More Than Love Letters Read Online Free Page B
Author: Rosy Thornton
like he wanted to punish her for wasting his time with something that was her fault when he’d got all these other people waiting – I guess maybe he’s met her before up there. But it’s not her fault. She’s depressed, she really is ill, just like all the others. Then he checked her pulse and blood pressure, and shone one of those little torch things into her eyes, and told her to see her GP in the morning for a check-over.
Alison drove us back to Witch House, and she had to leave, but I said I’d stay a bit, so Helen and I made a cup of tea and took it up to her room. Her stomach was really sore from all the vomiting, but weak and milky seemed OK. Anyway, she seemed to have sort of unfrozen, if you know what I mean, and she started talking, and I ended up staying until – well, what is it now? – quarter to three! Her dad abused her, it’s horrible. Started when she was still at primary school, eight or nine she was, and it didn’t stop until she finally got up her courage to leave, and came to Witch House, nearly two years ago. She just packed a few things, and got on the bus, and went to the CAB. They sent her to WITCH, and luckily there was a space straight away. She didn’t speak to her parents for about six months, and when she finally got up courage to ring, her mum just pretended everything was normal, and asked how she was, and where she was living and stuff. She even goes round there for Sunday lunch sometimes now – her mum is always on at her to go – and no one ever asks her why she left, and she hasn’t said anything, and they all pretend they are a normal happy family. Her dad’s an orthodontist, and probably plays golf, and goes to church on Sundays. But it’s eating Helen up, you can see. She says the mornings when she wakes up and can get up and shower without a huge effort of will are few and far between. She didn’t say so much about – well, you know, the suicidal feelings and the self-harm, and of course I wasn’t about to ask. And here am I, getting back on my bike and pedalling back to my normality, my pain-free, livable life. I know it’s a cliché, Becs, but I literally cannot imagine what it’s like to be Helen, I really can’t.
Anyway, sorry to load all this on you – you’ll open this in the morning, I expect, and what a cheery start to your day that will be! Hope your dad isn’t too bad, by the way.
Love,
Margaret xx
From: Margaret Hayton [[email protected]]
Sent: 1/3/05 07:17
To: Rebecca Prichard [[email protected]]
Dear Becs,
I’m really sorry about that e-mail last night. I guess I was all wound up, and just needed to tell someone. Just ignore me. I’m quite calm again this morning. And I didn’t even ask how you are, or what’s going on with you. How is Campbell? Still tucked up in your bed and sleeping like a baby?
No, I haven’t found anyone round here to tempt me out of my nun’s habit yet, nor even worth setting my wimple at, to be honest. The male staff at school are all either married or ancient or both, and as my main social life at the moment (apart from chatting to Cora over our still highly carnivorous suppers) is WITCH – and, well, to be honest, I’m not going to meet any men that way, except maybe the odd violent ex-husband, and perhaps a psychiatrist or two.
They are really a brilliant lot of women, though – if a little, um, motley. The two Pats I’ve told you about, and Alison, who is a kind of absolute monarch manqué of collective working (‘ la commune, c’est moi ’). She’s a medical research scientist in the daytime – probably gets the bacteria whipped into line in the petri dishes. Ding (yes, that really does seem to be her name – but of course one doesn’t like to ask) comes over as a bit ditzy, but to be fair to her she kept the account books in the sort of good order that would make a Swiss military tattoo look slipshod. Susan is very quiet, about my age I think, and Emily is older, must be close
Alison drove us back to Witch House, and she had to leave, but I said I’d stay a bit, so Helen and I made a cup of tea and took it up to her room. Her stomach was really sore from all the vomiting, but weak and milky seemed OK. Anyway, she seemed to have sort of unfrozen, if you know what I mean, and she started talking, and I ended up staying until – well, what is it now? – quarter to three! Her dad abused her, it’s horrible. Started when she was still at primary school, eight or nine she was, and it didn’t stop until she finally got up her courage to leave, and came to Witch House, nearly two years ago. She just packed a few things, and got on the bus, and went to the CAB. They sent her to WITCH, and luckily there was a space straight away. She didn’t speak to her parents for about six months, and when she finally got up courage to ring, her mum just pretended everything was normal, and asked how she was, and where she was living and stuff. She even goes round there for Sunday lunch sometimes now – her mum is always on at her to go – and no one ever asks her why she left, and she hasn’t said anything, and they all pretend they are a normal happy family. Her dad’s an orthodontist, and probably plays golf, and goes to church on Sundays. But it’s eating Helen up, you can see. She says the mornings when she wakes up and can get up and shower without a huge effort of will are few and far between. She didn’t say so much about – well, you know, the suicidal feelings and the self-harm, and of course I wasn’t about to ask. And here am I, getting back on my bike and pedalling back to my normality, my pain-free, livable life. I know it’s a cliché, Becs, but I literally cannot imagine what it’s like to be Helen, I really can’t.
Anyway, sorry to load all this on you – you’ll open this in the morning, I expect, and what a cheery start to your day that will be! Hope your dad isn’t too bad, by the way.
Love,
Margaret xx
From: Margaret Hayton [[email protected]]
Sent: 1/3/05 07:17
To: Rebecca Prichard [[email protected]]
Dear Becs,
I’m really sorry about that e-mail last night. I guess I was all wound up, and just needed to tell someone. Just ignore me. I’m quite calm again this morning. And I didn’t even ask how you are, or what’s going on with you. How is Campbell? Still tucked up in your bed and sleeping like a baby?
No, I haven’t found anyone round here to tempt me out of my nun’s habit yet, nor even worth setting my wimple at, to be honest. The male staff at school are all either married or ancient or both, and as my main social life at the moment (apart from chatting to Cora over our still highly carnivorous suppers) is WITCH – and, well, to be honest, I’m not going to meet any men that way, except maybe the odd violent ex-husband, and perhaps a psychiatrist or two.
They are really a brilliant lot of women, though – if a little, um, motley. The two Pats I’ve told you about, and Alison, who is a kind of absolute monarch manqué of collective working (‘ la commune, c’est moi ’). She’s a medical research scientist in the daytime – probably gets the bacteria whipped into line in the petri dishes. Ding (yes, that really does seem to be her name – but of course one doesn’t like to ask) comes over as a bit ditzy, but to be fair to her she kept the account books in the sort of good order that would make a Swiss military tattoo look slipshod. Susan is very quiet, about my age I think, and Emily is older, must be close
Readers choose
Natasha Preston
Mick Foley
Sky Corgan
Sean Williams
Anne Perry
Allison Smith
James Sallis
Martin J Moss