Safe Haven

Mama got her monthly courses again today. Each time I close my eyes, even so much as to blink, the image of Papa striking her wields itself more and more potent. Her jarring wails persist to poison my ears. At times I wonder whether I too have succumb to Papa’s indoctrination that this is proprietary, just as Mama has. The disappointment runs just as deep through her soul as it does Papa’s, if not deeper. Her obsession with producing a male heir consumes her, leaves her sleepless, impotent. I know she loves us, but often Eugenia, Patrice, Clementine, Margaret and I, Angelica, occupy their conceptions of failure and futility. It will soon be my time to become a debutante, be courted, and eventually marry. What will become of me if I am to face the same fate as Mama? Desperation? Misery? Mental affliction? I fear my mother’s demons.

When the pummel becomes too loud, or Mama’s screams are inescapable, I retreat to the cellars, light the candelabrum that rests by Papa’s valued Port collection, and write my thoughts in my journal. With a black leather back, strong spine and just size larger than my hand when fully extended, it is my only place of privacy and where I can express myself free of judgement or belittlement.

Horse riding has always been a passion of mine. On weekends I take Snow, our white stallion, to the woods and allow the scenery to distract me from my worries. I inhale the crisp air, often smelling of pine, and absorb the beauties and blessings Mother Nature has bestowed upon me. Today, like most others, I took my journal to write in. Snow and I stopped by a thin stream of water and rested on the trunk of a tree. I began to write and lost myself in my words and thoughts. With such peace and tranquillity, it becomes easy to drift through my conscience. I wrote of my interests, my passions, my prospects for the future, my fears of father and the injustices he commits… everything. After I noticed the sun’s radiance to dim, I realised it time to go. I packed my notebook in the satchel hanging from Snow’s worn leather saddle and began the journey home. Snow rode rougher than usual today, jumping ever so high over fallen branches on the forest floor.

By the time we arrived home, it had become dark and Mama expressed her concerns for my safety. As I reached into the satchel to retrieve my journal in order to go inside, I delve into an empty pouch. My journal is missing. I come to the conclusion that it fell out when Snow was rapidly galloping during our ride. I want to go back to retrieve it, but it is too dark. I must wait until dawn tomorrow.

I awake to the smell of fresh shortbread and to Mama calling for me to eat. I tell her I must leave promptly, whisk a piece of shortbread off of the dining table, and scatter off to the woods with Snow. I follow the exact route and my journal is nowhere to be seen. I admit defeat and begin to worry of who may find it – and even worse – if they see the deeply personal remarks I make. Papa would have my head.

In the daily telegraph, there has been talk of a preposition for reform. There are demonstrations in London every day, reports of women and townsmen alike, wanting equal rights and the ability to vote. Papa calls it, ‘rubbish’, and proclaims that there is no place for women in any matters concerning the country, and that these decisions are to be made by men. As for the labourers, he says, ‘If any one of those doddypolls gets a place in government, I’ll personally handle their persecution.’ In another column of the telegraph, there was information of a secret feminist society called ‘EFU’. No one has ever seen them, or even know what the acronym means. All the city knows is that flyers appear mysteriously around town every month, signed ‘EFU’. The article seemed to vilify them and paint them in poor lighting, as did Papa. His thoughts on feminism are not to be repeated. I don’t know much about it really… Only what I’ve read in books.

I continue to go about my day, tend to my younger sisters and see a friend of mine for a few hours. After returning home, I decide to revisit the woods one last time in search of my journal with Snow. I put on a blue hood as the temperature begins to drop. We pass the fallen branches and follow the stream until we reach the same tree trunk as yesterday. I have to blink extra hard to make sure I’m not hallucinating. My black journal was just sitting there. Buried in the crevice between two branches, as if purposely placed. I reached out to grab it and it seemed to have gained extra weight. I don’t remember it ever being this heavy. Then I see the thick envelope attached to its back. As I pull it towards me, a note swiftly falls down to the floor, being carried by the slight flow of air.

‘Save your Mama and sisters. Your future doesn’t need to be lived in vain. Write your own story.

English Feminist Union’

I am disoriented and bewildered. I open the envelope and begin to scream. I am not sure what else to do. There is money. I count it. Twenty thousand. TWENTY THOUSAND. I check again. I slap myself to ensure I am lucid and conscious. I am. This will change everything. We can start afresh. Mama will no longer have to subdue herself to Papa’s abuse. All that’s left to do now is convince her of that.

Tomorrow is a new day, and if all goes to plan, the beginning to a new life.