The lovely Pinerug has contributed this heartfelt One Shot as part of The Miniaturist's Anthology series. I'll leave the introduction to the good lady herself, as she explains her inspiration and gives us a gentle nudge to consider another side of the story we love so much.
As we discussed the anthology project an idea started forming in my mind to explore how Molly's experiences might be felt by someone in her family. To me there's a pivotal moment in Belinda's relationship with Molly where she realises her daughter has had experiences beyond anything she can imagine, but she's still her mum, with all those instincts to protect and make everything better . I've never tried writing just Belinda before but I've enjoyed her, the character took on a life of her own, so forgive me if it wanders about a bit. I hope I haven't been too revisionist to Dave, he's far from perfect but I'm very fond of him. Pinerug
In this Proud Land
By Pinerug
'Ants in his pants' don't really do Kamal justice. I've never known a kid to fidget as much as him. The harder he tries to concentrate, the more he moves. His finger on the page under 'although' is the only still part of him. His face scrunches up, his tongue pokes out from between his teeth, his back end is bouncing about like a frog in a sock. Any minute now I expect him to climb on the table. It wouldn't be the first time. I gently put my hand on his back to try and still him.
"Give it a try" I say, trying to be encouraging. "What can you see?" Poor mite scrunches his eyes, squinting at the word "Ah, luh, tuh, huh"
"Yeah, but a tuh and a huh together make what?"
He kicks the chair out from underneath him "I can't do it! Stop making me! I'm too stupid to do any of this" he storms off to the corner of the room, burying himself in a pile of cushions in the quiet area. My heart goes out to him, the poor love is really struggling. If he were mine I'd be wrapping him up in a big cuddle. Some days you wonder why someone ain't already done something like that. The poor buggers need someone to be that bloody human for them or else there's not much point is there?
I push myself up from the tiny chair, my hips give a little cramp in protest as I sit down next to him and address the back of his head.
"You ain't stupid, love. This is hard stuff to get into your noggin, but you'll get there, you just gotta keep trying." I'm addressing his back as he ain't moved from the cushions and is refusing to look at me. "Everybody's different, I bet there's things you can do that I don't know to do. Let's see. I can't touch my toes. I bet you can do that."
Got him. I've not met the kid who can resist the chance to out do a grown up. He's sitting up, grasping his feet stretched out in front of him. "Balance on one leg without wobbling" I say, and he takes great delight in showing me up again. Mind you, I'm at a bit of a disadvantage, my body ain't what it used to be. After 7 kids, wobbling is kind of my specialty. He's challenging me to make farting noises with my armpits when he reminds me we're supposed to be working on his reading. "Th" he says "tuh and huh make th"
I can't resist giving him that hug, the smile on his face is huge and I'm grinning back at him. It ain't much, but he's that pleased with himself. His little arms steal around me and my heart is almost spilling over I'm that proud of him. Shazza was right, it can seem like a right grind at times, but little moments when a penny drops and you know you've made a difference, even that small; well there's nothing like it.
I know Dave reckons that I've got more than enough on me plate at home, and he'd be right, but my kids are growing up, even little Martin, and soon they won't need me like this no more. Truth is I love the little bleeders, I love their curiosity, their enthusiasm, their honesty. They grow up so quick and then they don't need you, not like before. I watch Martin, my last baby, chasing after his brothers and sisters in such a hurry to grow up when I want him to stay being my little baby, snuggling into my neck and holding on tight forever.
Cos they grow up and you can't keep them out of harm's way no more. Then you've got my lot who seem to run headlong into danger and nothing you can do or say will stop them. Take my Molly. Don't get me wrong, I'm dead proud and everything, but sometimes I feel like a bit of my heart is teetering on a ledge and any moment it's gonna fall off and smash into tiny little pieces. I want her home under my roof, then I'll feel calm again. She'll be home soon and I'll get to have all of them under one roof and I'll sleep easy then.
Next week. They're coming home next week. That's what the bloke from Welfare said. Tuesday or Wednesday, they'll know more in a day or so.
