Today's Reading
You'll want some fluffy stuff, will you? Some nice memories? I know she was vile, but there were moments when we really connected. Soz again. There's not a memory in my head that I want to keep. If you could reach in and wipe them all, I'd let you, though my brother would probably have to sign a consent form. We're twins. He's twelve minutes older than me. He's good at music and playing the guitar, and he's way cleverer than me, but he hasn't got the grades and I doubt you'd even look at his application. He's got a criminal record. I probably shouldn't tell you that, but I try to be honest these days. It's not easy when you can't remember what's real and what's not most of the time. Dagmara's helping me with all that. We meditate. It's not as embarrassing as you'd think. Dagmara makes you feel safe. She was my social worker, when I was young. Still is, actually. I see her three or four times a week and it's like taking a bath, it really is. She never stops. She just does what's right, you know, and if there's no right thing, she'll make the best decision she can in the circumstances. She was amazing for Jarod and me when we were little. And bigger. She's the one who told me that if I wrote to you fine people and told you a bit of a sob story, I might tick some sort of diversity quota and there might even be a grant in it. Dagmara's a bit cynical for somebody who's like the dictionary definition of a good person. She's a Socialist, which—full disclosure—I think I might be too. I'm getting very interested in politics. I want to know why everything is so dreadful. That seems like the sort of topic I might do for my PhD. Precocious? Watashi?
Anyway, I'm almost at the bottom of the form. So....my mam was a monster. She visited every kind of horror on me and my brothers and sisters. She still visits me in my nightmares, though they might be Jarod's memories, I can't be sure. For a little while, when I was eleven or twelve, she had a boyfriend of sorts. His name was Wulf. Wulfric Hagman. Police Constable, if you'll credit it. Fell in love with him like they were the stars of some ghastly opera. It was OK, for a while. We had Dagmara, too. She's my reference. I understand she used to help one of the panel when you were going through a difficult time? I say this purely conversationally.
Yes. Well. So. Wulfric is in prison for killing my mam. Stabbed her in the neck and shoved his glasses in the wound. Too much? I think the word is 'overkill'. Tried to hang himself from the hook in the kitchen. Poor sod was at death's door when the cord snapped. He came to think he was already in hell. Mam's body. All that blood. When they found him, he just kept saying he was sorry. She'd driven him insane, you see. Reeled him in, then turned. Made him her own little puppet on a string. Destroyed him. I mean, he was married, and he should have known better, but on balance, I don't think that means he deserves what she did. Of course, the word 'deserve' is worth a PhD on its own.
He pleaded not guilty because he couldn't remember what happened. Me and Jarod had to give evidence from a little room with a video camera. It was so intense. Dagmara was there. She always was. They asked me all sorts of horrible questions, and when I told the truth about what she did to us, all the barristers started getting shouty. The barristers even had barristers. Nobody can print my name—legal reasons. They all know Wulf Hagman's, though. I mean, if the press had been allowed to report what I'd said about her, it would have been different. They'd have called Wulf a hero for doing it. We did. Jarod and me were running away properly this time. It had been worse since Barry.
So, deep breath. I've told Dagmara and she'll tell Wulf when she visits him. She says he's starting to come back to himself. She's helping him meditate. Remember. She's got more time since she quit social work and started concentrating full-time on Weardy. That's the youth centre where she works. I help her. Jarod, too. I'd like to be a social worker one day, I think, though I doubt I'll be allowed when they see my file and all the reports. I don't look good on paper, which is a curious thing to write on an application form.
The night he came to the house, he was in his uniform. He'd been drinking. He was shouting her name. Begging her to tell them the truth, that he didn't take any photos of us kids. Telling her it didn't have to be like this. He put his boot through the door. She was in the kitchen skinning a rabbit. Yeah, I know. She was an OK cook, I suppose. Maybe that's something in the 'plus' column. She could make roadkill taste like venison. This feat was made considerably easier if the roadkill in question were a deer.
And, whatever happened next, she ended up dead, and he ended up swinging from a rope. I wasn't there, I know that, but I can see it anyway. I see it like a movie. I can pause it and rewind it and speed it up. Jarod can too. He remembers the exact same thing. We know we were at Weardy with Dagmara, but neither of us can even really remember how we found out what happened or what was happening next. We were off our heads by then, of course. She'd been grinding up the pills for months: feeding us our medicine on spoonfuls of jam. Can't stand jam, now.
So, that's my sob story, really. Dagmara let me stay with her for a while, and then she pulled some strings and an old teacher friend of hers said she'd start helping me catch up with the school I'd missed, and I liked learning and liked Dagmara, and even though Jarod was in all these different foster homes, Dag would drive for hours to make sure we saw each other all the time. She wanted both of us, but her bosses would only let her have one. Can you believe that? Like we're puppies. Jarod got the bullet in the Sophie's Choice thing. Said I had a better chance at being somebody than him. Wouldn't be talked out of it. I went a bit mad at fourteen and ended up in foster care anyway, but Dagmara helped me back on track. I've attached my CV (Weardy, and the newsagents, which went better than I expected) and my exam results and would like to draw your attention to the bits highlighted in luminous yellow and thruple-underlined. They are A-stars, my friends. Read 'em and weep.
I realize I've talked myself out of consideration, but I'd like to thank you for this opportunity to ramble on. It's been quite healing.
Yours,
Salome Delaney
PS. Wulf wanted to be a dad to me. I wanted to let him. Maybe that's what drove Mam up the wall, eh?
This excerpt ends on page 16 of the hardcover edition.
Monday, September 16th, we begin the book Darling Girls by Sally Hepworth.
...
