Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [13]
I was old enough to know she would be hurt if I told her the truth.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said. ‘Just what I’ve always wanted.’
I don’t know if she ever knew how mortified I was by the mismatching tyres. I remember moaning about it to Grandpa though. His response was typically logical.
‘Cathy,’ he said, with that familiar air of knowing everything, ‘third-class riding is better than first-class walking. Be grateful.’
But I wasn’t. I was selfish – a normal selfish little girl. Everywhere I went I imagined people laughing. I was embarrassed, to be honest. But of course he was right. If I was that bothered I could have not ridden it at all. But that wouldn’t have done. I loved having a bike. I didn’t realize it, but a life-long love of all things two-wheeled began right there.
For a while, then, things were good. From Mum’s point of view, they were probably the best of times, really – certainly since splitting from her husband. She had a small but regular income, her daughter seemed to have settled into nursery and finally she had a bit of freedom. I could never have guessed it at the time, but it was that freedom, I’m sure, that signalled the beginning of the end.
It started with Mum having the odd Saturday night out with friends. She’d drop me off in Saltdean and go skipping down the road to catch a bus into town. I didn’t mind. I liked staying with my grandparents. I could take my bike and bomb up and down their garden or play with other kids in the woodland or the park at the back of their house. Sometimes I’d go with Granny to walk her dogs along the promenade between Saltdean and Rottingdean, or if the weather was bad she’d read me stories or teach me some new craft, like knitting, sewing, crocheting, drawing, flower-arranging or doll-making – you name it, she wanted me to learn it. Grandpa was more of a distant figure, but it didn’t matter. My time there was always great fun. The only downside was knowing Mum was out during our weekend time.
Gradually, our sacrosanct mother-and-daughter time was being eaten into. I don’t think Mum intended it to happen; it just did. First it was occasional Saturdays, then every week. Then she added a Friday or two as well. I can’t blame her. She was barely twenty and she deserved to have some fun. I just wished she could do it on a weeknight.
Missing her on a Saturday night was okay because even if I’d been at home with her, I would have been in bed. The real kicker was not seeing her Sunday morning. As the months went by, Mum’s pick-up time for me got later and later. Granny didn’t mind – she just scooped me into the car and took me to church with them. I was there so often I became the flower girl, handing out posies on special occasions. It was fun – I enjoyed being centre of attention, even in a church. But really I just wanted to be with Mum.
Some Sundays Granny would give up waiting and just take me straight home after the service. If we were lucky, Mum would be up and running around, getting some lunch ready. Then there were the other days. Once, I remember getting to the building and knocking on the communal door. There was no answer so Granny rang the bell. Someone else who lived in the block recognized me and let us in and we went straight over to the door of our flat and knocked again.
‘I don’t think she’s in,’ I said.
Granny wasn’t having any of it. ‘She’s in, all right. But what state she’s in is anybody’s guess.’
I didn’t know what that phrase meant. Even when a zombie-looking Mum opened the door five minutes later, hanging onto the latch like she would fall without it, it didn’t register. I was just so glad to be home I gave Mum an enormous squeeze and skipped into the flat. Granny wasn’t so abundant in her cheeriness.
‘You need to get yourself cleaned up, my girl,’ she scolded. Again, the words meant little to me. I thought Mum looked lovely the way she was. I always did.
I thought nothing of it at the time. The following week the same thing happened and still I didn’t notice anything was wrong. As the weeks wore on, it became another weekend ritual: wake