That Dress...

I woke with a rested soul and the dulcet tones of my screaming Mother breaking the silence that had protected me.
'What have you done in the bathroom? I just can't bloody trust you. I wish you'd never come back. You'll never change'
Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I ignored her words, held the sheets to my nose and breathed in deeply. The smell of cleanliness, small sanctuary in this place.
'Morning!' I called out as she disappeared down the hall still mumbling her concerns.

'What have I done in the bathroom?' I wondered.

I pulled back the curtains and gazed at the familiarity of it's view. Drugs change everything. Take enough of them and a definitive switch happens. Everything seems normal when you are on them and perversely surreal when you are not. This house was indeed perversely surreal.

I took myself and the floral nightgown to the bathroom next door. Everything appeared fine in there. Whatever I had done in the bathroom last night, it had been forensically cleansed by the Queen of Clean already. I walked downstairs, watching my clean toes press into the softness of a piled carpet, a simple luxury. I smiled as I caught a reflection of Claire in the hall mirror. I looked ridiculous in my Mother's nightgown. But there again, everything looked ridiculous to me here. Mum looked so much older than I remembered too. Foolish in her agony. She sat at the dining room table with a plate of buttered crackers and a cup of hot tea, every inch of her lost to me.
I lit up a cigarette and sat beside her, once again smiling at my reflection, this time in the glass door of the china display cabinet. Mum began to sob. I could see her shoulders jerking up and down with stifled emotion out of the corner of my eye.
'I still see that bitch Emma.' She spluttered. 'Butter wouldn't melt nowadays. And look at you...' I raised an eyebrow at the me in the cabinet 'All messed up and your whole life ruined. She made you like this. She got you in all this trouble. Everything was fine until Miss Short came to town.' I took a deep draw of satisfying smoke and thought of Emma. Mum could say what she wanted, but from where I was sitting, blame lay much closer.

We had gone to therapy once. My entire family. Well, when I say my entire family, it wasn't much of a show. Dad doesn't speak to his family, nor Mum to hers. I don't know why but I thought of it now as I sat here with my Mother's sorrow for company. I had just turned 15 then and had taken a concoction of pills in a failed and half hearted suicide attempt. 'What's wrong?' asked a white coat in the hospital Psyche Ward as he stamped a referral for Family Therapy. I drew pictures for the counselor back then. An intricate sketch of a naked anorexic, falling in to a large crack in the ground. A screaming face with it's eyes sewn up. A ballerina, posed and happy. But nothing was resolved in those trite smiling sessions with all four of us sat around a table grained with detachment.

'You're a monster.' Mum threw her head in her hands and I rose to standing.
'Whatever I am, you made me. Whatever you say I am, I'm a product of you. You hate me? Tell you what I hate you more. Every fucking night I hate you. I hate everything about you. I even hate hating you.'
'Then get out' She screamed.
I finished my cigarette and moved closer to her.
'Did you think I was going to stay?' I bent right down and held my mouth close to her ear 'I'd rather sleep in the fucking gutter then be here.'
'Please stop it.' She cowered from my words, making me hate her more for her lack of strength.
'I'll be out of here as soon as I'm dressed.' I began to walk away from her, turning back only to add with a smile, 'And in case you're wondering, I'll be dressed whenever I'm fucking ready.'

Strong words indeed.

My clothes flapped on the line, innocent to the suburban nightmare that continued here. Everything was winter damp so I took it upstairs to the airing cupboard to finish drying. At the top of the stairs was a landing and off it came six doors. The first door was my Mother's room. The second door, my Father's was slightly ajar. Next to my Father's door was the airing cupboard, then Hayley's room, my room and the bathroom. As I placed my clothes on top of the hot water pipe, two things caught my eye. On the top shelf of the airing cupboard, hiding between the sheets and the disturbed pile of nightdresses that I had rummaged through last night; There, folded neatly as only my Mother could, lay my favorite black dress. I smiled at the thought that some of me was left here and pulled the dress close to my chest. As I held it there, my eyes settled on the second thing. Just inside the open door to my Father's room, sat atop the dressing table amidst the cozy china collectibles - there was a writing book with a title scribbled on the front. Just three words...

CLAIRE - TO DATE

I stepped back, still holding the dress,to the top of the landing. Listening carefully for any sign that my Mother was heading this way.

Silence.

I stepped tentatively forward and entered his room. Thumbing the cover for a moment I listened again.

Nothing.

I flicked the pages from back to front, stopping at the first sign of writing. Yesterdays date was at the top of the final entry and below it Dad wrote that he had received a phone call from Brenda and that he was going to drive to collect me. I flicked back further, more entries. A photo of me on the television from the documentary. Transcripts of phone calls to the director Mike Dornan. I flicked again, forwards, towards the last entry and one word jumped out at me like a sledgehammer.

GYPSY

'What the...?'

