Miranda 2

After a minute or two, Miranda got up slowly, in stages – first onto her hands and knees, then crouching, then fully upright, waiting a short while each time, as if she was testing out each position, Then she picked up her bag and, a little unsteadily, she started heading towards the front door. I watched her take a few steps and then called out her name in a loud whisper

“Miranda!””

She stopped, swaying slightly;

“What?”

“Well……are you sure it’ll be okay?”

I was really dubious. I could see why she doing it – there really was nowhere else to go in Golders Green at two o’clock in the morning. We couldn’t exactly sit in her front garden until morning, and even if we did – then what? We’d eventually have to go back in at some point and face her father.

But……what if he was waiting for us? In the dark, on the landing at the top of the stairs, or lurking in his study, ready to spring out at us the minute we stepped through the door? What if he attacked her again? What if he killed her? What would I do then?

We hadn’t talked about the thing that had happened at all – him hitting her. Beyond rubbing her head, and me saying “are you ok? – it all seemed so private – something I wasn’t supposed to see. And I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say, even if I’d been able to. “poor you” sounded patronising , and “does your father normally hit you” felt intrusive. I sighed, then I decided that there really wasn’t any other option, so I picked up my bag and followed her, concentrating very hard on being as quiet as I could.

Everything we did set my nerves on edge – every movement - the creaking of the door as Miranda opened it – the sound of the lock as she shut it behind us – each new noise made me catch my breath – and I listened for other things too – the sound of footsteps to tell us that he was still up, still angry, and potentially coming to get us. I felt sick as we tiptoed up the stairs.

Amazingly nothing happened, and somehow once we were in her bedroom it didn’t seem so bad – as if it was a sort of sanctuary and he wouldn’t be able to get us there. The fear began to subside a little.

Before we got into bed, we propped ourselves by the big window which we’d flung open as wide as it would go, in order to have one last cigarette, blowing the smoke as much as we could towards the garden, talking in low tones.

We were supposed to be getting up early the next morning, so we could go to Bermondsey Market. Miranda’s father had an antique stall there and he’d promised us money if we helped him. We didn’t actually have to sell things, just load and unload the car, and then we could wander off exploring all the strange stalls they had there until it was time to reload the car at the end.

I was worried about seeing him in the morning, but at least it would be daylight, and we needed the money badly - It wasn’t long before Watchfield – the festival we’d been aching to go to all summer. It was free, like Windsor had been the year before although we’d been too young then - but we would need money to buy drugs and the odd meal.

The idea of a whole week of freedom – with no one to tell us off about anything, where we could do whatever we wanted, was deeply thrilling, and I was sure we’d be all right so long as we stuck together - that would be the main thing. Nothing was too awful if you were with a friend.