corridor.
The moment she’s gone, my knees fold under me. I clutch the back of the visitor’s chair to steady myself. There’s the tang of bile at the back of my throat, threatening to lurch out of me. My head is light, my vision blurry. My stomach roils at the realisation that the doctor thinks I’m so anxious to have Mum home when only hours ago I hesitated before helping her. I watched. It was only a fragment of time, but I watched her choke.
What kind of a person am I? What kind of a daughter? Mum has her faults, that can’t be denied, but she never gave up on me, and she never abandoned me. She fed and clothed me, and now here I am doing the same for her—and I almost let her die?
I’m a monster.
Eddington, 1987
The cold bites my skin the first time I pull the duvet down. My naked arms are freezing cold. Mum won’t put the heating on until December. We’re not made of money, she says.
“Sophie?”
I shrink back under the covers at the sound of her voice. The shrillness is a clear warning bell. She’s woken up in one of her moods.
“Get up! We’re going out.”
I hurry out from under the covers, shivering as I rush to my drawers to pull out underwear and clothes. Her footsteps come up the stairs, each one a stark prospect as she gets nearer and nearer. I’m pulling on trousers as she bursts through the door. It’s not a school day today, which comes with a unique set of difficulties. I don’t need to wear a school uniform, and Mum is particular about what I wear. As soon as she’s in the room, she strides over, pushes me onto the bed, and yanks the trousers down my seven-year-old legs.
“Not those ones. Here.” She tosses me clothes from my drawers.
Thick woollen tights, a corduroy skirt, and a woollen jumper with a high neck.
“Mummy, they—”
“What?”
“They make me itch, Mummy.”
“Nonsense. Put them on. They’re your favourite clothes.”
I’m almost in tears as I pull on the tights over my knickers. The roughness of the material is harsh against my sensitive skin. The outfit is too small. The crotch of the tights sags down my thighs.
Mum picks up a brush from the top of my drawers and begins to brush my hair. “There! Don’t you look nice in your outfit?”
“It’s too small,” I say.
She pulls my hair back, and I cry out. “Stop being silly, Sophie. This is your favourite outfit. Don’t you remember? You always used to wear it. Every winter, you’d wear this jumper.”
“I suppose so,” I say. Maybe I do remember wearing it. It does seem familiar, at least. When I stroke my fingers over the sleeves, the gesture brings with it a memory of finding strands of hair stuck to the material. Then I think of the same strands of hair caught in my fist. My stomach flips. I don’t like that memory. I push it back down.
Mum tuts. “I can’t do anything with this hair. What have you done to it?”
I stay silent.
“You need to look nice. We both do. I’m meeting Roger today.” She parts my hair and begins to braid the left side. “He’s our key, Sophie. He’s going to get us out of this mess. He’s rich, you know. He’s going to help us.”
“But… I don’t understand, Mummy. I thought Roger was your boss. How is he going to help us?” The question is innocent. I don’t understand why Roger would want to help us. He has his own family to help.
Mum’s hands stop moving. She tugs on the braid, pulling my head back.
“Ow! You’re hurting me!”
“You’re such an idiot, Sophie. You don’t understand anything.” She lets go of the plait and pushes me away. “He’ll never help us, not when I’m burdened with an ungrateful child like you. Look at you. You’re a mess. You look awful. No wonder your father left us. I bet he was trying to get away from you when he put his head through that noose. It’s all your fault. If I’d never had you…”
I have tears in my eyes. Her face is bright red with anger. Her dark eyes flash. She
The moment she’s gone, my knees fold under me. I clutch the back of the visitor’s chair to steady myself. There’s the tang of bile at the back of my throat, threatening to lurch out of me. My head is light, my vision blurry. My stomach roils at the realisation that the doctor thinks I’m so anxious to have Mum home when only hours ago I hesitated before helping her. I watched. It was only a fragment of time, but I watched her choke.
What kind of a person am I? What kind of a daughter? Mum has her faults, that can’t be denied, but she never gave up on me, and she never abandoned me. She fed and clothed me, and now here I am doing the same for her—and I almost let her die?
I’m a monster.
Eddington, 1987
The cold bites my skin the first time I pull the duvet down. My naked arms are freezing cold. Mum won’t put the heating on until December. We’re not made of money, she says.
“Sophie?”
I shrink back under the covers at the sound of her voice. The shrillness is a clear warning bell. She’s woken up in one of her moods.
“Get up! We’re going out.”
I hurry out from under the covers, shivering as I rush to my drawers to pull out underwear and clothes. Her footsteps come up the stairs, each one a stark prospect as she gets nearer and nearer. I’m pulling on trousers as she bursts through the door. It’s not a school day today, which comes with a unique set of difficulties. I don’t need to wear a school uniform, and Mum is particular about what I wear. As soon as she’s in the room, she strides over, pushes me onto the bed, and yanks the trousers down my seven-year-old legs.
“Not those ones. Here.” She tosses me clothes from my drawers.
Thick woollen tights, a corduroy skirt, and a woollen jumper with a high neck.
“Mummy, they—”
“What?”
“They make me itch, Mummy.”
“Nonsense. Put them on. They’re your favourite clothes.”
I’m almost in tears as I pull on the tights over my knickers. The roughness of the material is harsh against my sensitive skin. The outfit is too small. The crotch of the tights sags down my thighs.
Mum picks up a brush from the top of my drawers and begins to brush my hair. “There! Don’t you look nice in your outfit?”
“It’s too small,” I say.
She pulls my hair back, and I cry out. “Stop being silly, Sophie. This is your favourite outfit. Don’t you remember? You always used to wear it. Every winter, you’d wear this jumper.”
“I suppose so,” I say. Maybe I do remember wearing it. It does seem familiar, at least. When I stroke my fingers over the sleeves, the gesture brings with it a memory of finding strands of hair stuck to the material. Then I think of the same strands of hair caught in my fist. My stomach flips. I don’t like that memory. I push it back down.
Mum tuts. “I can’t do anything with this hair. What have you done to it?”
I stay silent.
“You need to look nice. We both do. I’m meeting Roger today.” She parts my hair and begins to braid the left side. “He’s our key, Sophie. He’s going to get us out of this mess. He’s rich, you know. He’s going to help us.”
“But… I don’t understand, Mummy. I thought Roger was your boss. How is he going to help us?” The question is innocent. I don’t understand why Roger would want to help us. He has his own family to help.
Mum’s hands stop moving. She tugs on the braid, pulling my head back.
“Ow! You’re hurting me!”
“You’re such an idiot, Sophie. You don’t understand anything.” She lets go of the plait and pushes me away. “He’ll never help us, not when I’m burdened with an ungrateful child like you. Look at you. You’re a mess. You look awful. No wonder your father left us. I bet he was trying to get away from you when he put his head through that noose. It’s all your fault. If I’d never had you…”
I have tears in my eyes. Her face is bright red with anger. Her dark eyes flash. She
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