Cold Comfort (2 page)

By the time Mama got home to make supper I’d
done quite a good job of cleaning out the dirt from the cut, but it was still
bleeding.

“What have you done, Lila?” she exclaimed
as soon as she saw all the blood, rushing to my side.

“I’ve cleaned it out,” I reassured her. “I
fell. I just can’t get it to stop bleeding.” For some reason I didn’t want to
tell her about the trapeze. I think I was worried she’d tell me not to go there
again. I didn’t want that. It hadn’t been the trapeze’s fault, it was that boy’s –
Hardy.

“Head wounds are tricky,” she informed me. “They
always bleed a lot. You have to keep something pressed against it. Here, let me
have a look,” she said, peeling away the tissue I had been using once the
hankie got too full of blood. “You need to use fabric on a cut, not tissue. Tissue
will leave bits behind in it.” She moved to get a clean cloth from the drawer
and returned to my side. “It’s nasty but not too deep,” she said as she dabbed
at it. “You shouldn’t need stitches, but you may be left with a little scar. Your
fringe will hide it, though, and god knows you’re more than beautiful enough to
cope with a tiny scar.” I smiled at that. She always told me I was beautiful. I
couldn’t see it myself – my eyes were a weird violet blue colour, while my
hair was so dark it looked black. I thought I looked strange and wished I had
blonde hair and normal blue eyes like Emily.

“How did you fall?” she asked, disturbing
my thoughts. “It must have been quite a bash. I think you caught your nose too.
You look like you’ve got a black eye coming. You weren’t unconscious at all,
were you?”

“I was running, and I fell and hit my head
on a log. It’s fine,” I reassured her, waving my hand. “I was awake the whole
time.”

“You shouldn’t be on your own so much.”

“It was my own fault.” I crossed my fingers
at the fib. I knew she didn’t like me being on my own after school, but it was
worth it if it meant she didn’t have to worry about money so much. The job had
provided us with a home, and for the first time since Daddy left Mama had been
laughing again, when she wasn’t too tired. “I’ll take better care next time.” She
nodded, but I could still see the worry in her eyes. “How was your day?” I
asked, hoping to distract her.

“Oh, fine. Busy. Mr Somerville’s son came
home from school today for the summer, so I had to get his room sorted and let
the cook know what to make for their supper.”

“What’s he like?” I asked, intrigued to
know more about the boy.

“Oh, I don’t really know. He was only in
the house about five minutes before he ran out into the garden. I thought you
might have seen him.”

“No,” I told her, crossing my fingers for
the second time. I hated lying to Mama – I’m not even sure why I felt I
needed to. “Mama, what’s a slut?” I suddenly asked, remembering the word Hardy had
used earlier.

“Delilah!” Mama exclaimed. “Where on earth did
you hear that word? At your age!”

“At school,” I replied, keeping my answer
deliberately vague.
I’m going to go to hell for all my lying
, I thought.

“It’s not a kind word,” she explained. “It’s
used to describe a girl who’s casual about the number of boyfriends she has,”
she went on, continuing to press the cloth against my head. Mama had always
been very open with me about things to do with relationships and boys; always
willing to answer any questions I had. They taught us all this stuff at school,
but it was never quite enough. I wanted to know more. I was lucky I could talk to
her about it.

“Why isn’t it a kind word? Why does it
matter if someone is casual about boyfriends?” I was genuinely curious. She’d
told me sharing a special connection with someone that way was a wonderful
thing.

“Some people don’t think you should have
lots of boyfriends. They judge others that do, and they use words like ‘slut’
to make them feel bad.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think we shouldn’t judge other people. You
never know why people make the choices they do, and who are we to decide what is
right or wrong? We all have to live our own lives, Delilah, and not spend time
worrying what other people think. If
you
think someone is special enough
to you that you want to share a close relationship with them, then it shouldn’t
matter what anyone else thinks about it, or however many other people you have
or haven’t shared that with before. Try to make your own mind up about people, and
don’t use words like ‘slut’ to describe them. Try not to judge.” She looked sad
for a moment, and I wanted to ask if people had judged her, but I didn’t want
to make her even sadder.

