Sins of the Mother by Irene Kelly Read Free Book Online

eyes, high cheekbones and bleach blonde hair that hung to her tiny
waist. She always dressed in tiny miniskirts that showed off her lovely figure. Today she had hit me again. I didn’t understand it – she never seemed to hit my siblings as much as she
hit me. And I never knew what I’d done to deserve it – it came from nowhere and seemed to have no reason for it. She pulled my hair, slapped me and threw things at me. She did it with
the others too but nowhere near as much. And they were never called horrible names. For some reason Mammy always saved up her really savage attacks for me. Today she had whacked me on the side of
my cheek, leaving a stinging red handprint on my face. I put my hand up – it still felt warm.
    ‘You stupid feckin child!’ she’d erupted. She had struck me so hard the force actually sent me spinning on the spot. Immediately I started crying.
    ‘Oh, what are you bloody crying for now? Jesus! You’re such a cry baby!’
    At that, Frances and Peter, who were sat at her feet, started to chant: ‘Cry baby! Cry baby!’
    ‘I’m not a cry baby!’ I stammered, wiping my tears with the back of my sleeve.
    ‘You are too!’ Peter said and blew a raspberry in my direction. ‘You’re a stupid eejit cry baby!’
    Aye, he’s right,’ said Mammy, swigging on her bottle of Guinness. ‘You’re a bloody cry baby and I regret the day you were born.’
    Her words hurt me more than her hand ever could. My stomach shrivelled inside me and I turned cold with horror. I ran out of the flat and up the stairs to my hiding place.
    Now, an hour later, and I was still up here. I’d calmed down a little but not all that much. At least the tears had stopped. I shifted my weight around – the cold
stone floor had numbed my bum. I was far too thin – I knew that – but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Food was hard to come by in our house and it was a daily struggle to
ignore the constant hunger that clawed at my insides. Tonight was a good night; there was bread and dripping for tea. On a bad day there was nothing and if Peter didn’t steal something we
went to bed hungry. The stairwell of the block was very dark now with just a little light shining out of the windows of each flat onto each landing. I heard my stomach growl but I wasn’t
ready to go back downstairs.
    We all lived in a small, sparse flat with just the two rooms, both with bare walls. The first room was the biggest; on the right-hand side was the window that overlooked the Liffey and
underneath it was the settee. Past that was the fire and past that was the cooker. In the same room was a double bed where all us children slept. My mother slept in a small room at the back of the
flat.
    They’re not your real family
, I told myself for the hundredth time that day.
She’s not your real mammy. One day your real mammy and daddy will come and get you and take
you away
. I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my reed-thin arms round my legs now. I didn’t even know my daddy – Mammy said that he was working away in England but I never
saw him. And according to what she said he never sent money home to us either. At night when she’d had enough drink and pills to soothe her violent temper she’d lie sprawled on the bed
and curse him out.
    ‘Never sends money back for us!’ she’d spit viciously. ‘What does he expect me to do? How does he think I’m supposed to feed you all?’
    I wanted to go to her then and put my arms round her. I wanted to do something to make her feel better but it seemed I couldn’t do anything right. One time I tried to hug her and she threw
me off her as if I was a cockroach that had crawled onto her body.
    ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ she’d shrieked, disgusted.
    ‘I just want to help, Mammy.’ My voice trembled with fear.
    ‘Help? HELP?’ she’d erupted. ‘You can start feckin helping by cleaning up around here. Go on! Do the feckin washing-up!’
    My