Unspoken: A story of secrets, love and revenge by T. Belshaw (i want to read a book .TXT) 📕

going in regardless. I was almost doubled over in pain as I stepped over the curled-up edges of the carpet strip. I forced myself to straighten up and found Frank sitting on my father’s smelly old chair. He was holding a half-full bottle of whisky. He stared at me drunkenly.

‘Can’t let it go to waste. It’s what the old bugger would have wanted.’ Frank laughed a gravelly laugh, and I suddenly saw my father sitting there the day after my mother’s funeral.

‘Well done, Frank. You’ve managed to surprise me, and that takes a lot of doing these days.’ I turned back towards the door. ‘I expected better.’

‘Better than what, or who?’ Frank exploded. ‘How could I be any worse than the old sot who used to sit here?’

‘He was sick, he was mourning, he wanted to die. What’s your excuse, Frank? It should be one of the happiest days of your life. You’re a new father, you should be showing your daughter what a good one she’s got. Not sitting in a dead man’s chair, drinking yourself into oblivion.’

That hit home. Frank’s head dropped and he became weepy again. I’d had enough of his drunken tears. ‘Fuck you, Frank. Fuck you with a rusty old rod. You’re not worthy of being called father. Mine was a great one, until he lost the love of his life. You’ve disgraced yourself on your first day. You ought to be ashamed.’

I stormed into the kitchen, if a bent-over stagger can be described that way. Miriam was rubbing Martha’s back, hoping to get some wind up before putting her back in the basket. I was suddenly jealous of my own daughter. My back needed attention too.

‘I’ve got some aspirin in my room if you’d like a couple of tablets,’ Miriam said, soothingly.

‘Miriam, I could kiss you,’ I replied. I hadn’t bought any since I became pregnant, I remember reading something about it thinning the blood, so didn’t want to risk it.

Miriam nipped upstairs and came back with a small bottle containing a dozen pills. ‘You can have them, sweetheart. I only take them when my own back plays up. I’ll get some more tomorrow.’

‘Get a triple supply,’ I said, washing two tablets down with a glass of water. I walked over to the Moses basket and put my finger gently on Martha’s cheek, the way I’d seen mothers do a hundred times. Martha opened her eyes, looked at me as though I was the scariest thing she had seen in her short life, and let out an ear-piercing scream.

‘You really don’t like me, do you?’ I said to her.

‘She’ll grow to love you, don’t you worry,’ Miriam said.

I wasn’t so sure. How could a new born take such an instant dislike to its own mother? I thought about the times I’d said that I didn’t want her, and thought she had somehow understood. I put my finger back on her cheek and rubbed it softly. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it,’ I whispered.

Martha quietened a little, so I rubbed her other cheek and she stopped wailing. I blew out a sigh of relief and leaned into the basket to give her a kiss. That was a big mistake, as before my lips got within a foot of her face, the squealing began again. I gave up. I’d had one small victory; I’d settle for that tonight.

Miriam smiled at me sympathetically. ‘Why don’t you go to bed, let those aspirin get to work. I’ll sit up with Martha tonight.’

‘I can’t go up yet, I’ve got to get some more milk out.’

Miriam got up from her seat, I thought she was going to offer to help me express, so I held up my hand. I wasn’t a cow; I could milk myself.

Miriam laughed at my concerned face. ‘Don’t worry, I’m just going to make a pot of tea.’

I joined in the laughter, pleased to have been allowed one lighter moment in my day of pain and sadness.

Twenty minutes of squeezing and swearing later, I fell into bed. My breasts were already sore, goodness knows what they would be like in a few days’ time. I pictured them in my mind, red-raw and swollen, the skin flaking off, with rock-hard, sore, bleeding nipples. Elsie had rescued me by giving us the formula milk. When she arrived in the morning, I was determined to ask her whether Martha could stay on it full time. I wasn’t being selfish; Martha was never going to feed from my breasts anyway. There was no point in rubbing and squeezing the poor things until they became too sore to touch. If I could give her powdered milk instead, it might fill her up, so there might not be so many feeds.

That made me feel guilty. I’d had Martha less than twelve hours, and I was already trying to push her away. I made up my mind to try a bit harder tomorrow. I could be a good mother, if she gave me the chance.

I was just drifting into a well-earned sleep when Frank appeared in the doorway of the bedroom.

‘I’ve come to bed,’ he announced, holding on to both sides of the doorframe for support.

‘You’re not bloody well sleeping in here tonight,’ I told him.

‘Where do I sleep then?’ He looked genuinely puzzled.

‘I don’t care, Frank,’ I said. ‘Go and sleep with my father. You’ve got a lot in common.’

‘But—’

‘Go, NOW!’ I yelled. ‘I’m sick of the sight of you.’

Frank turned, though it took three attempts to face the other way. I heard his footsteps thump down the stairs and then a series of bumps as he fell down the last few. Miriam’s voice was full of concern.

‘Are you all right, Frank? Here, let me help you up.’

‘I’ll get my bloody self, up. Why can’t bloody women leave men alone.’ He was quiet for a moment then shouted. ‘I was only wetting Edn… Rose’s… whatever her bloody name is… Wetting her head, and I get all this shit. Is it my fault