We watched our mother die.
We looked down from our bedroom window, my sister and I, and saw mother pouring a bucket of petrol over herself. We did not know that at the time - not at the moment when the liquid splashed over her - that it was petrol. We thought it was water. It was a hot night and we thought that she was cooling herself. The fact that she was fully clothed did not bother us. Whatever mother did was right. I remember saying to Wendy,
"Mother must be very hot." and Wendy replying, "Yes Jo. She's having a shower.
Then mother went up in flames and our dumb observation turned to horror.
The flames quickly spread around and up and down her body. They devoured her like a swarm of yellow locusts. Bright against the night the flames lit up the whole yard, enveloping mother so that we could hardly see her body. Then the narrow pillar of flame staggered and fell, and we started screaming.
They told me afterwards that I had smashed my fist through the window. I do not remember doing that; it was later when my hand was bandaged that I felt any pain. They would not let us see motherfs body. Aunt May who had been brought by the police said that we were in shock and needed rest. Wendy was very pale and trembling. I was trembling too. Later I heard a policeman say to Uncle Albert that the body was unrecognisable. "Burnt to a cinder." he had said.
And still later when the Firemen were getting ready to leave I heard them talking about Wendy and me. "Poor kids." they said. I cried loudly so that they could hear me.
Mother was ill a lot. She never did look ill, but she said she was and that she had to stay in bed. It was lucky that her bouts of illness did not start until Wendy and me were old enough to do the household chores. We were often tired because of the work - mother always seemed to find another chore; but because she had given us the best years of her life we did everything to please her. Somehow, though, no matter what I did, I never seemed to please her.
"If you'd have been a boy, you would have been a joy."
That is what she always used to say to me and I thought that there was something wrong with me because I had not been born a boy. I hated myself for being a girl and I used to pray to God to make me a boy. He never did, so I started to dress like a boy, but mother said that I was too pretty to be a boy. The complement would have cheered me, but mother reminded me that "Beauty don't buy beef." and once more I would feel inadequate.
At school one year I was picked Easter Queen and everyone said how beautiful I looked, but mother reminded me that beauty don't buy beef and I realised that I had been self indulgent. I worked harder at home to compensate for my shameful vanity. Yet, sometimes, I would find myself in front of the mirror holding up my hair like I wore it when I was Easter Queen; but I would become frustrated and lose my temper and mother would admonish me saying,
"Fair face, fowl heart".
Wendy on the other hand never lost her temper. Most of the time she seemed in a kind of dream, never arguing, nor demanding, but always willing to oblige. She would do not only mothers bidding, but also mine. She was an angel, an acquiescent angel. She took after mother in looks, having the same thick red hair and dimples when she smiled. I was dark like my father - so mother said. Wendy and I never knew him. He left us when we were very young. Wendy and mother were close. Mother would pet her like a doll, cuddling her while I laboured alone in the kitchen.
Whenever I felt resentful about being left to do the work I would attempt to make my feelings known by working loudly. I wanted mother to hear me and ask me what was wrong. I would pick up a saucepan, wipe it, and bang it down; or whilst attending to her bed I would pull roughly at the sheets so to disturb her magazine reading and then, adopting the same haughty tone as she say,
"How are we today mother?"
Instead of eliciting her concern, she would smile sweetly and reply,
"Sickness is better than sadness my dear."
I would slide away feeling wretched. Then I'd admonish myself for being inconsiderate and vow to redouble my efforts to alleviate mothers suffering.
I once spent several weeks making her a dress. I secretly took measurements from one of her old dresses. At night after Wendy and mother were asleep I would sew, sometimes into the early hours. When the dress was finished I felt very pleased with my efforts and I was sure mother would also be pleased. I did not want to wait to give her the dress, but I knew that I had to wait for the right moment when mother was in a good mood. Her birthday was too far off and I knew that I could not contain myself for that long a time. I could barely hide my excitement at the prospect of seeing motherfs eyes light up. So, I decided to present the dress to her on Sunday after dinner.
