Feathers

*** Sexual references, including hints of abuse***

Betty woke face-down in starfish position, hands gripping the sides of the double bed, feet similarly hooked. Morning, evening, night or afternoon? She hadn’t a clue. Nor did she know what day it was, although something told her Monday – the blueish tinge on the pillow perhaps – deeply shadowed or white gone grey? No matter, the washing of bedclothes was overrated. She sunk back down, inhaled her own scent. Sex and sweat weren’t so bad when the window was open to cool the sheets, when she’d sprayed on a bit of perfume.

She raised her head, blinked away the light. Daytime then, sun streaming in from between the grubby green curtains, the gap around two inches wide. Not like Andrew to leave it this way, but, of course, that had been her – grabbing and tugging, watching that great, brown, hairy spider scurry up and over the edge… She flopped around, looked to the ceiling, cracked through the middle from end to end, nicotine stained as the walls, lightshade in the centre, bulb burning no more. Must have turned it off when he left… And was that the same spider making a web? Back and forth, back and forth, like running on air, the shade a fluted graveyard of the victims of its peers.

Money. He’d have left it on the side. Always did. No reason not to. Saturdays, Sundays, or whatever day in between, he never forgot. As long as she used the back stairs and didn’t make her presence felt - no talking to his customers, no going through the shop - he would continue to help and support her. And, no, she wasn’t his whore, he’d been clear about that. He’d always loved her, had he not? But she had to understand, he couldn’t risk his reputation… Andrew Dawson, Master Butcher, Member of the Council, doting uncle to a promising young musician, bad enough he’d had to be a witness at the trial when her daughter had been sent down for murder (and imagine using his car as the weapon when he’d been good enough to teach the lass to drive) but never mind, that was done and dusted now, and he wouldn’t hold it against her… Now Betty, you see here, you just keep your nose clean and go on living with your sister, and all the talk will die down, and when you’re more yourself again, someone will give you a job.

Anne – school-mam Anne, the sister who had raised her from the time their shell-shocked father had taken to drink and started beating their mother who had later absconded ne’er to be seen again - had said much the same, as had every one of those white-coated professionals in whose care she’d been placed following her breakdown. Like people would ever forget she was the mother of the girl who was currently doing life for killing her father. Like she hadn’t stood up in court and tried to defend her. Like she hadn’t been just as guilty for pandering to Rosie like she did, downplaying her twisted, self-serving, manipulative side, insisting instead that she simply had ‘something missing’… But better this than the alternative. Better the whispers than the shouts and name-calls. So, she’d taken all the well-intentioned advice, had stayed away from the jail, had dismissed as lies all that had come out of Rosie’s mouth…

No, no, no, don’t think about that, it wasn’t true… Betty sat up, hugged the blankets around her and shook the thought from her mind. The room smelled of meat and stale cigarettes, but the breeze blowing in would be coming from across the street and the public gardens that ran the length of it, all green and floral and structured and refreshing… Think about that, think about what’s out there and real… Andrew was a good man. What did it matter how he looked or how he smelt, or the mess in which he lived, and she could understand his reasons for keeping their relationship under wraps. Besides, she still wasn’t right in herself – how could she be? She was still on medication, so there were bound to be times her mind would play tricks. Like when she’d thought she’d seen him stroke the side of his niece’s face in much the same way as he sometimes stroked hers, or like last night when he’d taken her from behind and she’d imagined she’d heard him call out Rosie’s name... It was just like that time in the hospital when she could have sworn she’d met Rosie’s old teacher, the one from the special school, who’d insisted she keep on fighting for her daughter, that Andrew wasn’t to be trusted. ‘He’s the real devil,’ she’d said. ‘He’s the one telling lies.’ Only, according to Anne, she must have dreamt her up, or if by some slim chance, she hadn’t, it would have been just another patient, some fantasist telling stories, pretending…

Clothes, she needed to find her clothes, run a brush through her hair, and make her way downstairs, or even across the fire escape to visit ‘The Silent Crone’, so called because she’d lost half her face in a bomb blast in London during the war, and rumour had it that she must have lost her voice-box too, for she rarely uttered a word. Except this wasn’t strictly true, for she could speak, albeit hoarsely, and simply chose not to, for what did she have to say to these people who stared at her like they would a circus freak, who allowed their children to taunt her? This old woman who dressed all in black like a loosely robed nun, and had, like herself been set apart by the community, but for no good reason, was, with the exception of Andrew, her only friend in the world now. She remembered the first time she’d seen her when Rosie had been in her early teens. They’d been walking through the gardens, and The Crone had been sat on a bench feeding the birds. She’d mumbled something as she'd passed her by, something about the birds squabbling over crumbs and how the cats and other predators would steal their young, tear them from their nests, but still they’d come beaks at the ready, pecking at one another, wings flapping, driving their own kind away. Don’t even know their own feathers.

The woman had said this so loudly that Betty had thought she’d been speaking to her so she’d turned around, but, no, The Crone had her head down, so she guessed she’d just been addressing the birds. Also, and to her absolute horror, Rosie had stopped and was standing there, right in front of her, mouth agape, staring. ‘Cabbage,’ she’d said. ‘Cabbage face.’

Mortified as she was, and as much as she’d wanted to explain that her daughter didn’t know what she was saying – she hadn’t meant to insult her, she just liked looking at certain vegetables, the intricate patterns their leaves made when you cut them in half – it was all she could do to mutter a faint apology and drag Rosie away, with the sound of the woman’s cackling and the whispers and giggles of those who’d been sitting nearby ringing in her ears right to the other end of the gardens.

The next time she’d seen her had been in Andrew’s shop, but she hadn’t been buying meat, couldn’t have been, her injuries only allowed her to swallow soft food, but she’d been handing him money – she was sure of it. Not that she’d thought too much about it then. Her husband, Joe had been gambling, his betting out of control, and she had to put food on the table somehow. Andrew had always liked her, wanted to marry her at one point – and she’d done it before – prostituted herself. But never again, she’d told herself, not with those men down the Heron’s Neck, down the back close and up against the wall where they went to piss. Even Andrew, fat and ugly, and stinking of animal blood as he was, was preferable to that. And it wouldn’t be the first time with him either. That would have been when he’d groped her between her legs in his car during her monthlies after offering her a lift when, living out of town like she did, she’d had to walk to pick Rosie up from school. Or if that didn’t count, then it would have been here in his flat when she’d taken him in her mouth and vomited. He’d repositioned the sofa, but the carpet still bore the stain. Not that it was prostitution. Not really. Not like her husband said when he’d accused her. They had an understanding that was all – and The Crone knew that. She was like a mother to him, Andrew said, someone other than herself to confide in, so in time she became her confidant too. The Crone knew how much Andrew loved her, even though his head had been turned for a while by Rosie’s actress employer, and even though he’d kept his distance after Rosie did what she did. Her leaving Joe just hours before had been tragic, but it wasn’t her fault, she’d assured her… You have to look out for yourself, my girl, do what you have to do, for no one else in this god-forsaken life will do it for you… My girl. It was nice to hear that…

Yes, she’d go and see The Crone. She might even go so far as to ask her real name. It had been a while since she’d last had a lecture for doing that. Just like Anne, Betty thought, when the kids in her class called her anything other then ‘Miss’. Yes, exactly like Anne…