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Second Chance
by Claire Powell
‘That was really delicious, Jenny.’ Dad smiles across
the table. It’s just after Sunday lunch, and they lean back
happy in their chairs, their stomachs rounded with food. Everyone’s
all warm and content. Except me. I’m eyeing the tablecloth
terrain, my hands clenched, preparing to battle with the food-smeared
plates. They’re stacked high and dangerously slippery, thanks
to the brown and green slush between each layer of china. Knives,
forks and spoons glint evilly from their vantage point on the top
of the pile, their sharp edges red, brown and yellow from the food-flesh
they pierced earlier at our hands. Albert leans over the high chair
tray and, with one swipe of his pudgy arm, knocks a cup onto the
floor. It doesn’t break. Pity, it would be one less to wash.
Albert’s fat fist tightens around the tablecloth. Quick as
a mother’s heartbeat, Jenny’s there, swooping him up
out of the highchair and into her arms.
‘Oh, Mary, could you clear the table please, there’s
a good girl,’ she asks.
That’s all I’ve been, ever since Jenny came on the scene.
A good girl. Very useful for her. And Dad. Those two just go off
and have fun together. Dad’s second chance, luck’s on
his side now, he deserves better than what he had first time round
– those were the family stage-whispers at the wedding, and
then lipstick smiles for me: ‘Such a good girl.’ Today,
it looks like a painting – the three of them on the sofa in
the lounge, Dad’s arm around Jenny as she rocks Albert to
sleep. Like a Christmas crib scene. Except the guardian angel isn’t
floating beautiful over the stable, she’s stomping to the
sink, weighed down with half a ton of greasy plates.
I run the tap faster than I need to. The water splashes dark flecks
on the curtains at the window by the sink. The white material crinkles
slightly, like a wedding dress caught in the rain. I turn the tap
as far as it will go. With both hands, I squeeze the egg-yolk yellow
washing-up liquid into the swirling water. It foams up immediately,
and a heavy, not quite-lemon smell spirals up into the air. The
tapwater roars, drowning out the laughter from the lounge. Good.
It drives me mad that I’m not having fun like they are. Fun?
I’m the girl that fun forgot. It’s not like I expect
to be Little Miss Popular all the time – I have Bad Hair Days
and Hide Face under Paper Bag Days – but I do have some friends,
and I missed a phone call yesterday because I was WASHING UP! Can
you believe it? By the time I’d broken free from the sink,
changed my soapsud-spattered clothes, and my dear, ditzy Dad passed
on the message, my friends were all on Voicemail. I found out later
– too late – that they were at the cinema, watching
a film I’d wanted to see for ages.
And it’s not the first time it’s happened. The thought
of all the other times I’ve missed out, due to babysitting
or last-minute shopping (‘Albie’s run out of nappies’)
– it makes acid creep up the back of my throat. It’s
just not fair. Sure I’m happy for Dad. I suppose Jenny’s
not exactly a witch, she’s very pretty, has a job, and most
importantly, she doesn’t stash bottles of gin at the back
of the wardrobe or cry for hours on end in the bath. After Mum,
Jenny must be like all Dad’s birthdays and Christmases rolled
into one. But what about me? I always used to be there for Dad.
I would sneak out for takeaway dinners, so that there was food on
the table when Dad came home. I rang the ambulance every time Mum
went to pieces. And now Dad’s got a happy family again…
but I feel as if I’m the left-overs from the past, like the
ugly oily slops that slide off the plates and plop onto the black
plastic bin bag. The smells of stale gravy and rancid old vegetables
hit my nose like an assault. It doesn’t matter how we dress
up the stuff on the plate: food is starting to make me feel sick.
The basin’s overflowing with water. I don’t care. I
slide the food-streaked plates into the froth and steam, hearing
the plates’ bubble-smothered clunks as they sway down through
the water. On go the Marigolds. I bought them myself – dish-pan
hands at fourteen just isn’t happening. It would have done,
because every day, it’s like this. I know every chip and crack
on every cup and bowl. I know which plate I’m washing even
through rubber-gloved fingers, I know every frilly porcelain edge
and smooth china curve better than my own skin.
