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Back When I Was Ten Save as PDF
Chapters (79)
  1. Cover
  2. WHEN I WAS TEN
  3. Dedication page
  4. Epigraph page
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. PART ONE
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. PART TWO
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. PART THREE
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. 52
  61. 53
  62. 54
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. 68
  77. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  78. WHEN I WAS TEN
  79. Also by Fiona Cummins

You don’t have to reply, of course. You probably won’t. But I’ve got the oddest feeling this could be the beginning of something important for us both.

4

Catherine ran her blistered thumb under the cold tap, but already the skin was puckering and filling with fluid.

A fragment of memory pierced her. Her mother, leaning against their kitchen sink, the sound of water drumming against stainless steel. Christmas Day, 1996. The last Christmas.

Giggly on her third peach schnapps and lemonade, Pamela Carter had been taking the turkey out of the oven when she lost her balance in her new fluffy mules, tipping scalding fat over her forearm.

Catherine’s older sister Shannon had screamed, alerting their father. Richard, in shirt and tie, had sworn at the sight of his Christmas dinner on the kitchen floor. Even though he was a doctor, he had, as punishment, refused to dress the wound. The blister had been yellow and oozy and left a scar.

Catherine pressed down on her own blister to dispel the image of her mother. Permed hair and lipstick. Foundation that left orange streaks across her neck. Circles of blusher that reminded her of a clown.

She did not want to think about Pamela or Richard or Shannon. Why on earth had her sister agreed to be interviewed by those documentary makers? Had she not considered the effect on Catherine of any of this?

It was an unspoken pact, but both sisters had always shied away from the limelight, the heat of media scrutiny. Deliberately dragging their tragedy back into the headlines was self-flagellation of the worst kind.

Once upon a time, she had loved Shannon with everything she had. Catherine had been the calm, capable one while Shannon, although eighteen months older, was fragile and sensitive, the more childlike of the two.

It was Catherine who’d stood up to their father when he’d forced Shannon to eat her dinner from a dog bowl, receiving a slap across the face for insubordination.

When they had scratched one of Dr Carter’s records by accidentally dragging the stylus across the vinyl, it was Catherine who’d scrubbed the bathroom tiles with her toothbrush, shouldering her sister’s share of the punishment as well as her own while Shannon had wept in the corner.

When Shannon had crept into her sister’s bed for comfort, it was Catherine who had rubbed her back, wiped away her tears and dreamed up grandiose plans for their escape.

She hadn’t seen Shannon since the last day of the court hearing, a bitterly cold afternoon in December 1997. Catherine had been wearing her school uniform, and couldn’t remember much about that time except the constant fidgeting and the look of remorse on her older sister’s face when the guilty verdict was returned.