Gloves Off Page 4
and his fist encloses my palm and holds it there – tight.
i wasn’t always like this, lily,
i dream i hear mum say.
i dream again
see her stand up from the towel and run across the
beach
towards the sea, her skin bright white.
i see her dive beneath the water,
disappear for a second and then emerge
on wings.
BERNADETTE (5)
How can they be so cruel?
Joe doesn’t answer me,
But I can see
He’s simmering, boiling, ready to blow.
“Didn’t you know?” he asks.
And I nod.
I knew.
I see it all,
All the invisible
Scars.
The marks
That living leaves behind.
The fingerprints,
Faded footprints
On paths she trod alone.
Ghost palm prints of
Hands that held hers
When I was not there.
Teeth marks.
Tiny incisions.
Pieces of her nibbled out of existence
By sharp words or faces.
Great chunks removed with a sneer.
How to shore up a body against the onslaught of
eyes?
Fool to think love is enough,
My child.
Did I make the world
This way?
Did I teach you to be afraid?
You’d think
Our skin
Would be
Thick enough
By now.
YOU GET KNOCKED DOWN?
“where’s the fight in you?” dad says.
it’s late.
he’s come up to my room
(he never comes up to my room)
and is perched, awkward, on my bed,
elbows on his knees, hands clenched,
staring at me
with eyes that insist i listen.
i can see the rage in them
they fire at me,
strong words –
come on,
be brave!
and although everything in me wants to
look down
to crawl under my covers and
hide,
i nod, just a little.
“don’t cry,” he says,
“come on,”
he insists.
“where’s my lil?
you want to change things?
well,
don’t be a victim,
right?
you hear me?”
his hand on mine,
i stare at the tattoos on his arm
our names
inked there.
his words are hard,
but soft, i guess, for a man who works all day,
and then comes home to us
to face the facts
that we’re not right.
probably not the family he dreamed of
loving
and being
proud to walk beside.
what am i supposed to do? i say.
dad doesn’t mean to shout
when he tells me to fight back, and
i don’t mean to cry.
maybe it is because he cares
and not many other people do.
“that’s self-pity that is,”
dad says,
and he shakes his head.
“that’ll get you nowhere fast.”
i want to
scream at him,
you don’t know what it’s like,
i want to tell him that when you’re in the gutter
you’re litter,
with the leaves that fall
and the trash
that’s thrown
out of car windows,
careless –
you’re
crap.
down and out,
done.
but
he’s up and off,
shrugging on his coat,
standing at my door.
“i’ll be back later,”
he says.
“me and you,
we need a plan.”
EXPLANATIONS
my aunty clare comes to visit with her kids,
mikey tears around our house while
my mum’s sister sits outside and smokes.
her boyfriend’s useless, and she’s broke.
mum smiles and helps mikey to create more fun,
monsters out of empty boxes, string and glitter.
glue goes everywhere, he laughs
and daubs his painty fingers in her hair.
i watch them, amazed
that all it takes is
hearts that are not sour.
when i first started school
my mum went back to work.
she loved the little ones,
the busy, funny days.
the kids she cared for loved her back,
and cried sometimes
when their own parents came and pulled
them from her arms.
one day a woman came to look around
the nursery to see if it might be good enough
for her precious child.
mum gave the tour.
tried to chat and handed toys to the little boy,
showed him books,
explained the day.
said she understood how hard it was
to let them go, and walk away.
the woman looked at her and didn’t smile.
“she didn’t like the look of me,”
my mother says.
“i lost my job because of her.
i should have had a thicker skin.”
why? what do you mean? what did you do?
my mother waits
and then she says
in a voice that doesn’t sound like her,
“that woman called my boss.
she said
that she couldn’t leave her child with
me,
she said
that she did not believe that I could
take care of him or
do my job.
not with me the way i am.”
i still don’t understand.
mum sighs.
her face is closed.
like this all hurts
too much to tell.
like she’s sick of explaining herself away,
her words come out, slow and low.
“she thought that i might
influence him. that he might catch
bad ways,”
mum says.
as if she is a germ.
as if she could infect that kid,
as if she could not be trusted to
take care of that child as if
he were her own.
she takes a breath.
“too fat,
that woman said I was,
too fat
to move.
health and safety, my boss said.”
mum shrugs.
“maybe it’s true.”
she was a bitch,
a bully, that’s discrimination.
“that’s the world we live in, love.
so i was hurt.
i came home.
i shut my door,
i thought about those words
i tried to change.
well, here i am.
i’m sorry, love, i’ve let you down.
it’s all my fault.
i’m going to try from now on,
to be better,
get out
a bit more,
i’ve let this go on too long.”
my fingers sink into my skin.
i’d tear that woman,
limb from limb.
stop it, mum. it wasn’t you, i say,
a
nd think about how cruel we are to one
another every day.
PART TWO
BOMB
the thing swings there in the twilight darkness.
dad slaps it with his outstretched fist.
huge and black and ominous,
it dances
daring me,
not to back away from this.
my hands are strapped,
confined inside the clumsy gloves,
stiff and snug,
hefty, hard to manage.
really? I ask
“yes,” dad says, “why not? why shouldn’t you?”
and so i do.
i swing.
first strike.
the bag waltzes out of reach and i sink
into the soft mat,
my legs leaden, slow.
how long we stand out there in the cold
getting warm.
how long dad patiently
explains that there is a technique
and if i want to learn, i’ll have to try.
what’s the point? i ask, panting and sore,
my arms aching with the effort of swinging
and punching again and again but failing
and glancing off into the air.
i won’t be any good, i say and he
takes my face between his hands and stares at me.
