Alice Cranshaw

The ‘eat wer like summat alive, a physical force that ‘ad power o’ will, pressin’ down on me, choosin’ to mek me life difficult. I used the back o’ me ‘ond to wipe the sweat away from the gap betwain top lip an’ nose, vaguely repelled by the amount o’ moisture that were present, annoyed that I ‘ad not thought to bring a tissue, ‘spite the number o’ pockets arranged about me person. I wiped the dampness from back o’ me ‘ond onto me coot.
It were filthy anyroad.
The pavement in front o’ me curved to the right, though gradually, as the road issen split into two. Straight on, if yo’ walked far enough, the supermarket that adjoined the football ground. Nairen of interest for me thayer. I kep’ gooin’, followin’ the curve o’ the walkway, head down, not lookin’ where I wer gooin’ anymowa, no naid to look, I knew these streets too well an’, when yo’ look like I dun, paiple ‘ave a tendency to avoid yo’, to gid yo’ a wide berth, so I were unlikely to bump into anyone accident’llay.
Alice is the name, Alice Cranshaw.
Bin living in these parts for, ooh, mus’ be thirty five yayer. Since the day I wer born, in fact. Me mom used to tell me I weren’t birthed like a normal, I were shat out like a bad curry, which sounds about right.
The old bitch is dead now, but I ‘ad nairen to do wi’ it, despite what they all said. Me ‘onds are clain, s’far as that were concerned. Fell down the stairs ‘er did, three days af’er the old man went, so I got the blame for the pair on ‘em. ‘E died o’ the drink, as most do ‘round these parts, the men folk, anyroad, so that were me fault an’ all, at least accordin’ to the neighbours. Drank to spare himself the shame of ‘avin’ summat like me as a daughter, is the way they tell it but, truth is, ‘e drank ‘cos on ‘is own demons. Drank ‘cos o’ the things ‘e did that shamed ‘im, though I cor say that ‘ad nairen at all to do wi’ me. I were fourtain the last an’ on’y time ‘e tried anythin’. Lyin’ in bed at night, me curtains were open, I con remember as clear as if I was lyin’ thayer right now an’, back then, the street lights wor as bright so yo’ could actu’lly mek out the stars, actu’lly see ‘em spinnin’ in the heavens if yo’ squinted really ‘ard. Well, I was lyin’ thayer, counting ‘em up, seein’ if I could get to a thousand afore I fell aslaip, the clouds skittin across the sky mekkin it difficult to kep track, one second blocking ‘em, the next not so that I were never shooar which stars I’d counted an’ which I deh, an’ all that concentratin’ o’ course kept me from slaipin’. Well, I were concentratin’ so ‘ard I barely ‘eard the knob on me bedroom dower swivel. Fust I were aware were when ‘e closed the dower behind hissen an’ stood in the shadows watchin’ may. I day know who it were. ‘E day mek a sound yo’ see, just stood thayer, rooted to the spot, as if ‘e ‘ad died right thayer where ‘e stood, as if that black old heart o’ ‘is ‘ad just stopped baitin’ in ‘is chest an’ ‘e’d gone an’ fuckin’ died right where ‘e stood an’ I wish to pish ‘e ‘ad cos what ‘e did next was so vile. I turned messen over when I heard the dower close an’ peered into me room. I’d ‘ad me back to the dower, o’ course, ‘ad to, to stare out at the beautiful stars, so it took me eyes a while or two to readjust. I thought mebbe I’d fallen aslaip for a sec’ an’ dreamt the noise, an’ was just thinking o’ settlin’ back down to try ‘n’ slaip again when ‘e moved at me, out o’ the shadows, scarin’ me so much if thayer’d bin any in me I’d ‘ave pissed where I lay.
‘Dad,’ I whispered into the room, not shooar what were ‘appenin’ though not really worried. It were only Daddy. I knew I’d be safe.
‘Shhh,’ ‘e soothed an’ I could see ‘im ‘oldin’ ‘is ‘ond up to ‘is face, though the darkness masked the precise nature o’ ‘is actions. A finger against the lips was what I guessed.
‘E moved nearer.
‘Everythin’ alright?’ I asked as ‘e swivelled an’ sat down on the bed, ‘oldin’ an arm up slightly to allow me room to crawl under it, leaning down on me own elbah, gazin’ up at ‘im, ‘is features ‘alf masked by the night-time.
‘Do you love me, Alice?’ ‘e asked in a voice that I ‘ad never afore ‘eard, soft, strangled, as if ‘e were ‘avin’ to force the air itself over ‘is vocal chords. Lookin’ back, mebbe it were the guilt tryin’ to stop ‘im afore it were too late, ‘is own body workin’ against ‘im, but for ‘is own good, if you see what I main.
‘Course I love you,’ I replied naively, still feelin’ safe, still secure, under the protective paternal wing.
