Morgan

Mum unlocks my bedroom door, comes in, folds her arms and says, ‘You haven’t washed up. There’s a stack of dishes left, I can smell them from here.’

Her voice doesn’t belong here.

I put down my book. ‘How can I wash up, when you’ve decided I need to be locked in my room and don’t even …’

She glares at me. Taps a finger on the door. Strokes a whorl in the wood. Waits.

‘All right!’ I push past her, stamp down the stairs to the kitchen. There’s a cold cup of tea on the floor in the hall, so I take it into the kitchen.

The washbowl has dirty plates stacked in it. I go out of the back door to the well in the garden, and like an overworked kitchen girl, I sigh as I fill a bucket with water, bring it in and pour it over the plates till the washbowl is full. I plunge in my hands and it’s freezing cold. I’m a serving girl in a grand castle, seeking something precious to steal that will buy me my freedom.

On the mainland, our house was full of everything we could ever possibly want, but none of it felt like it belonged to us. I watched Mum pace the rooms while Dad was out, spied on her as she stroked the grand piano that none of us could play; she opened a rosewood trunk and lifted out a beaded wedding dress that she’d never worn and wouldn’t fit her; she fingered the embossed spines of a collection of antique hardback books, printed in a language that none of us could read.

I pick up a plate gently, run my fingertips over it and pretend it’s made of ivory.

Mum comes in. She leans against the solid kitchen table; it creaks under her weight. I feel her eyes like a scratch on the back of my neck. ‘Don’t leave the kitchen in such a mess next time.’

The room fills with her heavy thoughts.

I’m not a serving girl any more.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

Her eyes watch my back. ‘I saw what you wrote on your window. I have to leave.’

I wipe another plate clean, turn away from the washbowl and put it on the kitchen table, get a dry cloth and put it next to the plate. I pretend I’m a queen and Mum’s my servant. I announce, ‘You should dry,’ and go back to the washbowl.

Mum doesn’t notice I’m being a queen. She says, ‘Writing things down doesn’t make them true.’

‘Stealing things from under other people’s mattresses doesn’t make them yours.’

‘What about me?’ I know she’s squeezing tears up in her eyes.

‘I can’t breathe …’

‘You’re selfish, Morgan. You know, there was a time I couldn’t breathe. Giving birth to you – do you think I could breathe then? Your father didn’t have to go through that. You’ve been talking to him, haven’t you? What have you been saying about me?’

I’m not a queen any more. I say, ‘You chose to give birth to me …’ I put another plate on the table.

She says, ‘When you talk about leaving here, do you think I can breathe? Who’ll look after the twins? And do this …’ She waves her hand at the clean plates. ‘I’ll shrivel. Is that what you want?’

I wipe another plate and wonder what shrivelling might feel like. But I say, ‘The twins are fine, they’re so … involved with each other, they don’t need anyone—’

‘You’re weedy. I don’t like looking at you.’ She folds her arms and the table creaks.

The washbowl looks far away. My arms seem really long. I watch my tiny hands scrub at a fork. Three choices: Angry. Silent. Walk away.

She says, ‘At your age girls think they know everything. You’re wrong. You wouldn’t survive anywhere else. You’re too sensitive, you’d get hurt. You’d have an accident. Someone would kidnap you. They like long blonde hair, they like thin women because they fall over easier than fat ones. Can you imagine how I’d feel, you not here, worrying about you, all the horrendous things that can possibly happen, I’d think of all of them, every single one, I’d never stop worrying, never sleep for caring. It would cripple me. You couldn’t find a job. You’re all book talk and attention-seeking. The only thing you’re good at is reading, and no one gets paid to read. We shouldn’t have taught you. You read too much, all those words have got stuck in your head, making you think you could belong anywhere but where you’re standing. It’s ridiculous.’

A hammering of words.

I spin round with the fork in my hand. ‘Mum, the only place I’m ever standing is at this washbowl. I could stand at a washbowl anywhere.’ I gesture through the window at the fence outside. ‘Nothing happens. Nothing but the paint chipping, and the whispers on the other side.’

‘Put that down.’ She points at the fork I’m pointing at her. ‘What whispers? There are no whispers! I’m protecting you from them!’ she shouts, her voice is a knife. ‘They wouldn’t understand you – and they’d say hateful things about me to you! I can’t trust you not to listen to them, not when they’re telling you lies about me, and then where would I be? A daughter who hated me, that would be terrible.’

I put the fork on the stack of clean, dripping plates. I say, ‘They call us three “the hidden daughters”. I’ve heard whispers on the other side of the fence.’ I wash up a handful of spoons.

‘When will you stop making up stories about yourself? Hidden daughters. One day I’ll tell you about hearing voices—’

‘You have told me about hearing voices! You’ve told me that you don’t, but that you’re special and you’d be the one to hear them if anyone could. There aren’t any voices in this house, not the whisper of a ghost. Even if there were, you wouldn’t hear them, because you don’t listen!’ I crash the spoons on top of the plates.

Her hands shake. ‘Stupid girl!’ She bangs her fists on the kitchen table and I hear a clank of metal. ‘You belong with us.’

I turn back to the washbowl. A silver knife gleams under the water. I wash the surface with a cloth, the silver glistens. I say, ‘I don’t belong anywhere,’ and slice my thumb. The scarlet blood seeps out. I put my thumb in my mouth.

Mum walks out of the kitchen. I run the cloth over the knife and wipe it clean.