Page 42 of The Pieces of Us

‘Aye, it’s fair jeelit today.’ When Father gets home from work he heads straight for the fire, not even stopping to hang up his heavy winter coat.

He hasn’t seen me curled up on the high-backed chair with a book.

It’s Anne of Green Gables , which I never need to hide under my pillow because Mam more than approves of it.

‘In the kitchen,’ I tell him, and he practically runs out of the room. My own father can’t bear to be alone with me.

I look at the words on the page of my book without absorbing their meaning until Mam and Father come into the room.

‘Who?’ I look from him to my mother. Back to Father. ‘ Who? ’

‘Beth.’ Mam comes to me and puts her hands on my shoulders. ‘It’s fine. Nothing to worry about. We just need peace, that’s all. I’m taking your brothers and sisters next door to Mrs Campbell, but you can stay here – if you stay in your room.’

‘Fine,’ I say, shrugging. I’m tired, anyway. I’ll lie on my bed and listen to Joni Mitchell. I haven’t been in the mood for ABBA for a while. I wonder if I’m growing out of them. I always thought ours would be a lifelong love.

By the time I get upstairs I’ve changed my mind about listening to music.

I leave my bedroom door wide open. If I’m not allowed to see these mysterious visitors, I want to hear what they have to say.

But my door is pulled closed just as the knock comes.

Mam, of course. Father wouldn’t consider such things.

She might be able to close my door, but she can’t draw my curtains , I think .

If I stand really close to my window, I can see who’s on the doorstep below.

I press my face up against the glass just in time to see two figures enter the house.

Aunt Jeannie and my cousin Mary, wearing stiff long coats and sturdy boots.

Why can’t I be downstairs to see them? I don’t understand .

I imagine Mam fussing over them, drawing them towards the fire to warm up, pressing hot cups of cocoa into their hands.

And then I remember the last time they were here.

Mary’s pale face, etched with a sadness that didn’t go away even when she smiled, even when we went to the beach and ate chips.

They didn’t visit on Boxing Day last year.

I wonder if Mary is dying, and this is her final visit, and Mam and Father think seeing her is too traumatic for us children.

My sisters and brothers say their prayers every night, even Joe, who usually doesn’t stay still for a second.

I stopped a long time ago. ‘Please don’t let Mary die,’ I whisper.

I don’t kneel, I don’t make the sign of the cross, I don’t clasp my hands together.

I don’t even close my eyes. But Mam says God is always watching and listening, so hopefully he heard me.

I put Joni Mitchell on and let her sweet voice fill my head until my eyes close. When I open them again, it’s dark and under the tinfoil covering the plate beside my bed, the macaroni cheese is cold.

I lie in the dark, wondering about everything: what time it is, who put the plate on my bedside table, whether I’ll see Mary again, how much it hurts to give birth.

It’s completely silent, so it must be late.

I let my eyes close again until a loud bang shocks me upright.

The next thing I hear are hurried footsteps down the stairs, then Joe crying out for Mam.

Hushed but hurried voices, footsteps back up the stairs, and then doors opening and closing.

I pull on my dressing gown – a new one in a larger size so that none of my siblings are alerted to my expanding belly – and join Sandra and Reenie on the top landing. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Father went out for ages ,’ whispers Sandra, wide-eyed. ‘He’s back and there’s something wrong. His hand is wrapped in a towel and it’s drenched with blood.’

‘ Girls. ’ Mam’s voice from behind us makes us all jump. ‘Get back to bed. It’s gone midnight and you have school tomorrow.’

‘Is Father OK?’ Sandra demands.

‘Of course he is. He just had one too many pints at the pub, that’s all. Into your beds, please.’

I linger a moment after my sisters have grudgingly returned to their bedroom. I know Mam is lying, not that she’d call it that. Our family exists in a culture of evasion and misrepresentation that’s justified on the basis that everything we’re told is in our best interests.

It’s not Monday night, the only night my father goes to the pub. And when he does, he never has too many pints. I’ve never seen him drunk, even at Hogmanay.

‘What’s really happened?’ I ask Mam. ‘Please. I’m sixteen.

Tell me.’ I unfold my arms from across the front of my body, untie the cord of my dressing gown so it falls open, exposing my thin nightie.

I don’t have a discernible bump yet. But we both know what’s inside my body.

I’m becoming an adult, whether she likes it or not.

I clasp my hands behind my back in a deliberate movement, willing her to look at me. At what I’m becoming. But she doesn’t.

‘Your father went to visit … that man .’ Her voice tells me this conversation will go no further. ‘Go to bed, Beth.’