The dishes seemed to take longer than usual that day, but finally I finished and with butterflies dancing inside me I spread the dress in my arms and carried it resplendent into mother's room. Unfortunately she was facing away from me as I entered. She was leaning off the opposite side of the bed pouring a glass of medicine, which she kept in a whisky bottle under the bed. She was drinking from the glass as she turned. I must have surprised her with the dress because she blanched, spluttering her medicine.
"Mother." I said proudly, "I've made you a dress."
"Why?" she said, smiling wanly and wiping her mouth.
I had not expected her to say that. I felt thwarted. I could not, after all, say that I had made her the dress to receive her favour. I had been excited because I had anticipated appreciation, but now my heart's swift palpitations registered only my rising fear that yet another rejection was looming. I swallowed hard and said,
"I thought that you might like something new, er, when you are well, I thought you might like to wear it?"
My voice sloped into despondence as mother took the dress, looked at it joyously and said,
"Better to go to heaven in rags than to hell in embroidery."
* * *
After mothers death our house was sold and Wendy and I went to live with Aunt May and Uncle Albert. Gradually time passed and the memory of mother's terrible demise, for that was how it was referred to, faded, though we both had nightmares about it from time to time.
Life went on. I was fifteen now and mother had been gone for two years and I had only one year to wait before I could leave school and I could not wait! Life with Aunt and Uncle was very free compared to life with mother. They were so afraid to cause Wendy and me upset after what we had been through that they allowed us every indulgence and I gained a degree of independence that I had never known before.
"Jo, you do what ever pleases you." Aunt May used to say, "You two have had enough of lifefs unhappiness to last you both a lifetime".
I had had independence with regard to the household chores whilst living with mother, but in every other respect I was subject to her wise rule. She had always kept a close eye on our education - though now I realise not for our interests. She would criticise our school lessons and told us to ignore them, adding,
"Better untaught than ill-taught."
As a consequence we disregarded much of what we were told in school. I would try to substitute lessons by reading the odd book, but mother discouraged even that feeble attempt to enhance my mind by saying,
"Books and friends should be few and good."
The trouble was that no book was good enough, and she discouraged friendships with the retort,
"Poor folks friends soon desert them."
We believed her. I realise now that good logic does not necessarily make good sense. But back then it followed that if we did not want to be hurt by a potential friend, then we ought to sever an association before other boys and girls discovered that we were poor, and thereby save ourselves much heartache. The consequence of course was that Wendy and me led isolated lives; isolated from other opinions and ideas. Which is just what mother wanted.
In almost everything we were guided and instructed by mother. Now, however, living with Aunt May and Uncle Albert, we could read anything we wanted and meet whomever we wished, but because we had for so long avoided intimate contact with people we were still hesitant, which perpetuated our isolation. I felt, however that I was changing, but such feelings were amorphous, and unable to clarify my thoughts about how I should behave I continued to be unconfident. My reading helped me see things differently and I was slowly, though unconsciously, beginning to comprehend how narrow motherfs views had been.
Wendy however remained much the same. She would still follow me around, like a sparrow tied to a cloud. She was never a nuisance, nor disagreeable, nor did she ever refuse to do anything I asked. I guess that I stepped into motherfs shoes more than I realised at the time. I knew of no other figure to copy. I was still unsure of myself and I found that adopting motherfs ways was the most natural thing to do. I simply inherited mother's manifest character. I was not aware of it at the time, but that adoption was the medium by which mother's true character was revealed to me.
* * *
My last year at school passed and I unceremoniously left. I started a job packing china for a small company in town. Because of my lack of qualifications that was the all the work I could get. The work was light whilst packing; though the finished boxes were heavy, but I was used to hard work so I did not mind. At least I was earning money and I felt that at last that I could "buy beef."
Aunt May at first refused to take any money from me for housekeeping, however after I insisted she finally consented and I felt that at last I was making a contribution. I also took to giving Wendy pocket money. It was something that mother had never allowed us, always saying,
"Better wit than wealth."
We never questioned her. I assumed that she was right and took comfort from the idea that I must be exceptionally witty.
As I grew older the wall of faith in our mothers wisdom was slowly crumbling. I slowly began to realise that mothers 'Horse sense', as she put it, was not good sense.
