A Child under a Hood

One of the most prominent things I can remember from my childhood was the shouting. The crash of various plates and vases that were once wedding presents from friends of my parents. I remember the stamping of heavily booted feet, and the voices, shrieking, roaring, and echoing against the thin walls of our semi-detached house. I remember being huddled under my bed, as a seven year old girl, making all the threats and promises that I could muster to God. But God never did answer. And I guess that’s the reason I didn’t believe in religion as a teenager, or as an adult, now that I can admit it.

The days that were all right were outnumbered, by a substantial margin, by the days that seemed like the devil himself was incarnated into the bodies of my mother and father. However fruitless it may have been, I so desperately longed for the days that made the rain clouds seem like the brightest sunshine, when I felt liked and like a child in my home. Those days were not often.

I remember one day my father came home from the post office with a very official looking white envelope. He came in the door and his red face was smiling. He lurched towards me and instinctively took a step back ready to run in case, he was drunk. Such a thing should never have to be learned by a seven year old girl. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me into his body, and lifted me up with his beefy arm. I was shocked by this gesture, and even though I knew that I should stay weary I leaned into the crook of his neck and encircled my skinny arms around his neck.

He strode into the kitchen to where my mother was lounging on two legs of the chair, a cigarette in one hand, and a glass of whiskey in the other. She was staring out the window at our neighbours Mr. and Mrs. Thomas, who were in the garden pottering about their flawless flower beds, paying rapt attention to every flower. My mother scoffed at them, and took a long drag from her cigarette. My father with his booming voice announced that we were all going to have picnic in the park across the road. My mother raised one thin, arched eyebrow but said nothing. My stomach was fluttering with happiness; we were going to be a family. My mother put on a skirt and a blouse for the occasion and my father changed his shirt and shaved. I spent a half hour trying to tie a blue bow in my hair.

All for nothing. When we arrived home, the whiskey was brought out, and the radio was put on. That was my cue. I hid. I shivered, terrified. I pulled my small blanket around my shoulders and head, so that only my eyes were visible. Wide, unblinking.

The radio didn't drown out the shouting.