Over the tapwater splashes and the clatter of the plates, I can
still hear Dad and Jenny’s laughing, and Albert’s gurgling,
being cute – was I cute once? Did Dad ever love me as much
as he loves Albert? Now that my face is the ‘Before’
part of the Clearasil advert, and my body always feels lumpy and
too big, am I just someone he’d rather forget? Something grasps
my throat tight and pushes tears to my eyes. I hear Jenny’s
laughter from the lounge. It sounds like two glasses chinking together.
My fingertips tingle with rage. My hands shake as I pull plates
out of the water, lift them up over my head, and throw them hard
down onto the tiles. CRASH! It feels good to lift my arms so high.
Soapy water runs under my sleeves, foam feathers drift onto my shoulders.
A scream squeezes out, scratching my throat, as more china crashes
and shatters on the floor. I’m not a good girl, I’m
horrible – I want to break every plate in the house. I want
to break everything.
And then Dad’s there at the kitchen door, with Jenny close
behind him. Their eyes are big and round, their faces are white.
I crumple down onto the floor, my back against the wet cupboard.
In two strides, his shoes crunching on the splintered china, Dad
is crouching down with me, his arms around me. He motions at Jenny
and she retreats to the lounge, just as it all starts to bubble
out between chest-jerking gulps, how I feel – like I’m
some stupid Cinderella, like I just have to be a good girl all the
time.
‘But Mary, you are good!’ Dad hugs me tight. ‘With
both me and Jenny working again, it’s really good that you
help out as much as you do.’
‘But no one cares about how I feel!’ The words kind
of tumble out. ‘It’s like, now there’s Albert,
and Jenny, there’s no room for me, you don’t want me
around, so you just get rid of me all the time, in the kitchen,
away from you.’
I’m half-afraid to say how it felt to me a minute ago –
how the anger flooded through me dangerously fast, snarling over
something red-raw inside me; how I wanted to break everything and
make everything feel as bad as I did – and how now all I want
to do is cry and cry, and be held.
‘Jenny and I – ’ Dad started ‘ – I
suppose we’ve been so busy with Albert, and Jenny going back
to work. We just didn’t think. No wonder you’re so angry.
We’ve taken you for granted.’ Thickly: ‘I’m
really sorry, Mary.’
I snuffle an ‘OK’ in reply. My legs are shaking now,
probably because I’ve been all squished up on the floor, like
I’m trying to disappear into the cupboard under the sink.
Dad helps me to my feet, and we stand and look out the window. The
garden is grey-green and brown, brittle black branches point at
the overcast February sky. Dad looks down at the sink, piled high
with thick bubbles. He pushes his fingers into the dense froth and
then lifts them out. The holes hold firm, like footprints in snow.
‘Do you remember that spring when we had the bubble-machine?’
Dad asks.
Of course I do. I was about five I think. Dad bought it. It was
made of red plastic, had lots of strange levers and knobs like an
invention from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and you filled
it with a mixture of water and washing-up liquid. When you pumped
the handle, a torrent of bubbles streamed out. It was an early spring
day, the sun dancing the garden back into life. Mum made the most
bubbles – it was one of those rare afternoons when I remember
her laughing with me. The air was full of miniature rainbows. I
raced about, either trying to wave the bubbles higher, or pretending
to catch them. I think now I was trying to make the laughter last
as long as I could.
‘We’ve probably still got it,’ I say quietly.
‘That’s good. Washing-up liquid isn’t just for
plates, is it?’
We both look down at the broken dishes on the floor, then back at
each other, and there is a flicker of laughter in my Dad’s
eyes.
‘That’s just as well,’ I say. ‘We don’t
have many of those left.’
Dad’s voice is light and tentative. ‘Why don’t
you come through into the lounge? See if you want to watch some
TV or something?’
I look down at the floor. ‘What about the mess? What if Albert…?’
‘Don’t worry.’ Dad’s hand squeezes my shoulder.
‘I’ll clean up. Later. Albert’s going to have
his nap soon anyway. You come and sit with us.’
Isn’t life strange? Tucked here on the sofa, next to Jenny
and Dad, I’m still working it out. I’ve had a tantrum
worse than one of Albert’s and broken almost every plate in
the house, but somehow, I feel like I’m part of the family
again. It’s big enough for me too. And I don’t have
to be the guardian angel anymore. Maybe Dad’s not the only
one getting a second chance.
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