One of the things that Wendy and me loved about living with Aunt May and Uncle Albert was that we both had a room of our own, before that we had to share a room, and often I resented the lack of privacy. Now, during the summer especially, I liked to sit by my open window and look down on to the garden. It stretched clear down to the road, beyond which the open fields ran all the way to the river. In the distance on a fine day you could just see people on the riverbank, fishing or strolling until the early evening when I suppose they went home for their tea. The river had a particularly strong current so it was rare to find swimmers, although the stronger boys did take a dip on occasion, even though there had been a couple of drownings.
Uncle Albert had erected a swing in the back garden for Wendy and me, though I hardly used it now, but Wendy still enjoyed swinging as high as she could. It seemed to release her feelings in a way, the quick high motion made her laugh with delight and Aunt May loved to push Wendy on the swing. On such summer days Uncle Albert would potter about the garden, digging weeds out from between his precious flowers and trimming the hedges which grew high on either side. Me, I liked the garden too, but most of all I like to sit by the window and play records on a second-hand record player that I had proudly bought for myself. And that is how we all were on the day that mother returned.
* * *
I remember that I was listening to the close of a record when I looked absentmindedly out of the window to the road. A man on a bicycle wheeled past. I followed him with my gaze when he suddenly swerved to avoid a woman who had stepped rather recklessly off the path. She was carrying a suitcase and it fell out of her hand as she abruptly jostled to avoid the bike. The man peddled away and I laughed at the woman when she shook her fist at him.
"You swing that girl any higher and she'll go over the roof."
Uncle Albert's voice drew my attention away from the woman and I turned in time to see him look up to me and wink. Wendy shouted with delight. I focused on the last slow crescendo of the music from my record player. As the music built I turned back to the garden and saw the woman standing at the gate at the bottom of the garden.
There was something about the colour of her hair. The drum beat from the record player quickened.
Wendy swung higher until she was almost level with my window ledge. Her red hair fanned as she swung back.
The woman put down her case and put up her hand in a hesitant wave. The drums rolled into a crescendo, then stopped. In that moment of silence I heard Uncle Albert gasp,
"My God!"
Violins cascaded from the record player as Aunt May turned, looked at the woman, and fainted.
* * *
The irony of that strange reunion was that mother did not recognise me. I must have changed much more than I thought over that three years. When she saw me walk into the living room she assessed me as any competitive woman might assess another at first meeting. For a moment I felt like a stranger, yet instead of disquiet I felt pleased. For the first time in my life mother looked at me, not as her daughter, not as an underling, but as an equal - even, a rival.
The moment evaporated when she recognised me. When she hugged me time whirled backwards around us and I was a mixture of happiness, anger and confusion as I felt myself slip back three years. I was once more her child, her dependent.
It took a long time to explain where she had been and why she had left, but the question that choked the air was - who had been the woman we saw burn if it was not mother?
As mother spoke I was in a kind of daze, my ears deaf, but my eyes taking in her red hair, her green eyes, her nose, mouth, hands, her very presence. It was as if I could not believe her solidity.
'She is here', I kept thinking, 'she is here'.
She cried as she spoke of her conflict when trying to decide whether or not to go away with the man she had fallen in love with back then.
What man?
Only then did I remember that she had become more active several months before she 'died'. She had taken to going out more and more. That she had been seeing a man never occurred to me. I had never seen her with a man. I could not imagine her with a man. Whenever she had spoken of men it was always with enmity. Now, the deviation in her behaviour explained itself. I felt at once betrayed and stupid. The dimples in her cheeks deepened as she smiled expressing how glad she was that she had finally left him and come back to her true family. Her smile faded when she talked about the man, her face grew hard, and she said
"Standing pools gather filth."
After a few hours it was hard to imagine that she had ever been away. Aunt May, now fully recovered from her faint, assured mother that it did not matter why she went away, all that mattered was that she was now back and we all still loved her. I tried to join in with the tears, but the truth was that I did not know how to react to her return. I was caught between how I ought to feel and how I actually felt. There surely must be something wrong with me if I did not feel joy at my own mother's return? I felt guilty, but I sensed my independence slipping away.
