ALWAYS SEEMS TO LOSE.

AN ABUSED GIRL AND THE BOY WHO WANTS TO BE HER FRIEND IN LONDON IN 1950S

Her mother cries;
shouts vibrate
the passageway,
her father bellows
four letter words
that seem to pull
at Enid's ears.

She sits
on the side
of her bed
half dressed,
waiting for the row
to end before
she ventures out
for breakfast and school.

There's a bruise
over her right eye,
it fills out
like a painted blob.

She caresses herself
against the sounds;
bites her lip
in anticipation
of her father's return.

A door slams shut;
silence filters in.

She can hear
her mother's sobs,
deep throated,
gut wrenching.

Enid stands up
and goes
to her bedroom door,
peers out;
he's gone;
her mother's
in the kitchen,
sobs echoing.

Enid shuts the door
and gets dressed;
her stomach
is rumbling;
her hair
is in a mess;
the bruise spreads
like a red
and blue stain.

After breakfast
and her mothers' silence,
Enid goes off
to school
and meets Benny
by the Square's slope.

You've got a bruise.

I know,
banged my head
against a door.

Same door
as last time?
Benny asks.

She looks back
at the block of flats.

Same one.

Benny walks beside her
as they go down
the slope and onto
Rockingham Street,
his eyes scanning her,
taking in the untidy hair,
the bruise,
the smell of damp cloth.

What's upset
your old man, now?

Who says he's upset
about anything?

The bruise
over your eye.

She looks at him:
the hazel eyes,
the quiff of hair
over his forehead,
the small smile
that isn't a smile,
but seems like one.

Accident,
he didn't mean to.

You're accident prone;
running into doors
and fists
and backhanders.

She stops
and stares at him:
not your business.

Benny stares back at her:
who's then?

She walks on,
brushing at her hair,
dabbing at the bruise.

She hates arguments
and rows,
she always seems
to lose.