The Butcher's Daughter Page 2
Despite losing my mother at such an early age and losing count of the number of times I’d been told to “toughen up”, I think, looking back, I’d done a pretty good job of doing exactly that. My father expected a lot from me, girl or not, because one day I was going to inherit his butcher’s business. At least that was what he was always saying. Until then, there was to be no crying, screaming or talking back—Frank’s Law he called it. For once, I agreed with him, making up my mind not to cry. I was too young to know where such thoughts came from but after being tricked into visiting the slaughterhouse that day, I knew there was nothing he could do that would make me eat the flesh of an animal again. Not even if he slammed my head into a plate of raw meat, like he had the last time I stood up to him. Nor would l take over the butcher’s shop as he expected me to. Butcher’s daughter or not.
Thornhaugh
‘Then’
I wake up at Thornhaugh. Familiar. Menacing. Safe. Terrifying, Thornhaugh. No matter what I do, or where I go, it will not let go of its grasp on me. I wonder if perhaps after all this time, Thornhaugh is, and always will be, my real home. During World War II, US Intelligence Forces occupied the three-storey Tudor building and there are leftover relics to prove this—old typewriters that were once used in the CIA typing pool, whose keys are now eerily silent. Set in ten acres of woodland and made from traditional red brick, it has a sweeping drive with elaborate iron gates and has every appearance of being a country house hotel. Except it is not! The Thornhaugh of today is a mental institution.
When I hear Dr Moses’ familiar tread outside the door, my heart sinks. Rather than think about how he is going to react when he sees the fresh cuts on my arms, I think about the terrible nightmare I had last night, where everyone I knew kept on insisting that my mother was dead but, in my heart, I did not believe them. I still don’t, come to that. The dream was there on my pillow when I woke up and stayed with me all morning while my head was still clear and not yet blunted by medication. I have been warned, many times, that these nightmares are a hindrance to my getting better.
‘And you do want to get better, don’t you, Natalie?’ Dr Moses will insist on knowing. His disappointment in me is obvious, but as my doctor, he understands that I sometimes slip into a world of blackness in order to escape the truth. That blackness can take various forms, including self-harming, but I don’t think even he is aware of the extent of my problem. I am grateful that he finds time for special long-term patients like me though, because without the calming, gentle influence of that man, who is more uncle and protector than doctor, I doubt I would be considering returning home.
After my latest setback, I am surprised that he still thinks it is a good idea to send me away, but apparently that is his intention. I do not know how I feel about this. All I know is, the thought of returning to my father’s house makes me want to cut some more. Hating what goes on inside my head, I remind myself of a mad dog I once saw on the beach who could not stop attacking the waves, despite never getting anywhere, and I wonder who else but me wakes on a glorious morning like this and immediately has such black thoughts. The answer comes to me on my next breath. My mother of course.
They say that daughters eventually turn into their mothers and I have good reason to believe this to be true in my case because my life has turned into a living nightmare, as my own mother’s did. In the end, it was mental illness that destroyed her, and I worry the same thing will happen to me. “Everyone has to die sometime,” she used to say, in that disarming, carefree way of hers that made it sound as if death didn’t matter. And perhaps it doesn’t. Because as I lie here, with my long black hair spilling out on the pillow, I imagine she is close by; that her hand is resting a few inches from mine. And why not? Her warm breath against my face feels as real as anything else I have experienced today.
The truth is, I am no longer sure what is real anymore. At times, a black cloud occupies my mind, fogging up the past. Sometimes, I remember with clarity everything that has happened to me; other times I am lost and confused, suspicious even of those I love. They accuse me of seeing only what I want to see but I see things no one in their right mind would choose to see. I try to explain that I feel as if I am a ghost, flitting in and out of people’s lives, barely there at any one time, but no one listens; except when it’s bad stuff, and then it gets written down and repeated back to me in a dramatic tone of voice, which makes me want to laugh aloud. But I do not. Because that truly would be insane.
They say the psychotic imaginings I sometimes experience can be caused by a sudden withdrawal of the medication they have prescribed for me, but I do not believe this. All I know is, on the days when I deliberately stop taking my pills, the world is a less confusing place. That’s when hazy memories from the past, the kind they don’t want me to remember, haunt me, until I start to think that I am not the mad one here. They are.
In the afternoon I am summoned to the library, where I have been warned not to touch the rare and irreplaceable books. I look out onto the landscaped lawns instead, which are surrounded by gravel walkways that do not lead anywhere, except back to Thornhaugh. A gardener, high up on a ladder, wrestles with the claustrophobic ivy that clings to the dark and shadowy east wing where I was kept against my will for endless winters, a pale white face pressed up against a long grey window.
As I watch patients meandering about the grounds, I realise belatedly that none of them are known to me. I have spent most of my childhood within these walls, thirteen years in fact, but I have made no effort to make friends, mainly because I always felt I was not like them. Them, is a word that can be used to describe either patients or staff; depending on whose side you are on. Now that I am finally leaving, I watch them with renewed interest. Nurses escort some but others sit alone on benches and pluck at their clothing. I get the feeling that if I came back tomorrow, they would still be there, doing exactly the same thing.