I shit bricks when I got the call. You always think the worst. Dave says you don't need to worry when they phone, it's when they're at your door that the news is bad. Still, even he looked a bit grey around the gills when the fella was on the phone with me. But it's all good. She's out of Afghan, reckons all of them are in Cyprus, decompression he called it. Holidaying at the taxpayers expense Dave reckons which shouldn't bother him as he don't pay no tax. He went down the pub as soon as I got the call.
Welfare bloke says we can come to the airport, see them arriving home. Don't know how we'll manage but I've got a bit put by so we might be able to get the train. I forgot to ask him how we get there. I'll need to get someone to take the kids, and get the day off of work. Ain't nothing gonna stop me seeing my girl come home.
The poor love looks done in. She don't smell too good neither but none of us mention that. She finally dropped off about 30 minutes ago, her head lolling backwards. I quietly undid her seatbelt and slowly moved her so she was resting against me. She shuffled a bit but she didn't wake up, instead she snuggled into me, sighing slightly. I sneaked my arm around her, my heart was bursting. There was nights when I sat up wondering if I'd ever hold her again, ever see her again. Nights when I'd seen stuff on the news, dust and boots and the faces of kids her age, smiling, tanned, happy as the newsreader read off their names and how they had died. Sniper. IED. Ambush. Green on blue. My heart would be in my throat, worried that I'd see her face on the screen, another smiling, tanned girl in uniform, snapped and saved forever as a list read out by Huw Edwards; a name, an age and a way to die.
But she's here and she safe, her eyelids are fluttering a bit and there's a patch of drool spreading across my shoulder and she smells worse than Dave after he's been on a bender but my heart is so full I think it's gonna burst. There's tears running down my cheeks. I'm so happy, and I feel so grateful that I'm not the mum of one of those kids on the news. I feel bad about that, and I cry more because they won't ever get to have what I have right now, and they must hate people like me.
I have to cry quiet like, so as not to disturb Mum. She ain't the most confident driver, and Dave sitting there gripping the handle on the door until his knuckles are white isn't helping. We're all keeping quiet, cos she says she can't concentrate with the chatter. Can't even put on the radio. It's strange being with all these people and being quiet, normally you can't shut my lot up. You can hear my house from down the street most days. But it's nice in a way, I don't have nothing else to do but sit here with my Molly leaning her head on my shoulder like she did when she was little. Nothing to do but listen to her breath in my ear and feel the tears on my cheeks. Nothing but hold my baby tight and be thankful she came back alive.
We left her at the hospital in Birmingham. She said that Smurf had got shot in some action just before they left Afgan. She said it casual like, but you could tell she was worried. I think there's more to her and Smurf than she's letting on. Molly was never one to give anything away, plays everything close to her chest. You can't pry or else she snaps shut like a trap. I'll bide my time, now it's something I know I have. She's home and that's the main thing.
I don't know what that means, "some action", but it put poor Smurf in the hospital so it can't be good. I try not to think about it too much, to put it out of my mind, but it's a long quiet drive home and it keeps on popping into my head. I'll be staring out the window, watching the grassy banks of the motorway blur into a jumble of green dotted with blobs of colour and suddenly I find my brain is thinking about it. I can't help but think of what I see on the news, them dusty lads, barely more than kids, the way it cuts between them lounging about, leaning up against camo netting, draped casually over guns with them floppy hats on, all colours of beige in their uniforms just like my Molls was wearing. Then it all changes, the guns swing round, there's dust and running, wobbly cameras, the gunfire don't sound like it does in films, it sort of pings, and then there'll be a thump and the camera goes all shaky again and falls to the ground and you see the dust and dirt before it cuts off and you find yourself leaning towards the tele, poised, ready, waiting to see more, to hear the names, to see the blurry smiling photos of someone's kid. I don't want to think of my girl seeing that, but she's bound to have, stands to reason. You spend your life bringing them up, trying your best to keep em safe, teach em to know what's right and wrong, and then you have to let them go. Hoping your love and your effort has been enough, enough so you knows they're gonna make the right choices. Cause there's gonna be choices you wish they don't have to make, times when there's nothing you can do but hope their instincts are good enough.
