You Can’t Ever Get a Champagne Cork Back in the Bottle by Anne Howkins
21
You’re not asleep, but if you keep your eyes shut nobody will talk to you, not that anyone will, they’re all grimly holding themselves together. The waiting room’s reek of unwashed bodies, vomit and booze-sour breath is so familiar it’s almost comforting. A nurse, her voice reminding you of a teacher who was kind to you once, will touch your hand, and say if you’re ready, I’ll take you to your mum. You’ll blurt out it’s my twenty first today. You’re not ready to see mum, but you’ve got nothing else to do.
11
Geography, your favourite lesson; you put your hand up to ask a question and say please mummy instead of please Mrs Hill. Snorts of laughter ripple round the classroom, and you push your compass into your thigh because then you can’t hear anything. It doesn’t matter what Mrs Hill says, she’s not walking through the name-calling corridors when geography’s over.
15
The pub turns a blind eye to under-age drinkers, and you’re apparently invisible until you down a pint of Guiness in one, the way mum’s last bloke showed you. Sixth form Mark buys you another pint, asks you if you want a go at the table football. He stands behind you, hands on yours, his cock hard against your spine, his beer breath on your neck.
5
You don’t want to go to Lisa’s party, but mum nicks a frock from the charity shop. She zips you into lurid-pink-itchy-nylon, forces your hair into a French plait, pulls you through the front door, bashing your head against the frame. Party girl’s mum whispers words like social services and into care to another mum while she dabs at your bleeding head.
17
Another lad bets Mark he can’t shag the weird Guiness girl. Like mother like daughter, he grins. You pretend not to hear, let Mark lead you outside, push you up against wall and fuck you. Maybe he’ll be your boyfriend now. When he goes back inside, the roar sounds as if someone’s scored a winning goal. The dribble running down your thighs makes you retch, and you know you’ll never go in that pub again.
7
The reading test is really easy – you breeze past your expected seven-year-old level till you get to champagne. The letters dance about on the paper like drunken ants. Then you stutter out CHAMP–AG-NY and shake your head when the teacher asks you to try again. Mum celebrates her clever girl with a bottle of Prosecco.
21
The nurse sits with you, says hearing’s the last thing to go. Mum’s sedated, inhaling so slowly, so shallowly, that you rest your hand on her chest to know she’s still here. Mum, I know you remembered my birthday, there’s champagne in the fridge… and then your head pops and your mouth spumes words you’ve never dared speak before and you don’t stop talking until your hand is still and there’s nothing left of you but an aching glassy hollow.
Anne loves the challenge of telling stories in very few words. When not writing Anne looks after the finances of a charity, walks a lot and spends as much time as possible with her adored grandson.
Image by congerdesign from Pixabay
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