Rhododendrons

Janet Baldey

Mornings are always the worst.   At the first shrill chirp, I awake and lie listening to the rising crescendo of birdsong.   From the way the sun slants through the curtains, I know it will be a fine day.  I know the branches of the tree outside my room will be hazy with new leaf and the creamy swell of the magnolia buds will be spearing a sky of the purest blue.   If I were outside, the cool air would feel like satin against my skin and the soft breeze would carry the scent of blossom at this time, it would be quiet and I probably wouldn’t meet another soul.   If I went out.   But I know I won’t.   I won’t, because I haven’t for so many years that I can’t remember the last time.

         Instead, I lie with my eyes closed.  My mind starts to drift but I control it.  There are places I won’t allow it to go.   Sometimes I lie in bed all day.  I don’t get up because there is nothing to get up for. I turn my face into my pillow and taste salt as tears run down my face.   Then, through my misery, I hear my dog whining softly and I know I have to make the effort, for her sake.

         In the bathroom, I glance into the mirror, expecting to see a young girl’s face, clear-eyed, with alabaster skin and cherry lips.  Instead, I see a woman whose puffy eyes and grey complexion testify to many years spent inside.   Mechanically, I run the tap and afterwards meticulously wipe away every silvery drop of water clinging to the basin’s surface.

         As I enter the kitchen, the old dog rises slowly and stumbles, stiff legged, towards me, the tip of her tail twitching.   She licks my hand, pathetically glad to see me.   I look at her and sorrow chokes me.   She is nearing the end of her life and suddenly I feel tentacles of panic begin to tighten. Who will I get up for when she is gone?

         My father always blamed my mother. Even though every muscle in my body screamed in agony, I sensed this as soon as I opened my eyes that morning, a generation ago.   She sat, foundering by my hospital bed, her face wrecked by weeping but my father was standing, not by her side but, ostentatiously, some way distant. He stood stiffly, a totem of disapproval, the skin of his face stretched tautly over the planes of his face.  It was obvious that he felt vindicated.  According to his doctrine, all through my childhood, my mother had been too soft with me. 

 ‘Children need discipline, the same way that dogs and horses do.   They must be trained to respond immediately in case they stand into danger’.

 All through my childhood, this message was directed at my mother in a vain attempt to wear her down and as I became a teenager, their conflict escalated in line with my growing independence.  

‘You must be mad to allow her to go out dressed like that!’ 

His rage was futile.

A day or so later, I waltzed into the kitchen, my face garish with a clown-like application of make-up, my mini-dress barely skimming my knickers.   As I waved goodbye, I saw him glance at my mother and his mouth open, but I was out of the door and away before he could speak.

         What did he feel as he stood at my bedside?  Did he feel vindicated, or was he, too, frozen with sorrow as he looked at the bruised and battered body of his little girl forced to grow old before her time?

       Dad left us a few months later. I think Mum was glad that he went. There had been too many recriminations. Night after night, the thin walls of my bedroom echoed with the hammer of raised voices.  Now that he was gone, she was free to assuage her guilt in the only way that she knew. I became her baby again and as the days slipped by, we would sit in front of the telly watching the soaps and gorging on cream cakes and lemonade until my belly began to swell. In my innocence, I thought I was merely getting fat.

         Then, as now, I spent a lot of time in the safety and comfort of my bed.   But I am not always safe, sometimes I dream. They are happy dreams at first. I am a child again, a young girl of thirteen, watching my feet, in my new pair of scarlet, patent leather shoes, flashback and forth as I hurry down the street.   My tote bag is crammed with make up and magazines.  My friend Lucy’s parents are out for the evening and we’ve got the house to ourselves.  We can do whatever we want.   Experiment with make up, try on clothes, read trashy magazines, giggle about boys and gossip.  Then, the dream speeds up into a kaleidoscope of blurred images merging into each other with lightning speed.   Lucy’s hair, my face, scarlet lips, panda eyes, narrow hips gyrating in time to Abba, being played full blast on the record player.  Insidiously, there is a change of mood and a growing sense of foreboding.   I am on my own and the street is dark. Full of terror, I try to turn back but cannot and wade through treacle towards my destiny.   My mouth opens as I scream and when I awake my soaked sheets are knotted around me.   I lie there and feel a tide of depression overwhelm me as I realize it wasn’t a dream at all.  Mercifully, my mind has obliterated most of that night but I do remember his guttural voice and the rotten-egg stink of his breath.

             Lucy used to come and visit me after I got out of hospital. Sometimes it was almost as if things were back to normal.   She used to chat about school and bring me get-well cards the other girls had made.   But gradually the times between her visits lengthened as her life moved on.   I never hear from her now.

         The worn brass doorknob fits perfectly into my hand, it feels smooth and cool as I twist it and tug the door open. The old dog slips out and I stand there waiting. There isn’t much of a view; I can just see the bricks of next door’s house.  I remember the garden when my dad lived here.   It was his pride and joy.  In the Summer he used to be out there night after night, not coming inside until it was too dark to see.   The lawn was his special pride, like a living carpet it stretched away from the house all the way to where the rhododendron bushes lurked. Flowers flanked the lawn. Like jewels, they exploded with colour.   Pinks, scarlet peonies, marigolds, ox-eye daisies and banks of purple anemones.   It isn’t like that now. The grass is knee high and the flowers have long ago been strangled by the weeds.   The rhododendrons are the only ones that have thrived; they have seized their chance and have spread almost to the kitchen window.

         Leaving the door open, just a crack, I retreat further into the kitchen.  I feel safer there.   Maybe one day I will follow the old dog out into the garden.   Maybe one day, but not today.   The police did their best but he was never caught and there are too many dark places where he could still be hiding.   The rhododendron bushes, the dark alleyways, hidden corners in forgotten places.   And I will always remember his fingers, like iron on my arm, and the tone of his voice.

         ‘If you tell, you will be dead’.

Patiently, she waited for me to recover, but I never did.   Not in her lifetime anyway.  Maybe it would have been better if they had let me keep the baby…

                 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

 

      [There could be more, what will happen next?  It is for you to decide...]