Dangerous Lady by Martina Cole Page B

a few weeks previously. Slipping off the bed she crept across her room, opening the door as silendy as possible.
    She looked through the crack into the hallway. Opposite her bedroom was the kitchen. She waited a few seconds for any sounds that might tell her that her mother was in there but out of her range of sight. Nothing. She walked across the hall and into the kitchen. The sugar she had spilt everywhere the night before was sticking to her bare feet. She was hungry again. She was always hungry. Sneaking across the kitchen she made herself some bread and margarine.
    She was kneeling on a kitchen chair, her long hair trailing in the margarine, when she heard the steps. The heavy thudding steps that meant her mother was getting up. She froze. Her heart was fluttering in her chest. Her breathing came rapidly. Remembering the night before she threw her knife from her hand as if it was red hot, then tried to push the sticky mass of bread and margarin underneath the bread wrapper. In her haste she was clumsy! and only succeeded in pushing the loaf of Dinkum bread and the sandwich off the table and on to the floor, already sticky from the sugar. -,
    Tears of frustration stung her eyes. She felt her mother’s presence before she turned and faced her, her little grubby hands clenching and unclenching with nerves. Janine looked at her coldly. Her daughter’s face was exquisite! even when she was terrified. Her eyes were a startling violet colour that made her look incredibly strong-minded. Coupled with her dark brown hair and high cheekbones, she looked like a miniature woman. Janine watched her daughter sweep her hair away from her face with a gesture that was more fitting to a sexy movie star than a four-year old girl. Her long neck and strong pointed chin were
    88
     
    shown to advantage by the gesture.
    Janine chewed her lip, staring spitefully at her child. She knew that if she didn’t speak Carla would get more and more nervous, eventually breaking the heavy silence herself. She noticed the black bruise on her arm and a wicked light glowed in the back of her eyes. She would have to keep the child’s arms covered, because Roy would go crazy if he thought his little angel had been whipped. She gritted her teeth and, aping the child’s earlier movement, theatrically swept her own thick red hair off her face. She looked like a sleek, tawny cat about to pounce on its prey. Carla stared back at her, every nerve in her body tensed and waiting. As her mother swept back her hair in a parody of her own action she dropped her eyes. Everything she did annoyed her mother. How she sat, how she stood, how she ate, how she spoke. Every movement was ridiculed and parodied.
    She wished her father was home but he was very rarely around much these days, and when he was her mother fought with him. Carla would curl up on his lap and hold her hands over her ears desperately trying to block out their arguing. She loved her father and missed him when he was away. She thought of him as a big tree, with strong branches that enabled her to climb him, which she did when he was home. With Roy holding her by the arms she walked up his body until, reaching his shoulders, she flipped over and landed on her feet, screeching with laughter. She wished he was here now. Her mother daren’t touch her when her father was at home. The tension in the kitchen had reached its peak and, stuttering in fright, the child spoke.
    ‘Where’s me dad?’ As soon as she spoke the words she flinched inside. Why had she mentioned him? She closed her eyes tightly. Somewhere inside her was a weak hope
    89
    that she had not spoken. She heard her mother’s slippers crunching across the sugar-strewn floor. She squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as possible. As she felt her hair being yanked, she screamed. The pain was searing through her scalp. Shaking her like a rag doll, Janine began to shout.
    ‘You want your dad, do you? You little slut! He’s out whoring as usual.