RED ZONE

Elinor whispered soft shushing sounds as she placed her baby in the cradle. Her work-roughened hand lingered for a moment, rubbing gently on the small back as her daughter snuffled into sleep. Straightening, she dug her knuckles into the persistent knot of pain low in her own back, an unwelcome echo from scrubbing floors and lifting items too heavy for her slight frame.

Elinor could hear her other two children downstairs locked in their daily tussles. Their shrieking voices, rising beneath her, shredded her nerves like shards of glass. The fighting never stopped for long — a brief lull, then fresh protests and punches.

She dropped onto the bed, the sagging frame groaning under her, and let the tsunami of exhaustion she’d been trying to hold away sweep in. Too much, always too much. Three children under five, the now incessant drumbeat of rain on the slate roof, no indoor plumbing and the path to the outhouse a slurry of mud… Down in that one cramped room below, a too small fire that shared its meagre warmth only if you huddled on the floor next to it.

She was thirty-four years old and all that seemed to lie ahead of her was sleep shattered by children’s needs, endless dirty nappies and never-ending rain.

She was trapped here in this tiny Yorkshire village, hemmed in by skulking moors, away from anywhere. World War Two was over, but privation remained. Still no fresh eggs, just the powder mixed with a bit of water and milk, a mockery of what an egg should taste like. Growing children who always wanted more food, outgrew their clothes too fast. Watching them at mealtimes trying to outdo each other with which one could gulp their food down fastest in order to reach for anything that wasn’t on someone else’s plate, and the constant wails about unfairness, that often ended up as actual fist fights requiring her to haul them apart, her own pulse hammering.

Lying there, her anger built, slow at first- a prickle under her skin – the boiler gauge in her mind twitching from green to yellow. TICK. TICK. Her husband gone, lost in the war, not enough money, or food. She dragged in a breath and forced the words out like a valve cracked open. No one is starving. Not quite. Not with a sturdy roof overhead and the fire’s faint warmth, they would be fine. The half lie quivered there, while the boiler red zone loomed just a tick closer.

Elinor was on the edge of sleep when a loud crash and scream from below had her racing down the shallow stone stairs into the living room. Lying on the stone floor, her mother’s Leeds Ware vase lay in pieces on the hearth, the gaudy painted shards scattered like blood spatter. Elinor inhaled, fighting tears. It had been the only bright thing left in the cottage. A reminder of happier times when silly, useless items competed for space.

The two children, across the room as far away from ‘the crime’ as possible, burst into speech as soon as they saw her. “Jack did it!” said her daughter, rushing to get her words in first. “Did not! You grabbed it from me!” a furious Jack replied. “Mum, it was all Mary’s fault.” Their voices swelled, and they were fighting again. Ignoring her.

Elinor whirled to the only door in the house and swung it open, oblivious to the rain which blew in, in bursts like wet confetti. Raindrops darkened the floor as Elinor clutched the door handle and banged it shut and then open again, over and over, the sound echoing like thunder through the small space. The children stopped fighting and moved closer to each other.

Through gritted teeth, Elinor ordered Jack to fetch the dustpan and brush and told Mary to help sweep up the mess.

“I’m going to the outhouse.” She hissed. “When I get back, I expect to find everything cleaned up and the pair of you sitting on the sofa. Understand?” She had to escape for a few minutes. They nodded, leaping to do what she asked.

Snatching up the umbrella by the door, a flashlight from the windowsill, and slamming the door behind her, Elinor fled down the muddy path to the privy. Within seconds water dripped down her neck, icicle-cold, her hair whipped into a wet tangle, hampering her vision. The umbrella was useless; the wind turned it inside out almost instantly, and in fury, she tossed it away, watching it tumble into the darkness as the rain turned her clothes and hair into wet misery.

The unwelcoming outhouse loomed over her, no refuge from the storm building inside her or the one raging outside

She hunched in the outhouse, the sour smell of human waste and strong disinfectant clawing at her throat, her gut churning at the loss of her mother’s vase. The loss another crack in the boiler holding back the flood of her unraveling life.

Elinor had to go back to the cottage. She’d probably left them alone too long already. God knows what havoc her two hellions were unleashing. The baby, once asleep, would only wake when hungry. She dashed back up the path to her front door, cursing under her breath as her sodden skirt clung to her legs impeding movement. She lifted the heavy iron latch and pushed. The door pushed back, not even rattling on its hinges. Elinor knew the door sometimes stuck, especially when wet, so she tried again, kicking the bottom of the door as she rattled the handle, but the door didn’t move, trapping her in the dark with the mounting fury inside her uncooled by the freezing rain that had her soaked to the skin.

It was then she realized the door was locked.

The scream tore from her throat — the culmination of every buried daily disaster, her mother’s shattered vase, all the stress and rage she had pushed down for weeks. It rose raw into the dark, a hellish banshee wail of despair and fury exploding into the sullen, uncaring night.

“Jack,” she screamed, “unlock this door at once. I told you never to play with the locks!” Her fist slammed against the door with every word.

Finally leaning her back against the solid wood, sobbing in abandon, she slid down the door until she collapsed into a heap of wet misery on the step. “Unlock the door,” she hiccupped, her voice hoarse with wretchedness. “Unlock. The. Bloody. Door!”