We never discovered who the woman who burnt was. The belief arose generally that she was some poor drifter who just happened to pick our back yard in which to kill herself. It was also assumed that because the incident took place at night and Wendy and I were not close enough to see properly and, especially because the woman had her back to us, we made a mistake - indeed everyone had. That the woman had picked the very night that mother had chosen to leave was concluded as a remarkable coincidence. An unfortunate coincidence.
After mother had talked I felt dissatisfied with the way things were left, because it seemed almost as if somehow Wendy and me were to blame. However, I was reluctant to probe. Mother dismissed the matter saying,
"Wise men are silent, only fools talk."
And that put an end to any chance of me voicing my opinion. Further inquiry would clearly have been improper. The consensus was to let bygones be bygones; and that is what we did, even though the air was crowded with questions.
Life returned to not so much how it was before mother had went away, because we were all now living with May and Albert, but it returned to normal in the sense that daily existence quickly became a series of routines again. Mother slipped back into our lives very easily. She just picked up where she left off, the problem was that I was working now and I had gotten used to my independence. Mother, however, resumed treating me as she did before. It was as if - for her - those past three years had not happened. Her attitude exasperated me and we argued - well almost, for I would fall silent and walk away. I had missed her so much at first and I had often dreamt of all the things that we could have done together the three of us. I soon realised that the memories of someone lost are often idealised. We quickly forget the irritations that are intrinsic to all living relationships. We relate to the memory of someone so differently than to the living person. We think only of their finer points, the best in their character; the baser traits are forgotten, or if not, then forgiven. We tend, perhaps, to glamorise the person gone and invest them with qualities they never had.
Now mother was back - and so were all her demands.
I had forgotten how inadequate she made me feel. Nevertheless, I tried hard to resume my role of dutiful daughter, but as time went by and I witnessed mother's readoption of her old ways I began to realise how well as children she had manipulated us. Again she took to sleeping late and tended once more to favour Wendy. The jealousy that I had left behind returned and I resented having that emotion thrust upon me once again.
Mother reawakened quite a few feelings in me that I had forgotten. It was like going back in time, back to an age that I was glad had past. The self-development that I believed had happened to me seemed to drain away and I had not anticipated the degenerating affect mother's return had on me. I struggled not to be the child I was in her eyes, but in her presence I felt almost obliged to act as she wanted me to. Wendy seemed not to mind at all. She quickly resumed her former role; but then she had never really escaped it. I had simply taken mother's place. I had assumed her manner and her wisdom. A wisdom that I now knew was spurious.
During those initial months I fought to hold on to my independence and loosen the grip mother had over Wendy's mind, a grip that I had regretfully perpetuated. I was full of repressed anger. I saw clearly how mother used her 'wisdom' to manipulate Wendy, but still I did not know how to deal with it. I wanted to confront mother, but I was unsure of myself. Then one day everything changed.
* * *
When I returned home from work one evening I found mother and Wendy sitting in the kitchen alone. May and Albert had gone to visit Albert's brother for a few days. The atmosphere in the kitchen was tense. Silence acknowledged my usual greeting and I knew something was wrong. Mother spoke first, ostensibly to Wendy, but her words were directed to me.
"Well, all I know is..." as she spoke my shoulders tightened. More wisdom! "...a beggar can never be bankrupt."
"What's wrong?h I asked glancing at Wendy's downcast head.
"So you've been corrupting Wendy with your new uppity ways have you?"
"Corrupting? What do you mean?" My heart quickened and my mouth went dry.
"Money is the root of all. You know that! Haven't I told you that enough times? Haven't I said that an abundance of money ruins youth?"
"Yes, yes you have."
As I spoke I felt my face flush. I knew that she had discovered about the pocket money that I gave Wendy. I had tried to keep it a secret to avoid the very scene we were having now. I wanted to submit, but for mother to say that the money I gave Wendy would corrupt her was ridiculous. I swallowed hard. I could not allow mother to browbeat me again.
"It isn't much. How could that corrupt her? It is not an 'abundance' as you put it." I felt my face flush and did not know what to say. She took advantage of my pause.
"Now isn't it true that it is easier for a camel to get through an eye of a needle than a..."
