Chapter three: Bedtime at nine

In the sewing hall the machines rattle and the people tattle and it’s loud and cramped and tiresome.
I thread my needle and pick a button from a bag of duplicates.
There’s a black opera cloak draped over my knee needing two buttons at the neck.
And then once that’s done there’s another one.
Exact same cloak, exact same spot over and over again.
It’s monotonous, it’s boring.
It makes the mind wander.
Whose fashion line was this again?
Fitzroy’s I think, or was it Everest?
It doesn’t really matter.
It’ll be in fashion for about a month until the public gets bored and wants to ‘change it up’
I can’t even afford a single piece of these garments, never mind the space to stash it all.
Not that a twelve-year-old needs an opera cloak.
But according to dad I’m old enough to work meaning I’m old enough to pay for my own upkeep.
Which is nonsense because dad and I both know where his side of wages go to.
He needs mine to pay rent.
I cut the thread with disdain and throw the cloak onto the pile before grabbing the next and digging up more buttons.
It’s despicable, it’s pathetic.
And it’s not something I plan on doing for the rest of my life.

A bell rings loudly and like a single organism, the ladies get up from their chairs and walk to the door.
It’s tea time.
Dad hands out cups of tea that are half-cold so we can toss them back in our ten minutes, go to the restroom if needed and then get back to it again.
I grab my cup and say ‘thank you’ like I’m supposed to.
Then sit in the corner by myself until the bell rings again.

I return to my buttons, the same two buttons, the same two spots.
It may be boring but I still rather do this than sit in front of the sewing machines.
They always sound so angry, like they’d love nothing more than to eat your fingers. But the ladies of the sewing hall are too good at their job to fall for its tricks.
Which of course, only frustrates it more.
The ladies chat and laugh amid the raging rattling but they never talk to me.
They know I don’t belong here.
My hands are too soft, my tongue not sharp enough to defend myself against the gossip and scandal that’s their only conversation subject.
To them, I’m just here to be babysat and I might as well be doing something useful in the meantime.
Today it’s buttons, yesterday I was pressing ribbons, who knows what it’ll be doing tomorrow? As long as it’s simple enough a child can do it, just shove it to the child.

By eight o’clock dad tells me it’s time to leave.
I wish the ladies a good evening. They mumble noncommittally in response.
They’re not allowed to go home. Not until they’re done.
I look at the cloaks still left of my pile knowing they’ll have to finish those off as well.
No wonder they hate me. But they don’t dare to show it while dad is around to yell at them or hit them.
Dad tugs my arm, I leave the ladies to their gossip and angry sewing machines.
And we walk home.

Our old house was on street level because of my brother’s sightlessness. Which could be reached fairly simply, but the room we rent now used to be a balcony on somebody’s third floor.
The first staircases are fine, they snake around the outside of the house, are made of wood and covered in burlap to keep people from slipping when it’s wet.
There’s a little garden atop the roof and it’s genuinely a nice place to be but in order to make the space for the flower beds the staircase is replaced with a ladder made from steel.
The edges of the rungs are sharp in weird places like it didn’t get welded properly and I cut my hand once.
But dad says only we and our neighbours need to use it, so there’s no push to fix it.
We enter through a tall window that serves as our door.
The room is small, our kitchen is a single firebox in the corner and our bathroom is a bucket with a lid that gets picked up once a week.
Dad walks up to the firebox, builds a flame and bakes a single egg.
He slides it on a plate that came with the place and tops it with a slice of bread. Then he tells me, “Bedtime at nine.”
I nod.
“I’ll be out.”
“Have fun.”
He shrugs at this then climbs out again.
As he closes the window behind him I wonder why he drinks so much. If he doesn’t have fun doing so, then what’s the point?
But I also know he doesn’t like it if I’m up when he gets back.
I wonder how he even gets up the ladder when he’s all wobbly but maybe muscle memory has taken over that task by now.
He cries a lot when he gets back, drunk and miserable.
One time I tried to comfort him, but he got very angry then.
Now I just pretend I don’t see.
Pretend I don’t know we’re both miserable.
I eat my egg obediently while missing my mother’s cooking.
She had a way of mixing spices and herbs that’s just magical to me.
It tasted like home.
This tastes like a rubber coupling topped with half-dead crumbs.
It’s still better than going hungry.
Better than living on the streets.
Dad still takes care of me technically.
I just don’t understand why he dragged me into this.
He rarely talks to me.
He doesn’t hug me or kiss me goodnight.
I’m not even sure he loves me anymore.
Am I just here to hurt mother?
To hurt George?
‘I don’t care about this girl but I know you do so you cannot have her?’
I shake my head.
I shouldn’t think like that.
The bad one comes to people whose heads are filled with spite.
I pull a notebook from the shelf above my bed that I took from home. Start to flick through the pages of musical notes and homespun lyrics looking for a blank one.
I haven’t read the songs I wrote back when George and I were still together.
I can’t.
They hurt too much. Knowing what I left behind. What petty problems I used to think were important. A fight with mom over chores, a hug she gave to him but not to me.
It’s not important, it never was.
I flick to a blank page and borrow a pencil off dad’s nightstand pulling double duty as a desk. Then flip to a blank page.
And write away all the ugly thoughts. Give them a place outside of myself.
For safety.

I cannot help you
You’ll have to do that for yourself
I want some help too
Instead, I’m pushed back on the shelf

I cannot fix you
Can’t repair the things you did
I’m hurt too
But I won’t numb myself or quit

I will not save you
You’ll have to carry that bother
Because I’m a child
And you’re my father.

I feel the sadness crawling back up in my throat.
I close the booklet again before I spill tears upon the page.
It’s time for bed.
Laying my head on the smelly pillow I try to cheer myself up. Think of the hopes I used to have.
Back in the before time, I wanted to be a singer. I wanted people to come from all over the world to see me perform my craft. And George would be playing the piano our songs could make people cry with joy or sadness. We’d be so good we could wrap the audience around our finger but I think George would still want joy most days. But once every so often I’d advocate for sadness.
We underestimate joy, take joy for granted. Assume it’ll always be there to pick us up when things get tough.
Until it’s no longer there. Until reaching for that feeling just fills us with emptiness and the terrible realisation we lost something precious.
It’s good to be sad at times, good to remind ourselves that joy is something to be treasured. Something to be grateful for.
Because when there’s no more joy to find, nothing left to reach for. The only place a desperate mind can go are fantasies or times past. Crumpling inward on itself, rejecting the world and sustaining itself on lies alone.