Adele was eager to stop Peter getting into trouble. Once outside she spotted him in the distance, turning into the pathway that ran along the back of the adjacent street and heading in the direction of the Hampsons’ home. When he was out of sight, she sprinted to catch up with him.
As she approached the path, she called out his name but he didn’t seem to hear her. Undeterred, she carried on running until she saw something up ahead. Before she could stop to catch her breath she spotted a group of boys kicking someone who was lying on the ground, hunched up trying to protect himself.
It was only as she drew nearer and spotted the vivid blue of Peter’s coat that she knew for sure the boy on the ground was him.
‘Get off him!’ she yelled. ‘Or I’ll batter you.’
The boys ignored her but the sight of her brother being set upon made Adele so furious that she acted without caution and raced up to them. She pushed the first boy she reached, sending him sprawling onto the ground. The shock halted him temporarily, giving her chance to set about the next boy: Anthony Hampson.
Adele towered above him and she grasped the back of his hair, tugging him away from Peter who got up off the ground. Not content with merely stopping Anthony, with her free hand Adele punched and slapped him repeatedly.
Witnessing her fury, the third boy didn’t want to be next, and he ran away. Meanwhile, the boy who Adele had pushed was still trying to stand back up but Peter lunged at him before he had a chance to gain his balance. Being bigger, Peter was easily able to overpower the boy and he soon left him with a bloody nose and his face red and swollen.
‘Leave him!’ ordered Adele. ‘He’s had enough.’
‘It’s not him I came for anyway,’ said Peter, petulantly.
He turned towards Anthony Hampson who Adele was still holding onto. Despite the hiding that he had already received from Adele, Peter aimed a few last punches at Anthony to ‘teach him a lesson’ before they walked away triumphantly.
But Anthony Hampson hadn’t learnt his lesson from the hiding he had received and he called out to them from the safety of his garden gate. ‘I’m gonna tell my mam and dad what you’ve done,’ he sobbed. ‘And I’ll tell our Janet about you too, Adele Robinson. She won’t want a big bully for a friend.’
Adele ignored him but she was worried. Janet was her best friend, and she loved going around with her. Apart from acting a bit spoilt at times, Janet was a good friend. She often let Adele come round to her house. There, Adele would spend hours engrossed in Janet’s Spirograph, Etch-a-Sketch and other art materials. She also enjoyed playing in Janet’s bedroom. It was in complete contrast to hers, which had lino on the floor and an old shabby wardrobe, and was always cold. Janet’s bedroom was tidy with a plush carpet and matching furniture, including her own dressing table. Taking pride of place on the dressing table was a beautiful brush, comb and mirror set which Janet said was silver-plated. It had roses carved into the metal and, although Janet wouldn’t let Adele use that set, she did let her use her older, plastic one.
‘Take no notice of him,’ said Peter. ‘He won’t tell his mam and dad.’
But Adele was as annoyed with Peter for putting her in that position as she was with the boys for setting about her brother.
‘You don’t know that, Peter! We’ll be in loads of trouble if Dad finds out. You should have left it! I told you to leave it, didn’t I?’
‘Don’t be daft. Even if he tells his mam and dad, they wouldn’t dare come round to our house. They’re all too scared of Dad. Anthony’s just narked ’cos we beat him. Serves himself right, haha. Did you see his face when I smacked him one?’
‘It might be funny for you but what about me? Janet’s my friend.’
‘I don’t know what you’re worried about. You’ve got loads of other friends. Anyway, she’s boring. She never goes climbing or anything. She’s too scared of ruining her nice clothes.’
‘Shut it, Peter!’ shouted Adele and, to her surprise, he did.
For the remainder of the walk home Peter didn’t say another word. Adele didn’t know whether it was out of guilt for putting her in this position or gratitude that she had rescued him from a beating, but nevertheless she was glad he kept quiet. Her temper was still raging, and she didn’t know how she would react if he continued to goad her.
Eventually they arrived at their front door, which stood out from the rest of the street because of the dent two thirds of the way up and the faded, peeling paint. Adele could hear her father shouting even before they got inside the house. As they walked into the lounge, they heard his voice coming from the kitchen.
‘Do you honestly expect me to eat this fuckin’ shite? I come home after a hard day’s work, and this is all you can fuckin’ manage!’
Adele then heard the sound of crockery being slammed.
Peter was just about to switch on the TV when their mother rushed into the living room.
‘Go upstairs while I try to calm him down,’ she whispered before dashing back into the kitchen.
Adele and Peter did as they were told. Although Adele was curious about what had prompted her father’s current rage, she was too frightened to go against her mother’s instructions.
‘Wonder what’s wrong with him,’ muttered Peter as they mounted the stairs.
‘Shush, he might hear you.’
The sound of their father’s shouting continued. Adele could also hear the faint sound of her mother’s voice, but it was drowned out by her father’s angry cursing. A torrent of abuse and profanities carried up the stairs. As his voice increased in volume, she could also hear more crockery being smashed and the scraping of furniture on the floor as though it was being pushed about the room.
Then, all went quiet.
A few seconds later, she heard her mother speak – the sound a mere murmur, pleading with him. ‘Do you want some toast, Tommy love? I can soon make you some toast if you don’t fancy your tea.’
