Hello, Eleanor? Come home, please, somethings happened, the trembling voice of her father crackled through the handset, desperation curling around each syllable. Eleanor snorted, halfamused, halfconcerned, and asked what on earth was the matter.
Neighbours have turned the corridor into a drunken brawl. Hes shouting hell kill her, shes screaming shell kill him the sound of fists and shrieks cut in. Theyre breaking down the door, Eleanor! Theyll theyll kill me, I
When they kill you, ring me then. Do you need a lesson in common sense? Prop a chair under the door, maybe theyll pause a beat before they fling it open.
youre
What did you raise, son? you ask. But if I dont suit you, you could go to your dear sons place and let him feed you, do your bidding, Eleanors father replied with a dry, mocking lilt.
The line went dead before she could think of another retort. And she would have found one, no doubt.
Eleanor grew up in a household that, on the surface, seemed perfectly respectablea modest twobed council flat in Manchester, the kind of place youd expect a workingclass family to call home. Yet, lurking behind the thin plaster walls were a few skeletonsmore properly, the concealed histories of her grandmother and her fathers mother, Agnes Whitaker.
Agnes, named after her mother, was a peculiar old lady. By Eleanors own judgment she was a selfabsorbed eccentric, though proper girls would never utter such a phrase. Her peculiarity lay in her selfimposed dementia: she never left her bed, conducted all her business upon herself, and, when the unfortunate circumstance arose, smudged the nearest wall with the evidence, then huffed in indignation whenever relatives covered the wall with tiles for easy cleaning, slipping a sheet of plastic under the covers as if that made any difference.
Her palate was simple yet lavishmeat, fish, and, above all, chocolate. Not the cheap cocoa bars her school friends sipped with tea, but genuine Belgian dark chocolate, a luxury that cost a small fortune in pounds. Her husband, George, was a competent turner in a local engineering shop; he never amassed millions, but he never went without a steady wage, even in lean times. All his earnings, however, vanished into Agness endless cravings.
The flat housed four rooms: one for Agnes, one for George and Eleanor, a pair of migrant boarders from the north of England, and another ordinary British couple. Their neighbours were a boisterous lot, fond of ale and noise, who would either confront each other in the hallway or exchange friendly banter after a few pints. No one ever dared to visit Agness room after a particularly nasty barrage of plaster and shrapnel once threatened the flat, a memory that kept everyone at a respectful distance.
Eleanor, a small girl then, often found herself the target of the drunken neighbours whims. They had no children of their own (thankfully), yet after a bout of beer they craved the feel of a childs arm in theirs. When Eleanor grew older and began to push back against Aunt Nadias meddling, the neighbours would slap or pinch her. She complained to George, who dismissed her with a wave: Dont step into the corridor, prop a chair, and watch the telly while Im at work.
One night, trying to hide a broken flower pot, the loving dad plant toppled onto her head. It was painful, but not the worst. At least the neighbours didnt knock on Agness door every night, and the flat always held a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits.
Eleanor felt a sting when George bought Agnes the finest treats while she, his daughter, subsisted on the cheapest instant noodles and budget sausages. Yet, everyone else in the building lived much the same, so she never truly complainedat least not in childhood.
When she turned thirteen, George decided to revamp his personal life and brought a new woman, Marjorie, into the flat. Marjorie immediately asserted her own order, demanding that only she and George occupy the master bedroom. You cant have a love life with a child sleeping in the same room, she declared, as if the very notion were scandalous. It was indeed improper for a teenage girl to share a room with her father; a separate space was deemed necessaryperhaps the room Agnes occupied.
Marjorie’s arrival was met with Eleanors fierce, schoolyardhardened defiance. The first attempt to douse her with a bucket of scented liquid was met with a hand on her neck and a low, threatening whisper: Try it, you old , and Ill smother you with a pillow while youre asleep. My age will protect me. The warning was enough to startle Eleanor; she didnt even protest to George.
George, now the loving mother, continued to bring Agnes delicacies, and Marjorie never objectedperhaps because Georges earnings had risen, affording her fresh clothes, cosmetics, and weekend coffees with friends.
Which year are you in now? Stop daydreaming, help your mother, earn your own bread, hed barked. Eleanors protestsshe wanted to study, to gain a respectable tradewere met with a sly demand: If you dont like it, get out of my house.
She did. At sixteen, she forged Georges signature on college applications, studying hard so no one would ever call her parents in. She lied that her father worked long hours caring for Agnes, while she cleaned the floors of a nearby shopping centre at night to supplement her stipend. With her first paycheck she finally tasted the coveted Belgian chocolate shed only imagined before.
She fell into accounting and analytics, fields she never intended to choose, yet they became her calling. Over the next twentyplus years she built a reputation as a brilliant specialist and amassed a modest fortune. She married, had a son and a daughter, and lived the life the older generation would call wellrounded.
She never thought of George againuntil a year and a half ago, when a frail, shuffling version of him turned up at her doorstep, having lost his house after a hasty property transfer to his son from a second marriage. The son, disinterested, had dismissed his own father, leaving George to beg Eleanor for help.
She obliged, but only enough to settle old debts. She found a tidy twobed flat, explained honestly that she and her brother had inherited it from their mother, that her brother was unstable and wouldnt sell his share, and that she was offering it cheaply so the deposit would cover her fathers few belongings.
Ill take it, she said, brightening.
The lady, are you sure? Shes a respectable woman, the estate agent hesitated.
Im buying for him, Eleanor replied, soothing the agent, and within a week moved George and his scant possessions into the splendid new home, saying, Make yourself at home, this is now yours.
A dark, vengeful satisfaction swirled within her as she listened to Georges complaints, watching him fume over how differently she treated him compared to his old mother. The woman she now called mum was but a phone call away, unlike the nightmarish Agnes of her youth, and she chose expensive birthday gifts for her, even sending her and her husband on a short overseas retreat.
I raised you, Eleanor. I did my best, George muttered.
Now Im supporting you, Father, as best I can, she retorted. Heres a packet of those cheap noodles you used to feed me while your mother feasted on ham. Here are the same wornout clothes you once stitched onto me. And look, two packs of discounted sausageson sale todayjust because I thought of you, dear dad. You still have a pension, you can splurge as you wish.
You ungrateful w, George sighed, eyes lingering on the sausage packs.
He didnt fling them at her; he understood that if he tried a final act of spite, hed be left penniless, stripped of even the shabby corner Eleanor reluctantly gifted him.
Im grateful, Father. I return it tenfold, thank you for everything, she said.
Friends whisper that shes too kind to a betraying father, that she should simply cast him aside and let him rot on the street. Yet she never wished him deathhe never abandoned her to an orphanage, after all. He had at least tried to look after her. She now knows love and care are scarce resources, not owed to everyone, a lesson learned from childhood that shell continue to apply.
