In Session [h.s]

Chapter Twenty

I don't know when my parents started drinking. But I do distinctly remember the first time I realised they were drunk.

Or, actually, I remember the first time I realised my dad was drunk.

I was seven years old, and that year I'd been chosen to be Mary in the school nativity play. Even at such a young age, I knew that was a big deal. That it was special.

I rehearsed every night in front of the floor length mirror in my parents bedroom. I wrapped myself in one of my mothers nightgowns, secured a pillowcase over my hair with a headband in lieu of a costume.

And when the dress rehearsals came, when I really did get to wear that little blue costume - even though it was just a blue dress - I felt like a princess. Better than Cinderella, better than Belle or Rapunzel or any of the others. I can still remember the feel of the fabric in my hands, still remember my teacher, Miss Hope who had a kind smile, telling me I looked wonderful.

To put it simply, I was excited.

So excited that I talked my parents ears off about it. My mum didn't pay much mind to me - but my dad did. He watched my little at home rehearsals, cheered loudly when I recited all four of my lines.

I made him promise that they'd be there. Must have asked every day.

Say the words, Dad, I'd whisper to him when he lay dozing on the couch. Say you'll promise. You can't break promises. They're magic.

I'd not miss it for all the money in the world, my little Picasso. He'd whisper back, and he'd hook his fat pinkie finger around my little one, and that's how I knew he meant it.

The night of my nativity, I was practically vibrating with excitement. Not nerves. Not even a little bit. I'd not yet reached an age where I knew what it was to be self conscious, to concern myself with the thoughts of others.

All I knew was that I was Mary. Me. Little Ruth Moore, with eyes too big for her face and crayon smudges on her clothes and a heart that was still whole.

All the children, myself included, were peaking through the curtains that separated the stage from the audience. Each of us pointing out our mummy's and daddy's and siblings and grandparents.

Mikey Watsons daddy was sat on the front row with a big video recorder balanced on his shoulder.

Annie Lockhart's older sister had come all the way from her big girl school in London to watch.

Each child would let out a little squeal when they saw their person. And each time they did, something inside me sunk.

Because I couldn't see my mummy or daddy. Not at first. I searched, and hope began to die and rot a hole in my stomach and I didn't want to go on stage without my dad there, because he'd pinky promised.

But then I spot him. Sat right at the edge of the little walkway in the middle of the chairs. He has two empty seats next to him - maybe he's waiting for mummy to come. It didn't matter so much if she wasn't there. She hadn't promised. But daddy had, and there he was.

"There he is!" I'd told my friends proudly, pointing at him through that curtain. "That's my daddy there in the brown jacket."

And they all looked and saw and I was just like them with someone out there who loved them.

The moment I knew something was wrong, was when my daddy cheered louder than everyone else. At first, it didn't bother me. It made me want to giggle, because sometimes he was loud and silly and he often did loud and silly things just to make me laugh.