Duntocher Cinderella
by Emma Guinness
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: She thinks she’s Cinderella. But she knows there will be no happy ending.
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: She thinks she’s Cinderella. But she knows there will be no happy ending.
“Away ye and shite!” is my Dad’s catchphrase.
I heard him shout these words at a feral cat when I arrived for my usual Wednesday afternoon visit. He never looks happy to see me anymore, not now that I am the one “causin’ trouble in the family”. My relationship with my siblings recently broke down, and he has placed the blame solely upon my shoulders. They’ve always had a pack mentality.
“That wee bugger hus been in at ma bins,” he grumbled as we went inside; deliberately not even attempting to pick up the bin which had toppled over.
I made myself at home whilst he went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. His sitting room is easy to describe: holy water on the sideboard, half-eaten jammie dodgers behind the couch, and a painting of the Sacred Heart on the wall. That painting has watched over God knows how many petty squabbles. Ironic, really.
My Dad soon emerged from the kitchen with tea and cake on a tray (French fancies to be precise; they were my Mum’s favourites). He only ever brought out cake when he wanted something. Otherwise it was McVitie's Digestives all around. Plain. No chocolate.
“David keeps oan complainin’ that the hoose is a midden,” he said, before pouring me a cup of tea.
I took a bite of cake so that I could ignore this for a few seconds. Until four months ago, I had regularly cleaned his house, and I was happy to help him out, but I stopped as a way of protesting against my siblings’ treatment of me. David was the one who crossed the line, and I was done with taking sole responsibility for the house’s cleanliness.
How did he cross the line? For decades he has regularly referred to the baby that I was forced to give up and recently blurted out my secret to our extended family. None of them knew. The only people who did were my immediate family and husband. David then, in a weird way, became a hero for providing them with talking material for years and my two sisters expressed no objection to it.
“The house looks fine!” I said, looking around.
There was no point in saying anything else. I don’t have a job, and, because of this, my siblings believe that it’s my responsibility. They’ve chosen to conveniently forget that I don’t work because I’m physically unable to. An amazing feat considering the number of times they’ve visited me in hospital over the years. I don’t want to go into the details about my illness; it’s not a physical one, and this is why they believe that I am perfectly healthy, even though I have to take countless pills each day.
I believe that part of the reason David regularly referred to the baby is because he resents the fact that I don’t work but have a comfortable lifestyle. Every few years, I am reassessed by the government to ensure that I am still unable to work. I naively told my Dad, and he informed David who was convinced that I would lose my sick benefit. I guess it was the disappointment of me continuing to live as a “benefits scrounger” that finally caused him to divulge my secret to everyone.
My Dad would not stop praising David that afternoon. He was always the golden child in his eyes. There’s a ten year age gap between us, and my Dad was scared he’d never have a son to “pass oan the family name” after my Mum gave birth to three daughters.
“That’s oor David gat himsel another promotion at work!” he revealed, proudly.
“And how has your week been?” I asked in an attempt to change the subject.
My Dad was irritated by this and gazed at me with disapproving eyes.
“It’s been awricht,” he replied, bluntly.
This was followed by an awkward silence. We’ve never had much to say to each other.
In my mind, I’m Cinderella. As ridiculous as it is for a woman in her forties to compare herself to a character from a fairy tale, it’s the most appropriate way of describing my situation. Aside from the obvious cleaning similarity, David has always been the archetypal villain, and the day Margaret and Victoria allowed him to publically disgrace me they became the two ugly sisters.
My Dad proceeded to turn on the television. It was the only activity we were able comfortably do together. I say comfortably, but even this managed to involve David, since my Dad had placed their photograph on top of the television. There’s not a single photograph of me on display in the house. Make of that what you will.
“Whit’s this ah’ve been hearin’ aboot yer man drinkin’? David said there wur photies o’ him pissed oan Facebook.”
I remembered uneasily that night, but even so I was consumed by anger. What right did he have to talk about my husband drinking? He was out having fun with his friends. David’s been arrested on countless occasions for being “drunk and disorderly”. It was double standards between me and my siblings. He must have been stalking his profile too; obviously my husband has never been “friends” with him. He knows how much David has hurt me.