‘Doe scrame,’ was the only other thing ‘e said, in that same, strangled, not-Dad voice, a stranger spaikin’ through the mouth o’ the familiar, then ‘is ‘onds were on me an’, ‘cos ‘e ‘ad told me not to, I day scrame. I lay thayer an’ let ‘is ‘onds move about me, the top ‘alf o’ me, feeling nairen at all really save for the numbness o’ shock, body an’ mind paralysed, not afraid, more repulsed, set rigid by the revulsion I felt. It were only when ‘is ‘onds went down below an’ I felt one o’ ‘is nicotine stained fingers work its way inside me that I started to fight, ballin’ me fists an’ slappin’ ‘em against ‘is face, forcin’ ‘im to retrait. I opened me mouth to scrame, but no sound came out an’, as if ‘e ‘ad never even bin thayer, ‘e was gone, out o’ the room, away down the stairs where I ‘eard ‘im open the fridge, no doubt reachin’ inside for the strongest bottle ‘e could find.
We never spoke about that day.
Thayer was never a naid.
‘E suffered for it ‘til the day ‘e died, without a reason for me to add to ‘is misery.
I shed no tears at ‘is funeral.
Maybe that’s why they started callin’ me a monster. The 'eartless little bitch who refused to cry even as ‘er own ferther were dropped into the dirt, but it’s ‘ard to fail pity for someone 'oo thinks it’s ok to stick their fingers up your cunny without even askin’ fust. If they knew about that, mebbe they wouldn’t ‘ave bin so quick to judge, but I ‘eld me silence, not tellin’ a soul, an’ the secret remains mine alone even to this day.
The curve in the road ended, an’ I was forced to look left to right as I crossed the T-junction next to The Alex, a pub I ‘ad never even entered, the sight o’ the gristled men standin’ in the dowerway smokin’ enough to tell me that I would not be welcome. A car pulled to a stop just shy o’ the junction, the driver behind the wheel usherin’ me across the hoss-road, so I shuffled off the pavement, me Wellin’ton boots prohibitin’ swiftness o’ passage, an’ I ignored the jeers o’ the cigarette smokers behind me, shut me lugholes to the ‘Alright, darlin’,’ an’ ‘You’re a good lookin’ fella,’ knowin’ that they only said such things out o’ ignorance. They weren’t really tryin’ to ‘urt me, they were just maskin’ the pain o’ their own lives, hidin’ their own sense o’ worthlessness behind a masquerade o’ misogyny an’ mischief. And what use protestin’, anyroad? What if I were to turn round an’ give ‘em the sod off finger? It’s not like I could ‘urt ‘em, not like they would care what I thought. It would just mek ‘em laugh mower than they already were.
I waved a brief thank you to the driver, one small proof at least that thayer is still kindness in this world, an’ reached the safety o’ the opposite pavement, the voices behind me silenced now as the men returned to what passed for their conversation. I pulled me shawl tighter around me lugholes, to blot out as much sound as possible, just in case they were not done wi’ me after all, marching determinedly past the Harley Davison outlet, not even botherin’ to glance in the direction o’ the motorbikes on display, not interested, seeing only the couple who approached me on the pavement, ‘onds linked, finger over finger. The man was lookin’ at me as I stared, though man was stretchin’ it as the whelp were twen’y, not a day over, so I flicked me eyes away briefly, tryin’ to resist the lure, unable to do so, me eyes drawn back to the sight o’ young love, heart baitin’ more quickly than it should as I thought back to Alf, the only man to ever show me true kindness.
We were about the same age as the young lovers comin’ me way when we fust took up together. ‘E worked in the fishmongers down Lower ‘igh Strait. Mom sent me down to buy the plaice every Sat’day, a ten minute walk from our ‘ouse on Enville Strait an’ ‘e caught me ‘eart from the moment I set eyes on ‘im, scrapin’ at the ice chippins ‘neath the red snapper, leaning forrad, the sleeves of ‘is blue an’ white smock rolled up so as they day catch on any o’ the fish on display, short cropped hair ‘idden ‘neath a matchin’ blue an’ white ‘at that made ‘im look like the sexiest butcher ever walked the planet. As ‘e pushed ‘is scraper back an’ forth, the fust thing I noticed was how the muscles in ‘is forrarms bulged an’ relaxed, bulged an’ relaxed, an’ I couldn’t ‘elp but imagine them arms tensed up on either side o’ me as ‘e propped hissen up while ‘is bottom ‘alf plunged in an’ out o’ me. I felt wicked for the thought, an’ giggled out loud at me own depravity, the sound lettin’ ‘im know I were thayer. When ‘e set hissen straight an’ looked me way, me ‘eart near popped out me mouth as the deepest green eyes seemed to stare right into me, for all the world mekkin me think ‘e could read the dirty thoughts that were still at the front o’ me brain. I must ‘ave blushed as bright as them snappers, an’ damn near ran from the shop thayer an’ then, but I ‘eld me nerve, noticin’ a small smile toyin’ wi’ the corner of ‘is mouth. ‘E were tryin’ to ‘ide it, but it were thayer all’same, an’ the sight o’ it spurred me on, emboldenin’ me, so I stepped forrad an’ introduced messen, bold as brass.
