Annie's Room (2 page)

“No,” Scott and I say at the same time, before he adds: “No way. I want to explore the forest. It looks cool out there.”

“I'm going to turn into an old crone,” I mutter. “I'll just waste away in this room and -”

Suddenly there's a loud bang from downstairs, followed by a thud and then another bang. We all turn and look over at the door, and after a moment I look back at Mom and Dad and see the concern in their eyes.

“What was that?” I ask cautiously. “Do I have another sibling you guys have been hiding from me?”

“I...” Dad pauses, before getting to his feet. He steps on the particularly loose, particularly annoying floorboard next to my bed as he heads out to the landing, where he stops for a moment. “It was nothing. Probably just the wind blowing a door shut.”

“I thought we locked the front door?” Mom says.

“A window, then.” He pauses again. “I'll go take a look. Don't worry, it's nothing.”

He walks out of view, and a moment later I hear him making his way down the creaking stairs.

“That was
not
nothing,” I say finally, turning to Mom. “That was, like, something.”

“It was probably the wind,” she replies, not entirely convincingly.

Looking over at the window, I can just about see the tops of the trees against the dark sky. “There's no wind out there,” I say after a moment. “It's completely still.” Turning to her, I can still see the hint of worry in her eyes as we all listen to the sound of Dad moving about downstairs. I swear, every floorboard in this house seems designed to make the maximum possible amount of noise when it's stepped on.

“What if it's a ghost?” Scott whispers.

“There are no ghosts here,” Mom tells him.

“But what if there are?”

“Don't be stupid,” I reply, before turning to look over at Mom. “Tell him. There are no ghosts here, right?”

“There are no ghosts here,” she says, ruffling the top of his head with her right hand. “Come on, let's not get spooked. Something probably fell over, that's all.” She turns to me. “You should see what it's like down there, we've got packing crates everywhere, we've got things propped against other things, it's going to take days before we're all settled in. I never knew we had so much stuff until we had to move it out here. We should have taken the opportunity to de-clutter, but -”

She stops speaking as we all hear Dad coming back up the stairs. A moment later he appears in the doorway.

“I couldn't see anything,” he says. “All the doors and windows are locked, so I guess something just tipped over.” He breathes a sigh of relief as he comes back into the room and sits down, but he seems a little stiff and awkward, less relaxed than a couple of minutes ago. “Come on, guys, it's a new house, let's not go spooking ourselves. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm starting to think about hitting the sack after dinner. It's been a long day, and we've got so much to do tomorrow.”

“Lucky you,” I mutter.

“You'll be up and about in no time,” Mom reminds me. “Who wants the last slice of pizza?”

“Me!” Scott snaps, grabbing the slice and licking the top, which is his customary way of claiming food and ensuring that no-one tries to take it away from him. With a satisfied grin, he takes a bite.

Looking down at the bare plate, with just a few crumbs left in the middle, I realize with a heavy heart that soon everyone's going to go back downstairs and start getting ready for bed, and I'm going to be left here in my room until they get up again in the morning. I know I shouldn't start feeling sorry for myself, and I know that in normal circumstances I'd
want
to be alone in my room, but I'd at least like to have the
option
of getting out of bed. Besides, this isn't
my
room, not really. It feels more like we've checked into a rotten, rundown hotel.

“You look sad,” Mom says suddenly, placing a hand on my knee. “Don't be sad, Annie. You'll be -”

“Up and about in no time,” I reply, “yeah, people keep saying that.” I pause, before looking over at the empty doorway. For a moment, I feel a shiver run down my spine at the thought that someone was out there just now, watching us, but I figure I'm just letting my imagination get cranked up early. “And promise me there are no ghosts,” I mutter, turning to Mom. “Do we even know anything about the people who lived in this house before us?”

“Nothing,” Dad interjects, a little too quickly. “Come on, don't worry about it.”

“Fine,” I reply. “I just don't want them haunting us. Whoever they were, this is our house now, not theirs.”

Two

Seventy-one years ago

Father is beating at Mother again tonight. I can hear their argument from my room, although in truth it's not much of an argument at all; Father is simply telling Mother her inadequacies and pressing home his point with his fists.

As usual, she brought it on herself.

Their voices aren't raised at all. I can hear Father's voice rumbling along, and then there are the occasional low bumps and impacts, which I know are the moments when he pushes her or hits her. Sometimes, I even hear the sound of a table being pushed aside, as if perhaps she's trying to hide, and a few minutes ago there was a shudder that rattled the glass in my bedroom window. That's when I know he's really hurting her. When the whole house shakes.

Of course, if she'd just stay still and take the punishment she's earned, I'd have more respect for her.

I stay on my bed, of course. I know better than to get involved. Besides, Mother is used to such things, so she knows how to handle herself. Sometimes I think that even though she has been married to Father for two decades, I at just sixteen years of age already have a better understanding of how to avoid the brunt of his temper. Why does she not learn? Why does she do things that she knows will earn his ire? If I were her, I would not suffer such beatings, but it's almost as if she
wants
to push him like this. I'm not excusing Father, of course, not for one moment; what he does is in some ways horrible and wrong, but it's also necessary. Mother could avoid his temper if she was smarter.

When I'm older and have a husband,
I
shall be smarter.

The house falls quiet a little before midnight, and eventually I hear footsteps coming up. From the pattern of the footfall, and also from experience of these matters, I know full well that its Mother who is retiring to bed. After a beating, she always stays down in the room with Father for a while, for at least an hour, before coming upstairs. I never understand what goes on in that silent hour, but perhaps he instructs her to stay, or perhaps she simply wishes to wait and let things get back to normal. I wish I could ask her, but I cannot.