Next to the book lay a pair of scissors. Dad's scissors. I put the book down and thumbed the smooth metal instead, then headed to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I didn't like the girl that looked back. He had never wanted us girls to cut our hair so it seemed a delicious irony to do this here. I held each dredlock up by the tip and snipped them off near the root. Most of the green hair dye had washed out last night, so when I finished I was left with closely cropped, short brown hair. It felt so empowering. Whatever I was cutting off in that room it was more than hair. I removed Mum's nightgown and stepped into the shower, washed the 'old' me from my body. I could hear Mum moving around upstairs now, but I didn't care. Once dry I fumbled through her makeup bag, finding a black eyeliner, some black mascara and a dark grey eyeshadow. I took great care with my makeup. I had indeed changed and evolved. This was not the Gothic me. Not the Gypsy me. But the me that was going to walk out this door and screw the pants off a certain John McKenna. I pulled up the black dress and looked in the mirror.

'A Princess Moment!' I smiled. The look worked better than I had thought.

I took the makeup, threw it in a bag with my now dry clothes, grabbed my cigarettes from the bedroom and did exactly what my Mother wanted. Left this home.

'Keep the change.' I laughed at the bus driver, throwing him a five pound note from the roll in my hand and clutching the stolen bottle of Fitou in my other. My Mother's house had its uses after all. I made my way upstairs. To the back where I could smoke in peace, I leaned back and rested my bare feet on the seat in front. I saw a new future heading my way. A good feed in the Central Cafe was on the cards for starters. Some new shoes, more makeup, some clothes maybe, but most importantly a night on the town in the hope of stumbling upon John. I smiled at my own shallowness as I realised how much I wanted the city of Bath to see me pretty again. I thrived off these moments of fleeting attention. My eyes were closed and my thoughts on Dad's book when I heard laughter and a voice call out,
'Fucking 'ell. It's Spiff!'

Spiff was my nickname from school. Back then, posher than the masses in my speech and mannerisms, it earned me cruel jaunts and fury. I opened my eyes and saw Eric. Big fat ugly smelly Eric. And Tommy, tall thin fucked up tattooed Council Estate scum Tommy. It seemed amusing to me that I had seemed more teaseable than them. They sat on the seat in front of mine.
'Alright Spiffy! We heard that you were sleeping in Bristol with Steve Carter.'
He placed his chubby fingers on the back of the seat, brushing his hand against my bare foot and causing me to shrink away. I tucked my feet into my body, curling up on the seat. 'We heard,' continued Eric 'That you were fucking Steve. In fact we heard that you were giving it out to half the Bristol Posse.' He laughed and reached out to tousle my hair.
Tommy turned to face me too. 'Well lookie, lookie. Little Spiffy gone and grew up on me. Where's your violin and your plaits now bitch. You playing in the real world for a while?' He spied the bottle lying by my side. 'Give us a drink then.'
And he took the bottle from beside me. I didn't argue. I couldn't.
'How's Emma?' I asked Eric. Of these two it was him that I found more bearable.
''Shorty's the same as ever. Big tits, small brain. Opposite of you really.' And he laughed. Which, for some incomprehensible reason burnt me, just like it had in the old days. I also realised how much I missed my old friend Emma.
'Tell Emma I'm in Bath now. If you see her, tell her to come find me.'
'So where you living?' Eric was shaking his head at Tommy's futile attempt to push the cork into the wine bottle with a plastic pen. 'Give it here you wanker.' He took a knife from his pocket and pulled out the corkscrew attachment.
'I'm between homes at the moment.' Was the best I could come up with.
'Between homes.' Jibed Tommy putting on a squeaky posh voice, 'What the fuck does that mean?'
There was a loud pop as the cork was pulled from the bottle.
'Ladies first' Said Eric as he passed the bottle to me. I took a large glug and wondered what Eric wanted, as to be so nice was outside the ordinary. Eric flicked the corkscrew closed and pulled out a short blade. 'Where you getting off Spiff?' I watched as he began to carve a name on the back of the seat, scratching at the Formica with his penknife.
'Town Centre.' I replied.
Outside the bus window, the houses muted from red brick to the cream stone of Bath telling me that we would arrive at my stop in about fifteen minutes.
'Well this is our stop.' Called Eric as he jumped across Tommy to the aisle 'And give the girl her wine back.' Tommy lent over the seat and passed me the wine, at the same time looking down to see what Eric had carved on the back of their seat.
'You total wanker! You'll get me nicked' He shouted, punching Eric hard on the arm.
Eric ran towards the front of the bus laughing, shouting back at me, 'By the way, you look really nice in that dress and Tommy, he's on a suspended sentence for vandalism of public transport!'

And I laughed too as I ran my finger over the etched words 'Tommy Taubman was yer, April 88.'

Hands curled around the bottle of red I thanked the weather for it's warmness and the God's for not living in Longwell Green any more. I lit another cigarette and thought once again of Dad and Gypsy and the entry in the book. Their secret was now my secret. But did this mean that the Wolves were real?

Continued...