"Yes, yes, yes!" I blurted, sick of her slick sayings, "Yes, I suppose it is. But what has that got to do with anything."
"Well, that is right isn't it?"
"Yes the saying is true, I suppose, but it is too much, too much ...I, I don't know." I felt my knees go weak, but I was getting angry with frustration. I wanted to say something, I could say something, I must say something!
"Enough said then." she said.
I could see that she was pleased with herself,
"In the future you will hand over your wages to me. I will deal with the financial things."
"I will not!"
"Well! I never thought that I would hear a daughter of mine speak to her mother like that. After all the things that I have suffered for you."
Her expression turned to one of exaggerated sorrow.
"I suppose that is my lot - to suffer. An hour of pain is longer than a day of pleasure, and I have had my days of pain."
She lowered her head in to her hands and I saw that Wendy was beginning to cry; but my anger did not subsided. I could see through mother's charade and felt repulsed by her shameless act. She wiped her eyes, sniffed and said,
" It is not your fault that you have fallen into bad habits. I was away a long time, but that was not my fault. Now, Jo, just go to your room and I promise that I will deal with all the financial matters from now on. You no longer have to bother yourself with them. I will take all the responsibility again like I did before. I love you both and as I have always said, there is more pleasure in loving than being loved."
I felt my temper burst like the top off a bottle.
"You fake!"
Mother flinched, as if a door had suddenly slammed in her face. It was the first time that I had seen her falter and in that moment I felt a wisp of pity for her, but it was the momentary pity that one might feel for a cruel jailer who faces escaped prisoners. I was ready for revenge, and in a burst of energy I said,
"Youfre a fake! We always looked up to you. You were our guide. You told us what was right and wrong and we believed you. We looked up to you, Wendy and me, but we did not see you. Not the real you. You camouflaged yourself. Not with make up or masks, but with words. You blinded us with your words. Shackling our minds as effectively as chains shackle the hands. 'Beauty can't buy beef'!', I fell for that one. You made me feel ashamed with that one. Ashamed because I might be pretty and I thought that if I was, then I was somehow inferior. Crazy thinking! But you didn't care about the effect that had on me, how those words made me feel. No, all you cared about - and it has taken me so long to realise it - all you cared about was manipulating me so I would obey you."
She tried to protest, but I was not going to let her stop me from saying what I now knew had to be said, that I now knew how to say. All the vague, amorphous jumble of thoughts that I had about mother now clarified. I went on, speaking without thinking, not needing to think. I had said it all before, but in bits, like a jumbled jigsaw. Now the jigsaw in my mind began to assemble itself intuitively. Years of slow subconscious gathering had now produced a regimented force of words. An army of words with which I could now fight back.
''You dominated us, controlled us, not because we were feeble minded, but because you monopolised our instruction. The teachers at school did not have the influence to usurp your domination over our minds. You focused our eyes, tuned our ears, and shaped our thoughts. You alone governed us, bound us, and everything we saw, heard and thought we did so through your eyes, ears and mind. You never encouraged us to think independently, to have opinions of our own. All you did was teach us to regurgitate your ideas, your views, your - prejudices! Yes we were young, yes we are your daughters, yes we are part of you, but we are not imitations, not carbon copies, replicas. Yet how near I became a replica of you when I took care of Wendy, but I had no other guide, nothing else to refer to. I automatically behaved like you. For a while that is, but gradually I started to change. That was inevitable once your influence was gone, because I am an individual and not a replica. You donft love us! You donft even love your self! How nearly I became an imitation of you, but I have not and I never will! I will not be a fake!"
I finished breathless, my heart pounding. I held on to the sink waiting. I wanted to run from the kitchen. I had exhausted my rush of confidence and mother's terrible glare cast me down into a cloud of insecurity. Suddenly I was not sure if what I had said made sense or if I had just blurted out a stream of incoherence. My legs felt weak and I wanted to sit, but I was afraid to move lest I stagger and revealed my vulnerability.
"Who is he?"
Her question confused me.
"Who is who?" I asked.