Suddenly, the shrill cry of the telephone filled the room. It was David. He always calls in the afternoon. He doesn’t visit often, but he believes that phoning regularly compensates for it. My Dad leapt out of the sofa to pick it up with so much enthusiasm that you’d think he never suffered from arthritis.
“Son!” he exclaimed, grinning. “Hoo are ye? Ah’m huvin’ tea wi’ Sandra at the moment.”
He then sat down beside me, and I could overhear every word of their conversation. There was no escape.
“Has she cleaned the house yet? You know I’d do it if I wasn’t so busy,” David complained (as usual he was playing the innocent).
“Naw,” my Dad answered.
“Some people forget where they came from. Just because her man has a good job, and she gets money on the sick. I have to work to put food on the table,” David asserted.
Unable to listen any longer, I grabbed the phone from my Dad and cut off the call.
“Whit the puck did ye dae that fur? He’s allowed an opinion!” my Dad shouted, having grown even more agitated.
“You don’t treat me like I’m a member of this family,” I sobbed involuntarily. “I would work if I could!”
“Sandra, ye dinnae act like a member o’ it anymair! Ah’m in ma seventies, and ye dinnae help me oot,” he said.
“None of them have ever had the responsibility of helping you! It’s always been left to me, even though I’m sick!”
“They’re aw too busy tae dae it. If ye wur in that much pain, ye’d be in yer bed, no visitin’ me!”
I began to sob into a pillow. Unless I started to throw up blood soon, he’d consider his belief that I’m healthy to be correct.
“Why should I make David’s life or any of their lives easy after what happened? Don’t you think it’s hard enough for me to live in the knowledge that I don’t know my own child?” I cried.
“Ye brought that upon yerself. Everywan wis goin’ tae find oot eventually,” my Dad said, coldly. “Dinnae come back here unless ye’re willin’ tae act like a member o’ this family. Ye’re overreactin’. Ah didnay want it tae come tae this, but ye’ve gien me nae choice.”
I stood up and cast a final glance at the painting of the Sacred Heart. It may as well have been a photograph of Adolf Hitler on the wall. When I stepped outwith at last, the litter from the bin had been scattered across the garden by the wind.
I heard him shout these words at a feral cat when I arrived for my usual Wednesday afternoon visit. He never looks happy to see me anymore, not now that I am the one “causin’ trouble in the family”. My relationship with my siblings recently broke down, and he has placed the blame solely upon my shoulders. They’ve always had a pack mentality.
“That wee bugger hus been in at ma bins,” he grumbled as we went inside; deliberately not even attempting to pick up the bin which had toppled over.
I made myself at home whilst he went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. His sitting room is easy to describe: holy water on the sideboard, half-eaten jammie dodgers behind the couch, and a painting of the Sacred Heart on the wall. That painting has watched over God knows how many petty squabbles. Ironic, really.
My Dad soon emerged from the kitchen with tea and cake on a tray (French fancies to be precise; they were my Mum’s favourites). He only ever brought out cake when he wanted something. Otherwise it was McVitie's Digestives all around. Plain. No chocolate.
“David keeps oan complainin’ that the hoose is a midden,” he said, before pouring me a cup of tea.
I took a bite of cake so that I could ignore this for a few seconds. Until four months ago, I had regularly cleaned his house, and I was happy to help him out, but I stopped as a way of protesting against my siblings’ treatment of me. David was the one who crossed the line, and I was done with taking sole responsibility for the house’s cleanliness.
How did he cross the line? For decades he has regularly referred to the baby that I was forced to give up and recently blurted out my secret to our extended family. None of them knew. The only people who did were my immediate family and husband. David then, in a weird way, became a hero for providing them with talking material for years and my two sisters expressed no objection to it.
“The house looks fine!” I said, looking around.
There was no point in saying anything else. I don’t have a job, and, because of this, my siblings believe that it’s my responsibility. They’ve chosen to conveniently forget that I don’t work because I’m physically unable to. An amazing feat considering the number of times they’ve visited me in hospital over the years. I don’t want to go into the details about my illness; it’s not a physical one, and this is why they believe that I am perfectly healthy, even though I have to take countless pills each day.
I believe that part of the reason David regularly referred to the baby is because he resents the fact that I don’t work but have a comfortable lifestyle. Every few years, I am reassessed by the government to ensure that I am still unable to work. I naively told my Dad, and he informed David who was convinced that I would lose my sick benefit. I guess it was the disappointment of me continuing to live as a “benefits scrounger” that finally caused him to divulge my secret to everyone.
