I opened my eyes, beneath the water, and I saw it dangling there, in front of my face: my chance for life, and I clutched it with both hands: my father’s tie.
I held it tightly, pulled myself up as he pushed me down, gripping it for life itself, pulling my face up and out of that frigid water, holding on to his tie so tightly that he could no longer push my head and shoulders back into the bath without going in himself.
My face was now out of the water, and I clamped my teeth into his tie, just below the knot.
We struggled. I was soaked, took some small pleasure in the knowledge that he was soaked as well, his blue shirt clinging to his huge form.
Now he pushed me down again, but fear of death gives us strength: my hands and my teeth were clamped to his tie, and he could not break my grip on them without hitting me.
My father did not hit me.
He straightened up, and I was pulled up with him, soaked and spluttering and angry and crying and scared. I let go of his tie with my teeth, still held on with my hands.
He said, ‘You ruined my tie. Let go.’ The tie knot had tightened to pea size; the lining of the tie was dangling damply outside of it. He said, ‘You should be glad that your mother isn’t here.’
I let go, dropped to the soaked bathroom carpet. I took a step backward, towards the toilet. He looked down at me. Then he said, ‘Go to your bedroom. I don’t want to see you again tonight.’
I went to my room.
Chapter 8
I was shivering convulsively and I was wet through and I was cold, very cold. It felt like all my heat had been stolen. The wet clothes clung to my flesh and dripped cold water on to the floor. With every step I took, my sandals made comical squelching noises, and water oozed from the little diamond-shaped holes on the top of them.
I pulled all of my clothes off, and I left them in a sopping heap on the tiles by the fireplace, where they began to puddle. I took the box of matches from the mantelpiece, turned on the gas tap and lit the flame in the gas fire.
(I am staring at a pond, remembering things that are hard to believe. Why do I find the hardest thing for me to believe, looking back, is that a girl of five and a boy of seven had a gas fire in their bedroom?)
There were no towels in the room, and I stood there, wet, wondering how to dry myself off. I took the thin counterpane that covered my bed, wiped myself off with it, then put on my pyjamas. They were red nylon, shiny and striped, with a black plasticised burn mark on the left sleeve, where I had leaned too close to the gas fire once, and the pyjama arm caught alight, although by some miracle I had not burned my arm.
There was a dressing gown that I almost never used hanging on the back of the bedroom door, its shadow perfectly positioned to cast nightmare shadows on the wall when the hall light was on and the door was open. I put it on.
The bedroom door opened, and my sister came in to get the nightdress from under her pillow. She said, ‘You’ve been so naughty that I’m not even allowed to be in the room with you. I get to sleep in Mummy and Daddy’s bed tonight. And Daddy says I can watch the television.’
There was an old television in a brown wooden cabinet in the corner of my parents’ bedroom that was almost never turned on. The vertical hold was unreliable, and the fuzzy black and white picture had a tendency to stream, in a slow ribbon: people’s heads vanished off the bottom of the screen as their feet descended, in a stately fashion, from the top.
‘I don’t care,’ I told her.
‘Daddy said you ruined his tie. And he’s all wet,’ said my sister, with satisfaction in her voice.
Ursula Monkton was at the bedroom door. ‘We don’t talk to him,’ she told my sister. ‘We won’t talk to him again until he’s allowed to rejoin the family.’
My sister slipped out, heading to the next room, my parents’ room. ‘You aren’t in my family,’ I told Ursula Monkton. ‘When Mummy comes back, I’ll tell her what Daddy did.’
‘She won’t be home for another two hours,’ said Ursula Monkton. ‘And what can you say to her that will make any difference? She backs up your father in everything, doesn’t she?’
She did. They always presented a perfectly united front.
‘Don’t cross me,’ said Ursula Monkton. ‘I have things to do here, and you are getting in my way. Next time it will be so much worse. Next time, I lock you in the attic.’
‘I’m not afraid of you,’ I told her. I was afraid of her, more afraid than I had ever been of anything.
‘It’s hot in here,’ she told me, and smiled. She walked over to the gas fire, reached down, turned it off, took the matches from the mantel.
I said, ‘You’re still just a flea.’
She stopped smiling. She reached up to the lintel above the door, higher than any child could reach, and she pulled down the key that rested there. She walked out of the room, and closed the door. I heard the key turn, heard the lock engage and click.
I could hear television voices coming from the room next door. I heard the hallway door close, cutting off the two bedrooms from the rest of the house, and I knew that Ursula Monkton was going downstairs. I went over to the lock, and squinted through it. I had learned from a book that I could use a pencil to push a key through a keyhole on to a sheet of paper beneath, and free myself that way … but the keyhole was empty.
I cried then, cold and still damp, in that bedroom, cried with pain and anger and terror, cried safely in the knowledge that no one would come in and see me, that no one would tease me for crying, as they teased any boys at my school who were unwise enough to give way to tears.