Friday Reading

Deb's flight has landed her in a strange place, although the breakfast is good . . .

There I go getting lost – again I hear you say but you’ve no idea how lost I got – on memory lane which has no end of twists and turns. Long and winding is right. Yeah yeah and yeah again. So, to backtrack or fast forward to the weeks after I ran away – or was it only days? That time is all muddled and blurred in my head, unlike my memories of Nanna’s salon.

  My night in the clink (well not really but it felt a bit like that) turned out to be the first of many. I thrashed about in the bed, trying to get comfortable. It was like my body wouldn’t let me sleep. Or maybe it was all in my head. Whenever I began to drift off my leg twitched or my arm cramped or my back ached and I stretched or rolled over to find a comfortable position, like an animal on a chain, which was weird because I had imagined I was finally free.

Outside the tiny high up window the sounds of the city trickled into the small hours, cars, sirens, shouts, smashing glass, a tin can rolling along the path and the childlike yowl of a mating cat. It was just as well I didn’t sleep because the next sound I heard was inside the room, beside me. Something was moving beside my bed. A rat? Terror froze every muscle in my body and stopped my breath. A moment later I shot my hand out to catch my cellmate’s arm.

Photo by Jannes Wulff on Unsplash

  What are you doing? I hissed.

  She let go of my backpack and slumped against my mattress.

  I’m sorry, she mumbled. Do you have anything? I need it. Anything.

  Her shuddering rattled my bed and I could almost smell her fear and desperation.

  No, I said, grateful that I had kept my money in a bag around my neck. Only some fags.

  That’ll do, she said.

  I rummaged in the backpack and pulled out the last of my cigarettes. Here, I handed them to her, keep them.

  Thanks, thanks, she seized the package and slunk back to her own bed. There she sat, leaning against the wall, lighting one fag off the other until the single bulb in our cell snapped on and there was a clattering noise in the corridor outside.

  A woman’s voice, the woman I came to know as Heather – much too nice a name for the old witch – called out, Rise and shine, lassies. Time to get up and wash. If only cleaning your souls was as easy as wiping the muck off yer skins.

  It was only then that I noticed the framed poster on the wall with a picture of Jesus, all sad eyes and hippy hair and underneath him a biblical phrase, scribbled over with what must have been lipstick. As far as I could make out the original phrase was ‘Come to me and I will heal you’ but the second part of the phrase had been altered to read ‘for a good time’. Fat chance.      

 The key turned in our door and Heather stepped in. Come on, girls, she began, glancing down at a ledger. Pausing, she jerked her head upright and barked, Who’s been smoking in here? She stared straight at my companion, who had shrouded her head in her thin nylon sheet. Heather strode towards her and whipped the sheet off the girl’s head. I mighta known you’d make trouble as usual, Sal, she snapped. Come on, up with you and wash.

  Wheeling around to face me she said, The same goes for you miss. She consulted her ledger, and drawled Deborah stretching the O. Jewish? She frowned and tilted her head.

  Irish.

  Ah, her face lit up. RC. Good. There’s a few of your lot here. Well now, you can have a wash – towels and soap in the bathrooms at the end of the corridor. Breakfast at 8 sharp in the refectory. Sal knows the way. The nosh is good here, isn’t that right, Sal?

  Sal shrugged and gave her the finger when her back was turned. Stuck up cow, she said.

  All the same I could eat a horse, I said.

  Is that what ‘your lot’ do? Sal mimicked Heather’s Scottish accent.

  Ha ha.

  Leave your backpack there, she offered. I’ll watch it while you go to the bathroom.

  I shook my head. It’s ok. Thanks.

  She sank down on the bed again, looking a bit green.

  Are you all right? I asked. I mean should I get Heather?

  Her laugh was a rough bitter sound, No.   

  Ok. I made to leave.

  Seriously, Deb – is that your name?

  Yes.

  Be careful of this lot. They’ll try to keep you here. For their so-called mission. I’ll skip out after the breakfast.

 I nodded slowly, not sure whether to believe her.

 She told me to hide my backpack in the jacks then duck out when breakfast was over and before the prayers, grab the bag and sneak out by the kitchen.

Heather was right about the breakfast. They put on a good spread. Cornflakes, toast, two sausages and a rasher each and baked beans. I lashed into it but felt sick when I was only half-way through. I slowed down and looked around. There were about thirty of us, women of every age, seated at long tables, all slurping and swallowing like there was no tomorrow. Some chatted, more were silent apart from a couple who broke into shrieks of laughter or a string of curses every so often. Do you know who I thought about then? Grey Coat.  Remember how we were scared of her and Denis told us she was a ‘poor unfortunate’? In a flash I had a picture of me as her, wandering the roads, stark mad and muttering to ghosts. I squeezed my eyes shut to blank out that vision.

  Eat up, pet, they’ll be ringing the bloody bell soon, said the woman beside me.

  I opened my eyes and looked down at the greasy plate. What was I doing here? I had no idea any more. I was crumpled up inside. I shuddered, feeling as though I had lost something. A bell rang and everyone fell silent.

  Time to clear up, lassies, Heather’s voice boomed over us. Chop chop.

  Chairs scraped on the floor and like a rising wave all the women stood up, stacked their crockery and moved towards a hatch at the end of the room. I followed them. A poke in my back made me look around. It was Sal, looking a little better now that she’d eaten. She jerked her head towards the door and winked. Then she was gone.

  I shuffled forward in the file and handed my dishes through the hatch to a woman with a bandana on her head like Hilda Ogden in Coronation Street. For the first time since I had landed in that place I wanted to laugh. Remember how Mam was addicted to Corrie? And the way she talked about all the characters as if they were her friends? And we made up dirty stories about them all? I almost called the woman Hilda! I was one of the last in the queue. Heather was ringing her bell again and telling us it was time to pray. A few of the women snarled and cursed her. That was my chance. I dodged out to the loos, locked myself into a stall, peed, flushed, then looked for my backpack, which I had stashed behind the toilet. It wasn’t there. Panic flapped in me. I even opened the lid of the stinking bin. No. Shit. Maybe I was in the wrong stall.

  I opened the door and walked straight into Heather.

  Looking for something DebOrah? She asked holding up my backpack.

  I reached for it but she yanked it away.

  Where do you think you’re going, lassie?  

  I – I’m looking for my father, I gabbled. I’m meeting someone today.

  Really? Her eyes widened seeing through my lie.

  No – I mean yes – I mean –

  Your real Father is here, you know that don’t you?

  I shook my head.

  If you stay with us we can help you find your earthly father but you will also find your true heavenly Father.

  Really? Will you do that? Shame and relief overtook me and I hung my head. I’m so lost, I said. Tears spilled down my cheeks and that big bossy woman hugged me to her chest saying, There, there, like you would to a baby. 

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As ever I’d be glad to get your feedback on Deb’s (mis)adventures.