My Dad would not stop praising David that afternoon. He was always the golden child in his eyes. There’s a ten year age gap between us, and my Dad was scared he’d never have a son to “pass oan the family name” after my Mum gave birth to three daughters.
“That’s oor David gat himsel another promotion at work!” he revealed, proudly.
“And how has your week been?” I asked in an attempt to change the subject.
My Dad was irritated by this and gazed at me with disapproving eyes.
“It’s been awricht,” he replied, bluntly.
This was followed by an awkward silence. We’ve never had much to say to each other.
In my mind, I’m Cinderella. As ridiculous as it is for a woman in her forties to compare herself to a character from a fairy tale, it’s the most appropriate way of describing my situation. Aside from the obvious cleaning similarity, David has always been the archetypal villain, and the day Margaret and Victoria allowed him to publically disgrace me they became the two ugly sisters.
My Dad proceeded to turn on the television. It was the only activity we were able comfortably do together. I say comfortably, but even this managed to involve David, since my Dad had placed their photograph on top of the television. There’s not a single photograph of me on display in the house. Make of that what you will.
“Whit’s this ah’ve been hearin’ aboot yer man drinkin’? David said there wur photies o’ him pissed oan Facebook.”
I remembered uneasily that night, but even so I was consumed by anger. What right did he have to talk about my husband drinking? He was out having fun with his friends. David’s been arrested on countless occasions for being “drunk and disorderly”. It was double standards between me and my siblings. He must have been stalking his profile too; obviously my husband has never been “friends” with him. He knows how much David has hurt me.
Suddenly, the shrill cry of the telephone filled the room. It was David. He always calls in the afternoon. He doesn’t visit often, but he believes that phoning regularly compensates for it. My Dad leapt out of the sofa to pick it up with so much enthusiasm that you’d think he never suffered from arthritis.
“Son!” he exclaimed, grinning. “Hoo are ye? Ah’m huvin’ tea wi’ Sandra at the moment.”
He then sat down beside me, and I could overhear every word of their conversation. There was no escape.
“Has she cleaned the house yet? You know I’d do it if I wasn’t so busy,” David complained (as usual he was playing the innocent).
“Naw,” my Dad answered.
“Some people forget where they came from. Just because her man has a good job, and she gets money on the sick. I have to work to put food on the table,” David asserted.
Unable to listen any longer, I grabbed the phone from my Dad and cut off the call.
“Whit the puck did ye dae that fur? He’s allowed an opinion!” my Dad shouted, having grown even more agitated.
“You don’t treat me like I’m a member of this family,” I sobbed involuntarily. “I would work if I could!”
“Sandra, ye dinnae act like a member o’ it anymair! Ah’m in ma seventies, and ye dinnae help me oot,” he said.
“None of them have ever had the responsibility of helping you! It’s always been left to me, even though I’m sick!”
“They’re aw too busy tae dae it. If ye wur in that much pain, ye’d be in yer bed, no visitin’ me!”
I began to sob into a pillow. Unless I started to throw up blood soon, he’d consider his belief that I’m healthy to be correct.
“Why should I make David’s life or any of their lives easy after what happened? Don’t you think it’s hard enough for me to live in the knowledge that I don’t know my own child?” I cried.
“Ye brought that upon yerself. Everywan wis goin’ tae find oot eventually,” my Dad said, coldly. “Dinnae come back here unless ye’re willin’ tae act like a member o’ this family. Ye’re overreactin’. Ah didnay want it tae come tae this, but ye’ve gien me nae choice.”
I stood up and cast a final glance at the painting of the Sacred Heart. It may as well have been a photograph of Adolf Hitler on the wall. When I stepped outwith at last, the litter from the bin had been scattered across the garden by the wind.
About the Author
Emma Guinness is a writer from Glasgow who currently lives and works in London. She has an honours degree in English from the University of Strathclyde and a master’s degree in Creative Writing from Trinity College Dublin. She is an associate editor at the Belfast-based literary journal Inside the Bell Jar and is currently working on two manuscripts. She has been published in the UK and Ireland, and her work was shortlisted by Chris Agee (Irish Pages) for the Keith Wright Memorial Literary Competition in 2014 and 2015.