Open Writing

Memories began flooding back — bad memories— as Bonnie Fields moved toward the old square cottage, crouching there like a malevolent cartoon cat. A “Garfield”, with heavy lidded eyes that peered furtively from under the drawn shades and slightly open sashes on either side of the snout of a front door.

She’d determined never to come back to this place and re-open old wounds, but for the sake of her son, Mark, she’d needed to return and finally confront the sisters.

Sheep were grazing in the untended grounds, where gnarled fruit trees struggled with moss and lichen to produce a few paltry spring blossoms. The gardens. How she had toiled in those hated gardens. Fearful of punishment, and of being seen, spending her teenage years cowed, helpless and hidden from view.

For her, now, flowers and vegetables were to come from the market. Gardens were not soothing. Gardens brought pain. Gardens gave her the shivers, She did not even possess a pot plant.

Bonnie had dressed carefully for this visit, wanting to impress the sisters, showing she was prosperous now, in spite of them.
For twenty years she’d almost succeeded in severing the ties that bound her to the past, now she had to follow one final strand.

As she picked her way along the gravel path, overgrown with flat-weed and speckled with sheep droppings, she wondered if the rigid, harsh-voiced and sharp-faced Laura, sly like an alley cat, had shrivelled and crumpled; if the elegant Maris whose dress and haughty manner reflected that of a snooty Siamese, was now shapeless and bloated. They’d be what now? Early eighties? They must have been in their sixties when she ran away that night, the night of her eighteenth birthday.

The heavy wooden door had long shed it’s paint, just a freckle of red here and there catching the afternoon sunlight, the windows glowering at her as she pinched the iron knocker firmly between her fingers and slammed it hard, giving her a moment of satisfaction, a feeling of being in control. Hold on to that feeling.

Sounds on the other side of the door, a weary creak as it opened, just a chink. A pair of rheumy eyes behind thick glasses peered suspiciously through the gap. Which one? Maris or Laura?

‘Yes?’

It was Maris.

‘I’m Bonnie; I used to live with you, Aunt Maris. Can I come in?’

‘Bonnie, you say.’ The door opened a little wider. ‘I don’t remember any Bonnie. How dare you call me “Aunt.”’ She turned away and called down the hall. ‘Laura, there’s someone here called Bonnie. Stuck-up hussy called me “Aunt”. Don’t know her, do we?’

Her old woman’s voice cracked but there was still a hint of arrogance, of condescension, which chilled Bonnie’s spine.

‘Please, let me come in, I need to talk to you and Aunt Laura, it’s most important.’

‘We don’t need charity, we don’t want to buy anything, and we don’t need any of your mealy-mouthed talk of redemption, so go away and stop bothering us.’

The door began to close.

‘I need to know who you gave my baby to,’ Bonnie shouted just before the door slammed shut, loosening flakes of dust and cobwebs, rattling the windows and causing the sheep to scurry away in fright.

I’m neither weak, helpless, or going away. Bonnie told herself firmly before declaring, ‘I won’t go away until you talk to me. Tell me what I want to know. Let me see Aunt Laura.’

There was no reply from the other side of the door.

‘Alright, I’ll come in then. Just try and stop me.’ Bonnie went to the window, pushed her fingers under the opened sash, heaved upwards, then hitched her skirt, and clambered through into the front bedroom. The room surprised her by being tidy, the twin beds neatly made, the smell of wax polish tickling her nostrils.

In the doorway the elderly sisters clutched each other and for the first time, Bonnie saw fear in their eyes.

‘I’m not going to hurt you. Not like you hurt me, but I’m not leaving until you tell me where I can find my child.’

Her voice was shaking with suppressed rage; she was no longer afraid of these two women, who appeared just as she had imagined them, one shrivelled and cadaverous, one heavy, both carrying walking sticks which they waved ineffectually at her.

‘Now we’ll go into the kitchen, and we’ll talk.’ She pushed them firmly down the passage and into the tiny kitchen.

‘I remember you, lazy slut. No better than you should be.’ Laura sat down with a thump and pointed her walking stick accusingly at Bonnie. ‘You got pregnant when you were thirteen. Just like your mother.’ Spitting “mother” like a profanity. ‘Didn’t she Maris?’ Turning to her sister for support. ‘Dumped you here. Left us to pick up the pieces, she did. Had to birth your brat, just like an animal. Just like the mare, Mystic. Made such a racket, a mess besides.’

‘Awful mess.’ Agreed Maris.

‘Who did you give my baby to? I need to find my baby. Just tell me, and I’ll leave. I have to know.’ She had trouble controlling the catch in her voice. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘My son needs a bone marrow transplant, it’s his only chance.’

‘Spawned another fatherless brat. Ha!’

Bonnie ignored Laura’s barb. Never will I speak of my husband or son’s name in this house.

The sisters pursed their lips and stared grimly.

‘I’ll hurt you if I have to.’ Bonnie stood over them threateningly.

With a look of pure malice, Laura rose, seeming to regain her full imperious height and stabbed her finger towards the door, that led out to the old vegetable patch.

‘Out there,’ she snarled. ‘Get out there, back to the dirt where you belong, you ungrateful wretch. Dig around out there. You might find what you’re looking for.’ And she gave her old woman’s cackle. ‘Dirt to dirt, dust to dust.’

Stumbling through the door, Bonnie realized with horror that the Aunts had buried her baby. She saw the gardens were gone, as was the hut where they’d locked her away from the eyes of the world. No use digging in the hardened grounds; what good would that do? Report the old hags to the police? Too late now. Far too late. Gone, the chance to save her living son.

She moved unsteadily around the side of the old cottage, hot timbers reflecting the harsh sunlight. Unforgiving sun, throwing everything into sharp relief. Reaching the gate, she glanced back. The cottage, with it’s window through which she had clambered raised like an eyelid, appeared to give a malicious wink.

She turned away—from an image she would be unable to erase throughout all the painful months to come.