I waited all day. I’m not a big believer in intuition but I do associate a sense of dread with this day in particular, a deep, dirty, stagnant anxiety, a teeming or gnawing under my ribcage. I’d told myself I wouldn’t tell her about Tom – I’d decided Fred was right – but I needed to see her to reassure myself it was the right decision. While I waited, I felt useless. I scrunched and unscrunched my hands, cracking my knuckles, squeezing the flesh on my fingers. The house seemed to respond, to seep and rot, a sweet meaty odour caught at the back of my throat. The pile of plastic bags that had collected over the previous week came alive in the heat, tiny shifts and adjustments. When I moved a Toby jug containing pens, an earwig unfurled. Maudie was scratching to reach something under the sofa. Behind the wainscot I imagined I could hear scuttling.
I took the key from the tin where I’d hidden it and went upstairs to Faith’s room. It was a long time since anyone had tried the key and the lock rasped, stuck. I jiggled, finally getting traction; it released and, pushing, I caught sight of a few inches of flock wallpaper, before the bottom of the door snagged on a fold of carpet. I nudged it harder, but it wouldn’t move; I’d have to get down on my knees, and wriggle my hand under the door to free it. I thought for a second and then I closed the door, locked it, and returned the key to my pocket.
Mother’s room was still crammed: her piles of paste jewellery on the dressing table, her plaid gown on the back of the door, a cream quilted garment referred to always as her ‘bed jacket’ on the pillow; knick-knacks, an army of childhood toys, bodies in heaps, defeated, on the shelves. I picked up a dusty lion, and a long strawberry-blonde hair was caught in the polyester fur – a fine thread, sixteen inches long, frail and yet here it was, even after all these years. The light glinted on its kinks. My heart began to swell with a fresh sense of loneliness and despair.
It was coming up to 5 p.m. when the doorbell rang. The hours of waiting dissolved, suddenly meant nothing. With indecent haste, I rushed to open it.
Tom was standing in the porch. His hair was dishevelled and he had a scratch across his cheek. He was already turning away.
‘Tell Ailsa I’m home, could you?’ he said. ‘Only for half an hour, so I wouldn’t mind a quick chat. I’m out again this evening. Client drinks.’
‘Ailsa’s not here.’
He slowly twisted until he was facing me. Carefully he rubbed the scratch on his cheek. ‘I thought she was supposed to be spending the afternoon with you. I thought she was finally getting to the bottom of the smell.’
His complexion was grey with tiredness and there was something vulnerable in his expression. For a second I felt sorry for him, but I thought about his drunken grope with Delilah and pulled myself up.
‘Nope,’ I said.
He stood for a second or two, his eyes half closed. He started nodding. ‘Fine. OK. Whatevs.’ He took a step back and raised both his hands to his head, elbows out, as if to take up as much space as he could; to intimidate me, I suppose. ‘But listen – I’ve had enough. This can’t go on.’ He made an expanding balloon-like gesture with his arms. ‘The stench. It’s coming through the walls.’ He wrinkled his face in disgust. ‘I’ve looked it up. I think it’s dry rot. Fruiting bodies.’
I made to close the door.
He took a step forward. ‘You’ve got worse, not better,’ he said. ‘You’re ill. Ailsa’s efforts, they’ve made no difference. I mean – what’s this?’ He pointed. His voice got louder. ‘Where’s it come from? What is it?’
I didn’t answer.
For the record it was a rotary clothes dryer I’d found down by the railway line on my way back from lunch with Fred.
‘Let me in.’ He took a step towards me, looming into the porch. ‘I want to see what’s going on.’
‘No.’
‘I’m going to report you to the council. I’ll have you evicted if nothing else. You’re a danger to the community.’
Trembling, I managed to get my weight behind the door.
‘Last chance,’ he said.
I upped my listening that evening. Scraps, mainly. Clunking on the piano (Bea?). A door closing too loudly (Melissa?). Tom and Ailsa’s voices, quiet. Mainly, a deadly silence interrupted only by the scrape of their kitchen chairs on the limestone tiles, the chink of cutlery, an occasional clearing of a throat.
I was convinced the next morning I would pull back the curtains to see someone from the council staring back at me. Adrian’s pale moon face.
