Annie's Room Read Free Page B

beatings, but it's almost as if she wants to push him like this. I'm not excusing Father, of course, not for one moment; what he does is in some ways horrible and wrong, but it's also necessary. Mother could avoid his temper if she was smarter.
    When I'm older and have a husband, I shall be smarter.
    The house falls quiet a little before midnight, and eventually I hear footsteps coming up. From the pattern of the footfall, and also from experience of these matters, I know full well that its Mother who is retiring to bed. After a beating, she always stays down in the room with Father for a while, for at least an hour, before coming upstairs. I never understand what goes on in that silent hour, but perhaps he instructs her to stay, or perhaps she simply wishes to wait and let things get back to normal. I wish I could ask her, but I cannot.
    A moment later, she appears in the doorway, watching me.
    “I'm not asleep,” I tell her from the darkness.
    “You should be,” she replies, her voice weak and hurt. “It's late.”
    “I'm sorry.”
    “Did you hear -” She pauses.
    I choose not to answer.
    “You'll be working with Father again tomorrow,” she continues. “He wants to teach you about the garden.”
    “As you wish.”
    “It's good for you to learn,” she adds. “Father says you're to help him with some important work. He says you'll learn more with him for a few days than you'd learn in a month at school.”
    “I'm sure he's right,” I say after a moment.
    She murmurs her agreement, and then she seems to loiter for a few seconds, as if there's something else she wants to say, before she turns and makes her way to the other bedroom. I wait and listen until I hear the door quietly swinging shut, and then I wait a moment longer until I feel that it's safe to get out of bed. The loose floorboard next to my bed shifts and creaks slightly. Heading to the door, I lean out to the landing and check that the coast is clear, before avoiding all the creaking floorboards on the way to the top of the stairs. I can hear Mother sobbing softly in my parents' bedroom, which means that there's no chance of her coming out for a while. That's good. I start making my way down the dark stairs until I reach the hallway and see the light of a single candle flickering in the front room.
    When I get to the next doorway, I pause for a moment and watch Father as he raises a glass to his lips and takes a sip of whiskey. He's such a still and calm man at the best of times, but doubly so after an altercation with Mother. Disciplining her must be so tiring for him, both mentally and physically. The candlelight casts his constantly shifting shadow against the far wall, and it's clear that he's deep, deep in thought. Some people say that Father is a brutish man, but they don't see him the way I see him. They don't see the great intelligence in his eyes, and they never see him like this, contemplating life as he sits in his armchair before bed.
    I take a step forward.
    The floorboard creaks beneath my left foot.
    I stop.
    Father stares down at his glass for a moment, before turning his head slightly. Not enough to look directly at me, mind, but enough to indicate that he knows I'm here. The candlelight catches the side of his face, picking out his strong, firm brow and his high cheekbones, and then he raises his glass and finishes the rest of his whiskey.
    My cue.
    “Shall I refill that for you?” I ask, making my way over to him.
    He doesn't reply, but when I try to take the glass from his hand, he lets me.
    I head to the table in the far corner, where Father's drinks are kept. Holding his glass up, I see his fingerprints on the glass as well as smudges left by his lips. I give the glass a quick wipe with the sleeve of my dress, using just a little saliva to help the job, before setting the glass down and filling it from the bottle. It's in these small, quiet moments that I feel most comfortable, since at least I know precisely what I should