As soon as I had spoken I realised what she was suggesting and I knew that what I had said did indeed make sense. She did not believe that I had spoken for myself. The idea that I could think independently was absurd to her; therefore someone had influenced me. The idea that it might be a woman was equally absurd to her, therefore - it had to be a man! That would confirm her belief that that I was still powerless and totally impressionable. Her control over me had become tenuous; she had to re-establish her dominance, and the influence of a man was something she could fight.
She could not even contemplate that I could change. As long as I remained feeble her power remained intact. To acknowledge that I had a private mind, thoughts exclusive of her would be to concede defeat, and that she would never do. Wendy and I both belonged to her and she could not comprehend us as independent of her. We embodied her sense of self; we were a dimension of her that could not not belong to her. For us to be, was to belong to her. As long as we existed we were hers. No matter where she was. She could be on the other side of the earth. We were her beings as much as she was her own.
As I stood there gripping the sink and looking at her, thoughts lit in my mind like an array of candles lighting one by one.
She saw in us not only herself in a biological and emotional sense, but also as extensions of her, a genetic entitlement, essentially - her property. We were kin, but not akin: not equal. She identified with us only insofar as we were her possessions. We were from her, but not equal to her. We came after her in time and were therefore secondary - of lesser worth.
A sigh broke slowly from my lips.
"There is no man, mother." I said warily as if I was talking to child who thought she had all the answers. I glanced at Wendy. She was looking at me with an expression that I could not decipher as either fear or awe. Wendy did not know it but I desperately wanted her support, but I did not know if she had even understood the exchanges between mother and me.
Mother cast a glare at Wendy and the girl lowered her eyes. Even if she understood, did she agree with me? Then I noticed that as she looked at the floor there was on her face an unmistakable grin. She had understood! My heart lifted! Perhaps, like me, she had been searching for a way to express her confused thoughts about mother?
"So the worm has turned!" spat mother, her eyes gleaming like a tiger about to spring. "If you think that you can get the better of me my girl."
She rose slowly from her chair and I, surprised at the contained violence in her voice, shrank back.
"Men, the foul, stinking lot of them." she hissed, "They think they can control anyone and everything. Say anything to get they own way. But they can't! Don't you see that youfre being used? You little fool. I can see it in your eyes. He's got you all right, with his filthy promises."
She moved across to Wendy and curled her arms around the girl.
"You think that you can split up my little girl and me? Let him have you, but I warn you that he'll just use you then throw you off like an old jacket. Well, he's welcome to you - you fool! But he'll not get my baby, he'll not get his dirty hands on my little girl."
Wendy struggled to free herself from mother's grip.
"Youfre hurting me!" she cried.
I took a step towards them.
"Get back!" spat mother, her lips twisting into a snarl so frightful that she looked insane.
The telephone rang.
Relief surged through me as it would a tried boxer at the sound of the bell. I moved away glad of an interruption that might cool the situation which for me was getting very difficult to handle, while, shockingly, mother seemed to thrive. I hesitated, then went into the living room to answer the call.
"Hello?"
I tried to control my trembling voice. I did not care who the caller was, I was just glad of the chance to collect my thoughts and calm down. If the telephone had not rang I felt sure that mother would have physically attacked me.
"Hello? Who is it?" I knew that there was someone on the other end of the line, but I got the distinct impression that whomever it was was hesitating as if afraid to speak.
"Is theyfre anyone there?" I asked. I was not in the mood for jokes.
"Oh dear, is that you Jo?"
I recognised Aunt May's voice. She sounded strange, whispering as if afraid to be overheard.
"Yes Aunt, this is me. Is there something wrong?"
"Jo, listen to me. Is your mother there - I mean, in the room?"
She spoke in an urgent tone that made me more tense. I instinctively cupped my hand to the speaker and said in a hushed voice,
"She is here, but no, not in the room. Whatever is the matter Aunt May?"
"And Wendy, where is Wendy?"
I turned to look at the kitchen door. It was half open, but I could see no movement.
"She's in the kitchen with mother." I whispered, "The thing is... well, there's a bit of a situation..." I hesitated. I did not want to tell Aunt May about the row and upset her more than she sounded. "Just what is wrong Aunt May?"