“when you were born,” dad says,
“i didn’t know
that i could love another person quite
so much.
your granddad came to see you
and he took one look at your face and said –
she’s a bloody little belter, joe.
so don’t you ever tell me you’re no good.
just give it a go, lil.
see that bag there,
imagine it’s those girls.
imagine their faces.
imagine you’re smashing them into pieces.”
YOU GET UP AGAIN
i’ve spent years making peace and keeping it.
easier to swallow pain and smile
than to say,
No.
You’re wrong.
No. You lie.
it’s guts
i need. can i become the kind of girl
who feels
that winning is a right?
mum stands on the back step
in the darkness watching me.
if i can do it –
so might she.
all right, i tell my dad, i’ll try.
“good,” he says,
“one two.
like this.”
he demonstrates, his own old gloves
fast but slow enough for me to see.
and something changes on his face.
intense,
he thrusts again,
hits harder,
shows me what i have to do.
then, pausing, smiles,
teacher, father,
as if there’s no way i can lose
“it’s been years.
don’t know why i stopped.
your mum,
she didn’t like it.
– said she liked my brains right here,
inside my head.”
he taps his skull,
“but it feels good.
now you.”
i don’t look at dad as the punchbag swings
away from me again,
mocking,
too swift
andcunning
to be
caught.
i try again.
he’s patient, waiting,
but everything depends on this.
i see their faces on that bag. their smiles.
their lying smiles.
stacey.
aidan.
mollie too.
my breathing’s harsh, just standing here,
remembering.
they blur, dissolve,
eyes flashing, lashes sweeping over
cheeks that glow, long legs that run too fast
for me to chase and catch.
just one, then, pin her there, yes,
clear skin, dark hair, fake smile.
and her eyes
so wide
and cruel
looking at me for all these years,
then the whispers, flickering glances
that say it all.
i hit it hard. i think i scream.
dad laughs.
“that’s it! again!”
and then the pummelling begins,
i’m swinging wildly,
madly,
crazy,
with all that i might do. holding the
bag, throwing myself at it,
battering the thing like i want it to break,
like i could knock the stuffing out.
and
for the first time
there’s no pain.
HOW COME
they hate me?
what did i do?
questions roll around
behind my eyes
as i lie in bed,
trying to sleep
and i mutter my prayer
dear god
please let me wake up
someone new.
GET UP AND GO
doing this means
crawling out of bed
too early the next morning,
pulling on
a hoodie and sweatpants,
dragging myself
downstairs, aching already, from the backs
of my arms, to my shoulders, my thighs, my bum.
every bit of me
complaining.
dad is already dressed.
the lights are too bright.
i squint, gulp juice, feel old
before i’ve started.
“good, right then, let’s go.”
i pull on my trainers. at least it’s dark outside.
dad hadn’t realized i am so slow.
he’s not much better.
“better give up the fags,” he says
stopping to cough and hack
into the morning mist.
we move in the shadows,
street lamps flicker and buzz.
he stops.
waits.
jogs beside me again,
doesn’t say a thing. we make it round the estate.
i walk a bit, run a bit, try not to notice
him beside me, try not to think the things
he must be thinking.
i stop myself from saying
let’s give up,
forget this.
forget me.
BERNADETTE (6)
Off they go.
My girl is strong.
I swallow,
Skin prickling
Pride and fear.
They disappear.
I pick up my mug
Sit in the dark,
Tea hot in my hands.
When she was small
My Lily wouldn’t even hurt a fly,
Cradling spiders, ants, in her tiny hands
Rescuing bees from puddles,
Making homes for snails,
So soft.
And now
I have to watch her
Hammer out another way.
Joe’s right, I suppose.
Something needs to change.
DAY ONE, DONE
“well done,” dad says as i crawl back home.
the sun is coming up. it’s too bright now.
i squint into the street,
search the windows, the road, for signs of life.
no one has seen us.
“same time, same place, tomorrow,” he says,
his face is set.
he reaches out, puts an arm around me.
“proud of you,” he tells me.
i pull back.
don’t. i stink.
it feels good to wash it all away.
not so good to know that now there’s school.
school happens whatever you do.
“just this year to go, love,”
mum says, handing me my bag.
“it’ll pass. all this will pass.”
i smile at her, nod.
i know. thanks, i say,
and wonder if
i’m too young to wish my life away.
NOISE
“it’s not just violence,” dad says to mum,
“it’s about taking control.
handling things
that are hard to handle.”
he slaps the table with his palm.
he doesn’t sound like dad.
dad doesn’t do feelings,
asks us how we are and only hears:
fine.
in fact, i thought he’d run a mile
from pain;
i’ve never seen him cry.
they’re still at it.
he pulls the dress from mum’s hands –
the rows of tiny pearls she’s been sewing for weeks,
and
something tears
and
someone swears.
it is new, to hear them disagree.
like this.
“i don’t want her thinking it’s right,”
mum says,
“my daughter isn’t one to fight –
she might get hurt.”
dad speaks, too firm – it makes me flinch.
“our daughter,
is already
hurt,
bernie.”
and then there’s
quiet.
i should go in there, tell them to shut up,
that i don’t need them talking
about me.
my dad goes on, insistent, strong.
“and she needs something.
otherwise those little sods, they’ll just keep up with
this.”
mum’s voice rises,
the old refrain,
“there’s one more year. that’s all.
then she can move.
a sixth form college. make new
friends—”
dad interrupts.
“there’ll be others, won’t there, though?
no.
life’s tough.
she needs to be strong,
to hold her own.”
BERNADETTE (7)
I never promised to be
Beautiful.
You found me