Chapter 1

Chapter 3

Malcolm woke from a restless sleep. He crept down the stairs; the painted wooden hand rail felt cold under his touch, and each stair creaked as his foot landed on the carpeted wood. Caressing his aching cheek the image from the previous night pierced his thoughts. He’d never seen a man cry before, let alone his Father.


The kitchen filled with the usual morning sounds, a kettle struggled to reach its goal and the chink of a cup against its saucer landed heavy in his fragile ears. The man who’d caused their pain sat wiping a piece of bread around an empty plate as if nothing had happened. Malcolm stared at him then turned to see his mother fussing around the cooker. She picked up an egg and cracked it into a frying pan. The sizzle of sausage and the smell of bacon filled the room, but silence greeted him as he sat down at the immaculately laid table. Malcolm’s heart raced as he made himself busy with a fork, anything to avoid eye contact with the man sat opposite.


The air ran thick with tension. Malcolm stole a glance at his Father as he moved a forkful of bacon to his mouth. He’d heard last night’s noise before and raised voiced had kept him awake on more than one occasion. The stern look fixed on his Fathers face spoke of the previous night’s events. He controlled the uneasy feel in the room with his silence. Malcolm returned to his fork. How long had his mother been subjected to his father’s rage? Had been the first time? He thought of what she’d said, ‘No… not Malcolm.’


A full plate appeared in front of him; his Mother made sure the plate sat in the centre of the mat. She smiled at him but her eyes lacked her natural warmth, instead, replaced with a strange empty sorrow.


Her face reviled the result of the previous night’s events. She knew she wouldn’t be leaving the house this week. The neighbours were already becoming suspicious.


‘You couldn’t walk into that many doors or fall down that many steps in one month.’ were the murmurs over the hedge rows.


Malcolm’s father got up, and without saying a word left the room, they heard the front door shut as he left for work. He breathed a sigh of relief, which didn’t go unnoticed. He wanted to talk to his mother about last night, but couldn’t bring the words to his mouth, and she never said any more about it.





‘Chink… chink’


Malcolm peered through the open door, his Father stood in the drawing room with his back towards him. The lid of the globe rested at a hundred and eighty degrees to the bottles that, only moments before, it had obscured, hiding the cause of the smell, raised voice and eventual sorrow that they inevitably brought.


Malcolm watched his father throw the contents of the tumbler down his throat with a seamless backward snap of his head. He took the decanter and poured another.


“Malcolm, wash your hands, dinners ready.” Came his mother’s voice from the kitchen.


He followed the voice, went to the sink and washed his hands before sitting down to the table. His parent’s had not said a word to each other, his mother knew not to antagonise her husband by speaking to him before she had been spoken to.


The sound of metal against china cut through the air as each member of the family concentrated on the task of eating.


“Had a good day dear?” It was a risk, but she couldn’t stand the silence any longer.


He put the last forkful of peas to his lips without answer, placed the cutlery together and pushed his plate forward.


He rose, and the scrape of the wooden chair across tiles reverbed around the room. He stared at his wife wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin, and without word, left the room.


Malcolm turned to face his mother, the slam of the drawing room door made her jump with a gasp. She placed both hands on the back of the chair in front of her and allowed herself a moment. She closed her eyes, bowed her head and exhaled.


She opened her eyes and looked at her son, a large friendly smile spread across her face, “There’s a good boy, eat all your peas,” she said.


She turned to the sink crossed her stomach with her arm and rested her hand on her chin.


Although she tried to hide them, Malcolm noticed the tiny supressed movements of her body as she began to sob.





The evening turned to night and Malcolm shut his eyes tight, willing for the protection that sleep could provide. If he could sleep, the morning would soon come.


But if the raised voices kept him awake, the overwhelming urge to help his mother drove him to action. His own safety forgotten, he’d absorb his Fathers attention until the drink got the better of him and order returned.


A strange calm accompanied breakfast after such a night. His Father would stand with his arms around his battered wife, caressing, fussing and kissing her neck, as if he hadn’t smashed his fist into her, not lashed out or kicked her at all.


She’d be submissive; allowing his touch, standing stone faced when out of sight and fain a smile when needed.


As time passed, the bruises and awkward glances occurred more often, and became nothing unusual at all, just part of family life. ‘Were all families like this?’ Malcolm wondered.


He couldn’t remember when the slaps eventually turned to punches, he knew he’d been young. His memory blurred the events into one long painful episode with no beginning and no end. He’d make his father angry and have to suffer the consequences.


Malcolm sustained the abuse, unaware of the pain his mother had kept locked inside, along with her feelings for another man.