I was getting exasperated. I had had quite enough tension without May unwittingly compounding my state.
"Albert's brother lost his camera and we went to the police station to report it and we had to wait because it took along time to give all the details of the camera and while we were waiting we saw a poster..."
After her rush of words she hesitated as if not sure how to put what she wanted to say, but then she went on,
"It was a picture, a photograph, of my sister - your mother. A policeman noticed our reaction to the poster and questioned us an we had to admit who we thought it was because we could not be absolutely certain and he took us into a room and while we were talking it transpired that the woman on the poster had a habit of expressing her self with maxims and proverbs and such. Well then we really knew because that's her isn't it; she does that, always saying things that sound so wise that you don't know how to answer and she gets all superior."
That Aunt May had noticed mother's trick surprised me and I felt a puff of delight amongst the dark turmoil that I felt.
"Yes, yes I do know." I said, "But what about the poster? What was a picture of mother doing in a police station?"
"Oh Jo - she's wanted for attempted murder!"
I did not react. I felt as if I had been dowsed in a bucket of cold water and for a moment stood shocked.
"Jo, are you still there?"
"Yes, yes Aunt May. I can't believe what you've said. Are you sure - who, who did she attempt to kill?"
"That man, the man that she said she had left because he was no good. She tried to poisoned him. Jo, the police are on their way. They told me not to phone, but I was so worried about you and Wendy that I made an excuse to get away and call you. Be careful. Get out of the house. Get Wendy and leave the house, but don't let your mother know that anything is wrong. She must be unstable. She might harm you. Just get away!"
I put down the receiver with a trembling hand, turned and looked at the open kitchen door. What was I to do? What could I do to get Wendy away without mother getting suspicious; without her getting furious and another row breaking out? I tried desperately to calm myself. I would call Wendy into the living room and get her out as quietly as I could. But surely mother would follow her in. Calm, I knew that I must keep calm. How long would it take for the police to arrive?
With these thoughts swirling in my mind I crossed the living room treading the carpet as if it were made of glass. I paused at the door. No sound. Strange for mother to be so quite. I went in. The empty kitchen stared back at me. I went to the window and looked out at the back garden. The swing hung swaying slightly in the gathering breeze. No one sat in the garden chairs, nor played ball on the lawn, nor tended to the flowers. I wanted normality. My heart began to pound. A sudden gust of wind swung the back gate. The hinges emitted a pitiful squeak as if it were an animal in pain.
I ran to the gate and looked up and down the road. It was deserted. At that time in the evening as the sun was setting there were never many people around, even the river bank would be deserted by now. I walked across the road. I held my arm up to shade my eyes from the low sun and looked across the field. My whole body was filled with urgency. What was I to do? Where were they? If anything happened to Wendy I...
Suddenly my eyes caught two figures far across the field towards the river. One figure was much taller than the other and seemed to be pulling the smaller. I moved forward squinting. It must be them? Then I heard a cry. It came from the direction of the figures. A long wailing call. My name! I recognised my name being called out across the field.
I rushed forward waving and calling out Wendy's name. A cloud veiled the sun for a moment I could see the two figures clearly. Mother was almost dragging Wendy along and from her actions I could see that the girl was fighting desperately to separate herself from mothers grip. Infused with a desire to rescue Wendy I dashed towards them. The uneven ground caused me to stumble and make my going rough, I thought I would fall a few times and I had to slow my pace in order not to injury my self. I would be of no use to Wendy if I twisted an ankle. Questions raced before me like hounds after a fox. Did mother really attempt to murder a man? Did she overhear the phone call? What did she intend to do? Surely she didn't think that she could get away? Just before they disappeared behind the trees on the bank Wendy turned and reached out to me, but mother snatched her away and they were gone from my view.
The thick clusters of leaves on the trees waved as the growing wind chased through the branches. It was as if the trees had caught the desperation in me, understood my plight and like supporters in a race urged me on. I rounded the first tree and immediately spotted mother and Wendy on the narrow, wooden bridge that spanned the river. A rickety bridge. It had been built with others along the river many years ago by clubs that supported fishing tournaments up and down the river. Maintenance of the bridges had not been kept; the structures were now in such a worn out state that only adolescent boys dared each other to cross.
