‘Describe it to me,’ she tells me, smiling broadly as she waits. ‘Tell me every single detail and I’ll picture it all in my mind. Start with the colour and take it from there.’
And so I do as she asks me, and with every word I say about the pretty pink dress and the beautiful chiffon and the way it flows when my niece twirls around to show usas she spins around on the tiles of the kitchen floor, I battle – as I always do – to not cry in here in front of my mother.
‘And the little sequins glimmer on the neckline when she stands under the light,’ I whisper as tears stream down her face. ‘And she sings, and she dances, and she can’t believe she is going to be six years old soon. And she misses you so much. We all do, Mummy. It won’t be long till you’re home. They say it should only be another few months now and we’ll be waiting for you with open arms, no matter how long it takes.’
She nods so slowly, soothed in her own world, so I push back my chair and I stand up ever so quietly and leave her there without saying goodbye, lost in thoughts of her precious little granddaughter dancing and singing as she counts down the days to her birthday, while my mother counts down the days to her own freedom.
‘Goodbye Kate, my angel girl,’ she whispers without opening her eyes. ‘You’re a good, good person. I’m so very proud of you.’
It’s always too painful for her to watch me walk away towards the door so I know she’ll keep her eyes shut tight until I do.
My mouth is so dry I can’t reply, so I walk without looking back, sensing the silver-haired woman from before is staring at me again. When I hit the fresh air outside I stand against the wall in the summer sunshine, and I cry and cry for what we have become.
I may not be a prisoner like my mother is, but I want to escape this all so badly.
I can’t wait to get out of here.
DAVID
‘Stop fidgeting, David, for goodness’ sake. He’ll go berserk later if he catches you.’
I let out a long, deliberate sigh as Mum sits by my side, unable to take her eye off my father in the pulpit as he preaches with fist in mid-air, protesting, at least it seems to me, against absolutely everything that comes his way and I don’t think I could possibly be more different to him in every respect.
His powerful, bellowing voice echoes and bounces off the cold stone walls and I stare at the floor, leaning my arms on my knees, but the only thing I’m praying for is that this so-called sermon will be all over soon. It wasn’t always like this. I have fond memories of my dad from my younger years before an old aunt left him a substantial sum of money and the adoration of churchgoers went to his head, but sometimes I fear those memories will fade for ever.
‘Look at them,’ I whisper to my mother whose eyes are now closed in prayer. ‘He’s got them all eating out of his hands, hasn’t he?’
Sarah Edwards, who sits three pews ahead with her newboyfriend from Glasgow, fills my head with thoughts not belonging in this house of God. Her boyfriend is half my height, probably a third of my weight, but he no doubt has a head full of brains that would double mine so, as much as I ogle, I know there’s no way she’d care to even notice me, but it’s better than listening to my father’s lecture so I lean my head around to try and see more than the back of her head. The man in front of me blocks my view, which is kind of the story of my life.
‘It was a heartfelt and passionate sermon as always, Reverend,’ I hear one of my father’s biggest fans, Julia Sampson, chirp in the churchyard just before she shoots me a look that is anything but Christian considering her husband is standing beside her. ‘I particularly related to your passion against changing anything that goes against the word of God. We must say no.’
‘No to what exactly?’ I ask as I walk towards them. My father’s 60-year-old face goes puce at my outburst and I know I’ll pay for this when I get home, but I’ve never been one to stand back and listen to this unreasonable opposition to almost everything from someone like Julia who represents a lot of my father’s adoring flock. ‘Why is it always no? Why can’t you listen to the opinion of others instead of leading with your “do as I say and not as I do” philosophy?’
My dad glares at me, while Julia evidently hasn’t listenedto a word I’ve said. She continues to look at me as if I’m some sort of boy-band pop star, her eyes fluttering uncontrollably with her hand on her bosom. I swear she is nodding in agreement, even though I’m contradicting everything she has just said.
‘Don’t mind David. He’s tired,’ my mother whispers, clasping her handbag to her waistline. ‘We’ll make our way on home, Bob. It’s just a mix of late nights and too much TV. He wasn’t even listening to you. He was fidgeting as usual.’
She pokes me in the back and directs me away from the gathered fan club towards the car. It’s only when we get inside that she bursts out laughing with shock and looks at me with her mouth open wide.
‘What on earth has got into you, David Campbell?’ she says, unable to hide her surprise at my public outburst. ‘You know he won’t say a word now over the lovely roast I’ve prepared! I mean, really, David? In front of those … thosepeople?’
‘Mum, those people are as deluded as he is. They look at him like he’s God himself; it’s ridiculous. Anyhow, I think I’ll skip dinner,’ I say as my mother drives us out of the Irish border village where my father’s service is held every Sunday and out towards our family home in the countryside, away from reality, away from the TV news and the people that my father preaches to. ‘I can’t bear to listen to another word of his preaching. I’m sorry, Mum, but it’s just the two of you for today.’
My mother shakes her head and clasps the steering wheel, no doubt exhausted by her constant role of playing referee between me and my father.
‘He means well, you know he does, David, and he always only wants the best for you. We both do.’
My eyes widen and I shrug it off. I’ve heard this all before many, many times.
‘But I disagree with a lot of what he believes in,’ I say to her. ‘That’s never going to change, Mum. He’s incredibly stuck in his ways and you know it.’
She rubs her forehead now and looks me in the eye.
‘He’s a good man, David. He’s a passionate man. And yes, sometimes his views are strict and authoritarian in his approach, but he’s given us both a wonderful life and it’s not something to be taken for granted. Maybe you should – maybe you should show a little more respect for who he is and what he stands for?’
I stare out through the window as the shades of green countryside blend into one another, counting fences and gates that I’ve known since the day I was born. I open the collar of my shirt, longing to tear it open and change into my own clothes, which reflect me rather than the person that my father wants me to be. I can’t wait to put on my favourite ripped jeans, an old T-shirt, and bang on my drum-kit in the shed, well away from my dad and his cardboard cut-out ideals as to what I should and shouldn’t think, act and be.
‘I don’t like a lot of what he stands for,’ I mumble through gritted teeth. ‘You can stand by him all you want, Mum, that’s your choice, but money and power isn’t everything to me like it is to him. I can decide for myself how I see the world. I’m not some plastic doll you both can mould into what you want me to be.’
