Fragments (7 page)

‘And don’t you
dare give me that look! Don’t you DARE look at me like that! What
have I ever done to deserve your cheek, and your stubbornness? No
wonder you put your father in his grave...without pestering him
there as well!’

Catherine sent
herself to her room where she swallowed it all down with the
chocolate she’d stolen from the local shop.

*

‘I just don’t
see how you can do it. I just don’t know how you can get through
the day, knowing you look like this.’

Catherine was
laid out on her mother’s lap. A cushion from the couch was on her
mother’s lap and Catherine’s head was on the cushion. They’d
already done the left hand side of her face, and thus they’d moved
the end of the couch they were on, so the right side of Catherine’s
face could be presented to her mother, whilst she, Catherine, kept
her attention glued to
Top of the Pops
on the television in
the far corner. Alma had laid out her instruments on a cushion
beside her: a needle kit, tweezers, a match for sterilising and
cotton balls.

Catherine was
trying to listen to David Cassidy as her mother dug into her
ears.

‘How you do not
know how dirty you are, is beyond me... it’s not like I don’t make
you wash...’

The needle was
being pricked into her ear. Catherine flinched.

‘I’ve told you
not to move. I don’t want to make a red mark. I never make a red
mark.’

Catherine
remained still.

Alma’s nails
dug into the skin on the inside of Catherine’s ears.

‘Oh my god!
LOOK AT IT. It’s huge!’

Alma continued
to press down.

‘Oh, and the
smell...’

Alma made as if
to gag.

Catherine kept
staring at David Cassidy’s face, although she’d lost the ability to
hear the words. His mouth kept moving, his eyes kept shining, and
his hair kept gleaming. Catherine filled in the words under her
breath.

‘Look at it.’
Alma’s voice had dipped low, to concern and care, as she leaned her
hand over into Catherine’s vision.

On Alma’s
impeccable nail, in a long squirm of worm, was the blackhead that
had been squeezed out of Catherine’s inner ear. It was thick and
whitish.

‘Just look at
THAT!’

Alma had used
the needle to zero in on the round black plug at the end of the
string of sebum.

‘Look at that
dirt. That’s what people can see when they stand next to you. How
can you bear it? You might not be able to see into your ears, but
other people can. What will they think of me, you being out in this
sort of state?’

Catherine
apologised for her failings. Alma bit her tongue and continued the
attack on Catherine’s face, moving to her nose and forehead.

What was the
point? The child never listened. Had no pride. She was just wasting
her breath. She dug the needle back in to the annoying pore at the
end of Catherine’s nose that would not close, no matter what she
painted on it. Catherine closed her eyes and counted to twenty.

*

‘I’m so happy
you could come this evening, it’s been such a relief to talk to
fellow grown-ups. More wine...?’

Monica giggled
as Alma filled up her glass. George offered his glass up.

‘And how is the
practice going, George? Settling in?’

‘Oh yes, very
well. They’re a good bunch, I was lucky to get the partnership.’
George quaffed the wine. ‘How’s that delightful young girl of
yours?’

Alma’s face
fell a little. Monica looked over in concern.

‘I’m so glad
you asked. It’s been difficult...’ Alma’s voice wavered, and a tear
slid out of her eye. Monica leaned over and patted her on the
shoulder whilst George concentrated on his wine glass.

His retreat was
firmly halted, as Alma launched at him.

‘I did want to
speak to you, George, if you could speak to her... as you are a
doctor..?’

George stared,
a little open mouthed, Monica pincered in.

‘I did say to
you, George, how worried Alma is...?’

George stared
at his joint doom and nodded, trying to move sideways again.

‘It’s just that
as I told you, Monica dearest, if Alma is that worried, she should
see her own GP and have Catherine referred to a dietician... I
can’t...’

Alma looked as
if she was going to burst into tears but was containing it, just.
Monica launched full frontal.

‘Oh think of
the shame, George! Everyone would know about it. It would be the
gossip of the school! Alma doesn’t deserve that, especially since
she’s sacrificed so much for Catherine.’

