Justice, that is.

So I wasn't as stiff as a poker.

I spent the next week or so eaten up by anger and jealousy. I hated James and Denise. I terrorized my family without even realizing that I was doing it. And when things got too much for me I climbed aboard the bike and tried to cycle away some of my terrible rage. I also drank far too much.

80.I owed Anna a fortune.

Helen was charging me extortionate amounts for going to the liquor store for me.

And the forces of supply and demand dictated that I had no choice but to pay her.

I was a buyer in a seller's market.

I couldn't face leaving the house yet, therefore I paid her.

Or rather, because I had no hard cash myself, Anna did.

I had every intention of paying Anna back, but in my own time. I wasn't particularly worried about the impact I was having on Anna's cash flow.

But I should have been.

I mean, she was only on welfare.

And she had a mid-weight to heavy drug habit to support.

But I only cared about myself.

I was kind of half drunk most of the time. I thought that I'd numb the pain and anger by getting drunk. But it didn't really help. I just felt sort of lost and confused. And then when I sobered up, in the few minutes it would take for me to drink my next drink and for the effects to hit me, I would feel horribly depressed. Really, really bad.

It was only when I accidentally overheard a conversation among Mum, Helen and Anna that I realized how awful I was being.

I was just about to go into the kitchen when I caught the sleeve of my sweater (well, Dad's Dad's sweater) on a knob on the cabinet in the hall. While I extricated myself I heard Helen talking in the kitchen. sweater) on a knob on the cabinet in the hall. While I extricated myself I heard Helen talking in the kitchen.

"She's such a bitch," Helen was complaining. "And we're afraid to watch anything on TV that has people kissing in it or anything, in case she goes ballistic."

Who were they talking about? I wondered. I was perfectly prepared to join in the character assassination, no matter who the unfortunate person was. That's how mean and bitter I was.

"Yes," Anna said, joining in. "I mean, yesterday when we were watching TV she threw the vase that I made for you for Christmas at the door, just because Sheila told Scott that she loved him."

"Did she?" asked Mum, sounding outraged.

I realized, with a shock, that they were talking about me.

81.Well, it must have been me. I was the one who had thrown that horrible vase at the door.

I stood quietly at the door and continued to eavesdrop like the horrible person that I had become.

"I really can't believe it," Mum went on, sounding shaken to the core.

"And what had Scott to say about that?"

"Oh, Mum, can't you forget about Down Drongo Way Down Drongo Way for five minutes?" for five minutes?"

said Helen, sounding like she was going to cry with frustration. "This is serious. Claire is behaving like a monster."

"Well, maybe I am, but I learned everything I know from you, my dear,"

I thought acidly.

"It's like she's possessed!" continued Helen.

"Do you think she might be?" asked Anna with great excitement, obviously ready to whip out her Filofax and give them the name of a good ex-orcist. ("I hear he's great. All my friends use him.") "Look, girls," said Mum gently, "she's been through an awful lot."

"Yes, I bloody well have," I silently agreed, standing frozen at the door.

"So have a bit of sympathy. Try and have a little bit of patience. You can't imagine how awful she must feel."

"No, you most certainly can't," I mutely concurred.

A silence followed.

"Good," I thought, "that's shamed them."

"She broke your Aynsley ashtray last night," mumbled Helen.

"She did what?" said Mum sharply.

"Yes, she did," confirmed Anna.

"Right," said Mum decisively. "She's gone far enough."

"Ha!" said Helen triumphantly, obviously speaking to Anna. "I told you that Mum didn't care about that crappy old vase that you made for her."

"Time I left," I thought.

I quietly went back upstairs, feeling shaken. A strange feeling had come over me. I later looked it up in my emotional reference book and identified it. There could be no doubt about it.

It was definitely Shame.

82.Later that evening I had a visit from my dad. I'd been expecting it.

This is what used to happen whenever I misbehaved when I was younger. Mum would discover the indiscretion or misdeed or wrongdoing or whatever. She would then send in the heavy guns by telling Dad.

He knocked quietly and then stuck his head around my bedroom door, looking distinctly sheepish.

It had been a long time since he'd had to do this. No doubt Mum was behind him, in the hall with an electric cattle prod, hissing, "Get in there and tell her. Put the fear of God in her. She won't listen to me. She's afraid of you."

"Hello, Claire, can I come in?" he asked.

"Sit down, Dad," I said, indicating the bed.

"Hello, my favorite grandchild," he said to Kate.

I didn't catch her reply.

"Well!" he said, trying to be jovial.

"Well," I agreed dryly. I was not making this easy for him.

I was feeling a horrible mixture of feelings. A combination of shame, mortification, embarrassment at my childish behavior, defensiveness at being told off, resentment at being treated like a child and a realization that it was time that I stopped behaving like a selfish bitch. I was also worried that he'd spot the two empty vodka bottles under the bed.

"You're being selfish and irresponsible," said Dad.

"I know," I mumbled.

I felt sick with guilt.

And what kind of mother was I being to Kate?

"And what kind of mother are you being to Kate?" he asked.

"A terrible one," I mumbled.

The poor child, I thought, it's bad enough that her father has abandoned her.

"The poor child," said Dad. "It's bad enough that her father has abandoned her. Drink never drowns anyone's sorrows," he went on. "It only teaches them how to swim."

You might think that this was a very profound and true thing that he'd just said.

So had I.

The first eight hundred times I heard it.

83.But now I recognize it for what it really is. It's the first line, the opening paragraph, in Dad's "The Evils of Drink" lecture. I heard it so many times in my teenage years that I could practically recite it myself.

And, God knows, I don't want to end up like Auntie Julia, I thought.

"And, God knows, you don't want to end up like Aunt Julia," said Dad wearily.

Poor Dad. Auntie Julia was his youngest sister and he'd had to bear the brunt of most of her alcohol-related crises.

When she would lose her job because she was drunk at work, the first thing she did was to call Dad.

When she got knocked down by a bicycle because she was wandering the road drunk late at night who did the police call?

That's right.

Dad.

It's money down the drain, I thought.

"And it's money down the drain," he said heavily.

Money I don't have.

"Money you don't have," he continued.

And it'll destroy my health.

"And it'll destroy your health," he advised.

It'll ruin my looks.

"It solves nothing," he concluded.

Wrong! He forgot to tell me that it'll ruin my looks. I'd better remind him.

"And it'll ruin my looks," I reminded him gently.

"Oh, yes," he said hurriedly. "And it'll ruin your looks."

"Dad, I'm sorry for everything," I told him. "I know I've been really mean to everyone and a worry to you all, but I'll stop. I promise."

"Good girl." He gave me a little smile.

I felt as if I was about three and a half all over again.

"I know it can't be easy for you," he said.

"It's still no excuse to behave like a bitch," I admitted.

We sat in silence for a few minutes.

The only sounds were of Kate snoring happily-maybe she was as glad as everyone else that I'd had my comeuppance-and me sniffing back tears.

84."And you'll let the girls watch their shows on the TV?" Dad inquired.

"Of course," I sniveled.

"And you'll stop shouting at us all?" he asked.

"I will," I said, hanging my head.

"And you won't throw any more things?"

"I won't throw any more things."

"You're a good girl, you know." He half smiled at me. "No matter what your mother and your sisters say."