Little things make a difference: homemade birthday cards bring fond tears; paper cuts draw tears of pain. It was probably a little thing that made Mum pack her suitcases. She was out of range by the time Dad recovered from her parting blow, or she would have left with more than a few bruises of her own. I crept away to my room to avoid my father’s fists.
I was a little thing myself: four years old, short and skinny, dirty brown hair. I was small and insignificant enough to not draw attention to myself. Except for Mrs. Donald. Mum had been late to kindy pick-up too often for motherly “Mrs. D” as she collected her son, my friend Cameron. Mrs. D. petitioned my mother to be her alternative pick-up person.
“Whatever,” said Mum, and my heart filled with joy. Another little thing.
The Donalds lived around the corner in a posh house. Mrs. D.: mumsy, always busy, did lunches at the primary school; Mr. D.: easygoing, short, skinny, ratty moustache, a wages clerk at the local knitwear factory. They ran a small, neat car, regularly serviced by Chuck Saville at the local garage where I spent a lot of time.Chimneys swept, gutters cleaned, garden cared for, windows polished. That sort of house. My friend Cam, a year older than me, pretended at school he didn’t like me – that hurt a bit, but he was OK at home.
Smudge, their grey kitten, became my best friend. Mrs. D. had made up a bed in the disused pantry, next door to the laundry with its adjoining shower and toilet. I would creep into that bed, Smudge, purring at my shoulder, sometimes twice a week when Dad was in a foul mood. I didn’t escape all the beatings but having a bolthole with the Donalds saved my sanity. Another little thing.
I haven’t mentioned it before – don’t like to boast – but it turns out I have a photographic memory. It helps with making plans, too. By the time I was 14, I was planning all right! The plans had built-in switches to cater to changes in circumstances. I even had a Plan B. I had spent most of my free time with old Chuck down at the garage, staying out of Dad’s way, but a lot of it had been spent with Cam and his gaming mates. I never dared admit to Cam, the Nerds or to Chuck about my super-memory. I cheated so I came middle-of-the-road in class to stay under the radar. Although I was clean and tidy now thanks to Mrs. D., I was still small, plain, forgettable. Even my geeky friends hardly knew I was around. That’s the way I wanted it to stay.
Then The Plan – which had so far remained in my imagination – took on urgency. Not long before my 16th birthday, I was unaware that Dad had been sacked that day so was home before me. Apparently, he’d been nursing his rage, feeding it with alcohol all afternoon, I guess. I was going down to Chuck at the garage to avoid Dad when he came in. Instead, Dad was waiting for me and lurched out of his bedroom. He started something new:
“Come and give us a kiss, darlin’,’’ he said, grabbing me and trying to drag me into his bedroom.
“Come and give Daddy some sugar!” He stank, he was drooling, and his hands were all over me. The situation demanded I fight back, and I did, with every ounce of strength in my puny arms. If only I had managed to push him down the stairs, all would have been well. Instead, it was such a little thing. He pushed at the wrong moment and it was me that fell. I didn’t black out then but the sight of the bone sticking out of my arm made me faint.
I woke up in hospital next day with the Donalds beside me.
“You’re coming home with us when you leave here,” said Mrs. D. “A couple of days here in case of concussion then back to our place for a few days.”
Before I left hospital, Cam was dead. The nut I had loosened on his front wheel had finally vibrated off and – as luck would have it – the truck behind was moving too fast to stop. The first part of my plan had worked even better than I’d hoped. I’d hoped for injury; death was the epitome of outcomes! Cam wouldn’t be ignoring me at school ever again and I was now the only child at the Donalds’ house.
It was, I felt, an omen so I began the day after Cam’s funeral.
Mrs. D dripped tears as she sobbed: “Please stay, dear. You could move into Cam’s room, now that… now that… ”
“No. Definitely not!” I said. “I’d love to stay with you for a couple of days, but I’ll slip into the storeroom after I’ve finished homework down at the library tomorrow. I’ll be late with so much schoolwork to catch up on,” I added.
“Supper… ”
“Chip shop maybe. Not hungry to be honest.” I wasn’t very good at fake sobs as I’d spent most of my life until then hiding tears, but I must have made a good job of it because both Mr. and Mrs. D. cuddled me and wept alongside me.
It was overcast next day. I prayed it wouldn’t rain. It’s little things like that which can ruin a good plan. But everything panned out: homework done; behind the library in the pitch dark to put on a pair of Mr. D’s black overalls (not easy with one arm in a sling); slip through the alleys – no cameras; through our back gate; round to the front door picking up the “planted” brick and jeans off the line on the way. This time, I checked to make sure Dad was not at home.
I had a key. Using it wasn’t part of the plan – that key was my proof that I didn’t need to break in. I muffled the sound of breaking glass with the jeans and unlocked the door through the broken pane. Now I had to be very, very careful. Dad had left his slippers at the door as usual. I put them on – mustn’t get glass in my own shoes. A dining chair from the kitchen and atop that, instead of being a 150cm shrimp with a broken arm, I was as tall as a basketball player, a basketball player holding a heavy brick.