She heard the sound of what must have been a chair scraping across the flagstones. Then faint noises and scratches on the wood. Then the trembling voice of her son “I can’t get it to turn. I’m sorry, it won’t turn. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”

She sat sobbing in the rain. The baby would need feeding soon. Supper, what there was of it was on the old oil stove and would burn if she couldn’t get to it. She had to get inside. It was then she remembered the ladder in the small barn attached to the house. Her bedroom window was cracked open. If she could get the ladder to the window…

Getting to her feet took almost all her strength. She dragged the heavy ladder from the barn, hands slipping on the now wet wood. Every step forward felt like a battle against her own exhaustion. It took fifteen agonizing minutes to position it and climb the slippery rungs.

Finally, she was inside. She hadn’t told the children what she was doing; there had been nothing left inside of her but the need to get back indoors. She stripped off the wet clothing that clung to her as if seeking warmth. Elinor hadn’t thought she could get colder, but the unheated room, not unpleasant if you were dry and dressed, sucked away what remained of her heat reserves.

Pulling on a dry dress, she grabbed her cardigan from behind the door, tugging it on as she searched for shoes. The chilblains on the back of her heels were roaring back into painful life. She couldn’t wear shoes right now. She searched for some heavy socks and ended up putting on a pair of her husband’s. Her hand hesitant and trembling as she pulled the old grey socks from the drawer, the soft worn wool snagging like a memory against her fingers. No time for more tears. Straightening her shoulders, she moved to check the baby—still peacefully sleeping.

She could hear faint sobs coming from downstairs. Taking a deep breath, she moved down the stone steps. Jack and Mary shouldn’t have been playing with the locks, but she would be a good mother, no recriminations. Then she saw it–the remnants of her pretty vase still lying on the floor, although there was a dustpan and brush nearby. She also saw a chair lying on its side by the door. Her children were by the fire–Mary grizzling and wiping her nose on her sleeve, Jack looking defiant. It was too much.

Elinor strode over and seized Jack by his shoulders, her rigid fingers clutching him as if she were drowning, her grip unyielding and ferocious. “How many times have I told you not to play with the door locks?” She hissed.

“B…but I didn’t…” he stammered

“Don’t lie to me!” she screamed and struck him across the face. The crack echoed in the silence that slammed down behind the slap. Jack’s breath hitched as he fought not to cry. Elinor’s hand flew to her mouth. She had never hit either of her children before. Shame crashed over her, cold and choking. The dreadful silence expanded, filling the room.

“Jack – I’m so sorry…”

Mary interrupted her, her small voice rising. “He didn’t lie! Look!” she pointed at the door. “No key! See?” She went over to her brother, sliding her arms around him and hugging him close. He bore the hug for a moment before pushing her away and saying in a small, hurt voice. “I didn’t lie. When Dad left that last time to go back, he told me I should never lie, and I try not to.” His voice hitched, “I didn’t lock the door. Mum.”

Wordlessly, Elinor walked over to the door. It was locked, but not by the missing key, which was usually in the door; it was held fast by the deadlock, which must have activated when she slammed the door. “The key? She muttered, “Where’s the key?” and then she remembered.

Reaching a hand into her cardigan pocket, she pulled out the key, placed there the last time Jack had been playing with it.

The rest of the evening passed quietly. The children were more subdued than usual and much more helpful than normal. Elinor was grateful, even though she knew it could not last. The heavy weight and gunnysack of anger were gone, at least for now, and she hoped that in the future she could head off any such outbreak re-occurring. Jack held no resentment; he seemed to be rather like a puppy who gets reprimanded and forgets about it. Elinor prayed that would be the case and vowed never to hit either of her children again.

The next morning brought an unexpected delight—a parcel delivered by the Royal Mail. The postman greeted her cheerily, “Hullo, luv. Lovely to see the sun again, in’t it?” His warm Yorkshire voice, another ray of sunshine. “Looks like you got yerself a parcel here from t’States. Lucky you!” He waved at her and the children as he continued on his rounds.

The sun was indeed shining its early morning warmth promising a fair day. Jack and Mary pushed and shoved each other, vying for first dibs at what was inside. She let Jack cut the postage stamps off for his stamp collection, and she gave Mary the pretty colored tissue paper, promising she would show her how to make a picture collage later.

The box from her sister in America was a treasure trove. There was sugar! Coffee. Nylon stockings. All things that were luxuries for her and required coupons and money to buy. And there, there at the bottom–an oblong, brown, flat bar of Hershey’s chocolate. She sent the children out into the fast-drying garden to play. She clutched the chocolate against her chest, her anticipation a giddy delight. Elinor made her coffee, relishing the aroma, dipping her wetted finger into the sugar and licking the sweetness off her fingers. Perhaps she let her children do the same later.

She moved to her husband’s old chair, still living there beside the fire banked down for the day. She could hear the children’s laughter from the garden. Her baby was just beginning to stir. She’d feed her in just a minute. But for now, just for now, she’d take a moment for herself: a cup of hot, sugared coffee and a delicious piece of her American chocolate.

The chocolate melted like a benediction on her tongue, its taste rich and smooth, chasing away the last lingering shadows from yesterday.

Quietly the needle on the boiler settled back into the green zone.