I should be happy because I am going home. But inside I am terrified. The same scared little girl I have always been. I dare not let on that I have my doubts, that I am not sure I am ready, otherwise…
Through the partially open door, I catch a glimpse of the grand staircase and gold leaf ceiling belonging to the main hall; a place of beauty that largely goes unnoticed here, blinded as we are by our own afflictions. Back when Thornhaugh was a wedding venue, brides used to have their pictures taken gracing the oak staircase and l find myself wondering if I will ever marry. I often daydream about slipping my arms into the cool silky folds of a wedding gown and having it fastened by my father’s hands.
I am not allowed in the main parts of the house though and perhaps for that reason, I long to explore its forbidden rooms. Sitting here, in the old-fashioned library, in the smaller of the two leather armchairs, has me imagining I have gone back in time, to another life. I suppose this tendency to dip in and out of different worlds is why I have been kept under lock and key so long.
There is a flurry of excitement at the door as Dr Moses finally makes an appearance. Behind him, a blurring of white uniform, stockinged leg and too much perfume. In he comes, appearing stern and serious, shooing out the nurses and closing the door on their indignant faces. But as soon as we are alone, he smiles and takes his place in the chair opposite. A fatherly figure with a grey beard, he observes me kindly enough, but although I am a grown woman, I cannot meet his eye, because he is looking down on my bent head as if I am still an inconsequential child. Under such well-meant scrutiny, I feel like one.
‘You think you’re ready, Natalie?’ Dr Moses appears doubtful.
I nod and look at my hands in my lap, resisting the urge to bite my fingernails but losing the battle to pinch and twist as hard as I can the skin between my thumb and forefinger. The pain calms me as no sedative can.
‘Your family doesn’t think so.’
At this, my head bounces up. The very mention of my father causes my face to sharpen.
‘You’re the doctor. What do you think?’ I demand haught
ily.
Dr Moses does not like to be challenged, not even by me, who he looks upon as his own daughter. However, like my real father, his disappointment is obvious. His eyes blink away from me and grow distant. Then, from underneath an elbow, he removes a Manila folder and places it on his lap. Always immaculately dressed, he wears a suit in a pale shade of grey that is the same colour as his eyes. In all my life, I have never seen him without a silk tie and cufflinks. I watch him flick through pages of typewritten notes and notice that the file has my name on. Case notes – Natalie Powers, it says, and my curiosity is piqued. The content must be particularly damning because Dr Moses appears deeply troubled.
‘You always do that. Look at your notes when you don’t know what to say,’ I observe.
Dr Moses leans back in his chair and appraises me clinically. ‘What if you start doing it again?’
‘I won’t.’ I’m determined, because it is important that he believes me.
‘The law says I can’t keep you here against your will. But if you screw up, Natalie, you could end up being sectioned indefinitely.’
Little Downey Beach
‘Now’
The gulls can scream and taunt me all they like but I will not budge from my favourite rock, where I sit, looking out to sea. The outcrop is smooth and cold against my skin, like the blade of a knife. A feeling I like. But the sea betrays me; because it is calm, unlike how I feel. Glancing over my shoulder, I glare at the house by the sea, whose shadow I have never been able to escape. It figures in my life as a cruel older sister might. Even from here, my old home appears neglected and uncared for. Home. Did I really use that word, if only in my head? I know that if I stare long enough at its creepy windows, I will see the silhouette of a ghost staring back at me. My mother is always there, waiting, somewhere, in the distance.
The smaller gulls keep to the skies, I notice, but the larger more aggressive herring gulls hold their ground. Their screeching would send a chill up most people’s spines. But not mine. The biggest of them dances on the spot and flaps its wings. It has my father’s eyes. Small. Blue. Cold. The authoritative stance is similar too. I stretch out a hand, only for it to attack me with its beak. The red staining on the end of its bill immediately makes me think of blood. Glancing at my ghostly white legs which are crisscrossed with angry scars—a plethora of old and new cuts—I fight back the urge to dig in my nails and open them up.
Instead, I take the photograph out of my pocket and look for fresh clues in my mother’s face, even though I have looked at this picture a thousand times before. Why did you do it? Why did you have to go away? These are the same questions I ask myself every day before fresh doubt sets in, like—But what if she didn’t do it? What if she didn’t go away? I try to look at her as if I am seeing her for the first time. What do you see, Natalie? I ask myself. I see that my mother has the same serious face and haunted eyes as me and is beautiful in an intense, dreamy sort of way. Her hair is long and black, like mine, but there is a lightness to her eyes that is absent in my own. People tell me I look just like her but I suspect they say this to be kind. Like me, she is painfully thin. I am twenty-three and I have still not filled out as I had hoped to. Odd that she should look so serious when I remember her being quite the opposite. On occasion, she was even able to make my father laugh, which was mostly unheard of back then. Zero chance now, I reckon. She often accused him of taking himself too seriously and I wonder if this is where I get my solemnity.
