Free My Daughter, My Mother by Annie Murray Page A

going to the door with her plateful. ‘What I have discovered is that death is a state preferable to life for some people. No more pain and suffering, no more cold and anguish. I believe Ernest finds it so. After death has occurred, once they have passed through the eternal portal, it’s so much easier for all concerned. I have come to the conclusion that this is how it is supposed to be. You’ll find it to be true, I’m sure.’
    Margaret pushed the tiny meal into her mouth. She had no idea what Mrs Paige was talking about.
    She didn’t know what devilment had driven her to it. It was a Saturday, a mild day during a temporary thaw. The two teachers who were left now that Miss Peters had gone had decided to gather their charges for an outing.
    It was noon. Mrs Paige had given Margaret her midday meal – half a slice of dry bread – and gone out to the garden with a rake to gather up the skin of sodden leaves in between remaining patches of snow. Margaret watched her for a moment from the back doorstep and saw the movement of her sturdy calves, encased in a pair of man’s boots – perhaps Ernest’s? – across the grass, the rhythmic movements of the rake.
    The air was damp and mild for late November. It was ages until the teachers were coming to collect her for the nature walk. Margaret wandered through the house and went to sit on the stairs. Much of the time now she was lethargic and hazy in the head. She never seemed to learn much at school. Mostly she just wanted to sink into the warmth and go to sleep. But they had all been cooped up and bored because of the snow, and the bit of bread had given her a spurt of energy.
    Without willing it, she found herself climbing the stairs. She knelt on the last step from the top, looking from door to door. She didn’t know what to feel about Ernest. She believed that he was in there – every day he was given meals, his room was cleaned, his opinions sought. But she had never even so much as heard him clear his throat. How bored he must be too! Maybe he’d like someone to come and see him.
    Listening carefully, she could hear nothing. He must be asleep. To her surprise she saw that the latch of the door was not fastened. She would be able to peep at Ernest, the way she used to peep at her father, Ted Winters, when he slept drunk by the hearth. She’d found a fascination with his sagging mouth and dark stubble.
    She crept across the landing and pushed the door open, her heart thumping. Supposing he woke up and shouted at her, and told Mrs Paige what she’d done? Putting her head round the door, she relaxed, seeing that the bed was empty. Had he gone down to the privy? Was he hiding in the cupboard again? Perhaps he had heard her coming and was watching her. The door of the cupboard was shut tight, but this didn’t mean he wasn’t there . . .
    Seconds passed and, as nothing happened, she crept forward. The best thing in the room was Mr Paige’s false teeth, grinning at her from the bedside table. She’d never seen any before and they held a fascination for her. Daring herself, she picked up the teeth and pulled them apart, then let them snap closed. The clacking sound and the sight of them made her giggle. After a few goes she held them in her hand and wandered round, picking up other things. The bristles of the shaving brush were stiffened by soap into a solid mass. She looked in the slanted mirror, saw her white, thin face, her dark eyes, one looking back at her directly, the other wandering to the side. Her hair was longer now and straggly.
    Margaret went to the window. Now that the leaves of the hedge opposite had died back there was a clear view of the field, ploughed up for winter, a few lines of snow still caught in the furrows. She clacked the teeth between her fingers, staring out.
    She didn’t even hear Mrs Paige. She was caught from behind by the hair and was swung around, with a burning yank on her scalp that made her scream.
    ‘What are you doing, you