The Godforsaken Daughter by Christina McKenna Read Free Book Online Page B

beseeching whine heralded the onset of one of her “turns,” a devotional spectacle of theatrical proportions, guaranteed to make Lady Macbeth look like Bo Peep. She slid to her knees, clutching her heart, directing her entreaty to a picture of Dymphna, patron saint of the mentally afflicted, which hung above the kitchen door.
    May caught her wrist, trying to placate. “Mummy, Mummy, get up! Get up. Don’t listen to her. Don’t upset yourself.”
    But, too late, Mrs. Clare was already in character, gripping the table edge, face twisted in a show of agonized supplication. “Oh Holy Mother of God. And your poor father gone. Oh, my heart . . . my heart, my—”
    May turned on Ruby. “Now look what you’ve started! You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”
    “ I didn’t start anything. You did. You said I chewed me nails.”
    “And you do chew your bloody nails. I was only stating a fact!”
    “Oh God. Why can’t I have peace at this time of my life?” Mrs. Clare hung her head and beat her breast. She was working herself up to a grand finale, a set piece that would see her helped up the stairs like Jesus climbing Calvary, followed by the rosary, a cup of Horlicks, a Mogadon, and finally, mercifully: sleep.
    But no, this time the set piece was to have a very different ending.
    Suddenly, she shot to her feet and flew at Ruby, slapping her hard across the face. Ruby stumbled, shocked.
    “Get up them stairs to your room!” the mother wailed. “And if I see your face down here again I’ll—”
    “Do as she says, Ruby,” June frightened, pulling her mother back. “Go on, Ruby. Go on. If Mummy has a heart attack it’ll be your fault.”
    Ruby held her smarting cheek, staring down at the table. In a heartbeat she’d been returned to childhood: a childhood of beatings and insults at the hands of her mother. Why did she hate Ruby so much? Ruby the punching bag.
    Silently she turned away from them, straining to yell, to scream, to rend the air with all the injustice she felt. But she kept her mouth shut, kept the tears at bay until she reached the safety of her bedroom.
    Once inside, she collapsed on the bed and surrendered to the luxury of weeping, using her pillow to stifle the sobs.
    “Daddy, Daddy, why did you leave me? Why, oh why did you leave me with them ?”
    Exhausted, she fell into a deep sleep, and dreamed.
    A lucid dream, full of mystery and foreboding.
    Ruby, a little girl again.
    It was her First Communion, and she was standing in front of the mirror in her parents’ bedroom in her white frock. Her mother was tying a ribbon in her hair, pulling the ribbon so tight it was hurting the sides of her head. But little Ruby didn’t complain. She felt so special in her “bride’s” frock, her stiff patent shoes and frilled socks.
    Task completed. The mother straightened. She was wearing a blue two-piece in shiny satin. A white pillbox with spotted net that came down to her eyebrows and matching gloves up to her elbows.
    “That’s you,” she said, looking down at Ruby. “Now I’m Father Cardy.” She mimed, holding a chalice and extracting the host. “Body of Christ.”
    Ruby obediently shut her eyes and stuck out her tongue—only to be rewarded with her ear being twisted so tightly that she cried.
    “How many times do you have to be told? Say ‘Amen’ before you put out your tongue.”
    “A-A-Amen,” Ruby repeated, tearful.
    “Stop that this minute or I’ll pull the other one.”
    Ruby dried her eyes with the back of her hand.
    “Now, when you’re coming down from the altar, what must you remember?”
    “Not tae . . . Not tae chew.”
    “Why not?”
    “’Cos . . . ’Cos it’s . . . it’s the, the b-b-body of C-C-Christ, so it is.”
    Next she was being pushed into a candlelit room, still in her white frock. There were elderly people huddled on chairs around the walls, murmuring the rosary. The smell of candle wax, heavy on the air.
    At the back of the room sat a coffin