Sweetcorn

 As Melanie carried the dinner plates to the table, Bea craned her neck to see what was on hers. She scowled. “I wanted sweetcorn.”

“You never said.”

Melanie put the plate on the table, and tried to put the plastic fork and spoon in Bea’s clenched fists.

“I did! I love sweetcorn. It’s my favourite.”

Melanie laughed, although even to her ears, the sound was high and tense.

“News to me! Last week, you said roast potatoes were the best thing ever. Look, I’ve made you some.”

“I hate roast potatoes,” Bea insisted, her voice rising into a howl of outrage as Melanie tried again to place the fork in her hand. “TAKE THEM AWAY!”

Melanie exhaled slowly, trying to keep her own temper in check. The last thing she needed was to face another full-blown tantrum. She’d had enough of those, these last few months.

She put on the most reasonable voice she could, trying to inject some calm into the charged atmosphere.

“We can’t have sweetcorn, I’m afraid. I haven’t cooked sweetcorn. I’m not even sure that we have any.”

Bea began kicking her chair, rocking her diminutive body with ominous agitation.

“I’ll tell you what,” Melanie inserted quickly. “Eat your dinner quietly for me today and then you can have sweetcorn tomorrow. We’ll go to the shops and buy some together. You can help me find it. How does that sound?”

“I don’t want it tomorrow. I want sweetcorn now!” Bea threw the cutlery across the room and banged on the table with her hard little fists.

“Well, you can’t, and that’s that,” Melanie snapped.

Burning with barely controlled anger, she retrieved the cutlery, retreating to the kitchen to wash them. Bea’s furious screams followed her, hammering her aching skull.

Melanie’s rage and frustration frightened her to the core. She found it difficult to believe that other people ever felt like she did. Often, she watched people in the street, cafes and shops. They always appeared to be smiling and patient, content in their role, relishing the closeness of their relationships. She did not relish her ties at all; she hated the claustrophobic chains holding her prisoner and was appalled at the violent force of her feelings. Her inner voice stoked her fears, wondering what she might be capable of, trapped inside and alone with tyrannical, tantrum-queen Bea.

At the beginning, Melanie had been full of positivity, sure she could cope. Not just cope, but prevail. The ties of blood should have guaranteed a continuous thread of love, with shared characteristics providing the glue. Instead, Melanie was caught in an iron cage of duty and responsibility, feeling alien to everything Bea was now. If only she could magically wish Bea away, Melanie felt she would gladly do it. Her three magic wishes would unite in a plea for freedom.

Realising that an eerie silence had descended, she dashed back into the dining room, expecting a disaster. Bea couldn’t be left for long. She was a magnet for danger. Melanie trembled in anticipation, afraid her hateful thoughts were about to be punished.

Bea was still in one piece, much to Melanie’s relief, pink cheeks glowing and looking slightly dazed, as if she had worn herself out with all that screaming.

Melanie passed Bea the fresh cutlery, forcing a smile in a bid to be positive, just like all the magazines suggested. What do they know? Melanie thought, sourly.

“Now, let’s eat. No more fuss.”

A stab of guilt attacked her as she watched a subdued Bea obey, like a beaten dog.

Bea raised a piece of meat to her dribbling mouth, and Melanie couldn’t help averting her eyes. For Goodness sake, she’s my own flesh and blood  – what sort of heartless monster am I? Melanie thought.

Perhaps sensing the whirl of suppressed feelings, Bea dropped her fork again, turning to Melanie with a malevolent gaze. “Shan’t eat it. You can’t make me!”

Melanie stared at the infuriating, stubborn set of lips, her heart clattering.

“Please,” she said.

“No.”

“I’m begging you. Please. I don’t want you to be ill.” Melanie’s eyes misted with tears as she proffered a forkful from her own plate. “How about some of mine? Just one mouthful?”

“No, no, NO!” Bea waved her arms frantically, sending Melanie’s fork flying. “I wanted sweetcorn!” She began throwing her head backwards, bashing it repeatedly against the high-backed chair.

Melanie jumped up, tears falling down her cheeks. “Please stop it. You’ll hurt yourself. Alright, Mother, you win. I’ll get you some sweetcorn.”

She raced to the kitchen, searching through piles of tins, hoping desperately. It’s not her fault, she thought. The poor woman isn’t responsible. She’s my mother, and I love her. At last, she found a small tin of sweetcorn. Her fingers fumbled in her haste to open it.

Returning to her mother, Melanie was relieved to find her calmer, though the veined cheeks glistened now with teardrops. Melanie longed to cross the invisible boundary between them, wished she could hug her, but somehow, she couldn’t. She offered the pan of sweetcorn instead, like a gift.

“Here you are, Mum. I found some!”

Bea looked at the sweetcorn, then raised her eyes to meet Melanie’s. For a split second, there was a sharp intelligence there, and malice, then it vanished, dulled in the cruel mists of lost memory.

“What’s that yellow stuff?” Bea asked.

“What do you mean?” Melanie forced a laugh. “Don’t be silly, Mum. It’s sweetcorn; like you wanted.”

Bea frowned. “But I hate sweetcorn. Got any beans?”