I touched her cheek with my hand, cool and dry. Her parted lips were cracked. I leaned over and brought my lips to her cheek, then to her lips, feeling the roughened skin on my mouth. But there was no warmth there either. I wanted to hug her, to press my warm body over her cold one. She held something in her hand, her fingers grasping the neck of a bottle almost empty except for a few of her pink sweets. I pulled at it, but it was as if her fingers had been welded to the glass.
Then, a muffled sound came from the wardrobe.
I froze, thinking of the monster I feared lived in wardrobes, as I watched the door inch open. Expecting a furry paw, or claws, I held my breath, cowering into my mother’s stiff body. Instead, the open door revealed Peter. His mouth, smeared with sugar, was a round wound of an ‘O’. “I saw her do it,” he said, “but I couldn’t stop her, ’cos then she’d know I was hiding in here and she’d tell me off for eating all your sweets”.
Between his feet was the empty ice cream box. His eyes were red and puffy and dried tears streaked his face.
“I saw her take all her pills, and now she won’t wake up.”
Black Book Entry
What I remember most about my mother’s funeral was the hushed voices of dark clothed strangers, huddled in corners of our flat, whispering as I walked by. No-one would talk to me so I sat in the corner of the front room and waited. Dad came over, swaying as if he’d had too much beer like he always did at Christmas, and patted me on the head, pulling my hair with his heavy hand. “You’re a good girl, Rosie.”
Mrs Carron came over, and handed him a whisky. I heard him say ‘Thank you, Isabel,’ and that was how I found out her name, but she was always Mrs Carron to me. When she came to kiss me all I saw was teeth, and I moved away so she caught my jaw with a tight peck. She was younger than you’d think a widow should be, and though she was dressed in a black skirt her blouse was red and silky. She had shiny lips and big gold earrings and I didn’t like the way she looked at my Dad, like our cat used to look when it brought a bird in from the garden. She led him away, into the front room and the door was closed behind them.When they’d gone I wiped my face where Mrs Carron had kissed and the back of my hand was smeared with pink lipstick.
I didn’t know where Peter was and I didn’t care. No-one in the room came to talk to me, but I saw them look over often. I felt like I’d grown horns or something. And then a group by the door separated to let a round woman in a large fur coat enter. She had a tiny hat like a porkpie balanced on her head, and a piece of black lace over one eye, but I could still see it was Auntie Rita straightaway. I jumped right up and ran to her.
“Oh my, Rose, what a big girl you are! You’re going to be quite the bobby dazzler in a few years.”
She took a tissue from her shiny black bag and spat on it, wiping the remaining lipstick from my face and tutting. She smelled strongly of roses, and I wanted to bury myself into her soft coat.
“It’s not real fur, but who’d know?”
“It’s very soft.”
“I need to take it off. It’s too hot in here.” She peeled back the fake animal skin, revealing a tight black dress and fat knees in thick tan coloured stockings. “I must sit down, Rose. My legs are like lead weights.”
Rita sat on a wooden chair, her massive thighs bulging over the sides, and stood me in front of her. She was 10 years older than my Dad, and lived further down the coast in Felixstowe so we didn’t see her much, but she always had violet sweets in her handbag, along with her ciggies, and I loved it when she came to visit. I wanted to put my head on her bosom and be held there.
She touched my chin, turning my face upwards. “Have you been in the dining room yet?”
I shook my head. The dining room wasn’t a big room and we only used it at Christmas or for special meals, though Mum sometimes sat in there with a book. The door had been kept closed all morning, though I’d seen people going in and coming out and thought the food must be in there.
“Then I shall take you. Your mum’s in there and you need to say goodbye to her.”
I gasped – Mum was in the dining room! I pictured her sat in her favourite chair, talking to all the people who’d been going in to see her. Why hadn’t someone told me? I would run to her, let her scoop me in her arms and kiss my hair. She would say, “Where have you been, Rosie? I’ve been waiting for you,” and I would show her the blackbird’s nest, kept safely for her.
I jumped from Rita’s grip, ran out of the front room and down the hall, pushing past the sombre-suited strangers. I yanked the door handle of the dining room, desperate to see my mum.
