The Tin-Kin Read Online Free Page A
Author: Eleanor Thom
smelt Fairy suds on her fingers, tasted them on her lips. The line was lifeless.
Yes?
There was an odd static pause. She thought she heard an intake of breath, or was it nothing but silence? ‘Guess who?’ it seemed to say.
Dawn slammed the receiver back on its cradle. She breathed through clenched teeth and the words she had wanted to say into the phone, ‘Go to Hell’, stuck and furred in her mouth like the overcooked chicken. She was sure it would be Warren, her husband. Husband. She’d always thought it was a horrible word.
The phone cable came free of its socket when she wrapped it round her wrist and yanked two or three times. Plastic lashed through her hand, the sting of it making her eyes water. The connector dropped to the carpet, wires ripped out of the wall. ‘I’m a can of worms!’ it laughed. Dawn wiped her eyes and pulled her favourite black cardigan tighter, linking her hands through the sleeves. The pulse in her wrist hammered againstthe tip of her index finger and she pressed down on it, feeling the vein and cartilage, the tapping like Morse code.
In the living room Maeve was cradled between the cushions of the huge armchair and Dawn threw herself into a corner of the sofa. She reached for her cigarettes, lit up and blew smoke towards the ceiling. On the television a hairy purple puppet was clanging a frying pan, laughing hysterically from its red gash of a mouth.
The living room was done up in an old-fashioned way. Very little light came through the window and even on a bright day this place would lull her to sleep. The sofa covers were olive green velour and its squashy cushions were well-muscled, pinned in with silky fringe and buttons. The hungry cracks were a good place to find pocket money, probably enough to buy sweeties for Maeve and a packet of cigarettes. She’d search them later.
From her corner of the sofa Dawn noticed the silver dog ornament. It had a stumpy tail which rang like a doorbell if you pushed it down, and he used to be her favourite thing in the house. Once her wee sister had tried to pinch him, but Dawn had seen her and told Auntie Shirley. The dog had been standing in the same place on the mantelpiece ever since.
Shirley had kept him shiny. Dawn smiled, remembering the care her aunt had taken with all the ornaments and pictures, spraying and wiping them one by one every weekend. She’d done it without a thought, making things clean, like an actress sweeping off face paint. Dawn sensed a sadness in the quiet that was settling on those things now.
She balanced her cigarette on the edge of the armrest and picked up the dog. It was ugly close-up. She shined its back across her sleeve before pushing down the tail and bringing the dog to life. A strangled buzz was trapped in its belly like a bee under a glass. Maeve climbed up beside her, nudging in to have a closer look, and Dawn pressed the tail down again.
Bzzz, went the dog. Bzzz. Bzzz.
Maeve cuddled into her and stroked a finger between the dog’s ears, and for a second Dawn felt a little guilty for not surrendering it to Linda all those years ago.
Dawn’s baby sister Linda was a good girl, Mammy always said. A wee lamb that turned folks’ heads. She had blue eyes and springy blonde curls, always smiling, dressed up like a dolly in soft hand-knits and T-bar shoes. She was born in 1963, the very same day Dawn turned eight, which was old enough to remember the whole fiasco.
Dad had come round to Shirley’s with news of the birth, sweaty and tired, still wearing his uniform. He said Wilma was fine. She was resting in hospital, and the baby was healthy, beautiful, and blonde. Daddy’s eyes and Mammy’s mouth.
They sat down to tea together, Dawn, Dad and Auntie Shirley. But celebrations were thin ice. Shirley was angry because Dad, in his excitement, hadn’t remembered to say happy birthday to Dawn. There was no present or card for her. Shirley had baked Dawn’s favourite cake and iced it with a giant number
Yes?
There was an odd static pause. She thought she heard an intake of breath, or was it nothing but silence? ‘Guess who?’ it seemed to say.
Dawn slammed the receiver back on its cradle. She breathed through clenched teeth and the words she had wanted to say into the phone, ‘Go to Hell’, stuck and furred in her mouth like the overcooked chicken. She was sure it would be Warren, her husband. Husband. She’d always thought it was a horrible word.
The phone cable came free of its socket when she wrapped it round her wrist and yanked two or three times. Plastic lashed through her hand, the sting of it making her eyes water. The connector dropped to the carpet, wires ripped out of the wall. ‘I’m a can of worms!’ it laughed. Dawn wiped her eyes and pulled her favourite black cardigan tighter, linking her hands through the sleeves. The pulse in her wrist hammered againstthe tip of her index finger and she pressed down on it, feeling the vein and cartilage, the tapping like Morse code.
In the living room Maeve was cradled between the cushions of the huge armchair and Dawn threw herself into a corner of the sofa. She reached for her cigarettes, lit up and blew smoke towards the ceiling. On the television a hairy purple puppet was clanging a frying pan, laughing hysterically from its red gash of a mouth.
The living room was done up in an old-fashioned way. Very little light came through the window and even on a bright day this place would lull her to sleep. The sofa covers were olive green velour and its squashy cushions were well-muscled, pinned in with silky fringe and buttons. The hungry cracks were a good place to find pocket money, probably enough to buy sweeties for Maeve and a packet of cigarettes. She’d search them later.
From her corner of the sofa Dawn noticed the silver dog ornament. It had a stumpy tail which rang like a doorbell if you pushed it down, and he used to be her favourite thing in the house. Once her wee sister had tried to pinch him, but Dawn had seen her and told Auntie Shirley. The dog had been standing in the same place on the mantelpiece ever since.
Shirley had kept him shiny. Dawn smiled, remembering the care her aunt had taken with all the ornaments and pictures, spraying and wiping them one by one every weekend. She’d done it without a thought, making things clean, like an actress sweeping off face paint. Dawn sensed a sadness in the quiet that was settling on those things now.
She balanced her cigarette on the edge of the armrest and picked up the dog. It was ugly close-up. She shined its back across her sleeve before pushing down the tail and bringing the dog to life. A strangled buzz was trapped in its belly like a bee under a glass. Maeve climbed up beside her, nudging in to have a closer look, and Dawn pressed the tail down again.
Bzzz, went the dog. Bzzz. Bzzz.
Maeve cuddled into her and stroked a finger between the dog’s ears, and for a second Dawn felt a little guilty for not surrendering it to Linda all those years ago.
Dawn’s baby sister Linda was a good girl, Mammy always said. A wee lamb that turned folks’ heads. She had blue eyes and springy blonde curls, always smiling, dressed up like a dolly in soft hand-knits and T-bar shoes. She was born in 1963, the very same day Dawn turned eight, which was old enough to remember the whole fiasco.
Dad had come round to Shirley’s with news of the birth, sweaty and tired, still wearing his uniform. He said Wilma was fine. She was resting in hospital, and the baby was healthy, beautiful, and blonde. Daddy’s eyes and Mammy’s mouth.
They sat down to tea together, Dawn, Dad and Auntie Shirley. But celebrations were thin ice. Shirley was angry because Dad, in his excitement, hadn’t remembered to say happy birthday to Dawn. There was no present or card for her. Shirley had baked Dawn’s favourite cake and iced it with a giant number