Maybe that's why I want to work with the kids. Cause not all of them get much good at home. Not saying I'm perfect or nothing, but I love my kids and I'm proud of them and I tell them that as much as I can. Mum reckons I'm too soft, but I remember what it's like growing up with a Dad who always tells you that you ain't enough, that they never wanted a kid like you. Useless now matter how hard you tried. We were kids. All we wanted was for him to love us, we thought we'd done something wrong so we tried and tried but it weren't never enough. We didn't realise it wasn't us until we was older. It was him. We could never be what he wanted, because he wouldn't let us. We could never be the boys he wanted, mum could never be the woman he wanted. We were better off rid of him, and that's a horrible thing to realise about your dad.
I know mum don't think Dave's much better, and I'm not so thick as to not know he's had his moments, but he's always been there for us, he's stuck it out when he could have walked away like so many do. He's not been in a good place since the accident, and for a while there I was worried we were gonna be stuck there, but change happens slowly for Dave and he fights it every step of the way, but he gets there in the end. He's doing his bit now, he gets the kids ready in the morning, gets Martin to nursery, he's even been known to do the washing up without being asked. I know he's proud of Molly, and that he's made up she's home, I can see it even if no one else can't.
We don't see Molly again until they finally get their leave. She wants us to come up for the medal ceremony and Mum even gets a lend of the car again. Dave cracks a load of jokes about needing danger money to ride shotgun and Mum makes him sit in the back seat all the way.
It's another quiet journey, Mum relents and lets us put on the radio, but she insists on radio two. We're going fine until Dave reckons he knows more than the bloke on Popmaster and starts yelling from the back seat. Mum got all flustered with the yelling and kept turning round to shout at Dave which made her veer out of her lane. Only the rumble of the tyres against the hard shoulder brought her to her senses. I turned off the radio and we rode the rest of the way in silence.
The barracks are a lot posher than what I expected, I thought they'd be a bit no frills but what we saw was all grand like a stately home. I've only been to visit Molly at barracks once before, that was Keogh and I never got further than the gate there. Here we was all welcomed in, they'd got us watching them all marching in and getting their medals. Mum and Dave were puffing up like a pair of peacocks and I tried to keep the tears at bay as best I could. They all marched so nicely, although I couldn't stand being shouted at like what they do. Some bigwig pinned all their medals on and then the bloke what did all the shouting said that Molly had been put forward for another medal and the Queen was gonna give it her. I think Mum damn near fainted away. After he said "Private Dawes…" not much went in. Something about Dylan Smith, who is Smurf I think. He said something about Molly saving his life when he came to stay on leave but I thought it was just an expression, you know like when someone covers for you when you're in trouble with a teacher, not actual real saving someone's life.
Dave of course is basking in her reflected glory. He's as happy as anything, everyone wants to congratulate him over Molls getting a medal and there's free beer flowing at the reception. Molly looked a bit uncomfortable, truth be told, but she was never one of those kids who liked attention, well, not the positive sort.
It feels good to have her home now. Under my roof where I've been wanting her to be all these months. The house is a squeeze, I know that, and I suppose this ain't where she lives, lives no more but she's not going back to barracks for a while so just for a bit she's home and it's like it was before. All the time she's been away Dave's not been sleeping, staying up till all hours, watching the news channel with a beer on the go. Some nights he don't even come to bed. Tonight he does. He puts his arms around me and holds me close. He falls asleep quickly, but just before he does he tells me he loves me and I know he's happy we're all together at last.
Well that didn't last long. What was it the family liaison booklet said? "Period of readjustment"? Well it took about a day after coming home for Bella to be at her sister's throat. I've got my work cut out with that one, I can tell you. Her nose is all out of joint because she's back to sharing a room with Molly. She knows that ain't just her room, it's always been shared. We're too short on space to give a 13 years going on 20 Lady Muck a room by herself. When Molly don't need it no more she's gonna have to share with her little sister. Like it or not, that's the way it is. Bella's got a right face on her, glowering at me from the other side of the room. Well she can stew in it. I splashed out and got a bottle of wine in, Dave and Molly are cracking into the beers, neighbours and Dave's mates from the pub are dropping by. Even Shazza came round with a bottle. She's being dead kind, even if Dave don't seem to appreciate it. She didn't stay long. Got some drumming workshop to run at the community centre. I won't repeat what Dave said to that, but I hope Shazza didn't hear.
