THE DAY BENNY CAME.
A Story by Terry Collett
A GIRL AND THE DAY THE BOY BENNY CAME TO HER FLAT AND HER FEARS OF HER FATHER'S RETURN
Hes gone. I heard the door go. Ingrid relaxes, her shoulders unwind, the
nerves untense. Just wait; he may return. She waits, listens. He does
that sometimes; returns and stands looking at me as if he cant decide
about me. No sounds of him. Mum in the kitchen; pots and pans; water
running, but not him. Ingrid stares behind her in case her father has
sneaked in without her hearing him. No one. She bites her lower lip.
That time shed thought hed gone and she turned and he was there and he
walloped her one about the head saying she was looking at him evil eyed.
She looks at the table; at her breakfast bowl and cereal. He would deny
her even that some mornings. Been too naughty hed say and made Mum take
it out and hed sit there eyeing her and if he thought she was making
faces hed slap her leg. Hes gone. Relax. She begins to eat her cereal.
Spoons it in slowly, just in case he comes in suddenly out of nowhere
and whack and shed choke. Relax. Her mother in the kitchen washing up.
Spoons in more cereal. She thinks of that time shed taken a biscuit from
the jar and he said she was a thief and whacked her hard and made a big
mark on her. Benny noticed. Benny knows. Her father hates Benny. Youre
not to see that Benedict kid, her father said, if I see you with him
youre for it. She sees him still. Were the same age, in the same class
at school. Nine years old. She mouths in more cereal. Licks the spoon
after. Looks at the photograph on the sideboard. Black and white. Five
of them. Back then. Her father is at the back grim as death, black suit
and tie, white shirt. Mums next to him wide eyed and pale as death.
That grey dress. Her big brother Tom at the front. Smiling. Gone now
after that big argument with Dad last week. Sylvia my big sister sitting
next to Tom. Gone last year with that Spiv. And me at the end glasses
and buck teeth even then. A bang at the door. Whos that? Mumll go.
Listens. Puts her spoon down. Bites her lip. Blinks. Maybe hes back
forgot his keys. Blame me. Last time he did he blamed me. Said I hid
them. Voices at the door. Not him then. She relaxes. Picks up the spoon.
Eats a small mouthful. Nervous. Always am. Footsteps coming. Is it him?
She puts down the spoon and stares at the doorway. Mum. Standing there a
cigarette in her mouth; eyes screwed up against the smoke. That Benny
boys here at the door. Benny? Here? Good job your fathers not here or
thered be hell to pay, the mother says. What does he want? Says he wants
to take you out. Ingrid looks at her bowl, fingers with the spoon. Can
he come in a minute? Not good idea, what if your father returns
unexpectedly? Just a few minutes while I eat my breakfast? The mother
sighs. Have to be bloody quick in case your dad comes back for some
reason. Then well both be for it. The mother goes out and disappears.
Voices. The door closing. She hates the sound of the door closing. It
usually means hes home. If hes singing or humming it means all is well,
but if hes quiet and sullen then Im for it or sometimes Mum gets it
first and me after. That sound. Door closing. She stares at the doorway.
Benny appears smiling. His hair with the quiff; the hazel eyes. Coming
out? He asks. Where are you going? He sits on the settee, looks around
the room. Thought wed go to see a bit of art. Art? What paintings and
that? He looks at the her. Yes, National Gallery. Costs nothing. She
picks up her spoon and eats cereal, looking at him, listening for the
door. How do we get there? Bus to Trafalgar Square. How much is the fare
there? She asks. Not much for kids. He looks at the photograph on the
sideboard. See your old man is as grim as ever. She licks the spoon for
the last bits of cereal. She can hear her mother banging about in the
kitchen. Will she tell Dad when he gets home? Hard to say. Well, are you
coming? Benny asks, looking at the fireplace. You shouldnt have come
here; my dad might have been here still. I saw the old bugger go, Benny
says, watched him walk through the Square, Benny says with that grin of
his. He might have come back, she says, putting down the spoon. Then
what? Who knows? Benny says unconcerned. She gets up and walks towards
him. He would have hurt me for you being here. He hurts you anyway. She
feels uneasy. The bruise on her thigh is still there just under her
dress. Ill ask Mum if I can go. He nods and smiles. If only she could
smile like that. If only. Ill ask her. He looks at her go. She finds her
mother sorting out washing for the copper. Can I go out with Benny? He
still here? Ingrid nods. Yes. Where? See paintings. Where? National
Gallery. Too far. Not far, Benny says, standing behind Ingrid at the
door. Bus ride away. You shouldnt come here, the mother says. Not
welcoming, Benny says. Not meant to be, the mother says. Ingrid bites
her lip. Her stomach tightens. What shall I say? Will she tell? Her
mother stare stares at her. On your head be it; I dont want to know. The
mother turns away, sorts more washing. Got to go to toilet, Ingrid
says. Ok, Benny says, Ill wait. Ingrid goes off to the toilet; locks the
door. Benny stands by the door staring at the mother. Ingrid sits down.
Her stomach churns. She listens for voices. Nothing. What if Dad comes
back? She waits. The bruise on her thigh is blue and black.
© 2015 Terry Collett
Author's Note
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PHOTO BY COLIN O'BRIEN
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Author
Terry CollettUnited Kingdom
About
Terry Collett has been writing since 1971 and published on and off since 1972. He has written poems, plays, and short stories. He is married with eight children and eight grandchildren. on January 27t.. more..
Writing
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