Enid - Chapter One

In the beginning, there was no Father. Enid is sure of this. None of her first fuzzy memories have Father in them. There was Mother, but she was not the same. Enid remembers lying on her back in a pink room, with sparkling angels, or perhaps they were fairies, dangling above her, always out of reach. She remembers Mother, who was called Mummy then, leaning over to kiss the tip of her nose. Mother’s hair would fall forwards, and surround Enid like a veil. The hair had a sweet smell. Enid’s tiny hands would attempt to grab it, and Mother would laugh. Then she would sing songs until Enid drifted off to sleep. This was in the days when laughing, and singing and hair that was free to fall forwards were things that were still allowed.

There was someone else too, someone that was neither Mother nor Father, but was always there, even when Mother was not. When it grew light, strong hands would lift Enid from where she lay and walk with her to the window, all the time whispering softly. Enid’s hands would cling to the neck of this person who was not Mother, but had the same smell. She would rest her head against a cool, fuzzy cheek. The person who was not Mother would sway gently as, together, they watched the street below. Cars and buses purred. Sometimes an angry horn would sound. Enid and the woman still swayed, safe and undisturbed.

Sometimes, the woman and Mother did not speak in whispers. Speaking not to Enid, but to each other, their voices would grow hard and cold. Things would be thrown, there would be the sound of feet thumping on stairs, the slamming of doors. Suddenly it would grow quiet. Mother would be gone for a long time. The woman would lift Enid and sway with her. Her fuzzy cheek would feel wet.

Always, just as Enid was beginning to forget Mother, and the way the room looked through the veil of her hair, there would be the sound of a key turning in the door, then a gentle closing, so as not to disturb the peace inside. Then, there would be the sound of crying, and Enid could not tell if it came from Mother or the woman, or from both of them. Mother and the woman held each other for a long time. Afterwards, for a long time, there would be no loud noises.

Enid grew. She left behind her cot, and the sparkling fairies, and spent her nights in a princess bed with a pink quilt. At night, Mother would pull the quilt up to Enid’s chin before she turned out the light. Sometimes, she would lie down next to Enid, singing softly until she fell asleep and stroking Enid’s hair. These were the best times. Sometimes Enid would wake, when the sunlight made patterns dance across the quilt, to find Mother still sleeping beside her. Sometimes she would wake in the darkness, to the sound of Mother’s crying. These times made Enid sad, although she could not have said why.

Things grew less fuzzy. The loud sounds and the quiet sounds formed themselves into words that Enid could understand. The woman and Mother always spoke kindly to her. But in the next room, through the walls, she sometimes heard words that made her afraid. Mother spoke of leaving. Sometimes the woman cried and pleaded, and sometimes she shouted. She complained about skirts too short and tops too low. She used words that Enid did not understand. But she knew they were bad words. There were slamming doors again. There were days and days with no Mother. Then, suddenly, Mother would be there, bending over the Princess bed, giggling like a little girl and kissing Enid, leaving behind a strange taste on her lips.

Then one day there was Father. He sat on the edge of the sofa, as though it might swallow him if he relaxed back into it. He wore a suit, and his shoes were polished. But he did not look smart. He looked old and already used up. He did not smile. Mother sat next to him, but they did not touch. The woman put plates of sandwiches on the coffee table in front of them. Ham and thinly sliced cucumber, mashed up egg, cheese, all trapped in slices of thin white bread. Father took one, but left it unbitten on his plate. He smacked his hand together, as if to shake the germs of the house away. Mother smiled, but it was not a happy smile. The woman stared at him, her lips pressed firmly together. She folded her arms across her body. She said nothing.

Father did not look at Enid. He clasped his hands together. His thumbs massaged each other. He stared at the wall in front of him. Mother and the woman chattered like anxious birds. Enid pressed her knees tightly together, and pulled her dress down as far as it would go. Silently, she pretended to read her book. Each time she turned a page she glanced up at Father. Finally, he turned to her. He took the book from her hands, holding it away from him, as though it might harm him. He spat out the words of the title as though they were poison. Then he threw the book across the room. It hit the wall, leaving a dent in the flowered wallpaper.

‘Filth’ he said. He still did not look at Enid. The woman took a breath, as if to begin speaking, but then just swallowed and collected the plates. She took them out to the kitchen. Mother squeezed her hands together. She was still smiling her unhappy smile, as though nothing had happened. Enid stared at Father. As though he sensed this, he raised his eyes and stared back. She felt his eyes burning into her. She looked down at the carpet, counting the swirls.