Free Turn Us Again by Charlotte Mendel Page A

I am impulsive and generous like Daddy. Does he find her cold? Does her coldness drive him to drink? I mustn’t even think that. I am selfishly angry because Mummy is unselfishly worried about my future . Daddy has terrible failings. I will not screw up my life the way he has ruined his. And that begs the question — am I screwing up my life already? Is it selfish and stupid to throw away three years of training? It is not too late yet to change my mind. I have already spoken out in any case .
    Sundays were always the same. Church in the mornings, then Eddie would pop into the pub for a pint while the women prepared the traditional Sunday dinner — roast beef, mashed potatoes and watery cabbage, rounded off with rice pudding. When it was ready, Anne and her mother sat and waited in the small, dark dining room, while Pippa lay at their feet, twisting her head to gaze mournfully at each of them in turn. They sat in silence, ears strained for any sound. They didn’t look at one another, instead perusing the table cloth or the furniture. When Anne was younger, she would feel hatred and resentment against her father billowing in her chest. She would steal glances at her mother’s tense face, and the resentment would gradually transfer to her. If she were married to a man like Eddie she could cure him, or at least control him a little better! If only her mother would talk to her husband about how his drinking affected her life, then he would make an effort. Instead, Mary never discussed the drinking at all, treating it as if it didn’t exist. If anyone else mentioned it, a suffering look came over her face, as though the subject was too shameful to talk about. How could a man get better under such circumstances, living under a cloud of disapproval, a pariah in his own home? Even now, waiting while the Sunday meal over-cooked in the oven, Mary’s face was expressionless. She might have been looking at a dress in a shop window.
    Living away from home had plucked Anne from the nucleus of the wound, allowing her to feel triumphantly indifferent. She looked around the dining room with new eyes, as though she had never seen the familiar objects before. A mirror hung above the massive Victorian sideboard with its brass gong and heavy fruit bowl. The bowl rarely contained fruit. Instead it was filled with an assortment of buttons, bits of string, coins, and bills that had to be paid at some time, but not yet. A large framed photograph hung on another wall: a young woman in a wedding dress smiling shyly at the handsome naval officer by her side. The veil was low on her forehead and she held a lavish beribboned bouquet. They looked so hopeful and happy. Anne regarded the picture with contempt. How people allowed their dreams to shatter. So much hope in those young, handsome faces — now one was frozen in a perpetual frown of displeasure and the other wore a mask of sheepish humiliation, all pride driven out by weakness and the implacable contempt of his wife. This would never happen to her. She was beautiful and young, the world was her oyster.
    Outside, rain lashed the windows and the wind tossed the lilac trees at the bottom of the garden. The table was laid carelessly with knives and forks, and even serviettes and serviette rings. But a general weariness pervaded the effort. The table cloth was stained and one of the serviettes had lost its ring and lay folded unevenly beside the plate.
    Anne’s feeling of detachment began to fade as the minutes ticked by. She felt herself returning to her old habit of listening to the silence with her mother. Listening for the sound of the key in the lock.
    At 1:30 Mary got up to put the dinner on the table.
    â€œLest it be completely spoiled,” she explained.
    â€œIt’s still like this every Sunday?”
    â€œMost Sundays. Did you think it would change, now you’ve left?”
    In truth she had forgotten. Her Sundays were so different now. The