Seventeen

The bubble of noise bounced along the hallway, up the stairs and burst into Cordy’s bedroom. At once she was wide-awake. The sheet beneath her felt damp. She stuck her hand between her legs and raised her fingers to her nose. Wee. Last time she’d been checked for nits, she’d heard the school nurse and her mother whispering, something about ‘reverting to babyhood’. She’d wriggled out of the nurse’s grasp as the hard steel comb raked across her scalp. Baby! It was what she said to her little sister Esme at least thirty times a day. The nurse had a lump on her top lip. It had a long black hair sprouting from it. Served her right, Cordy thought.

The sound of voices from downstairs got louder. Her father must be home and he hadn’t come up to see her. Her mother had promised he would. She focused on a spot up near the ceiling. She must concentrate. She had to keep her eyes on that dark stain just above the picture frame, or her gaze would swivel to the left to the top of the wardrobe where ‘it’ crouched, waiting to pounce. ‘Don’t look,’ she told herself. ‘It can’t make you.’ Sometimes it worked and in the mornings she’d see the big canvas bag with its floppy handles and brass zip that was stored up there. But on other nights, when she couldn’t stand it a minute longer, when she gave in, ‘it’ would be there, its long arms swinging, its teeth yellow and sharp.

The voices were filling her head. It felt as if it would burst. Just like that time her friend Amy had dared her to hold her breath for as long as she could and she’d fainted.

She decided to count … nine, ten, eleven … it was easy, even Esme could get to twenty … she carried on …39, 40, 41 … anything to block out the noise … 57, 58 … Her counting had got really good now. Once she’d got to 172 before the shouting stopped.

She shifted her head and looked towards a mound of blankets in the bed next to her. Esme always slept with her knees pulled up under her, her bottom stuck up in the air. Her face was turned away, but Cordy could hear her steady breathing, see the pink ribbons wound round her pigtails. For a moment she forgot to count, and then she heard the silence. She held her breath and pressed her hands against her heart. Lucy Phillips swore you could get rid of a stitch like that.

She waited until it seemed safe to get out of bed. The lino was icy cold and she hopped from one foot to the other. She pulled off her wet nightdress and stuffed it behind the chest of drawers. The window was ajar and a gust of air sucked at the curtains and tickled her bare skin. Reaching into the laundry basket, she found the T-shirt and knickers she’d worn yesterday. She drew back the blankets and tugged at the sheet, dragging it free from the mattress. She was heaping the covers back on the bed when the noise started all over again. Her father’s voice. Louder and louder. A moment’s silence. She strained to hear her mother. Nothing. Then that deep booming again.

She tiptoed to the door and put her hand to the knob. The brass felt cold and smooth and filled her palm. She made sure not to pull the door back too far. If you opened it wide, the hinges squeaked. Her father’s voice rumbled from beneath her like an approaching tube train. She was terrified of the vibration and whooshing rush of air through the tunnel that happened when the carriages neared the station: she’d bury her face in her mother’s skirt. What was Mummy doing now? Why couldn’t she hear her?

Cordy inched towards the stairs. The creak of the floorboards usually gave the game away. Tonight she was in luck. She lowered herself on to the top stair. She clasped her knees and waited.

A glow from the street shone through the fanlight above the front door. A runner stretching the length of the hallway covered the quarry tiles. It was frayed in places and her mother was always saying they’d break their necks one day. Her father’s black trench coat was draped over the hallstand. On the opposite side his fedora hung from one of the brass hooks. She was sure that’s what it was called because she remembered saying thedora and her mother telling her ‘It’s ‘f’. Put your top teeth over your bottom lip. Look, like this.’

She heard the kitchen door open and footsteps on the bottom flight of stairs. Her father appeared in the hallway. His long dark hair looked messy as if it hadn’t been combed for days. The school nurse would tell him off if she saw it. Cordy wondered if he’d been checked for nits.

She called out and her father looked up, his black eyes boring into hers. ‘Daddy,’ she began, ‘what’s … ?’ She didn’t get any further because he held up his hand, his massive hand which she loved to tuck hers into as she skipped along the street with him. He moved his fingers up to his mouth, touched them with his lips and then blew a kiss towards her up the stairs. She watched it leave his mouth, reached out to catch it and closed her eyes while she held it to her own lips. When she opened them again, the hall was empty.