’t like the way my head ached with tiredness and itched after Daddy had kept me awake at night. I just wanted to be normal. I looked around and longed to have clean white socks and clean hair, every day, like the other girls.

 

I wondered why I was the one who always seemed to get lumbered with so many jobs, and caring for the little ones. With Esther gone, things had got worse at home. I was ordered by Mammy to wash the dishes and feed the children. It wasn’t fair, but I didn’t want Martin or Mary to be hungry or dirty. I loved them, so I cared for them as best I could.

 

Yet it didn’t matter how much I helped or what I said or did, things were always horrible at home, and the rows continued with scary regularity.

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