Lonely Girl. Josephine Cox
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CROUCHING LOW BENEATH the bedroom window, young Rosie peered through the murky darkness of a cold November evening.
Anxiously training her gaze along the pathway that ran by the big barn, she wondered if her mother might show at any moment. Rosie would not mind if her mother stayed away for ever, but she knew her father would be sad because he loved her, even though they were always arguing.
So, for his sake, Rosie hoped her mother might somehow manage to find her way home from the village pub where she worked as a barmaid. Often her shift would slip into her social life. She liked a drink and a laugh. She also liked the admiration of men, who were drawn to her dark looks and enticing smile.
Whenever her mother was late coming home, Rosie had good cause to fear the worst. Keeping her vigil at the window, she wondered what kind of mood her mother would be in if she did come home. Would she be in one of her dark rages? Would she be feeling spiteful and ready to fight with Rosie’s father? Or would she be laughing and playful, or impossible to talk with and so drunk she could hardly stand?
Rosie could never decide which was worse, because whichever way it was, it always ended badly.
Neither Rosie nor her father ever knew what to expect when Molly Tanner returned from a night out. She never spoke about exactly where she had been, or who she had been with, and if John Tanner dared to pursue the truth, a fierce row would inevitably ensue, and Rosie would run upstairs in fear, to hide under her bedclothes.
Looking back, Rosie realised that nothing much had changed over the years except that they all had grown older and a little wiser. Her mother was forever complaining that she was ‘coming up to her dreaded fifties’. She was still proud of her sultry looks, and rumour had it that she was still cheating on her loving and hard-working husband. Her dislike for her only child had reached the point where she could hardly bear to be near her.
Molly Tanner had never possessed the strong maternal instinct that bonds a mother with her child. She had neither the instinct nor the wish to be a mother, and made that clear to all who would listen. Consequently, she played precious little part in Rosie’s life.
After a while, young Rosie had stopped caring. Her daddy had been, and still was, her whole life. If she was ever worried or hurting, it was her father’s help she sought; she had learned long ago that there was no point in seeking comfort or advice from her disinterested mother. The little girl had grown and flourished without her help.
Growing irritable, Rosie brought her thoughts back to the present, while she continued watching out of the window.
‘Don’t get upset because your mother never loved you,’ she told herself. ‘You’re not a baby any more. You’re turned fifteen and very soon, you’ll be leaving school.’
Rosie was greatly excited at the prospect of leaving school. At long last she would be able to get a job, although she was adamant on one point. When I do start earning a wage, I’ll give it to Daddy … not to her, because she’ll only spend it down the pub, or on fancy clothes and make-up to impress the men she flirts with, Rosie resolved.
Glancing at the bedside clock, she realised that she had been keeping her vigil for her wayward mother for over an hour.
I expect Daddy’s worried sick, but what does she care, so long as she’s having a good time? she thought.
She clambered up and closed the curtains. Then she crossed the floor to switch on the light, and for a while continued to pace back and forth, occasionally peering through the gap between the curtains and growing increasingly agitated.
The minutes ticked by and, with still no sign of her mother, Rosie went to sit at the dressing table. Absent-mindedly studying her reflection in the mirror, she was greatly relieved that she had not inherited her mother’s striking looks – or her bad temper either.
Although her own hair was waist-length like her mother’s, that was where the resemblance ended because Rosie’s hair was the same light chestnut colour as her father’s, while Molly’s was dark and fell in luscious waves. Rosie’s strong blue eyes were also inherited from her father’s side of the family, although her father’s eyes were tinged with a hint of green, which deepened when he was angry, which was not very often.
Anxiously, Rosie studied herself in the mirror, thinking of her mother and the unkind things she would say.
Molly often complained that she found it hard to believe that she had such a plain-looking daughter. ‘You remind me of my sister, Kathleen,’ she would tease spitefully. ‘She was always the plain, shy girl at school. At playtime, she would stand in the corner while everyone else was having fun. When we were younger, the boys always came after me. They never went for her. Hmm! She would probably have been left on the shelf if it hadn’t been for your Uncle Paddy. Like her, he’s a plain-looking sort with not much about him. They’re two of a kind,’ she’d smirk. ‘I always knew they would get together, but only after lover-boy had enjoyed playing the field.’
Rosie knew this was unjust. Uncle Patrick and Auntie Kathleen were funny, kind, and a devoted couple. Rosie loved them dearly, as she did Harry, Patrick’s son from his first marriage.
Over the years, Rosie had often been shocked at her mother’s cruel remarks about her family. There had been one particular occasion that she would never forget, when she was just five years of age.
As the memories of that awful episode crowded her mind, she forced herself to concentrate on the path alongside the big barn, but the darkness had thickened, and all was quiet, save for the occasional howl of a lonely dog.
Rosie moved closer to the window, peering into the darkness and listening for the familiar click-clack of high-heeled shoes against the concrete path.
‘Where are you?’ Rosie muttered angrily. ‘Why do you never come home when you should? And who are you with when you’re not with us?’ She realised that she was mimicking the questions her father might ask of his wayward wife.
Troubled, she moved away from the window. ‘All right, stay away then,’ she grumbled. ‘If you don’t come home, we’ll be happier without you.’
Close to tears, she recalled that many times over the years her mother had said to her, ‘I don’t love you … and I never will!’ Her cruel words had cut Rosie to the heart, but it was the events of her fifth birthday that played through her head so strongly this evening.
Surprisingly, for the first time ever her mother had organised a wonderful party for her only child. She had also made a cake, with candles and pretty icing, and Rosie was especially thrilled when the children from neighbouring farms were invited to celebrate her birthday with her.
Normally, her mother did not like Rosie mixing with what she called ‘the rabble’, but that day, for whatever reason, she decided to break the habit and be nice to everyone.
John teasingly told his wife it was because Rosie was going to start school the following morning, and she would not have the child under her feet every day.
It was such a happy day for Rosie. All the children stood in a little group to sing ‘Happy Birthday’, before cheering five times – one cheer for each of her years. She was thrilled, and afterwards she thanked her mother for making her birthday so wonderful.
The joy of her party, however, was short-lived, because after everyone had gone home, Molly threw a tantrum. She complained about the noise and the mess, about the washing up, and about one of the children weeing on the bathroom floor, which she forced Rosie to clean up. Afterwards, she ordered Rosie to bed. Being afraid of her mother’s swift and dangerous change of mood, Rosie ran up the stairs and quickly