Living With Evil by Cynthia Owen (ap literature book list txt) 📗

bedroom of the house was the most stifling room of all, because of the smell from the toilet bucket and the stink of stale smoke and sweat that always hung in the air. Every night I felt as if I was trapped there all alone, even when I wasn’t.

There were always other kids in the house. I already had five older siblings when I was born in October 1961, but I always felt like the odd one out, the one who didn’t fit in, and was on my own.

My oldest brother, Joe, lived round the corner with Granny, and my three big sisters were much more grown-up than me. Esther was nearly eight years older, Margaret six years older, and Catherine was almost five by the time I was born.

My other brother, Peter, was just two years older than me, but he always acted really grown up and had a reputation for being tough and streetwise. Mammy adored him. I looked up to Peter and wanted him to like me. I felt safe when I was with him, because everybody in the neighbourhood thought he was ‘hard’. He seemed to carry this reputation like a badge of honour. It was almost as if, the worse he behaved, the more Mammy protected, loved and cherished him.

With me, she was totally different. She never said a kind word to me or gave me a cuddle, and she regularly started fights and beat me.

‘Cynthia, will you empty the bucket now!’ she said to me one day. It was 4.30 p.m. I’d already done the washing-up after school and been to the shop for her cigarettes, while she had just got out of bed after another late night. That was her routine every single day.

‘I won’t be a minute, Mammy,’ I shouted. My stomach turned over at the thought of emptying that toilet bucket, but it was one of the many chores I had to do, or else. Mammy kept an old jam jar by her bed that she’d spit and cough phlegm into, and it would be my job to empty that out too. I loathed it.

Peter was nowhere to be seen, and my big sisters were out, as usual. I felt like the baby stuck at home with Mammy doing the chores and being shouted at, smacked and hit, however hard I worked.

‘Get up here now, you lazy bitch,’ Mammy screamed again. ‘The bucket needs emptying right now!’

I ran upstairs in a panic. She was in a terrible mood, and I didn’t want to risk a bad beating, so I grabbed the bucket quickly and headed downstairs.

It was full to the brim, and the smell was diabolical. I retched and stumbled, and suddenly I was falling: I had dropped the bucket and the stinking contents slopped everywhere.

I didn’t see her coming at me, but the next thing I felt was the smashing of Mammy’s fists into my back. I gasped in shock, breathing in a cloud of vile-smelling air, and retched so badly my stomach felt as if it had jumped up into my throat. When I looked around I felt a stinging ‘slap, slap, slap’ across my cheeks.

Mammy was looming tall over me, her green eyes flashing crazily and her red hair dancing like flames around her.

‘Sorry, Mammy, I’ll clean it up quick, Mammy,’ I cried.

But there was no stopping her now, and she started to punch me in the stomach and down my arms, then in my face. My head was spinning and I was sure I was going to throw up, what with the smell and the pain.

‘You stupid little bitch. Didn’t I tell you you’re a stupid, lazy little bitch!’

I didn’t think I had been lazy. As usual, I’d done the washing-up the minute I got in from school, hoping it would make Mammy less likely to give me a beating. The water was so cold it made my fingers numb. Maybe that’s why I dropped the bucket? I really wished I hadn’t.

I winced in pain as I tried to clean up the mess with an old rag and more ice-cold water, still trying to work out why Mammy called me lazy. I always worked hard to keep the dishes clean. She left them there all day, waiting for me to come home. How could I be lazy when she was the one in bed all day?

The washing-up was a tough job. Mammy never bought washing-up liquid or any other cleaning products, and we only ever had one dirty old tea towel, which was never washed. It meant the dishes were never properly clean. It didn’t help that when Daddy came home drunk he would often wee in the sink, regardless of whether the dishes were in there or not.

Whatever mess was left for me, I always tried hard to get rid of the smell and wash the dishes as best I could. I mustn’t have done it well enough that day. That must be the reason Mammy called me lazy, because I couldn’t think of anything else.

Daddy came in unexpectedly that night. He usually went straight to the pub from work, but tonight he’d come home for his tea.

For a second I was pleased to see him. Maybe it was the day he gave Mammy her housekeeping money, which usually made her happy for a while.

But Daddy looked furious and was sucking hard on a cigarette when he came into the sitting room. He spoke to Mammy in an angry voice, and then I felt his beady eyes track me across the room.

‘Get here now!’ he screamed, pulling his leather belt off his trousers. I froze in fright, and in a flash I was being dragged across the living-room floor, and my bare legs were being whipped and whipped.

‘Please, Daddy, no!’ I yelped. ‘Please stop!’ I was already bruised and sore from my mother’s beating. The extra pain was unbearable.

He was coughing and choking with the effort of beating me and didn’t seem to hear my pleas.