Fragments (6 page)

Alma was
settling Catherine into the high chair, as he seated himself. Beef
Cobbler was one of his favourites: once again, Alma was showing her
thanks for him giving in on the extension.

‘Well, how have
my girls been today?’

Frost formed in
the air as Alma launched into her tirade of how trying her day had
been. James tried to tune it out, and concentrate on Catherine, who
was playing with a rattle he’d bought for her, but it was
difficult.

‘...And then
she spit up all over her new bib. I’d starched it too, when I
ironed it, and she got bits in the little embroidery roses. I’ll
never get them looking that good again...’

‘Tut,’ said
James, quietly. He winked at Catherine. Alma didn’t pause for
breath.

‘...so I tried
the new banana one, and she spat that out too. I mean, what child
doesn’t like mashed banana? It took me an hour to get that jar into
her. I was exhausted by the time for her nap, and then she threw up
all over her clean bedding, so I had to re-feed her
and
do
the bed linen...’

James spooned
down his dinner, trying to juggle his attention between the women
in his life. Alma would erupt if she felt she wasn’t getting
enough, or that Catherine was getting too much. All he wanted was
to beam and smile at Catherine, and talk to her in little whispers
and tickle her until she started to hiccup with laughter. He nodded
and smiled at Alma enough times to keep her mollified whilst giving
Catherine his secret smile and pulling faces that Alma couldn’t
see. Catherine giggled. Alma droned on...

‘Claire was
round, and she said little Emily never spits out her food, and
every scrap is taken from the jar...and heaven knows Emily doesn’t
manage to stink out the room every time she breathes...’

Catherine
dropped the rattle on the floor as she squealed in laughter.

‘That’s it,
that’s the third time today.’ As James had leaned down to pick up
the rattle, Alma swooped up Catherine. A sharp slap and a sharper
cry rent the air, and James’s heart.

‘Never, never,
never, do that again.’ On each ‘never’, Alma slapped the back of
Catherine’s hand hard. Catherine’s howls became screams, as Alma
whisked her up the stairs. ‘When will you learn?’

James looked at
his beef congealing into the gravy, as he heard the uproar upstairs
as Catherine was stripped of her clothes, pushed and pulled into a
sleep suit, and the door firmly closed on her cries. By the time
Alma came back downstairs he was in the pub.

*

‘There, who is
a pretty girl, then?’ James finished buttoning Catherine’s coat and
stood up to look at her. How could she be so grown up? She looked
tiny and vulnerable in her school uniform, which like all first
school uniforms was too big for her. Catherine looked up at her
Daddy with adoring eyes and smiled.

‘Will I do
then, Daddy?’

James laughed,
and was just about to speak, when Alma came rushing into the
hall.

‘Oh, for
goodness sake, aren’t you ready yet? We’ll be late. Catherine, what
is that bird’s nest on top of your head? You don’t think it’s a
hairstyle, do you?’ She shot James the look, the one that made it
clear that Daddy was an idiot and how could he call that pigtails?
James ignored her and leaned down to try and adjust the approved
school ribbons.

‘Oh don’t make
it worse!’ Alma slapped James’s hand out of the way, pulling the
ribbons off. Cathy squealed.

‘Oh be quiet, I
didn’t hurt you.’ She unpicked the pigtails and pulled a brush
through, starting again, in double quick time. As she twisted the
first layer in deeply, pulling the hair tightly into the scalp,
Cathy squealed again. Alma slapped her bare legs with the palm of
her hand.

‘Don’t argue
back. I’ve told you, you have to suffer for beauty, you better get
used to it now. I’m not having everyone looking down on us as your
hair falls out half-way through the day. I’ve told you, you have to
finish the day as neat as you start it. Is that clear?’

Cathy nodded,
her eyes brimming with tears. James turned away, breathing
deeply.

‘There, that’s
much better. Make sure the ribbons don’t come out, won’t you,
sweetheart?’ Alma dropped down to Cathy’s height.

‘You know Mummy
loves you, don’t you, darling? I just want the best for you.’ James
turned back to his look at his girls. Tears were brimming in Alma’s
eyes and her voice was choked. James patted her on the
shoulder.

‘She’ll do her
best, won’t you, Cathy?’

