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Mother's Milk
I'd been in bed for about a week when I heard my mother explaining to her sister, my favorite aunt, that I was ill. I was scared. Not of my aunt but of her seeing me the way I was. Their voices came nearer as they climbed the bare stairs, and as they did I put my mother's instructions into play. I got down among the covers, hiding my face, and acted as though I was asleep. Closing my eyes tightly I even tried to convince myself that I was sleeping but my heartbeat thumped and echoed in my ears. It was like a drum uncontrollably beating out the truth. I pressed further into the pillow as the door opened and my mother's voice was saying, 'He's fast asleep... Let's leave him to rest.'
My aunt came over to the bed and I felt her kiss the exposed top of my head. It felt both good and bad at the same time. Good, because she was kind and loving and I so wanted to open my eyes and see her warm friendly face. Bad, because I was scared stiff that she'd see I was awake and begin to ask questions and things. I didn't know if I could remember the story or not and I didn't want to cause any trouble. I was more relieved than disappointed when they left.
When the door closed behind them I waited until I could hear them downstairs before throwing the covers off my body. I was wearing only a shirt which I lifted to look once again at myself. The bruises on and around my bottom and legs were definitely getting better and my face only felt a little numbed now. I'd soon be able to get up. I must learn to avoid the buckle of the belt next time. It wouldn't be all that easy but I could do it. I could do lots of things without getting caught, so I could avoid a buckle dead easy next time. It was my own fault anyway. If I'd stolen the milk off a doorstep as usual then I wouldn't have got the belt in the first place, would I?
Thinking about that damned milk only made me feel hungry but I'd just have to cope with that. Instead, I shifted from the wet part of the bed to a dry spot and felt how good it was. It would be even better when it got warm. Yes, I could always get out of a mess, and like the wet part of the bed it was my own fault that I'd got into this one.
I'd arrived home from school very hungry and as usual the house was as empty as everything in it. I went into the kitchen to see what I could find. If there was bread I could dip it into the fat in the frying pan and have a feast. But today my brother James had obviously beaten me to it. There wasn't even a breadcrumb. Looking around to see what else might be available I determined to get home before him the next day. The door leading to the walk-in pantry under the stairs was open and there I saw the prize. On the top shelf, all by itself, was a bottle of milk, about a quarter of it gone. I knew the risks involved so I looked to the other shelves, already knowing there was nothing on them. The more I looked around the more beautiful the milk seemed to be. The mark on the bottle, indicating the level of the milk inside, stopped my stretching hand inches away as I stood tiptoe on top of the stool. I must have stood rigidly like that for a long time, just looking at the bottle. Then, all at once, I worked it out. It was a perfect plan. All I had to do was take a short swig from the bottle and then top it up with water. No sooner had I hatched this mighty plan than I'd had the swig and was on the way to the tap in the back yard to top it up, also taking a long drink directly from the tap. Putting the bottle back I checked that it was as before and that the level of the liquid exactly matched the mark on the bottle. It did, and I was confident that my genius had served me well. It just never crossed my mind that the shelf would be marked too. But you could bet anything you like that I'd check and double-check next time around.
Just as I was at the point of talking this kid in the street into parting with one of his sweets I heard my mother calling my name. Her tone informed me that my genius had failed me yet again. I knew better than to delay for a single second and the kid kept his sweet. As I got closer to the front door the facial expression of my mother filled the street and I knew I'd been sussed.
'Get inside! Where's James?'
I ducked and dodged below and between her long arms and the door post. I had just a second to do so in the knowledge that she wouldn't lash out whilst on view to the street. She never once hit me in a public place. Instead, she would fix me with her penetrating eyes and punish me when we arrived back home. Never once did she forget to do so.
'I don't know. I think he's in Billy's.'
I headed for the safety of a corner in the living room. She marched through to the kitchen and called me to follow, which naturally I did.
'Well?'
I looked at her blankly as I tried to hug the step between the living room and the kitchen. Half hoping, half praying that it wasn't to do with the milk. I stepped back very slowly.
'Where do you think you're going? What have you got to say for yourself?'
I silently stepped forward that one tiny step. Silence was always the best policy at moments like these.
'Bloody thief.'
When she grabbed me she vomited out all her pain.
'Two fingers the same bloody length! Thief!'
She slapped my face, body and legs.
'Thief, you'll rot in hell! I'll teach you to steal your own mother's milk.'
She was losing control and the blows became harder. Much harder than ever before. So hard in fact that I had to scream at the top of my voice to bring her to her senses. 'Wait until your father gets in. Just you wait.'
She meant it. I became really scared and began to quietly cry.
'Get this place cleaned up, now! Make sure it's spotless before your father gets in. Bloody thief.'
I heard her lock the kitchen door and looked around to see what she'd meant by 'this place'. I could only think that she must have meant the pile of dirty dishes in the sink so I fetched a pan of water from the yard and began on them. The water like the room itself was cold. After what seemed an age I finally heard my father's voice. Then my mother's. They began to shout at each other and as with all the times before I couldn't make sense of it. I did, however, know where it would all end. In tears. My tears or the tears of my brother, James. He was nearly two years older than me and I wished for all I was worth that I was his age and could be at Billy's house right now. My father demanded that my mother put the kettle on and make him a pot of tea.
'If you want watered-down milk in your tea that's fine with me. That little sod in the kitchen has been up to his usual bloody tricks. I've had enough of it.'
The kitchen door burst open and my father's hugeness dwarfed everything around him. His smells of building site and pub were all rolled into one. He wasted little time looking at the milk bottle and tasting the milk before coming at me with his belt. I didn't move an inch. He was always worse if I moved. I waited for the belt to land across my back, bottom and legs. His grip on my arm was like a vice and I wanted to tell him that it wasn't fair to grab me like that. Getting the belt was one thing, being gripped like that was another. I didn't say a word. I didn't cry. I just kind of moaned like an Indian in a cowboy film. When he stopped I dropped to the floor like a wet rag and couldn't get up. He was telling me to get up but I seemed to fall asleep and woke up some time later in bed.
My mother was washing my face with a cold towel, and telling me that I'd fallen over and I'd have to stay in bed for a while. She was being very gentle and telling me that if anyone came I should pretend to be asleep and that I was a good boy. She searched my face for agreement. I loved it when she loved me and I nodded my agreement. She told me over and over again what had happened and what I was to say. It was a good story. Much better than the one which had happened. I preferred her story and let it enter into my soul. I had fallen and now she was looking after me. She was being so loving and I wanted her love so much. Whatever she said, I nodded my willing five-year-old head.
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