Maybe I shouldn't be so hard on Bella (the wine must be working), Molly's been away for so long what with her training and then off to Afghanistan that having her back is going to take some getting used to. And there's no denying she's changed. Take school. You couldn't have paid Molly to go to school. I gave up trying in the end, it was like hammering a square peg into a round hole. It's not like she's thick, she's as bright as a button, but you couldn't get her to see why she should be there and once she's got an idea in her head she don't let go. Bella's getting to that age now, where she has to say no to everyone and everything. She's started on about school and why she don't see the point, nothing I ain't heard a thousand times over. Guess who starts giving her chapter and verse about why you need to stay in school and get your exams? Only bleedin Molly. When she she started on about Bella passing up opportunities that girls all over the world are dying for I thought it was something from invasion of the body snatchers.
Bella's having none of it. She just rolls her eyes and gives Molly a 'whatever' before going back to her phone tapping away messaging her mates. I said she could ask them over if she liked and she looked at me like it was the worst idea in the world. God help me I don't know if I've got it in me to parent another teenager. I mean Molly's come out the other end alright, but it weren't like the Waltons, I can tell you.
She and Dave used to clash all the time, the height of her teenage years happened just after he lost his job. Thank god she didn't go off the rails, her rebellion was to go out and start earning, I think just to spite him, and some weeks her wage was all we had. The weeks when Dave would find the child support and put it on a horse or down his gullet. When it was days he was away, and the days when he never went nowhere, but watched everything, demanding her wages as soon as she stepped through the door. They would be at each other's throats, she would goad him on, pushing him, he would threaten to kick her out. She'd go off with some awful lads. Lads that weren't nice, that treated her bad. I could never understand why. Dave reckoned joining the army was just another chance to wind him up. Never thought she'd stick at it. When it looked like she was making a go of it he washed his hands of her. He was in a bad place them days. Molly never gave up though. She kept on going. Sometimes I'd get messages from her that I had to pretend I didn't. She'd be upset or knackered. They broke my heart, the sound of her voice down the line. Maybe she would have packed it in if she felt like she had somewhere else to go. Everything happens for a reason, that's what Mum says. Maybe Dave pushing her away was the making of her. It wasn't a gamble I was happy for him to make for us. Little by little I'd keep in touch. I couldn't phone, Dave would check. I deleted all them messages, but I couldn't get them out of my head. By the time I had the money and the space to track her down she was moved to Keogh. She looked so different. Her eyes sparkled when she talked about what she was doing, everything she was learning. She wasn't gonna give it up. This was her life now.
This wine ain't half making me maudlin. No point going over the past, it's done. Got to keep moving forward. That's the only way. We've got so much to look forward to, Molly's home she ain't going anywhere near Afghanistan again, I reckon she and Smurf might have something, he's a good lad. Maybe they'll get married. Settle down. Just as long as there ain't any kids too soon. I'm not ready to be a Nanna yet.
Something's up. I can tell. She ain't like she was before. At first I just reckoned it was tiredness, but she's up with the lark, off out running bleeding miles every day. Reckons she needs to keep her fitness up, but she's as fit as a flea. I thought maybe she's worried about Smurf. Told her we don't mind if she needs to go up to Birmingham to see him, but she says he's out now, back home. She's been over to Wales to see him before so I know she ain't bothered by that, but she ain't going nowhere. She's messaged him a bit, but not that often. She don't seem to know what to do with herself. I catch her sometimes, staring at nothing out the window, chewing on her lip, her brow all creased up like she's worried about something. Mum said she's been emailing some bloke in Afghan. Not army, a teacher or lecturer or something. Maybe she's thinking about going back to college, she always was a bright one. I tried to talk to her a bit about what she's gonna do next. Apparently she ain't staying with the lot she was with out there which seems a shame, they sounded like a nice bunch. She says as a medic she don't belong to the same regiment as them and she was just on a loan. But she's done good out there, she's got that medal and shown what she can do so she should get something good. Something nice and quiet I hope, but since when have one of my kids chosen the easy option? She don't really say no more. She's getting stuck into the washing up which makes her damn near a saint in my eyes, although battling with my greasy pans ain't really what she spent the last six months risking her life for.