‘There’s no
‘Cathy’ in this house, is there, Catherine...?’ Alma’s tone had
returned to its usual cadence of disapproval and frustration.

‘No, Mummy,
only a Catherine.’ Cathy sing songed back to her.

‘And don’t you
forget that at school today. If the girls call you Cathy, you tell
them politely and nicely, that your name is CATH-ER-INE. Is that
clear?’

‘Yes,
Mummy.’

‘Good girl,
well then, let’s get going, we can’t be late!’

Alma had
already instructed James that he was not to get out of the car at
the school gates.

‘None of the
other fathers even turn up. Of course, I’d need my own car to be
able drop her off myself.’

‘We can’t
afford another car and the school fees. The uniform alone cost
enough to buy you a little banger.’

‘A banger!
You’d let your wife drive a second hand car? Well, that shouldn’t
surprise me...’

James had taken
in a deep breath and counted to twenty. Once, he’d only needed to
count to ten. He had wondered what would happen if he ever needed
to get to thirty...

She looked so
small, and fragile, as Alma led her across the school yard to the
lines of children waiting patiently. The Nuns looked so tall in
their habits, so severe. He hated that Alma had won this battle;
every instinct in him wanted him to get out the car, gather his
little treasure up in his arms and take her away as quickly as he
could. With a final instruction of some sort Alma let go her hand
and backed off to hover with the ring of mothers looking on
anxiously. Alma wasn’t anxious. She beamed with pride and happiness
at the sight of her Catherine in the long line of silent little
girls, who looked as if they had been made from a biscuit cutter;
with their identical hats, blazers, satchels and pigtails. The Nun
on the top step of the school doorway rang a large hand-bell she
carried. The lines started to move into the school, older girls
first.

James watched
as his perfect child, his little girl, his lover of cuddles and
tickles, stood the longest and marched in last: the baby class.

He gunned the
car up to life. The revving disturbed the silence that had fallen
on the playground as the mothers had nodded and smiled to each
other. Alma’s eyebrows rose up and she shot him another icy gaze.
He ignored it, and when she finally got into the car, he wrecked
the gears as he tried to drive off quickly. The car shuddered and
stalled. He jabbed the pedal down and pulled the key round
hard.

‘Careful. You
don’t want to flood the engine.’

He remained
silent as he slowly started to count to fifty.

*

‘Mum, no one
else wears pigtails in my class.’

‘If everyone in
your class jumped off a cliff, would you follow?’ Alma continued to
stitch the starched ribbons with their perfect bows onto
Catherine’s hair.

‘No,
Mummy.’

‘Exactly.’ Alma
snipped off the thread. ‘There, that will survive gym class. Now,
let’s check your bag.’

Catherine
opened up her school bag, which had been her Christmas present. It
was gleaming soft tan leather with her initials in gold, under the
lock. Alma had painted over the brass lock in clear nail varnish to
ensure that her clumsy daughter didn’t scratch the plate with the
key. The books and tools of school were laid out neatly, every text
book and jotter double lined in brown wrapping paper. Alma had been
shocked when the nuns had started to allow wrapping in coloured
wrapping paper, and the subsequent competition that had then begun,
to see who had the most stylish covers had irritated her no
end.

‘I’m not
spending money on fancy wrapping paper! Your father works hard
enough as it is, it’s not fair to him. You shouldn’t pester him
so... it’ll be the death of him!’

Catherine had
sighed as she put away the bright red paper her dad had brought
home for her, and rewrapped her maths book with the brown paper
wrapping. Dad, hiding behind his newspaper, had grumped and rustled
the pages.

‘Don’t you have
something better to do?’ Alma’s tone had pierced through the
newsprint. Dad had got up and gone to his shed, taking his paper
with him.

‘Not that he
ever does anything
useful
down there...’

Catherine had
watched her father walk down the path with a queer sense of pain in
her heart. She wasn’t allowed in the shed...it wasn’t suitable for
a young girl to see all that rubbish and clutter lying around. The
door had banged shut and Catherine had known he would switch on
Radio 4 and light up. He wasn’t allowed to smoke in the house, it
was smelly and unhygienic: her mother hated that he’d started to
smoke.