Sooner than I had hoped, singing off-key, Dad staggered home. He made wild stabs at the door with his key before spotting the broken window, door ajar. He stopped singing, swung the door inwards. I was ready, focused.
I slammed the brick onto his head and he crumpled. I checked. The wound on his head looked fatal. His eyes stared, vacant and unmoving. I blew on his eyeballs. No movement. Yep, he was dead.
The Donalds only lived round the corner but I had to detour via a couple of dumpsters. I slipped in through the pantry window as usual.
Except it wasn’t as usual. I was late and made a racket with the arm cast on the window frame, but it doesn’t excuse me. There was something wrong. I should have noticed – such a little thing!
My excuse is that I was dead tired. The adrenaline rush had abated and left me wasted. I fell into bed with Smudge curled in my arms, asleep before I hit the pillow, I reckon.
At school next morning for the first time since Cam died, I was the object of a few pitying glances from The Nerds, and I manfully shook hands with a couple. Nothing further was said. Now I waited.
Of course, Dad had been sacked. Would anyone notice him not being around? Or would I have to “discover” him after school?
How much “snail mail” do you receive nowadays? With no computer, Dad did still receive stuff the old-fashioned way. Today there was mail, so it was the postman who dealt with the ambulance and police.
Pulled out of class at school, I stared unseeing at the policewoman as she “blah, blah-ed” at me. My plan was working but I was still shocked. That was a little thing that stood me in good stead through the interviews.
Back at the Donalds, the police asked where I had been in the last couple of days: “I’ve been staying here since I had my accident and since Cam died. Last night? I was here when I came in from the Library.”
And they interviewed the Donalds, too. Naturally, I stayed on with them. To save me from the foster system, the Donalds begged that I be allowed to live with them. Because I was almost 16, I had a say in this, and so they were accepted.
Dad’s house was sold and the money put in a trust for me. I insisted on staying in the pantry on the put-you-up as the ground floor window might still come in handy one day. You never know. Dad’s death was put down to an unknown perpetrator, but there were dozens of suspects. Dad hadn’t been popular.
Weeks passed. I messed up a couple of times at school and produced marks that were superb rather than also-ran. Chuck Saville was kind to me, gave me space and car maintenance problems to solve down at the garage.
The Nerds insisted I continue the gaming with them. Both were welcome distractions. I left Adrian Nerd one evening mulling over a problem, so I was well and truly distracted!
I let myself in through the back door and would have screamed as I crept into my pantry had a hand not clamped across my mouth.
“Promise you’ll not scream and I’ll take my hand off!”
I nodded furiously and the hand was removed. The pantry light was switched on and I stood face to face with Mr. D.
“What the hell?” I was furious.
Mr. D. leered. I had read that people “leered” and never thought about what it might look like. Now I knew.
“What the hell?” I said again.
“A week or two and I’ll be down here for a dose of sugar.”
Sugar. “Come and give Daddy some sugar.” I heard the words, smelt the alcoholic breath.
“No! What do you mean?”
“I mean that my beloved Velma isn’t warm in the marital bed these days, so I’ll be seeking warmth in your bed.”
“Not f—ing likely.” He clamped a hand over my mouth.
“Ssh. You’ll do exactly as I say from now on.”
“What? Why?” It was a mumble through the hand. I was tempted to bite!
“The night your father died you weren’t here. That damn cat was scratching at the door. Scratched half the paintwork off it has. It went on and on and you didn’t open the door, so I came to let the cat in.
“The room was empty, and it stayed that way. I know exactly what time you came home by the racket you made. And I could suddenly remember that and tell the police.”
I didn’t need a photographic memory to recreate the scene in my mind’s eye. I remembered. Smudge was already in my bed and yet the door was closed. That was the little thing out of place that night.
“You’re nearly 16 and then our little meetings will be quite legal. Be ready.”
Oh, yes. I would be ready, all right. I had devised a Plan B for Dad. It was derailed when he sold the car. But Chuck had been teaching me for years. I knew all about the little things that could go wrong with a car. And that’s what happened. Such a little thing to cause a fatal accident. It was sad really because Smudge disappeared at the same time. Neither of them will ever betray me again.
Nearly two years later and Mrs. D. has formally adopted me, named me in her will and everything.
But she’s sad all the time, complaining, whining, crying and getting on my nerves. I can’t stand it, but there’s still a couple of months to go before I can lay hands on my Trust money. I can’t wait that long. And selling this posh house would make me quite well-off.
There must be a little thing I can do to fix this situation, don’t you think?
Author: Sue Ford
Sue has been a prolific reader for most of her 70+ years and has been writing for much of that time. Brought up in the UK, she emigrated to New Zealand in 1974 and pursued a secretarial career. She met her future husband on Stewart Island where they still live and where she continues to do secretarial work for him.
