Rejection Runs Deep (The Canleigh Series, book 1: A chilling psychological family drama) by Carole Williams (uplifting novels TXT) 📕

Nothing else in the room was changed.  A rush of scenes hit her with a terrible force.  Even though it was empty now, she could see the offending newspaper in the wastepaper basket.  She could hear her mother telling someone she was going to get what she could out of her father; the glass of gin in her hand; the cigarette; the slap on the face when Delia screamed at her; Granny’s intervention; her own tears.

“Oh God,” she cried, folding her arms tightly across her stomach as a dagger-like pain shot through her whole being.  She fell onto the sofa, much as she had then, tears coursing relentlessly down her face, hating her mother with every fibre of her being.  The woman was totally shallow and selfish and should never have married or had children.  She had never loved her family as she should.  What a complete and utter bitch.

She pulled herself off the sofa slowly, noticing a new paperknife on her father’s desk.  She picked it up and walked upstairs to her mother’s bedroom.  Taking a deep breath, she turned the brass knob and entered.

The room was just as Margaret had left it.  The dressing table in front of the window was covered with bottles of French perfume, make-up, tissues, and a silver-framed photograph of a smiling Margaret on her wedding day.  Delia picked it up, her anger boiling over.  Before she realised what she was doing, the picture was flying at the mirror on the dressing table.  The glass shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces, scattering perfume bottles and make-up all over the carpet.

In a daze, Delia moved to the dressing room next door and looked at the rows of elegant designer dresses belonging to her mother, some of which had never been worn.  Taking a long yellow silk gown out of its protective covering, she laid it next to her cheek, remembering when her mother had worn it.  It was on her father’s birthday two years ago.  There had been a dinner party to which Granny and the Kershaw’s were invited and the children were allowed to attend.  Margaret had looked particularly beautiful and sparkled all evening, chatting happily about her latest trip to Europe and handing out presents to them all.  Delia couldn’t even remember what she had been given that evening but no doubt it had been yet another useless gift.

The paperknife was even sharper than the one used for Parfitt’s tyres.  It flashed easily through the yellow silk, ripping it to shreds.  Delia dropped the garment on the floor and reached for the blue chiffon.  It received the same treatment, as did another, and another, and another.  Before long most of the contents of Margaret’s dressing room were in ruins on the floor.  Delia moved back into the bedroom.  She opened the dressing table drawers, throwing jewellery boxes and undergarments across the room.  Sweaters and cardigans were treated in the same way as the dresses.

Exhausted she stopped and looked around at her handiwork.  The room was a shambles.  The only thing not touched by her actions was the four-poster bed covered in cream lace.  The bed where her mother had pretended to love father and where no doubt she, Richard and Vicky had been conceived.  Within seconds the lace was in tatters.  Gold lipstick cases lay on the floor.  Delia picked one up and removed the top.  It was blood red, Margaret’s favourite colour.  Delia looked at the walls.  Within seconds, she had written big, bold words with the lipstick.  Then voices from the corridor stopped her in her tracks.

“We’ll do His Grace’s bedroom next … and then Lady Delia’s.  Seeing as His Grace will be home later today, he might well be able to persuade Lady Delia to come home too.  It’s not been the same without her.  Poor child.  She’s been through such a lot,” said Betty Hardy.

“Aye,” replied Olive, one of the cleaners.  “That young girl is tough though.  She’ll pull through.”

Delia stood silently listening, the voices fading into the distance as the women made their way to her father’s room further down the corridor.  So, he was coming home today.  She wondered what he would say when he saw the devastation in this room.  He would know it was she who had gone crazy.  Who else would have been so vicious towards his estranged wife?  Who else would have had the opportunity?  Somehow she didn’t care.  He should think himself lucky she hadn’t done the same to his room.  She hated him nearly as much as her mother.

Hearing the faint hum of the vacuum cleaner in her father’s room Delia decided it was a prudent time to leave the Hall.  She took one last look at her handiwork and gave a great smile of satisfaction, especially at the words ‘BITCH’ written in deep red lipstick on all four cream silk walls.  She opened the door into the corridor and ran quickly down the stairs into the entrance hall and out of the front door.  In two seconds, she was racing across the grass towards the trees, laughing uncontrollably, happily unaware that Hardy had seen her leaving her mother’s bedroom, had opened the door to see if anything was amiss and was horrified to see the wanton destruction Delia had wrought.

He moved to the window and watched her progress across the front lawn back to the shelter of the trees with great trepidation.  He understood her anger but this … he looked around the room with dismay … this was nothing short of violent vandalism.  Hardy felt a tremor of fear.  This was twice Delia had let her temper get the better of her within a matter of a few weeks.  He sincerely hoped the rage she was obviously feeling was now out of her system ...