Later on Dave rolls in from the pub with some news. Fat Paul got chatting with a bloke who does security over at the football. Told him about our Molls and what she did in Afghan, and how she got and medal and that. He got to talking about her with some fella at West Ham and they want her to come to a match and show them her medal. Dave's that excited. He reckons she can take a guest with her and he'll get in to watch a match, VIP box, the works. I told him it might be an under 18s match but he says no, full on proper match, maybe one of the big derbys or something. Proper big time. He's dead set on her taking it up, but she didn't look that excited when he said. She went off in another one of her runs. She's gonna wear a groove in the pavement if she does much more running. I told Dave to lay off the West Ham stuff. Give her time to have a think on it and she might fancy it, but if he keeps on at her she'll just dig in her heels and they'll have another falling out. I don't want no more aggro between them two. It's been lovely having her home and her and Dave getting on so well for a change.
Sometimes in the dead of night, when you're sitting up with a sleepless or sick kid it can all kind of get to you. You find yourself in the dark thinking about all the things that you don't think about in the daylight when there's light and noise and people around to keep your mind off them. But in the middle of the night is just you, and a small, fragile being who you would give anything at that moment to make right. And you end up thinking about all sorts. You fast forward through life and get to imagining their future. What's their life gonna be, will things be alright for them? What's the worst thing you are gonna hear from them? That they got pregnant, or they're trouble with the law, or in a gang. That they've got sick, the kind of sick that you don't get better from. You don't ever imagine that they'll be telling you they killed someone.
But my Molly did.
It was a noise downstairs what woke me. It weren't Dave, I turned over and there he was, snoring and farting as usual. I checked on the kids before I went down, all sleeping peacefully, only Molls' bed was empty. I know she ain't been sleeping too well of late, but the welfare booklet said they might take time to adjust, so I ain't made anything of it to be honest.
It was barely dawn, the sun weren't really up yet, and the traffic hadn't started. She was scrubbing away at the sink, I never seen the kitchen look so clean. I didn't know I had so much worktop space, it's been so long since I seen it without a pile of papers and school uniforms on it. Part of me was grateful, so grateful, not just because she's home, but because she can see. She can see that it's all a thinly cobbled together chaos, and she can take a little corner of that and sort it out, make it better. I might not seem much but I can't tell you what it's like to have someone lighten that burden. It feels wrong though. I'm her mum. I should be more in control of this, it ain't something my kids should be doing. Maybe she thinks I ain't coping. That taking myself away to work means I'm not doing everything I should be. Yeah, some things around here have slipped, there's no denying that, but we muddle through. Life ain't perfect and I'm sure it never will be. Then the strangest thing. I felt embarrassed. In front of my girl I felt embarrassed. At how much of a state things are, that already she's looking after me and after everything she's been through I should be doing that.
And then she just sort of crumples in front of me. She's standing there, in the quiet, it's just us and it's like someone has let the air out of her. She's crying, and I ain't seen tears from Molly in years. No mum can bear to see their children cry; no matter what age they are, when the tears come they're your little baby again, helpless, reaching out for their mum, and all you want is to take it all away, to make whatever it is hurting them disappear. "I'm dying" she says and I nearly black out from the panic that's welling up inside me. She can't die. She's 20. There's got to be some kind of mistake. With every word she seems to shrink into herself, and I'm frozen. I need to go to her, but my feet barely work. This must be a bad dream. I reach out and stroke her hair, she's real. This isn't a dream.