Thinking about my mother still makes me feel sad but sometimes I get angry too. There are times, like today, when I hate her more than I ever loved her. How could she leave me at a time when I needed her most? I sigh and hunch my shoulders, tired of the same old arguments that go on inside my head. Guilt haunts me though. I must be as bad as they say I am to have such thoughts about my own mother. As for my father…
It is time. I cannot put this off any longer.
I scoot a pebble into the sea and slip on my sandals, noticing that my toes have turned blue from dangling in the water too long. As I get to my feet, a breeze lifts the hair off my shoulders to partially cover my face. Through this blindfold, I can still see the distant rooftops of the village beckoning. Somewhere amongst them is my father’s shop.
Little Downey
An old-fashioned bell above the shop door announces my arrival long before I’m ready to enter, yet everyone’s eyes are on me as soon as I step inside. Out of the corner of one eye, I see a blur of red, white and grey cuts of meat in a glass counter and standing behind it is a man I do not automatically recognise because he has aged dramatically. Did you expect him not to have altered? Even though he saws energetically through a carcass of beef, I can tell that his size and strength has diminished. I will myself not to feel good about this but at the same time I cannot help willing him to glance up. To notice me. He is aware of my presence, but deliberately keeps his eyes downcast, giving me time to get to know his face again. The nose is bigger than I remembered and redder than the steak mince in the window. The thinning hair is also new. For some reason, this cuts me to the core and I feel my eyes well up, even though I have warned myself against this. Don’t go all soft on him, Natalie.
He might have changed but the shop has not. It is still dark and cluttered inside and the colourful bunting does little to jolly it. The jam pots with frilly covers have faded labels on them that are impossible to read, and over there, in the corner, is a rusted chest freezer whose lid used to catch. I wonder if it is still used to store game. An older boy, somebody who worked for my father, once shut me inside it, ignoring my screams to be let out. Inside there were dead animals. My skin crawls at the memory of their bodies lying next to me.
I turn my attention to the clean-shaven blond-haired assistant who has not taken his eyes off me since I entered the shop. Could this be the same boy who put me in the freezer for a joke? He is a few years older than me and looks more like a college graduate than a butcher’s assistant but his striped apron and white-indoor hands indicate otherwise. He has a look of the village about him. The same eyes. Small. Blue. Cold. Like my father’s. Luckily for me, I inherited my mother’s beautiful brown eyes that are so dark as to appear black. Although he is staring at me open-mouthed, I decide there is something likeable about the young man’s face, even if he does have Little Downey stamped all over him, just like the meat in the counter.
Nobody moves. Nobody says anything. It is almost as if time stood still the second I walked through the door. But I know, better than most, that time is not something to be thrown away. Haven’t I promised myself not to waste another second of it.
‘Father,’ I say, taking a deep breath.
‘Daughter.’
Behind me, there is a shocked intake of breath and I sense that multiple pairs of eyes are gawping at us. But my father bestows on me the most cursory of glances before resuming his hefty sawing. The eyes are as I remember and give nothing away.
Frank, my father, can hardly bring himself to speak. ‘It’s been a long time.’
My reply is also slow in coming. ‘Thirteen years.’
Fighting back tears of rejection, I close the shop door behind me and almost trip over the butcher’s bicycle propped up on the pavement outside. Each morning my father wheels it out, dusts off the sign that claims a tie which no longer exists— “Frank Powers & Daughter” and wheels it in again at night. I am surprised it has survived. My father disowned me years ago and judging by his reluctance to acknowledge me just now, continues to do so.
Not knowing what else to do, I make my way down the sloping hill towards the beach. The pavements are smooth, but hills go off in every direction, making walking difficult. Tucked away in a steep-sided valley adjacent to the coastline, there is no escaping Little Downey in the winter months when ice and snow make the roads impassable. Eight people are said to have disappeared during the severe winter of 1911 when the village was cut off from the rest of Wales. Although presumed dead, their bodies were never found.
Keeping my head down, I familiarise myself with the layout of the village and find nothing has changed. The pastel-coloured cottages still look as if they are about to tumble down the steep inclines they cling to. There are no new additions. Some of the cottages even have the same curtains hanging in the windows. Beyond the houses, rocky cliffs rise out of nowhere, 250 feet high. A stone’s throw from the sea, the Pembrokeshire coastal path runs straight through the heart of the village, but visitors rarely come through here now. Outsiders are not welcome in Little Downey. Only those who are born here tend to end up staying.
To my left, up another hill, is Little Downey’s only pub, a rustic seaside inn that overlooks the bay. It is an impressive building, painted white with glossy black woodwork. A few broken fishing boats, relics of times gone by, are docked side by side in a rocky cove beneath the pub, giving it a quaint air. I have never been inside the pub, but I know that this is where the likes of my father and his cronies go to talk shop. Shop being butchery, everyone’s favourite subject in the domino corner of The Black Bull.
Feeling the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, I come to a standstill, certain that more prying eyes are on me. Sure enough, when I glance over my shoulder, I see that my father and his assistant have come out of the shop to see me off and I experience a strong sense of déjà vu, as if I have lived this moment many times before.