‘I’m Alice Cranshaw,’ I said, louder than I meant, so the only other customer in the shop, as well as Alf’s fellow ‘monger looked me way an’ all, but it were too late, I just ‘ad to carry on spaikin’.
‘Two plaice, please,’ I said, quieter now, the initial rush o’ confidence fadin’ fast, in its place the sensation o’ shrinkin’, as if the ground were givin’ way ‘neath me feet, the Earth issen tryin’ to claim me for me act o’ stupidity.
‘No problem.’
Afore I left the shap, e’d asked fer me phone number, which I refused, but I did agree to meet ‘im down The Bathams for a couple ‘ours on the night an’, quicker than a bird con blink, we was together. ‘E were a gentleman an’ all, ‘olding open dowers, pulling out me chair when ‘e took us down the Bon Appetit so as I could sit, all dainty, like. Med me fail like a proper lady.
While it lasted.
One night, as ‘e came to drop me off outside me ‘ouse, ‘e med a lunge fer me an’, despite the thoughts I’d ‘ad the fust time I saw ‘im, I resisted. I pushed at ‘im wi’ me onds, pressed against ‘is shoulders, ‘olding ‘im at bay, but ‘is ‘eat were up ‘an there wor no stoppin’ ‘im. ‘E clamped an ‘ond over me mouth an’ pushed me against the car dower behind, pressin’ against me wi’ all ‘is weight. Like I said, I were ‘ittin’ ‘im as ‘ard as I could, but me blows meant nothin’ to ‘im. I might as well ‘ave bin a stickleback biting at the flank of a tiger shark for all the good it did me. Still coverin’ me mouth, ‘e used ‘is free ‘ond to start ‘itchin’ up me skirt. Pulled it ‘ard, ‘e did, up over the lace tops o’ me stockin’s, pausin’ for a few seconds thayer, ‘is ‘ond strokin’ ‘gainst the tops o’ me thighs.
But it wor me thighs ‘e were after.
Just as me Dad ‘ad done a few years agoo, ‘e were delvin’ fer what ‘e oughtn’t, tryin’ to tek summat afoower I were ready to give it, so I ‘ad to fight back. I pulled me ‘ead from side to side, violent like, so ‘is ‘ond slipped slightly off me face an’ took me chonce, openin’ me mouth wide an’ snappin’ down wi’ me nashers, clampin’ a good cleft o’ skin betwain ‘em, working me jaw then, fast an’ vicious so as, within seconds, ‘e were squailin’ like ‘e were giyin’ birth, ‘cept the only thing comin’ out on ‘is body were the blood runnin’ into me mouth an’ down the side on ‘is ‘ond. ‘E shook ‘is ‘ond loose, callin’ me all sorts o’ words that I’d never ‘eard afower or since, but it gave me the chonce I naided, to scrabble for the dower hondle an’ fall from the car.
I never saw ‘im again after that night, refusin’ to go back to the fishmongers when me Mom asked, not sayin’ why, or not exactly, just that somethin’ bad ‘ad happened. I ‘spect she knew roughly what I meant, but ‘er wor one to os’ queshuns. That’s why ‘er an’ me Dad stayed together, I reckon, ‘er ‘appy to live in ignorance while ‘e slowly drank hissen into the grave.
The young couple passed me by, an’ a right pretty picture they made, even though they was lookin’ at me like I might attack ‘em wi’ a knife or summat. Cor say I blame ‘em too much. I look a right state, an’ I know it. Asides me orange shawl, draped over me ‘ead like a Biafran, I’m wearin’ National Health specs. Not cos I wannoo, but ‘cos I cor affor’ nairun else. The pockets I mentioned a while agoo, them am on the duffle I bought down the charity shap a few months back. Big an’ bulky, it ‘ides me form from the world, keeping me mind quiet o’ worry. I eh no oil paintin’, that much I know, but for some men, anythin’ll do, even somethin’ as raggedy rough as Alice Cranshaw.
I crossed the road, ‘eadin’ for the bus stop.
The buz wouldn’t be long.
Number 100, the town centre circular.
No one pays you any attention on the buz. They leave you well alone, ‘specially someone like me. It’s like I’ve got a sign on me bonce sayin’ ‘Er’s a nutter, steer clear’ or summat, cos, even when I sit on the double saits, no one sits next to me ‘less they con ‘elp it.
I reached the buz stop just as the 100 arrived, me the only one wantin’ to get on, so I showed me pass, an’ climbed aboard.
‘I’m Alice Cranshaw,’ I said to the driver, who jus’ turned away ‘sif ‘e ‘adn’t ‘erd.
I sat down an’ stared out the winder, watchin’ the streets o’ StourHompton drift by as the buz looped round an’ round an’ round it’s route.
It’s how I spend me days.
‘Cos I’m Alice Cranshaw.

© Ian Stevens (2012 - 2017)
Other shorts and full lengths at: http://smellthewriting.blogspot.fr/