The Liar’s Daughter. Claire Allan
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I nod again.
‘Well, he loves you so much that he is going to stay here and look after you,’ Granny says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘Your mammy talked a lot about it, you know. With me and with Joe, and we all thought it would be easier for you if you were able to stay here. In your own house, in your own room with your own toys.’
I don’t want that. He’s not my daddy. I don’t even like him. Not really. I was nice to him for Mammy. He’d moved in a year ago and everything with Mammy had changed. She spent less time with just the two of us. More with him. And then she got sick.
He doesn’t know how to look after me. He doesn’t give me cuddles like Mammy did. He doesn’t bake me cookies like Granny does.
My lip wobbles. I feel tears settle in my eyes and I’m trying so hard not to blink and let them fall.
‘Your grandad and I will always, always be here for you, darling,’ Granny says, her voice cracking a little. ‘But we’re not as young as we used to be. And Grandad doesn’t keep well. I’m sure you’d much rather stay in your own house, among your own things, anyway. All your toys. Sure, Grandad and I don’t have room for toys.’
‘But if you got a new house …’ I say, trying to keep the pleading tone from my voice.
I watch as Granny shakes her head. ‘I’m so sorry, pet. We can’t do that. I wish we could, but you will be fine with Joe and we’ll always be close by. Always. I promise you.’
‘But Joe’s not my daddy,’ I stutter. ‘He wasn’t even married to Mammy. He’s not my family. I can’t stay with him!’
I notice she’s crying and guilt swoops in. I don’t want to make her cry any more, so I stop talking.
‘It will be okay, my angel,’ she says through her tears and I will myself to believe her.
Click.
‘You have to be brave now.’
He’s sitting beside me. My little hand dwarfed in his. His hand is clammy. Sticky. People have been coming and going to the house all day and it’s stuffy in here. There’s a smell of strong tea and cigarette smoke. People keep looking at me with funny expressions on their face. Telling me I’m a great girl. They bring me sweets and treats as if it’s my birthday.
I want to ask them why.
Click.
Granny tucks me into bed. I don’t want to sleep. Not with Mammy downstairs in that box. Who is sleeping in her bed? Is Joe there? Who will be there if I wake up in the night? I lie awake, afraid to close my eyes. Will they put me in a box like Mammy, too? Tell everyone I’ve gone to heaven?
Click.
I’m sitting on my bed and my grandmother is pulling the hairbrush through my hair. She’s distracted. The brush keeps catching on knots. It hasn’t been brushed properly in a few days. Still, I’m a brave girl. I don’t cry out. It seems such a babyish thing to cry about. Especially now.
She has a new dress for me to wear. Black. With ribbon. I hate it. Mammy would never have made me wear something like this. She knew I loved running about in jeans and a T-shirt. Playing in the garden and getting covered in mud.
Click.
A church. It’s cold. Everyone is crying and looking at me as if I’m the one making them sad. I want to tell them I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t hurt Mammy. I swear I didn’t! But Granny has told me to be on my best behaviour.
‘I won’t be able to cope if you don’t behave,’ she said.
I’m angry. I want to tell her I always behave. I’m always good. I always do exactly what I’m told.
Click.
He sits on the edge of my bed. His jumper smells of beer and stale cigarettes again. It makes me feel sick, as if I might throw up. The last people have left the house. Why has it been a party? Cake and sandwiches and the grown-ups drinking. Someone singing and laughter ringing out every now and then. My mammy is dead. I don’t understand.
I pull away from him as he tries to hug me. I don’t want him near me. I’m fed up with grown-ups. His hands are still clammy.
‘You’re not to worry. I’m not leaving you. I’ll make sure you’re okay.’
I hold my tears inside me, give in to his hug. I’ll be a great girl. And a brave girl.
Just like Mammy would want.
Now
There’s not a single person in this world who hasn’t made a mistake. Who hasn’t done something they are ashamed of. Anyone who denies this is a liar.
I’ve not always done the right thing. I’ve absolutely done the wrong thing a few times. Some of these things for the right reasons. Or I thought so at the time.
Like when Natalie was sick. She was in so much pain. So wretched. It hadn’t been that hard to get my hands on some extra morphine for her. I suppose things weren’t as rigid then as they are now.
I was trying to help. I still believe I did help. I took her pain away, and then I stayed because even though I knew it was good and humane that her suffering was over, I was still overcome with guilt.
Each and every time I saw Heidi look up at me, her eyes wide, her face pale. Her grief too painful to watch, I wondered if I’d done the right thing. I’d taken a mother from her child.
So I stayed. Did what Natalie had wanted. She’d begged me, you see. ‘Make sure Heidi is okay,’ she’d say, knowing her own parents weren’t fit to look after the child. Natalie was so terrified that Heidi would end up in care. Bad things happened in care, she said.
She’d had faith in me. She was foolish, too. I tried to be good, but I was – I am – only human and I am flawed.
But I’ve fought my demons. That has to count for something, doesn’t it? I rehabilitated myself. Found God. Asked for His forgiveness for what I did to Natalie. What I did for Natalie.
And I lived a good life. I thought it would make a difference, but in the end it seems it doesn’t matter what you do for people, it’s never enough.
No one realises how hard this is. What a burden it is. Temptation is everywhere. Urges don’t just go away, you know. I had to content myself with looking and not touching, but I did that because I wanted to prove I could change.
I was prepared to wait for forgiveness. I’ve been very patient, but time is running out and now I think there’s a cruelty to them that they aren’t prepared to let go of.
How do they not see how hard it was for me, too? How it ate me up inside? Because it did. I hated myself for years. It almost destroyed me, almost drove me to suicide.
I was a victim, too. I didn’t ask to be born this way.
I wasn’t perfect. I did so much for them that they will never bring themselves to acknowledge.
The selfish, spoiled little bitches.
Now
Auntie Kathleen is far changed from the confident, fashion-conscious, funky auntie who I hero-worshipped through my childhood and into my teen years.
Looking