Alma made
another effort to contain her crying. A single tear slid from her
left eye. George watched her dab at it with her napkin.

‘Oh very well,
I’ll have a word with her, if you like.’

‘Oh thank you,
George, I’m so grateful. Brandy?’

George drank
two down in quick succession. How to get out of this...

The nightmare
unfolded with meticulous planning. They retired to the living room
to find a set of scales had already been placed out. George tried
to settle on the arm chair, had a chair even been made more
uncomfortable? Alma filled up his brandy glass as she settled into
her own chair. Monica sat beside her, hugging her Baileys Irish
Cream. George felt he might suffocate.

In front of her
Alma held a chart.

‘I only asked
you tonight as she had been doing quite well. She lost two pounds
the week before last and three the week before that…’ her light and
hopeful tones had slowed, and dropped to a pained whisper ‘but only
one pound last week.’ Alma looked at George as as if she were a
half drowned kitten and he the rescue services . ‘I felt a little
encouragement from you would help so much. Keep her on the right
track.’

George
swallowed down the brandy, not tasting it. Jesus, he needed to get
out of here.

Catherine, who
had been called to attend downstairs as they’d settled into the
living room, came in.

George’s heart
leaped. She was such a timid little thing. She’d been and had her
bath whilst they’d eaten, and was wrapped up in her winceyette
pyjamas and dressing gown. Her eyes stared at him as she realised
the room held others. She was the same age as their Timothy; and a
chubbier, more unnoticeable thirteen year old could not be found.
George had always felt, however, that she would be the beauty of
the family once she’d stretched. Her fine skin and clear eyes were
perfect, her cheeks had a sharp slant, and there was a length of
bone waiting to blossom out of her in good time. Under the layer of
puppy fat an elegant and graceful young woman was waiting to
emerge. George felt his ears flush. How had he got roped into
this?

‘Catherine,
dearest, Monica and George have asked to be able to support you in
our... little struggle...’

Catherine
looked at her mother the way a mouse might look at an owl. George
swallowed down the brandy, finishing the glass.

He wasn’t sure
who was more miserable, himself, or the ghastly, fated, Catherine.
Alma, her clip board and her chart in hand, had instructed the
teenager to stand on the scales. Catherine looked frozen, her hands
on the belt of her dressing gown. Alma observed the panic and
tut-tutted it.

‘Catherine
dear, you know George is a doctor! And it’s not as if Monica hasn’t
changed your nappy once or twice. Don’t be so dramatic, you’ve not
got anything we’ve not seen before.’

Monica giggled.
George heard the note of hysteria. Oh lord, let this be over.

‘Don’t make her
take her gown off if she doesn’t want to, Alma.’ There, he’d found
his voice.’

‘Don’t be
silly, George. She has to wear the same clothes every time. She
knows that.’ Towards George, Alma’s voice was warm and comforting.
It sharpened and thinned, when addressed to Catherine. ‘Take off
your dressing gown and get on the scales.’

George watched,
aghast, as the child fumbled and blushed and then went white. She
dropped the gown on the floor and stood on the scales. She was
lumpier, and redder, under the gown. She looked at the floor and
crossed her arms in front of herself.

‘Eyes up and
arms down, Catherine.’

Catherine did
what she was told, automatically. George saw the flame blaze across
her cheeks. His own gaze dropped to his shoes.

Monica
giggled.

Alma stood up
and went over to the scales. ‘Well that’s....’ her voice stopped.
Georges felt his heart racing and his pulse skip a beat.

‘You’ve put on
THREE pounds!’

What George
remembered most about what followed, was how powerless he had felt.
It niggled him for years that he should have spoken up, or at the
very least, walked out. But somehow, in the face of Alma’s
shouting, and pleading with him and Monica to get through to the
child, what he’d actually done was agree that putting on weight was
very dangerous, that it put a strain on the heart and yes, her
mother was right, no decent man would look at her whilst she was
fat.

His patients
gained from the horror of what he took part in that night. He
always treated a woman complaining about weight, either for
themselves, or their child or husband, extremely sympathetically.
However, he could never forgive himself for the tirade that had
been opened up on that poor child’s head, and how he’d sat back and
watched her shake.

