My mother told me she’d bumped herself on the door. I wanted to believe her

Ormiston, Scotland: 1970s. It was a normal Sunday morning. I might have been nine or 10 years old. Mum and Dad were still in bed when I walked downstairs in my pyjamas. On the kitchen table lay leftovers from a late-night snack, some cheese and ham on a plate, some dark rye bread just starting to curl at the edges, the butter dish.

“I must have heard that fight. I must have known about it. But it is completely eradicated from my conscious memory.”Credit: ISTOCK

I took a plate from the cupboard and sat down to make myself a wee feast. Lashings of butter on the rye bread, a topping of ham and a slice of cheddar. I bit down, felt the cheese split under my teeth, the ham part, then the rye bread crumble into my mouth. The butter melted as I smelled its rich scent, cut through with the sharpness of the cheese, the meaty tang of the ham.

Next, I fed the rabbits, pulling hay out of the bags kept in the wee room beside the bathroom where the huge chest freezer lived, the freezer that fed us fruit and veggies from the garden through the winter. I scooped some rabbit pellets into a dish. When I opened the door, a stiff breeze forced itself in, and I pushed against it to get outside. Snowy saw me and I heard the thump of her foot as I approached.

“Don’t be a daft rabbit, it’s just me,” I told her. “No need to be scared.”

The hutch door was stiff, but I heaved it open with one hand, then placed the food in the cage. There was plenty of water in the bottle that hung on the outside of the mesh of the cage door.

“I’ll be back to clean the cage later on,” I told Snowy as I headed indoors to put the kettle on, planning to take a cup of Nescafé to Mum as a treat. I heard Callum and Morag playing upstairs and I knew Mum would be starting to get up now.

“A large white bandage was wound around her ribs; it looked tight. When she stood up, I saw she had a black eye, and the right side of her face was bruised.”

SEANA SMITH

With the coffee swishing in the cup, I walked slowly up the stairs to the landing and saw that Mum was getting dressed in her bedroom. She was already wearing her bra and a large white bandage was wound around her ribs; it looked tight. When she stood up, I saw she had a black eye, and the right side of her face was bruised.

“What is it Mum? What happened?”

She didn’t look at me as she bent over slowly to pull out a drawer and take out a pale blue soft wool jersey. She flinched as she lifted it over her head and smoothed it down over that white bandage, over her slim bare tummy.

“I tripped and fell against that door handle, and I’ve given myself a nasty bump and some bruises.”

Mum walked over to her wardrobe, took out a pair of brown corduroy trousers and tugged them on. Still, she hadn’t looked at me.

I wanted to believe her, but I was not sure how a person could bump against a door handle and cause damage in two different places.

I watched Mum as she sat down on the bed to put on her socks. Pain crossed her face as she bent. I could see her expression through the curtain of her hair. I knew something was very wrong, but I could not ask for the truth. I could not say the words out loud. I knew she wanted me to not ask any more.

My scalp itched, and I felt pins and needles in my legs and arms. I didn’t know what to say or do.

Mum picked up the coffee from where I had placed it on the bedside table. She drank it down slowly.

“Thank you, dear.”

She stood and started to walk out of the room past me, still not looking at me at all.

“Mum, where’s Dad?” I asked.

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” she said and walked down the stairs, slower than usual, one hand on the bannister.

I must have heard that fight. I must have known about it. But it is completely eradicated from my conscious memory. How does that happen? When my sisters and I have talked about this incident over the years, my younger sister Morag has the clearest memories of the actual fight.

“I was sitting at the top of the stairs and I saw it from up there. They were fighting in the hall at the bottom of the staircase. Mum was on her hands and knees screaming for Kirsty to help her. Dad was sitting on her back, thumping her really hard.”

And Kirsty told me that she gathered myself, Morag and Callum and hid us in bed with her while they kept fighting. She heard Mum screaming to her for help, but she did not go. No wonder Kirsty’s urge to help, influence, save others, has been so strong for all of her life. She tried so hard to help us and save us back then, but she was just a little girl and she could not. She tried her hardest, she did her best.

Edited extract from Going Under (Simon & Schuster) by Seana Smith, out now.

1800 RESPECT; respect.org.au