“How old is he?” I asked, changing the
subject again.

“How old is who?”

“The boy who came home today. Why does he
go away to school?”

“He’s ten. He’s called Hardy, and he goes
to boarding school.”

“Why does he go to boarding school? Doesn’t
he miss his Mum and Dad?”

“I don’t know, darling. You’ll have to ask
him if you see him. His mum lives in America, but he’s here for the summer, so
maybe you’ll bump into him.”

She pulled the cloth away from my head. The
bleeding had stopped at last. My head felt sore, and I had a headache. So by
the time I’d had a light supper I was ready for bed, despite it still being
early. I felt excited as I lay there waiting for sleep to take me, excited to
see the boy again the next day.

*

School was horrible. Everyone teased me
about my black eye and cut. My teacher asked me three times how it happened. I
told her the same story I’d told Mama, but I wasn’t sure if she believed me. I
also didn’t tell Emily about the boy. It was the same as with the trapeze; I
wanted to keep him all to myself. She’d been really annoying all day – as
if she could tell I was keeping some sort of a secret and was annoyed with me
because of it. By the time her mum pulled up by our gate to drop me off I couldn’t
wait to get away from her.

I ran down the drive and into the cottage,
grabbed my biscuits from the plate and stuffed them into my pocket. Then I gulped
down my milk before I sprinted back out into the garden. As I pushed through
the bushes again I felt nervous, wondering if he’d be there. My breath caught
as I saw him. He was sitting on a log reading a book, the dappled sunlight
catching the lighter parts of his hair and making it shine. He looked up as he
heard me coming.

“You took your time,” was all he said. He
stood up, stuffing his book into his jacket pocket as he walked right up to me
before taking a hold of my chin and peering down at my eye. “You’ve got a right
shiner.” He had a very posh accent, so the way he said it sounded funny. “What
are you smiling at?” he asked, frowning.

“A raight shynaa,” I parroted, trying to
sound like him. He grinned, and his whole face changed. The dimples in his
cheeks returned. I liked them.

“Cheeky,” he scolded, but I could tell he didn’t
mean it. “Well, what do you want to do?” he asked. I just shrugged. “Can you
climb a tree?”

I shook my head. “I’ve never tried,
though,” I whispered, feeling shy for some reason.

“Well, let’s give it a go then.” He led me
over to a carefully chosen specimen and showed me how the position of the lower
branches made it possible to climb. Then he stood and coached me from the
ground as I slowly crept up through the branches. “Don’t look down,” he bellowed
when I made the mistake of glancing to see how far I’d got, but it was too late
and I froze. Within moments he was up there beside me. “You can do it,” he assured
me. “You’re strong for a girl. You didn’t even cry when you fell off that
trapeze.” With his help and encouragement I scaled the rest of the way until we
were both sat at the very top, side by side on the branch. I was filled with a
sense of achievement. “I told you that you could do it.” He sounded so certain I
couldn’t help but believe him. I felt a warm glow at his encouragement and passed
him one of the biscuits from out of my pocket, which he accepted with another
smile. We sat there munching on them in silence, perfectly content.

“Next time wear trousers,” he suddenly said.
“It will make the climbing much easier.” He paused, thinking. “I think we
should build a treehouse down there,” he announced, pointing at some of the
lower branches. I knew for some reason that, because he had decided it, it would
happen. “I’ll get some wood from the shed, and hammers and nails, and we can
put it across there,” he continued, pointing to where the branches jutted out
horizontally. They created enough of a platform that it might be possible. “Then
we can launch the trapeze from here,” he added, pointing to where a branch stuck
out above the platform branches, not far from where we sat. “We could make
something to tie it to. If you’d like?” he finally thought to ask me. I nodded,
secretly delighted that he was at all bothered with what I’d like. “So
definitely wear trousers,” he insisted again, and this time it wasn’t a
suggestion.

