Just another day

She was an angry woman. Short fuse kind of person. Yelling. Crying. Swearing at my dad.

'You English bastard. Fuckin' miserable sod. Get on yer bike. Go on. FUCK THE FUCK OFF'.

Me and my wee sister shared a bedroom with our five years older sister. The younger one was always greetin'.

'Waaaaaahhhh, muuuuummmmm', she sobbed, with outstretched arms, tears tumbling down her pretty little sorry face.

'LEAVE ME ALONE. Shut up. SHUT THE FUCK UP'.

I was the quiet one. I learned to keep very still, then l wouldn't get the toungue lashing. However, that in itself caused quite a problem.

'Moody. Sulky. Cat got yer toungue? Answer me. ANSWER. NOW. RIGHT NOW. D'you hear me? Stupid. Nasty, ugly wee sod. Yer jist like him. He's useless an aw'.

None of us got hugs. Or praise. We were just an irritating bunch to this woman. Inconvenient. But we knew no different. I lived in my own little world. A place with dolls and prams. Stuffed animals like a wee Scottie dog on a lead, as we weren't allowed pets. I played piano, as l was made to go to lessons 'Whether you like it or not'. And my music that l adored.

I had aquired a transistor radio from a classmate when l was around seven years old. Her dad worked in Radio Rentals, and this had been some kind of gift if you rented a new telly for a year. I had done a swop for one of the knitted bags l'd made. I loved making things back then. Very creative and resourceful at that age. Anyway, this wee tranny was stuck permanently to my ear. Under the pillow at night. (We had to go to bed at half six! Summer or winter. Half six? To get us out her road, l suppose) If you ask me about absolutely any song or band, l'm pretty certain l can find you an answer if l dig into my memory box there. Yep. For sure.

My mother eventually found the precious life saver, as l took a battery from the drawer in our living room. It was always untidy. Stuffed full of bits. Bits of wool. Bits of string. Bits off of bits. Spare buttons, buckles, pom poms from knitted hats. Biros, note pads, Brown paper. Selotape. Birthday cards my dad sent to my mum. 'To my darling wife. Love you forever, Len'. Bits.

I came in from school to the usual cold but fireplace warm house. Mum usually totally ignored us, sometimes playing records and crying along with them. Hickory Holler's Tramp. 'How can anyone be that cruel to a kid', she'd say out loud, crystal whisky glass in one hand, Players cigarette in the other, so l felt real terror when she calmly walked up to me and produced the little scratched transistor radio from behind her sticky out petticoat. My knees started to buckle. Oh god. Another battle. Too much for a wee lassie, looking back.

'Where did THIS come from', she asked, looking down at me. She was looking at me! My mum. Looking. At me! I loved my mum. I needed her to love me.

The clock was tick tick ticking loudly at me, telling me this was the time of my life, my childhood, ticking away. I was so young. I, to this day, do not have a clock. It would transport me back. To there.

'Em. I. Umm. l. Em'.

'For fucks sake, stupid. ANSWER ME, idiot. Just like yer dad, you. A canny bear to look at you. Get out. Go on. GET OUT'.

The back door was still open where l had just come 'home' from school. It was snowing, and l'd taken off my duffle coat and jaggy scarf l'd made. She shoved me out, chucking the radio into our garden. I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't. It's fine. Dad'll be home soon.

The door slammed, and l felt something warm run down my bare leg into my wellies. When l looked, l'd pee'd myself. I felt so ashamed. Hope dad would get here soon. So cold ..