She's crying so hard and talking about a little girl being in danger, and even though it makes no sense I know she wouldn't do something like that. She's good down to her marrow, she's never gonna do that to someone else, especially not a kid. I don't understand how she can say that. What's happened to her to make her think that about herself? And then she says it. She killed someone. I don't know if I took it in, truth be told. She was crying and crying and all I could do was hold her, stroke her hair and tell her everything will be alright. She's home, and whatever else there is in the world it don't matter. Being here, where she belongs and where she is loved is the only thing that matters. She cried until I felt her tears seep through my dressing gown and all the while I rocked her, stroking her hair as I cradled her against me in the quiet bare kitchen as the world woke up to a new day.
She killed someone. My baby girl. She killed someone.
It's all I can think about. I've been going through the motions all day while those words run around in my head, over and over again. All the time at work as I wiped glue covered fingers, chivvied littleuns in and out of PE kits, wandered in the playground, I might as well not have been there. Mentally I'm stood in the kitchen, my heart in my throat not knowing what to say or do. I can't get my head around it; she's barely more than a child, and she's been to the other side of the world and literally had to fight for her life. How is that possible?
I haven't talked to anyone about it. For once I was grateful for the madness of my house in the morning, getting 5 kids dressed, fed and off to nursery and school don't leave much time to dwell on stuff. Dave hadn't stirred by the time we got out of the house, and Molly had taken herself off to her room for some quiet. There was a bit of a drizzle on the way back from school at lunchtime, the pavements shiny and slick and the traffic made a whooshing sound as it passed me on the walk home. I hadn't put on a coat, my arms were cold and my clothes clung to me. I can't say I really noticed, my mind kept on repeating "She killed someone. She killed someone" in time with my feet on the pavement.
When I got in Dave was up; Molly had headed off; shopping he said. Didn't say when she was going to be back. The house was a tip, the breakfast things hadn't been tidied away or washed up. The basket of clothes I had left by the washer hadn't been put on, yesterday's wash was still in the machine waiting for someone to move the dry clothes off the racks and make room. It never changes, just multiplies. Dave was sat on the sofa, empty cups and the tv remote next to him. Usually I'd have a grumble at him about it but today it's like I'm barely there. I go through the motions picking up, wiping down and folding and barely register the tiredness in my legs or the ache of my back. All the time the words whisper in my mind. Dave is talking away at me but I'm not taking in anything he says. With the lunch things stacked in the kitchen he finally leaves the house, down to the nursery to pick up Martin, no doubt via the offie or newsagent for beer or fags and the house is empty and quiet. I can't stand it; all the thoughts that have been running through my mind all morning clamour away so I run a sink full of hot water do give myself something to do, using too much liquid so the foam billows over the top of the sink like an explosion of clouds. I remember when Molly was small she used to stand on a step next to me scooping up the bubbles in her tiny hands, giggling as she blew into them, little puffs of bubbles flying into the air and landing on her arms and face, which made her giggle even harder. I can see her face now as clearly as if she was stood next to me now, her beautiful eyes crinkled up with laughter and the gaps in her teeth. How can this be the same girl who cried over a guilt and worry so big that she can't sleep and can't rest?
I don't know why she killed someone. I mean I can take a guess, I'm not naive, I know what they ain't over there spreading hearts and flowers. But I dunno, you always think of who they are fighting being sort of faceless, you don't reckon on them actually knowing them. When she was out there Molly would tell us about the village they were stationed at, the people she met out there and well, I always thought they were on good terms. Like they were happy for the army be there. I mean, they were helping them weren't they? You would think that they would be grateful if someone came over to help you kick them Taliban out. But Molly talked like it was someone she knew. The dad of that little girl she talked about in her letters. She would ask me to get sweeties for her. Now Molly says the girl has been taken away from her family and that she's in danger. She said the dad had wanted to send her away, marry her off. A little girl no older than my Bella.
