Claire Allan - The Liar’s Daughter

‘I’ll peel some potatoes for dinner. There’s chicken and veg there, too,’ I say, getting up and going to the kitchen, where I pull the bag of spuds from the vegetable rack and look for the peeler.

Kathleen is behind me before I’ve had the chance to shed even one slice of skin from the mud-covered potato in my hand.

‘Can I ask you something, Heidi?’ she says, and I turn to watch her sit down, wincing as she does so, on one of the kitchen chairs. ‘My knees,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘Seems all that road-running has left them in a bad way.’

I mumble something sympathetic and wait for the big ‘something’ she wants to talk to me about.

‘Why do you hate him?’ she says eventually, her eyes sad. ‘You always did. All those years when he just tried to look after you. You made it so hard for him, you know, but he never gave up on you. You never give him credit for that. I know he’s not perfect. Believe me. But does he really deserve to be hated?’

I blink at her. I don’t know what to say. Can she really not know?

I shrug, feeling a tingle of nervousness start at the top of my spine, enough to send little shockwaves through my head.

‘That’s it?’ she says with a strange laugh. ‘A shrug to explain it all.’

I shrug again, scraping at the potato with the peeler, not realising that my finger has moved perilously close to the blade. One strike and I take a layer of skin with it, yelping as I do so.

The sight of blood, which comes before the sting of the cut, makes me feel woozy.

Kathleen, sore knees and all, jumps to her feet, forces my bleeding finger under the running tap, and I watch the water turn pink, mingling with the soil from the potatoes as it hits the steel surface of the sink. I watch it. I feel the pain bite. I’m reminded of a release. Of a coping mechanism. Kathleen pulls my hand from the water, wraps a clean piece of kitchen towel around it, squeezing tight. So tight it’s painful.

‘Hold that for a bit,’ she says. ‘We’ll get a proper look at it in a minute. Does Joe have plasters?’

I nod to the thin cupboard beside the cooker, where Joe stores an old tin first-aid box.

‘I … I’m sure it’s just a scratch,’ I stutter. ‘I was … I was distracted.’ I can see the crisp white kitchen towel start to colour with my blood. I need to sit down.

‘You certainly were,’ Kathleen says, pausing for a moment, looking at me intently.

She hands me some more kitchen paper, then sets about fishing in the first-aid tin for a suitable dressing.

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