"Keep away!" Mother shouted. Her red hair flaying madly in the fast gathering wind as she tugged at Wendy who held tight to one of the bridge's rails. There were in the middle of the bridge. Mother gave one mighty pull to tear Wendy away from the rail. It loudly cracked and snapped. Mother and Wendy fell back against the opposite rail. The combined weight was too much for the rail and it broke. I watched aghast as they fell twisting into the river.
For a moment they were both lost from my sight, then a body broke the surface. It was mother splashing and gasping for breath. I rushed along the bridge to the broken rails shouting out Wendy's name and feverishly scanning the rapid water. She burst out of the water heaving for air. At the sight of Wendy, I jumped. My body was shocked by the cold water as I plunged under. I fought to hold my breath; involuntary flaying my arms and legs and propelling myself to the surface The current wreathed me in its fast folds and struggled to pull me under. I panicked and thrashed wildly. I managed to control my movements and turning around in the churn of the surface I looked for Wendy.
She was floundering to my right heading away quickly with the current. I heard splashing behind me. I turned, pushing against the seething water and I saw mother strike out after the girl. I was caught now with only the desire, to protect Wendy. Mother would not have her! I had to fight! I kicked off my shoes and tore off my skirt so that I could move faster. I inhaled deeply and thrust my self after them, swivelling and weaving in the undulating river. I swam until my arms ached and I felt that I could go no further. I pushed myself up above the surge to check my bearings.
Panic again seized me. The river ahead was empty. They had drown! I turned and twisted in the coiling, enveloping water, and with spray seeking to blind me I suddenly saw them. They were entangled in each otherfs arms like a double figurehead of a wrecked ship. They came rushing towards me in a fume of water. In my blind frenzy I must have swum past them both. Our bodies collided. We grappled; ejecting loud cries as the river swept us on. Clasping my arms around Wendy I struggled to pull her free from mothers grasp. We heaved upon one another, spluttering, bobbing and forcing out faces to the sky.
Amongst the thrashing I noticed that we were fast approaching another bridge. I let go of Wendy and grabbed hold of mother, curling my arms about her neck. I knew what I was going to do. What I had to do!
The heave of water helped me lift myself on to motherfs shoulders. The river snaked and swivelled around us like a serpent. The water slapped into my eyes as I rose up and pushed down as hard as I could. Mother dipped easily under my weight and went down. I raised my knees so that they caught her shoulders and pressed until in the frenzy she descended away from me. I reached out and caught Wendy's hand and, as if she knew it was mine, for she could not have in that swivel and wring of water, clutched hold of me. The current swept us under the small wooden bridge. I swung out and grabbed a strut of the narrow bridge curling my arm about it to halt our flow. Wendy locked her arms around my shoulders and pressed her face into my neck.
I looked around for mother expecting her to burst up from the surface, but nothing happened. The river rushed on empty of concern. A witness to nothing but it's own swift journey.
* * *
We were not in the water for long. Just after I had struck out after mother and Wendy, Uncle Albert had reached the house with the police. They had spotted me crossing the field and had quickly given chase.
* * *
Years have passed since all that happened. Wendy is at university and I am married with a daughter of my own, whom I encourage to think for herself. She will have the chance to find her own way with me as only her loving guide.
Mother's body was never found. The police said that it should have washed up on the bank further down the river, but it did not. I wish that it had been found. I wanted to be certain. I guess that I never will be. From time to time I think that I see her, in a store, or walking along the road, or waiting at a bus stop; but it always turns out to be someone else. I do not think that I will ever get over the quickening of my heart when that happens.
At the time of mother's drowning Uncle Albert said something that I did not understand for a long time afterwards. He would not explain himself. He said,
"You can never step into the same river twice."
Now I think that I know what he meant.
The water in a river is forever flowing - like time. The water that fills a river today is not the same water that filled it yesterday; nor will it be the same tomorrow. The water has moved on though the river is still there. The same river, but different water.
Mother came back to her river and expected to find it the same, but her daughters had moved on. We were not the same as we were yesterday. You can never step into the same river twice. I guess mother tried.