Was that what happened? Did Molly have to shoot him to get the little girl away? If he's gone why is she still in danger? It was hard to take in, truth be told, she was that upset and it don't make much sense. She's home. She's safe, back home with us all but she can't let go. It's like a part of her was left over there, her spark, her positivity. She's back with us now, she should be happy, but she ain't and it's eating her up inside, the worry of it all. She should be happy, why ain't she pleased to be home? She ain't done nothing but be at home since she came back, the only time she goes out is to go running. I've tried not to think about it, I realise that now, but it ain't right. A girl like her should be out with her mates, living it up, out clubbing and whatnot, not home on the sofa with her dad watching the snooker till all hours.
The house is so quiet now. The boiler has stopped gurgling, the bubbles in the sink make a small fizz as they pop, one by one, clearing the surface of the water until I can see the patterns of the bowls underneath, the grey of stuck on weetabix, the glint of a teaspoon under the milky water. Last night there was more pictures of them dusty kids on the news, they smiled, squinting against bright sunlight, their tanned faces grinning back from a happier time, not the dust and blood and chaos that must have been the last thing they saw. We ain't been watching the news that much now. Now Molly's home we don't cling to it, straining every night for a glimpse. Molls was upstairs, but even so I felt tense, that she might come down and see us watching. That her seeing it would upset her somehow. After last night I'm not so sure it would. After what she said it sounded like she wanted to stay out there longer, make things right by that little girl. Like there was unfinished business. I know my Molls. She fixates on things, she gets her blinkers on, puts her head down. The army's brought that out in her. It's given her a path, but now they've taken it away again.
They said on the news that we was pulling out of there. No more soldiers. I hope they are right. I don't want her going there again, I don't think I could handle it. All that worry, that watching, living every day with your heart in your throat. I know what she's like, she wants to make good what she's started but I sleep easier with her home. Is that wrong? To want your child safe? The parents of them kids on the news wouldn't think so, I bet. I'll trade the safety of my baby for another mother's kid. That's the choice ain't it? What a fucking choice. My kid or yours. Is that what these kids are dying for, face down in the dust? Don't matter what I think at the end of the day, does it? Cause she ain't a kid. None of them are. They are to their mums and dads, but not in the eyes of the law. They're grown up and they make their own decisions.
I ain't making much headway with the washing up. The bubbles have all but disappeared and the water is getting cold. The weetabix ain't shifted, still stuck to the side of the bowl like it's been welded on. I've been stood here, clinging to the sink like it's holding me up, the only noise in the house is the plop of my tears as they drip off my chin into the washing up bowl. I have to get a grip. Get myself together. Dave will be home soon, Martin will be hungry and there's the ironing, the wash going stale in the machine and before I know where I am the rest of them will be home from school and I'll need to put the tea on. It never stops, the round of my day, morning noon and night, people needing me, needing fed, needing clothes.
But I'm so angry. I can feel it like a lump in my throat and a stone in my belly. I screw up my eyes but more hot tears squeeze out, seconds later plopping into the grey water. I don't know what or who I'm angry with, there's all these feelings and nowhere to put them. I'm angry with Molly, for making me worry. I'm angry with the people who call her a hero. I don't want her to be a hero, cause heroic things mean dangerous things, don't they? But she is a hero. They're giving her a medal and everything. I'm angry with Dave, how he just seems to accept things and move on. He ain't losing sleep over all this no more, just thinking of his next can, or smoke or whatever. I'm angry with this house, the way it's trapped me between its walls, stuffed full of junk and toys and noise and responsibility. I'm angry with myself, for not counting my blessings more, not being satisfied with where I am. It's better than it's been in a long while, but I don't want to see that.
I've got to pull myself together; I breathe in and out, big shuddering breaths that get stuck and then spill out with no control, my ribs hurting with the effort. I bite down on my bottom lip, trying again and again. There's no use in this, it ain't going to help no one or get anything done. Crying and feeling sorry for myself is something I save for them long lonely nights when there's no one about to see me crumble. I can hear my mum's voice in my head telling me to get a grip, that I need to be stronger than this. And she's right. I have to keep it together, for the sake of Molly, for Dave, for the kids, cause that's what I do. That's what's important, to hold them together, to be the strong one that holds them up when they need it, to ground them, to be there for them. And that's what I will do. That's who I am.