A Family’s Heartbreak. Kitty Neale

’cos he knows what an old tart you are.’

      ‘I ain’t listening to this, and neither should Peter,’ she spat, and, kissing her son quickly on his forehead, put him to one side before abruptly rising to her feet.

      With no time to react, it was too late to run out of sight, and as the door flew open Jenny found herself face to face with her mother.

      ‘Earwigging again, Jenny? Well, I hope you heard every word that pig of a father of yours said to me. I’m sick to the back teeth of it, slagging me off when all I want to do is see you kids.’

      Jenny’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, but no words came. She wanted to throw herself at her mother’s feet and beg her not to leave again. She knew the moment the front door closed behind her mum, she, or one of her siblings, would bear the brunt of their father’s anger.

      ‘Get out of my way, girl,’ her mother said, tutting as she brushed Jenny aside to head for the front door. ‘I’m wasting my breath here.’

      Jenny heard her father’s heavy footsteps on the linoleum floor. He was coming her way! She pressed her bony back against the hallway wall and breathed in, trying to make herself as thin as possible. If she could have, she would have merged into it. She’d once stood in the way when her father was chasing her mother, only to be aggressively shoved to one side. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. Wishing she was invisible, Jenny trembled, but thankfully her father dashed past her.

      Just as her mother opened the street door, he grabbed her by her long blonde hair and yanked her backwards. ‘Lizzie, get back in here, you bitch, and see to your child,’ her father ordered harshly.

      It was only then that Jenny heard Peter wailing, and she rushed from the hallway to comfort her brother, leaving her parents fighting by the front door. Peter’s face was screwed up as tears streamed down his cheeks. ‘It’s all right, love, I’ve got you,’ Jenny said soothingly as she scooped him into her arms.

      She could hear her parents still screeching obscenities at each other and had no doubt all the curtains in the street would be twitching, whilst some neighbours would be on their doorsteps. They were used to hearing them fighting – after all, it wasn’t an unusual occurrence – but they were a nosy lot on her street.

      ‘I want my mummy,’ Peter cried.

      Jenny sat on the sofa and pulled the boy closer to her, burying his head in her chest. ‘I know you do, sweetheart,’ she said, but couldn’t find any words of condolence to offer. She wouldn’t lie to him and tell him Mummy would be back soon, as the chances were she wouldn’t. She couldn’t tell him everything was going to be all right. It never was, not after their mother had visited. All she could do was protect the child from their father’s fury, and offer herself up for a beating, a sacrifice for him to vent his frustrations on.

      Henry slammed the front door with such force, it felt like the house shook. Lizzie had broken free from his grip and refused to come back in to see to Peter. He stormed into the lounge, furious with his estranged wife. He hated that two years ago she’d left him high and dry with five kids to look after. Worse still, the slag had showed him up in front of his mates by dumping him for another man. The humiliation of it! And yet Lizzie still had the audacity to return home on a whim and demand to see her children. Well, he wasn’t going to stand for it again. As far as Henry was concerned, if she wasn’t at home to look after her kids, then she could go take a running jump. Not that he would have taken her back. He loved Lizzie and probably always would, but she’d burned her bridges the moment she’d jumped into bed with Lesley Harrington. Of all the blokes she could have chosen, why Lesley bloody Harrington? He’d never get his head round that one. The man was a right ugly git, and a sly bugger.

      Henry paced the floor, pulling at his hair as tortured thoughts of his wife raced through his mind. Images of Lizzie cavorting with Lesley teased him, keeping him awake at night and interrupting his day. He couldn’t stand it – it was driving him to the brink of insanity, and whenever she came to the house, he’d feel his fury spill over.

      Peter’s gasping, juddering sobs shook him free of his thoughts and he snapped his head around to look at the boy. Jenny was holding him close, but he noticed Peter’s eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and his nose was snotty. This was Lizzie’s fault, he thought, clenching his fists in anger. His wife’s visits always upset the whole household.

      ‘I want my mummy,’ Peter cried again.

      Henry’s hackles rose further at the sound of his youngest son whingeing for his good-for-nothing mother. She didn’t do anything for the boy, so why on earth would he cry for her? She’d coldly walked out on her children, yet they all hankered after her. It riled Henry that they couldn’t see her for what she was, and in his temper he picked up an empty whiskey glass and launched it across the room. The glass shattered as it hit the wall above the sofa, showering Jenny and Peter with tiny fragments. Peter screamed, and Jenny flinched, inciting Henry even further. ‘Get that fucking kid out of my sight,’ he yelled, spittle flying as his mouth foamed like a rabid dog’s.

      Jenny scrambled to her feet, the boy clutching her, and scuttled towards the door. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded and reached out to grab his daughter’s arm.

      Jenny didn’t fight back; she wasn’t like her mother. As he felt her body go limp, he released her, and as she crumpled to the floor she pushed Peter towards the door, hissing urgently, ‘Run, Peter, run.’

      The boy didn’t need telling twice and scampered from the room as Jenny, still on her knees, turned submissively towards him, her eyes lowered. Henry leaned forward until his face was just inches from the top of his daughter’s head. His stomach churned as he looked at her fine ginger hair, and he wondered again where she’d inherited it from. He was dark, the same as his other daughters, Gloria and Pamela. His wife had blonde hair, which was so light it looked almost white. His sons, Peter and Timmy, took after their mother, blonde and blue-eyed. But this one, Jenny, his eldest, with her bright orange hair and freckles splattering her face, she didn’t look anything like a Lombard, and Henry wondered if he had a cuckoo in his nest.

      Jenny kept her head down and avoided eye contact with her father. Experience had taught her that if she looked at him, he’d take it as defiance and beat her twice as badly. She held her breath in a futile bid to stop her body from shaking. He seemed to find her fear repulsive and would use it as another excuse to hit her harder. She felt she couldn’t win.

      ‘Look at me,’ her father sneered.

      Jenny slowly lifted her head to find herself staring into her father’s dark eyes. Her heart sank. They were cold, hard, and his mouth was twisted in anger. When he was in this mood she knew that no amount of crying or pleading would touch him. It was as if he was a man possessed, and she silently cursed her mother for turning him demonic again.

      ‘I suppose you want your mother too?’

      Her father’s voice was filled with hatred, and she tried not to recoil as his saliva splattered her face, smelling of stale alcohol. ‘No,’ Jenny answered in a whisper, almost paralysed with terror at what was coming.

      ‘You’re a liar – just like her!’

      Jenny saw her father’s arm pull back, and his clenched fist coming towards her. She closed her eyes as he punched her on the side of her head. Pain seared through her skull, and the force of the blow knocked her sideways. Instinctively, she curled into a foetal position and waited for her father to put the boot in. Her head throbbed, and though her eyes were shut tightly, she knew the room was spinning.

      ‘Your mother’s a whore! Nothing but a dirty scumbag whore!’

      She felt the kick between her shoulder blades. It hurt, but it could have been worse. At least he didn’t have his work boots on, but her relief was short-lived as the next couple of kicks jarred her body. She laid motionless and waited, praying he’d had his fill and would leave her alone. At least the kids are upstairs out of harm’s way, she thought through a haze of pain. Then, to her relief, she heard her father walking away. She kept her eyes closed,