Free The Stony Path by Rita Bradshaw Page B

her frankness hadn’t put an end to the disgusting business of the night hours as she had hoped; she had had to wait until after Ruth’s birth for that. At least her children were both females. It wasn’t the first time she had thought it, and now her bony chin came down into her neck as she inclined her head as though nodding to something spoken. She wouldn’t have been able to bear the thought of producing something formed in her husband’s image.
     
     
    She hadn’t meant to listen. Polly leaned against the door of her bedroom, and she was trembling from head to foot. She hadn’t, she hadn’t meant to listen, although her mother wouldn’t have believed that if her da had found her outside their bedroom door, which had been open just a crack. Thank goodness she had nipped in here just in time. She glanced at the mug of tea in her hand she had been intending to give to her mother, some of which had sloshed over her pinafore in the hasty flight to her room. And as she continued to stare at the mug, she was aware of something strange happening deep inside where the muddled feelings concerning her mother lay.
     
    She had brought her mam the tea because – when they had all been outside saying goodbye to Uncle Frederick, and then Aunt Eva and the lads, and she had heard a mistle thrush singing its heart out in the fresh, sweet air – she had felt sorry for her. She had always felt sorry for her mam if she thought about it. Oh, she knew, secretly, that her mam wasn’t as poorly as she made out, but nevertheless, to stay in that little room all the time and never to run and jump in the fields and hills, or hear the chattering of the birds as they settled down for the night or the fox barking in the twilight ... well, it must be awful. She wouldn’t be able to bear it.
     
    She raised her head, her gaze sweeping the small room she shared with Ruth, which was the same size as her parents’ bedroom. The last of the sunlight was shining through the narrow window and making a pool of gold on the old faded quilt at the end of the bed; soon it would reach the stone wall beyond and then it would begin to get dark. While these thoughts were on the surface of her mind, her real self was tackling the issues raised by the conversation she had unwittingly overheard as she’d stood hesitating on the landing.
     
    Her mam was nasty, spiteful – she had always known it, but because it was her mam it had been acceptable – but more than that, her mam didn’t like her. She liked Ruth, but she didn’t like her, and Mam knew that by stopping the lads coming on a Sunday she would hurt her. It might upset Ruth but it would hurt Polly, and that was why her mam had said what she had. Why did Mam always want to hurt her? Polly pressed her hand against her mouth. Ruth never took their mam her meals if she could help it, or picked her little bunches of wild flowers to look at while she lay in bed, or any of the other things she did to try and please her. And yet her mam liked Ruth and not her. She took a gulp of the hot tea by way of comfort.
     
    Whatever she did to please her, Mam would never like her. The knowledge that had been at the back of her mind from a very young child couldn’t be denied any more. Sometimes, when she was talking to her mam after she’d brought her something, and Mam shut her eyes as though she was tired, Polly knew it was because she couldn’t bear to look at her. And then when she left the room after saying she’d let her mam go to sleep, but had the horrible sick feeling in her for the rest of the day, it was because she had known all along what Mam was thinking. She had, but she had thought that if she didn’t admit it then it wouldn’t be real. Which made her stupid. She blinked fiercely, refusing to allow the scalding feeling at the back of her eyes to turn into tears.
     
    Well, she wouldn’t try to make Mam like her any more. She drank the rest of the tea straight down. You couldn’t anyway;