Rocking Horse

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Back and forth it rocks, from side to side. Like a swinging gold pendulum of a stout Grandfather clock, upon the splintered wooden floor, the hard seat of my childhood moves. I recall the unyielding surface on bare skin, a lightly frayed hem of a thin dress skimming my legs. Light filters in through the slats of the oak blinds, illuminating the dust motes, which dance in the air like children and falls upon my face. I touch my cheek. Wetness glazes my hand and I realise I am crying. The horse continues to rock to and fro. Each motion takes me back. I am 8 years old again.

I am gleeful. I revel in the movement. I am a cowgirl in the Wild West, careering after the Indians as I charge down the hillside, the sun blaring in the sky. ‘Yee ha,’ I yell and laugh with abandonment. I can see them getting closer as I lean forward, dig my heels into the horse, and surge to victory. I am ecstatic as I rock harder and harder, gripping the bars next to the head until my knuckles turn white, pushing further and further forward, eyes wide with the thrill and then a push too hard, I rush forward, clutch hopelessly at the air, tumble heavily over the horse’s head and land with a thud on the floor.

I lay stunned at the cessation of my action. I can hear a slowing ‘ee-aw’ of the horse squeaking on the floorboards as it comes to a halt. Several minutes pass before I feel any pain and then my ribs begin to ache. It grows until it becomes a burning sensation. I wince and push myself upwards and then I stop. The realisation of my actions dawns.

Then I hear footsteps pounding up the stairs and the door swings open. I only look straight ahead; her shoes, black patent t-bars with a thin, 3 inch stiletto heel are planted firmly by the doorframe. In them, her slender feet support supple calves, each one glimmering lightly in sheer tights, and then travelling upward, I take in a navy pencil skirt, high waisted, where a white blouse ruffled at the front is tucked. I know her expression before I see it.

‘Get up,’ she barks, her deep voice always an unexpected contrast to her outward femininity.

I scurry from the floor, the pain from my ribs now replaced by the sting of a cut on my cheek.

‘Here. Now.’ She clicks her fingers. I bow my head and walk toward her.

The blow strikes me before I reach her as she steps into it. A trace of my bloodied cheek glistens across her fingers.

‘You stupid girl,’ she whispers. ‘Our chief guest was in the middle of his after dinner speech.’

‘I’m-‘

‘No. Don’t speak. There are no excuses. I gave you very simple instructions.’ She stalks crisply toward the window. ‘You were to remain up here and read. In silence. It isn’t a difficult task. Even you could do that.’ She pauses. ‘You can read, I’ve been told.’ She whips her head around. The shaft of sunlight glares at her and she frowns

I wait for her to speak again. Blood trickles down my cheek and onto my lip but I dare not wipe it away.

‘Well?’

‘Yes,’ I respond, my voice as light as a particle of air.

The clunk of her heels on the wood informs me she has moved.

‘You have everything in here a child could want,’ she spits. ‘It’s a very simple rule really; a miniscule task that you seem unable to perform. You do not disturb your father and I when we are entertaining.’ Her cheeks flush as she speaks. ‘And you cannot do it. I wonder that you enjoy the attention.’

She advances toward me and seems, for the first time, to take in my appearance.

‘Not content with frightening everyone half to death with your ridiculous antics, you insist on messing yourself up I see too. Well,’ she flicks an imaginary fleck of dust from her blouse, ‘you will have to go the bathroom and clean yourself up. I expect you to use the upstairs bathroom, not the guest one. I don’t expect to hear your noise either. When you are finished, you go immediately to bed. Is that understood?’

I nod. The pain in my ribs makes it hard to breathe. She strides past me and I shiver.

‘Oh, and Gemma,’ she says, turning her head before she closes the door, ‘not a spot of blood on that carpet. Do I make myself clear?’ Without awaiting a response, the door shuts with a click.

In the room, as the sunlight slips away, I stand 24 years older and can still feel the chill in my bones. I look at the rocking horse. It has ceased all movement.