‘...did you
hear what I said?’

Catherine
dragged her attention back to her mother, who had finished counting
off the books and checking the homework schedule.

‘How you manage
to pay attention in class, I do not know!’

Catherine knew.
Anything was better than the leather belt the nuns used, and the
shame of being made to kneel in front of the blackboard, your knees
aching from the hard wood as you were made to recite ten Holy Marys
and ask for forgiveness. Catherine had only been subjected to the
kneeling once: once was enough. Not like poor Theresa Reddy, whose
hair always came loose, who dropped things and who was never quite
sure of what she should be doing. Teresa had patches in her blazer
as it was a hand me down, and her shoes were scuffed. Mum tutted
every time she saw Theresa and said that the school standards had
dropped. Teresa’s father was the school caretaker and Alma was
furious that he got a reduction on the fees. Theresa spent so much
time on her knees in front of the blackboard, her back to the
class, that the others teased her she was going to be a nun.

Catherine had
never wanted that said to her, and so she had never, ever, missed
the teacher speaking to her again. Her mother continued to prattle
as they went through the pre-school ritual.

‘And I want to
see an improvement in your spelling today. Sister Mary Gabriel said
you got one wrong yesterday.’

Catherine
blushed. ‘Yes, Mum.’

‘Don’t take
that insolent tone with me.’ Alma pulled up Catherine’s chin so
they were looking into each other’s eyes.

‘I only push
you as I want the best for you, sweetheart.’ Alma’s eyes misted
over, her voice wavered. ‘I just want the best for you, darling. I
want you to have everything I never had. I want you to shine.’ A
tear dripped out of the corner of Alma’s eye. Catherine’s eyes
misted over.

‘Oh please,
Mummy, don’t cry! I’ll get all my spelling right, I promise.’

‘That’s a good
girl.’ Alma took a handkerchief out of her cardigan pocket, wiping
first her own eyes, then Catherine’s.

‘I know you’re
a good girl at heart, you just need to learn to listen.’ Alma
smiled brightly. ‘Now, look at your lunch!’

Catherine
looked at the little Tupperware box.

‘What is it,
Mummy?’

‘Look and see!
I’ve worked extra hard!’

Catherine
swallowed the sigh. Alma had taught Catherine to swallow sighs
well.

She clicked
open the box. Inside were three little boxes. She put the big box
down on the hall table. The first little box contained a sliced
apple.

‘I’ve dipped
them in lemon juice to keep them from growing brown. And lemon
dissolves fat!’

Catherine
smiled, swallowing hard.

The second box
contained some cottage cheese with green bits on it.

‘That’s dill.
It helps the digestion!’

Catherine
smiled and swallowed again.

The third box
contained grated carrots with brown lumps.

‘That’s the big
surprise. I know the recipe said to use currants but dried fruit
like that is just a parcel of sugar. So those are little lumps of
prune, to help keep you regular.’

Catherine
looked at her Mummy and smiled.

‘Thank you so
much.’

Alma beamed at
her.

‘That’s okay,
darling. Anything for you, to keep you healthy and happy. We can’t
have you getting any fatter, can we..?’

Catherine
carefully packed her bag and put her water bottle in the pocket of
her school overcoat.

Alma fussed
them into the car and drove them off to the school gates. They were
in Daddy’s big car, as Mum had said he could only smoke in the
little second-hand one. No point in smoking out a new car: it just
lost more value.

As Alma watched
Catherine disappear into the school gate she spoke out loud into
the empty car.

‘Try and swap
any of that for the crap the other girls have!’

*

‘Why can’t we
go and visit Daddy’s grave, Mummy?’

‘It makes you
too upset. You cry, and it’s pointless.’

‘But Mum, I’d
like....’

‘THAT IS
ENOUGH. Do you not think I work my fingers to the bone for you as
it is? It’s costing a fortune to keep you in that school and I’ve
had enough of this. A grateful daughter would be making her mother
a cup of tea now, not screeching on about how UNFAIR LIFE IS. LIFE
IS UNFAIR, CATHERINE, how many times have I told you about that?
It’s not as if...’

Catherine sat
very still. If she could just make herself as small and still as
possible, whilst still looking attentive...