The room was dark. The table was empty of food. Then I saw it. A dark wooden box, balanced on two chairs. I inched closer and saw white satin lining the box then the tip of my mother’s nose. I didn’t move, but stood on tiptoe and peered down at her face. She was so pale, so featureless. It was as if her face had been wiped clean of all its colour, leaving a wax mask. Her eyes were closed and her blonde hair was loose around her face.
“Give her a kiss.”
I jumped when Auntie Rita spoke. She put her heavy hand on my shoulder, pressing me into her generous warm body. “Go on, Rose.”
I inched forward to the coffin, afraid that Mum would suddenly move. I looked at her for a few moments and then leaned into the box, eyes screwed tight shut as I puckered my lips onto her cheek. I could feel the edge of her cheekbone, the cold skin hard and unyielding.
“Talk to her.”
I began to cry. Hot tears fell down my cheek and into my mouth, which I wiped away with the back of my hand.
“She can hear you, Rose. And see you. Her body is empty, but her spirit is still here, in this room.”
Through my sobs I said, “Mum?”
“That’s it, Rose.”
“Mum. I want you to come home.”
Rita was right behind me, burying me into her. “Your mum is in the spirit world now, Rose. She won’t ever come home but she’ll always be with you, when you want her. And she will always be listening.”
It was the first time anyone had told me that death could be like that. I’d thought of heaven as clouds or a large garden with lots of birds and angels. But Rita taught me about spirits. She taught me not to be afraid of death. I learnt that heaven is a better, safer place.
Some birds steal the nests of others. It’s in their nature. Killing the chicks in the nest is just what they have to do.
Some women think nothing of stealing a man.
Dad was in such a state in the months after the funeral that I should probably be grateful to Mrs Carron. She kept the shop going and cooked our meals while he just sat behind the counter staring into the dusty air. When the salesmen called he would look into their boxes with a frown, as if he recognised the strawberry laces and the snowy macaroons, but just couldn’t remember what they were for. The shelves weren’t stocked and the jars were empty. Mrs Carron quietly set about re-ordering supplies, and taking the cash to the bank on Tuesdays. In the evening she would write with small neat handwriting in the accounts book, while my father slumped in the armchair holding a forgotten cup of tea. She would smile at him, take the cold cup away, and make another. In time he began to drink the tea, eat the food she cooked, and he seemed to forget that she wasn’t really supposed to be there.
I didn’t forget. I watched her, knowing that she wasn’t my mum. She had no right pretending.
I couldn’t tell you the exact day Mrs Carron moved in. It should have been memorable, dramatic even, the moment when my mother was replaced, but she moved quietly like she was playing grandmother’s footsteps. One day I turned around and she was there, ready to tap me on the shoulder, before I had chance to scream.
Things were different for my brother. After mum died Peter took things hard. He was so angry he would kick a kitten if it came too close, but when Mrs Carron came to live with us he was quieter. He wasn’t a clever boy and Mrs Carron treated him like a baby, hugging him to her breast and ruffling his hair. She bought him an electric guitar for his birthday and he said it was his best ever present. He liked Mrs Carron, once he called her Mum and she kissed his cheek. I would never call her Mum. She had stolen my father.
When I think of it I’m back there again. I’m no longer in prison; I’m just a girl.
I need to know Mrs Carron’s secret. I need to know why Dad loves her so much that he’s forgotten Mum.
He doesn’t know that Mrs Carron is not naturally beautiful. But I do. I’ve seen how she does it. I’ve watched her sleep, in dad’s bed, on the side where Mum used to lie. I’ve sneaked in and touched her bare back. Once she woke to find me standing over her, and she yanked the sheet up over her breasts, hiding her brown nipples, and called me a freak. I couldn’t let that happen again.
Dad’s wardrobe door doesn’t shut snug, and I like hiding among his dusty jackets. I like the smell, like a library. Stuffy but safe with old air and too much heat.
Through the crack I see Mrs Carron slide into her dressing gown and peer at herself in the mirror. She sits, twisting her hair into a loose knot, clipping it high. Then she dabs from a glass bottle onto her fingers, smoothing musk over her neck and cheeks. I can tell by the eyeshadow she puts on what colour clothes she will wear, and today it’s green. Her sparkly finger strokes her closed lids. But it’s the lips I like watching best. She stretches her face, opens her mouth and eyes wide, like she’s had a fright, paints pink over nude lips. Then she takes off her gown and stands naked in front of the other wardrobe, so close I can see her chest rise with each breath. I can see the mole on her hip. I pray she can’t hear the thumping of my heart.