At tea time that evening I told Mama that I’d
met Hardy and that we’d been playing together. “That’s good,” she said with a smile,
looking a little bit sad again. “It will be good for him to keep out the house,
out of his Dad’s way.”

“We’re going to build a treehouse,” I informed
her.

“A treehouse? Well, be careful, won’t you? I
don’t want you hurting yourself again.”

“Hardy will look after me,” I assured her. As
I said it I somehow knew it to be true.

*

After that day a routine began. Each afternoon,
as soon as school finished, I would meet Hardy down in the glade and we would work
on the treehouse. He did most of the climbing and hammering, and I passed him
everything he needed. Once I broke up for the summer holidays I spent the whole
day down there. Hardy seemed pleased he had me to himself all the time now. A
couple of times Emily had called asking me to do things with her, but I always
told her I didn’t want to. I knew she wanted to know why, but I just didn’t
want to tell her.

We were making good progress; the main
lower platform had been built and it seemed sturdy. As I sat there handing
Hardy nails, we both heard a voice calling for him that I didn’t recognise at
first. He froze, and I watched as his easy confidence drained away.

“Hardy,” the voice bellowed again, and I
realised I did recognise it. It was the man who lived in the big house. His
father.

“I have to go,” he whispered to me, his
face pale, eyes haunted. I just nodded at him as he began to slither down the
trunk. I followed silently, somehow instinctively knowing to hold back in the
shadow of the bushes while he emerged and walked over to where his father stood
waiting, hands on his hips.

He started to shout as soon as Hardy
reached him, even though Hardy was right in front of him. “Where have you been,
you stupid bloody child? Your tutor is here. You knew he was starting today. You’ve
made people disturb me from my work just to find you, you worthless piece of
shit. If you weren’t so stupid in the first place, you wouldn’t need a fucking
tutor. Fucking stupid like your mother,” he said. I was shocked. I’d never
heard a grown-up swear at a child before.

“She’s not stupid,” Hardy defended his mum.
Instantly the man’s hand swept down and cuffed Hardy hard on the cheek. I gasped
with shock at the sight of a grown man hitting a boy. My mother had never laid
a hand on me, however difficult I’d been. My hand immediately rose to cover my
mouth and stifle the sound. I knew it wouldn’t help Hardy for the man to see me
there, to know he had been playing with me, and I didn’t want to make things
any worse for him. I stood there in silence as Hardy hung his head, wiping away
a tear from beneath his eye in an angry, sullen gesture. I hated the man even
more now than I already had.

“I told your fucking mother you could stay
here as long as you didn’t cause me any trouble. This is trouble. Get your
sorry self inside and see if you can absorb at least something intelligent into
that dense head of yours before I send you to spend the summer with my own
mother.” Hardy looked up at that, the colour once again draining from his face.
Clearly there was a fate worse than spending time with this man if his
expression was anything to go by. He turned and ran past his dad, sprinting
towards the house. I watched until he disappeared from my sight.

His dad didn’t immediately follow but just
stared after him for a long moment before turning to peer towards the bushes –
exactly at the place where I was standing. I froze every muscle, glad that
today at least my clothes were dark, as I hoped I would be able to blend into
the shadows and avoid detection. The thrum of my heart pulsed loudly in my ears
as I held my breath, praying he couldn’t hear me. For a moment his muscles
tensed and I thought he might move towards my hiding place, but then he seemed
to reconsider and straightened, turning back towards the house. Relief
immediate, my knees sagged, and I crumpled to the ground beside the brambles,
sitting there in the shadows for a full five minutes before I felt strong
enough to make my way back to the cottage.

*

Hardy and I never talked about his father. I
knew he wouldn’t want to know I had seen him being hit. He was too proud. I didn’t
think it was the only time his dad had hit him either. A few times since then I’d
seen bruises on his body that weren’t caused while we were building the
treehouse. Especially on the hot days when he took off his shirt. Since that first
day he’d had to go in for tutoring for a couple of hours every morning, while I
carried on working, but he’d always come back out afterwards to find me.