For Catherine’s
part the night was branded into her soul. She lay in bed and wept
silent tears. At no point had she felt able to mention to her
mother, remind her mother, that her period had started that
morning, and she was ‘allowed’ the benefit of water retention on
those days. Alma had hoped that there wouldn’t be a little spike in
that week, just no actual weight lost... which is what Catherine
fervently wished for when she was being weighed whilst bleeding.
She’d been too horrified at having to take off her dressing gown in
front of everyone. Terrified the bulge of her sanitary towel would
be seen through her pyjamas. The thought of speaking up and asking
for the circumstances to be taken into account... for saying
anything that might have caused her mother to refer to what was
going on in her body in front of the others, the man...

That night she
bled heavily into the sheets. Faced with her ruin in the morning,
she balled up the mess and pushed the sheets under her bed. She
remade the bed with clean sheets.

It was four
months before Alma found the sheets. Catherine was having a sleep
over with Clare and Emily, and Alma decided to clean out the
bedroom, see what secrets were being hidden. She found the balled
up sheets, surrounded by empty chocolate and sweet wrappers. She
burned the sheets and cleaned out the entire bedroom of its
shameful treasures.

Nothing was
said but sweet wrappers and chocolate crumbs were never found in
the room again.

*

‘But Mum, I
don’t like him.’

Alma sighed,
long and deep.

‘I know you are
jealous of him. I know you like having me all to yourself. It’s
natural to be unsure of a new... father.’

‘He is not my
father!’ Catherine could not swallow that down.

‘He is my
husband, and you will respect him.’

Catherine’s
head dropped down, she stared at her shoes. Alma felt the defiance
radiate out in waves. She decided ‘softly softly’ was the better
option here.

‘Catherine,
darling.’ Her hand reached out and lifted up her daughter’s chin,
pulling her into contact with her. Alma’s eyes swam with unshed
tears, her voice trembled in longing and hurt.

‘Please
darling. Don’t grudge me a little happiness. Andrew is a wonderful
man and he makes me happy. He makes you happy too, who do you think
pays for your riding lessons?’

Tears spilled
out of Catherine’s eyes.

‘He cares very
much for you. He bought you that lovely new bike, so you can get to
the stables. I’m sure, in time, you’ll see how much he cares for
you.’

Catherine
already knew how much Andrew cared for her. As she looked up at her
mother’s tears she knew she couldn’t say any more: it would hurt
Alma too much.

She’d just have
to put up with it, at least until she managed to leave home.

Alma dried both
their tears. She hugged Catherine a little, then pulled back.

‘Catherine!
Have you felt how fat your back feels?’

Catherine
stared at her mother, the tears frozen in and locked down.

‘Come upstairs,
right now. I want to see what you weigh.’

Alma physically
pulled her up the stairs by the hand, as if she was a child. She
was stripped to her underwear and weighed.

In the rage
that followed, in the awful waves of screeching and pleading,
begging and fury that spilled out from Alma’s mouth... in the
tirade about how she was a selfish, ungrateful child, with no
self-respect and no understanding of the world... Catherine really
only noticed one thing. That Andrew had slipped upstairs and was
standing at the bathroom doorway, peeping in, whilst Alma flew
around her, arms flailing and fingers pointing. Standing, staring
at her in her underwear, with that look upon his face: the look her
mother never saw. She closed her eyes, and wished herself far, far
away, but Alma’s voice would not let her go.

‘AND HOW DO YOU
THINK ANY DECENT MAN WILL EVER FANCY YOU IN THAT STATE! You will
NEVER get a boyfriend; no one will EVER find you attractive.’

Catherine could
only hope.

*

The entire
office was on edge, waiting for the manager’s door to open back up.
Seeing two police officers come into the building, and then go into
her office had set everyone’s tongues wagging. Who was in trouble?
Was something wrong? Three people had already phoned home to see if
there was a problem there.

No one had been
expecting it to be about Big Cathy. She’d carried on ignoring
everything as she typed away in her little booth.