Later, downstairs, Mrs Carron stops speaking when I enter the shop, and Dad eyes me cautiously. I place my money in the till and select a glass jar. I’m tall enough to reach now.
“Rose, you never bring any friends home,” Dad says, “is everything alright at school?”
“Yeah.”
I busy myself in weighing out a quarter of lemons; the dusty sherbet rises in the bag. I can smell her musky perfume. I pop a sweet in my mouth and suck.
She says, “I know it must be hard for you, with your mum gone.” Gone. I wince at the sharp tang of the sweet. “But we don’t need to make the situation harder than it is.”
My bedroom is next to Dad’s and the walls are as thin as cardboard. If I peel the Bananarama poster from the wall, a bit of plasterboard comes away with the Blu-Tac. That was how I got the idea of making a hole in the wall. I couldn’t hide in the wardrobe forever. It was too risky.
The knife was soon blunt and I had to fetch a screwdriver from the kitchen drawer to finish the job. I was careful to make the hole the right size – large enough to see through, small enough to be invisible. Luckily the wallpaper in Dad’s bedroom is a floral pattern and the hole is in the centre of a blowsy flower. The hole is high, so I have to stand on tiptoe.
I hate the screech of Peter’s electric guitar, but at least he’s in his bedroom and not pestering me. I know he comes here when I’m not around. Sometimes he comes in to catch me off guard, loving it when I jump out of my skin. “What you up to, fatso?” he demands, and I holler at him to go away. I tell Dad, but he won’t put a lock on my door, so I have to remember to wedge a chair under the handle.
I don’t peep through my hole when Dad is in the bedroom, because that wouldn’t be right. In the mornings, when I hear the clink of the milk deliveries van and the chirp of a radio from downstairs, then I know it’s safe. Dad is in the shop and Mrs Carron is alone.
It was so cunning how she did it, moving in so slowly that I don’t think Dad even noticed. First it was just a toothbrush and a comb, and then a few dresses squeezed in next to Mum’s. But then, through my spy hole, I watched her taking Mum’s dresses out and toss them into bin bags. I saw her pause over Mum’s best blouse, the white silky one that she wore at Christmas, and hold it against herself. I could see it would fit her, but still she threw it away, as if my mum could be put out for the dustmen to collect like everything else that had been discarded.
Later, when Mrs Carron was in the shop with Dad, I went to the bedroom.
Her clothes were not like Mum’s, but shimmery and thin. ‘She’ll catch her death in that!’ Mum would have said, and there was nothing comfortable or warm. No trousers, either, just narrow skirts and tight dresses. One dress caught my eye; it was the colour of rubies, and silky. I held it close to me, just as she had held my mother’s blouse. I could hear Peter’s guitar and voices from the shop. It was the busy hour when school ended and kids arrived to buy sweets. It took just seconds to pull off my sweater and jeans.
Standing in just my knickers I looked tall and plump. I would soon need a bra, and my stomach was round. The dress looked awful on me, clinging in all the wrong places so I looked like an over-ripe strawberry. Red wasn’t my colour; it drained me, left me looking bloodless. I squeezed the flesh bumps of my chest, wondered what kind of woman I would become. Mum didn’t wear green eye shadow or pink lipstick. She didn’t smell of musk. Suddenly, I was aware that Peter had stopped playing his guitar and his heavy steps were heading my way. I was struggling out of the dress when he opened the door.
“What are you doing?” he turned pink when he saw my bare flesh.
“I don’t know.” All I knew was that Dad loved Mrs Carron and I wanted to be loved. By putting on her clothes maybe I could understand. Make myself lovable.
“You’re a bit old for dressing up, aren’t you?” he snorted, “Freak!” He slammed the door behind him in disgust.
I stepped out of the crimson fabric, pulling on my own clothes as fast as I could. He was right; I was too old for this game. I was a freak, and no-one liked me. The only boy who ever fancied me was Alfie, the class idiot who had a permanent sneer on his pitted face. He openly stared in class, his fingers scratching his legs, and the other girls would whisper, ‘Your boyfriend’s looking at you!’ One day, in the playground, I punched one girl so hard her nose bled, but it was just after Mum died so the teachers didn’t do anything. No-one bothered me after that, they just stayed away. Without Mum I was so lonely.