Catherine-wheel of spittle
and yellow felt, the ball flew through the air at a surprising speed for such a
small hand, and bounced hard off the wall above the kitchen window with a
satisfying, if hollow, thud.
Peyton watched and chased eagerly as his favourite toy careered around the garden, bouncing off
first the house, then the frame of the old wooden swing in the middle of the
lawn, before finally ricocheting down the alley at the side of the house. He
sprang after it and was back at Rowan’s side within moments for another turn.
With a sigh that expressed grief and pain beyond her
young years, Rowan patted the canine’s head.
“You know it’s only once, puppy, only once.” She said
to him sadly, bitterness seeping into her voice as she glared at the house. “Do
your business, kiddo, we’ve got to go back inside.”
Smart as a wolf, Peyton understood. It was always the same.
A short game, a quick burst of energy, then a ‘ widdle piddle’ as his little madam used to call it, and they’d be back inside. He’d
have to sit in the kitchen on his cushion next to his water dish, and she’d get
to run up and down the house instead.
He went to the corner of the grass nearest the wall at
the back of the garden where he’d been trained to toilet, and went. Once
relieved, he joined Rowan as she entered the house again. The loud woman didn’t
seem to notice how long they were gone, or even that when they came in they
were out of breath. He couldn’t see her anywhere, but his tail remained between
his legs as they entered the house. He went straight to his tattered cushion in
the corner by the fridge, and sat down heavily, his big brown eyes watching his
little madam as she stood on the stool by the sink to wash her hands of his
drool before washing the dishes.
*****
Her maman threw the door
open and came into the kitchen, a whirlwind of anger and noise, complaining
that Rowan was washing up too quietly and therefore could not possibly be doing
a proper job of it.
Peyton, already cowering behind the door, cringed as
the big woman hit his madam repeatedly about the head. Rowan started to wash
faster, hoping it would make the right amount of noise desired, but her maman only hit harder.
“ Yer gonna brek ma things if yeh throw i ’ ‘round like tha ’,”
another blow landed on Rowan’s left ear, her neck snapped to the right. “Do it propeh or yer straigh ’
in yer bed.”
It was all Rowan could do not
to look at the oven clock to see what time she’d be sent to bed tonight. She
bent her head towards the sink, face nearly in the bubbles so short was she,
and scrubbed the dishes in what she hoped was a quiet fashion, but not so quiet
as to be accused of not doing a proper job. She swallowed her sobs with a
miserable gulp, and washed the last plate. Putting it on the drainer, she
reached for the tea-towel in order to dry her hands.
“Don’t yeh go drying yer hands, yer not finished! ” The volume of her maman’s voice seemed to know no bounds.
“But, mummy –”
“ Do’t yeh ‘but mummy’ me! Yeh git those pans
done, an’ afta tha ’ yeh can clean th ’ oven, then
sweep an’ mop th ’ floor where yeh and yer mangy dog ‘ ave been rollin ’ ‘round on it, yeh filthy whore!’!
The insult flew over Rowan, like water off a duck’s
back, but only because she knew nothing of what she was being called. She knew
it was an insult because of the vehemence and venom with which her maman said it. Rowan was too tired and too upset to point
out that she’d swept and mopped the floor only that morning, and that she was
always told to leave the pans ‘because they are Le Creuset and you will drop them on your toes’. She declined also to mention that before
now she’d been told to leave the oven as she couldn’t reach it properly to
clean it all, and it was a gas appliance so it was unsafe for her to go near,
in case she pushed one of the buttons by mistake.
Rowan had thought to herself
and yellow felt, the ball flew through the air at a surprising speed for such a
small hand, and bounced hard off the wall above the kitchen window with a
satisfying, if hollow, thud.
Peyton watched and chased eagerly as his favourite toy careered around the garden, bouncing off
first the house, then the frame of the old wooden swing in the middle of the
lawn, before finally ricocheting down the alley at the side of the house. He
sprang after it and was back at Rowan’s side within moments for another turn.
With a sigh that expressed grief and pain beyond her
young years, Rowan patted the canine’s head.
“You know it’s only once, puppy, only once.” She said
to him sadly, bitterness seeping into her voice as she glared at the house. “Do
your business, kiddo, we’ve got to go back inside.”
Smart as a wolf, Peyton understood. It was always the same.
A short game, a quick burst of energy, then a ‘ widdle piddle’ as his little madam used to call it, and they’d be back inside. He’d
have to sit in the kitchen on his cushion next to his water dish, and she’d get
to run up and down the house instead.
He went to the corner of the grass nearest the wall at
the back of the garden where he’d been trained to toilet, and went. Once
relieved, he joined Rowan as she entered the house again. The loud woman didn’t
seem to notice how long they were gone, or even that when they came in they
were out of breath. He couldn’t see her anywhere, but his tail remained between
his legs as they entered the house. He went straight to his tattered cushion in
the corner by the fridge, and sat down heavily, his big brown eyes watching his
little madam as she stood on the stool by the sink to wash her hands of his
drool before washing the dishes.
*****
Her maman threw the door
open and came into the kitchen, a whirlwind of anger and noise, complaining
that Rowan was washing up too quietly and therefore could not possibly be doing
a proper job of it.
Peyton, already cowering behind the door, cringed as
the big woman hit his madam repeatedly about the head. Rowan started to wash
faster, hoping it would make the right amount of noise desired, but her maman only hit harder.
“ Yer gonna brek ma things if yeh throw i ’ ‘round like tha ’,”
another blow landed on Rowan’s left ear, her neck snapped to the right. “Do it propeh or yer straigh ’
in yer bed.”
It was all Rowan could do not
to look at the oven clock to see what time she’d be sent to bed tonight. She
bent her head towards the sink, face nearly in the bubbles so short was she,
and scrubbed the dishes in what she hoped was a quiet fashion, but not so quiet
as to be accused of not doing a proper job. She swallowed her sobs with a
miserable gulp, and washed the last plate. Putting it on the drainer, she
reached for the tea-towel in order to dry her hands.
“Don’t yeh go drying yer hands, yer not finished! ” The volume of her maman’s voice seemed to know no bounds.
“But, mummy –”
“ Do’t yeh ‘but mummy’ me! Yeh git those pans
done, an’ afta tha ’ yeh can clean th ’ oven, then
sweep an’ mop th ’ floor where yeh and yer mangy dog ‘ ave been rollin ’ ‘round on it, yeh filthy whore!’!
The insult flew over Rowan, like water off a duck’s
back, but only because she knew nothing of what she was being called. She knew
it was an insult because of the vehemence and venom with which her maman said it. Rowan was too tired and too upset to point
out that she’d swept and mopped the floor only that morning, and that she was
always told to leave the pans ‘because they are Le Creuset and you will drop them on your toes’. She declined also to mention that before
now she’d been told to leave the oven as she couldn’t reach it properly to
clean it all, and it was a gas appliance so it was unsafe for her to go near,
in case she pushed one of the buttons by mistake.
Rowan had thought to herself
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