A moment later, she appears in the doorway, watching me.

“I'm not asleep,” I tell her from the darkness.

“You should be,” she replies, her voice weak and hurt. “It's late.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Did you hear -” She pauses.

I choose not to answer.

“You'll be working with Father again tomorrow,” she continues. “He wants to teach you about the garden.”

“As you wish.”

“It's good for you to learn,” she adds. “Father says you're to help him with some important work. He says you'll learn more with him for a few days than you'd learn in a month at school.”

“I'm sure he's right,” I say after a moment.

She murmurs her agreement, and then she seems to loiter for a few seconds, as if there's something else she wants to say, before she turns and makes her way to the other bedroom. I wait and listen until I hear the door quietly swinging shut, and then I wait a moment longer until I feel that it's safe to get out of bed. The loose floorboard next to my bed shifts and creaks slightly. Heading to the door, I lean out to the landing and check that the coast is clear, before avoiding all the creaking floorboards on the way to the top of the stairs. I can hear Mother sobbing softly in my parents' bedroom, which means that there's no chance of her coming out for a while. That's good. I start making my way down the dark stairs until I reach the hallway and see the light of a single candle flickering in the front room.

When I get to the next doorway, I pause for a moment and watch Father as he raises a glass to his lips and takes a sip of whiskey. He's such a still and calm man at the best of times, but doubly so after an altercation with Mother. Disciplining her must be so tiring for him, both mentally and physically. The candlelight casts his constantly shifting shadow against the far wall, and it's clear that he's deep, deep in thought. Some people say that Father is a brutish man, but they don't see him the way I see him. They don't see the great intelligence in his eyes, and they never see him like this, contemplating life as he sits in his armchair before bed.

I take a step forward.

The floorboard creaks beneath my left foot.

I stop.

Father stares down at his glass for a moment, before turning his head slightly. Not enough to look directly at me, mind, but enough to indicate that he knows I'm here. The candlelight catches the side of his face, picking out his strong, firm brow and his high cheekbones, and then he raises his glass and finishes the rest of his whiskey.

My cue.

“Shall I refill that for you?” I ask, making my way over to him.

He doesn't reply, but when I try to take the glass from his hand, he lets me.

I head to the table in the far corner, where Father's drinks are kept. Holding his glass up, I see his fingerprints on the glass as well as smudges left by his lips. I give the glass a quick wipe with the sleeve of my dress, using just a little saliva to help the job, before setting the glass down and filling it from the bottle. It's in these small, quiet moments that I feel most comfortable, since at least I know precisely what I should be doing. I want to be useful; more than anything else in the world, I feel it is every human being's duty to be useful to someone else. Turning, I make my way back to Father's armchair and hold the glass out for him, and after a moment he takes it from my hand.

As he sips, I take a seat on the floor next to his chair. There's a stool nearby, as usual, but I never know if I'm allowed to sit there, and I feel as if he would have told me by now if that was the case. Perhaps it is for Mother, or perhaps he simply likes to keep it empty. Either way, the floor is perfectly comfortable, especially as I lean against the side of the chair and then rest my face against Father's leg. The smell of his trousers and the feel of the coarse fabric reminds me of childhood.

“Mother's gone to bed,” he mutters finally, breaking the silence.

“I know,” I reply, my voice tense with anticipation. I feel as if my chest is being drawn tight.

“She'll be up there for hours,” he adds. “She won't be down 'til morning.”

“I know.” Glancing across the room, I see the darkness beyond the window. I can't see the edge of the forest, but I know it's out there in the cold night, and the thought makes me feel warmer here on the floor next to Father.

“She's a weak woman,” he continues, before taking another sip of whiskey. “Not that that's a crime, it's in her nature, but still... She's weaker than most. You must mind not to let yourself become like her.”

“She came to my room just now and told me that I must stay home for the rest of the week.”

“That's right.” He pauses. “Did she come
in
to your room?”

I nod, with my head still resting against his trouser leg.

“Did you invite her in,” he asks, “or did she just enter of her own accord?”

I don't want to get Mother into more trouble, but at the same time I can't lie to Father. “She entered,” I tell him, “of her own accord. Just a step or two, but she definitely entered.”

“She'll have to be told about that, then,” he mutters, sounding unimpressed. He takes another sip of whiskey. “That's
your
room, Annie, not hers. She has no right going in unless she's invited.”

“I know.”

“I'll tell her tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

Reaching down, he puts a hand on the top of my head and ruffles my hair. When his fingers brush against my scalp, I can feel that his hand is unwashed after a hard day out in the garden, but I don't mind. It's good to have a little dirt in my hair, especially if that dirt comes to me via Father's touch, and I close my eyes so as to better enjoy the feel of him running his hand down to the back of my head and then onto the nape of my neck, where it rests for a moment, his fingertips pressing slightly against my flesh.

“There's going to have to be a change around here, Annie,” he says finally. “Things have gone on this way long enough. It's not healthy.”

I nod. His fingertips, still pressed against me, remain in place. After a moment I turn my face slightly so that my cheek is more fully brushing against the side of Father's trousers. I breathe in deep, smelling that familiar mix of wood and smoke that comes only from Father at the end of a long day.

“A big change,” he continues, although it's no longer clear whether he's talking to me or simply thinking out loud. “And I suppose I'll have to be the one who brings it about.”

Turning, I look over at the dark window. Is she out there? Is she watching?