‘Fuck off! You stupid bitch.’
Again his cursing was accompanied by the sound of crashing furniture, and Adele thought she heard her mother let out a suppressed yelp. But it was so slight that she couldn’t be sure.
Adele’s earlier feelings of anger had now turned to fear; her adrenalin redirected to serve this new purpose. As her heart thundered in her chest, Adele wrestled with her conscience, unsure whether to go to help her mother. She wanted to. She really did. But she was scared. Scared of her father’s wrath. Scared she might make matters worse.
But what if her mother was hurt?
‘Should we do something?’ she asked Peter.
‘No chance. I’m keeping away from him while he’s like that.’
‘But what if our Mam’s hurt?’
‘Nah, she’ll be all right. They’re always at it.’
Adele wished she could be so sure. She stayed for a while longer, her hands clammy and the muscles in her shoulders tense. Each time her father shouted, and every time she heard the clatter of crockery and furniture, her heart beat even faster. She also had a strange feeling in her head, which felt like her scalp was prickling as the blood surged in response to her increased heartbeat.
When she heard the heavy tread of her father’s work boots at the bottom of the stairs, she felt as though her heart would burst through her ribcage. She breathed in sharply, anticipating his approach. But his footsteps became fainter. He was heading back towards the living room. The sound of the living room door bouncing forcefully back on its hinges verified this. Then she heard the television.
For several minutes she remained listening, but all seemed to have gone calm. The only noise she could hear was coming from the TV.
‘Sounds like it’s over,’ said Peter.
‘Shhh, I’m listening.’
‘For what?’
‘I want to make sure before I go downstairs.’
‘What d’you want to go down there for? You must be mad!’ said Peter. ‘I’m staying here till the morning.’
Normally Adele would have stayed where she was but as she was getting older, she was becoming more concerned about her father’s behaviour and how it affected her mother. Adele continued waiting. She wanted to give her father a chance to calm down. Eventually she gathered her courage and made her way downstairs, tentatively, listening all the while. But it seemed that the only sound she could hear was her own pounding heartbeat.
She drew nearer the bottom step, her hands leaving sweaty imprints on the banister. Once she was downstairs she peeped into the living room where she saw her father asleep in the armchair. Thank God, she thought, letting out a deep breath, which she had been subconsciously holding. The tension in her wired muscles also eased.
Turning, she then made her way to the kitchen and stepped inside. Her relief was short-lived. The room was almost unrecognisable. Adele was used to living in a messy home but the sight before her surpassed even her dismal expectations.
The table, which stood against the wall, was littered with broken crockery. Part of it was from the plate that had contained her father’s tea, but there was more, much more. Adele surveyed the damage. A variety of shapes, colours and sizes, and a broken cup handle attached to part of a cup, hovered precariously on the tabletop. The remainder was on the floor.
Gravy flooded the table, spilling over the sides in a constant drip, drip, drip. It streamed down the wall, flowing past the slimy onions and lumps of potato, which clung to the outdated wallpaper. On the table, remnants of potato and cabbage sat amongst the gravy and formed unappetising clusters on the broken crockery.
Most of the kitchen chairs were upended and scattered about the room, and the table itself had switched position. Amongst this devastation sat Adele’s mother, her head sunk low, grasping a ragged and bloody handkerchief to her face as she wept silent tears.
Adele approached her, hesitantly.
‘Mam,’ she whispered.
Her mother raised her head, but the sight of her bruised and bloodied face unsettled Adele, and for a moment she didn’t know what to say.
Quickly recovering, she said, ‘He’s asleep.’
Her mother didn’t reply. Instead she gazed at Adele, her eyes full of sadness.
‘I’ll help you clear up,’ Adele offered.
‘Thanks love, you’re a good girl,’ her mother said, her voice trembling, but she remained seated as though she had neither the energy nor the will to deal with the mess.
Adele crept towards the pantry where the used newspapers were kept. Pulling out a few sheets of newspaper, she placed several on top of each other to form a thick layer then began to scoop broken crockery onto them. Her mother stayed still.
Stopping to look at her mother, Adele asked, ‘Do you want me to get the flannel for your face?’
Her words seemed to spur her mother into action. She rose from her chair, saying, ‘It’s all right, love; I’ll sort it out. You carry on doing what you’re doing, but be careful not to make too much noise. We don’t want him to wake up.’
By the time Shirley had taken care of her face and rejoined her daughter, Adele had already cleared up most of the broken crockery and spilt food. Together they cleaned the wall and table, swept and mopped the floor and put the furniture back in place.
‘Thanks, love. Let’s get to bed now,’ said Shirley.
Adele nodded then looked towards the living room.
‘We’ll leave him till the morning. He’ll sleep it off.’
Adele wasn’t sure whether ‘it’ referred to his mood or the excessive amount of alcohol he had obviously consumed. She watched from the door as her mother tiptoed across the living room and switched off the TV before tiptoeing back again.
‘He won’t like it if it’s still on when he wakes up,’ she muttered. ‘He hates us wasting electricity.’
Adele and her mother then went up to bed while Tommy lay sprawled in his armchair, snoring. She hoped he’d be in a better mood the next day, but there were no guarantees. None of them could ever predict what sort of mood her father would be in or how far he would go the next time he lost his temper.