Instead, I heard a tapping, regular and insistent, like the light hammering of a nail. I was using a glass, then, and when I held it to Mother’s wall I realised it was intercourse. A male grunt and a female cry gathering in intensity. So relations had resumed, I thought. But how awful, how humiliating for her, after how I’d seen him behave. I slid the glass away then, threw it down, with shame and embarrassment.
A few hours later, Ailsa texted me: ‘Sorry about yesterday. Held up.’ Naturally, I replied generously: ‘Couldn’t matter less.’ She followed with another: ‘Have to cancel Max’s session today – late notice. End-of-term madness! My bad!’
Stupid of me, I know, to have been upset. It took me a few minutes to compose both myself and my response. In the end, I wrote: ‘No problemo!’ and signed off with an ‘x’.
That afternoon, for something to do, I took Maudie and caught the bus down to Clapham Junction for a new ink cartridge, then walked back. It was a warm day and the common was busy. Brueglel meets Richard Scarry: small children haring along on scooters, legs dangling from trees, a mishmash of balls and dogs and picnics. The light was hazy, more white in the sky than blue. The leaves overhead looked limp, poised to wrinkle; the grass a vast, dried, pale-olive prairie.
I was passing the ice-cream van, temporarily blasted by heat from its generator, when I heard my name. ‘Verity; coo-ee.’
At first I thought I was hallucinating. It’s always a surprise to see in the flesh someone who is occupying your mind. But in a group under the trees between the path and the pond, Ailsa was kneeling and waving.
Acutely self-conscious for several reasons, I made my way in her direction.
‘Verity,’ she said, smiling brightly. ‘I thought it was you.’
She was with seven or eight other women, a few of whom I recognised – Delilah and Trish and Poor Soph’s mother with the invisible braces, and various others from her party. They were staring up at me, silent but smiling, a forty-something corps de ballet. Delilah was leaning back on her elbows, her face turned to the sun. Otherwise, I remember a lot of legs in white jeans and unsuitable shoes. The blonde woman with the prominent overbite – Susie? – was wearing a puffy pale-pink blouse you might describe as ‘milkmaid’.
‘We’ve just had sports day,’ Ailsa told me, her hand held over her eyes as a visor. ‘It’s why I cancelled. Sorry. Join us!’ She was still smiling, but there was something forced in the way she was talking. A fake brightness.
‘That’s very kind,’ I said, clipping on Maudie’s lead. ‘But I’ve got work to do. I’m in a bit of a hurry, in fact. I was in the middle of printing and I ran out of ink.’ I lifted the Ryman bag to illustrate.
‘Oh go on, do.’ She was patting a space next to her, as if I were a small child. ‘I haven’t seen you since the party. Sit down, even for five minutes.’
I faltered. I’d been so anxious about her and yet here she was. Poor Soph’s mum was smiling up at me, teeth bared, the sun giving a milky tinge to her invisible braces, and I thought about the bored, petty bitchiness in the pub. Delilah, I noticed, hadn’t even registered my arrival. Ailsa didn’t feel comfortable with these women. I felt renewed goodwill. Her wing woman; that’s what she’d called me. Moral support – at the very least, that I could provide.
She scooted up and I stepped into the space, feet together, and then slunk down, sitting with my knees bent to my chin to take up as little room as possible. Maudie lay down on the grass next to me and when I was sure she was settled, I slipped the handle of the l
ead around my foot. In this strained position, I was aware of the waistband of my trousers cutting into my gut, gaping low at the back. I tugged my top to tuck it in and cover the area of bare skin. Ailsa patted my shoulder. ‘Gosh, you must be a bit hot in that jacket,’ she said. ‘Do you want to take it off?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re wearing walking boots too.’
‘They’re comfortable.’
A brief kerfuffle as provisions were shunted my way – a small plastic cup of rosé, a pot of supermarket hummus, and some cold sliced pitta bread to dip into it. I took a few sips of wine and, having already eaten a tin of baked beans before leaving the house, nibbled on a piece of pitta. The big talk on the rug was school reports: they’d been given them at pick-up in envelopes; some people had opened theirs but others, including Ailsa, were waiting until they got home. She rolled her eyes. ‘When I can do so with a stiff drink.’ Lowering her voice: ‘I mean, Bea’s will be fine, but . . .’ She looked at Max and mouthed. ‘I feel sick.’
Delilah and Susie of the pink top began moaning about a school email urging them to keep up their children’s maths and literacy over the summer. ‘Ridiculous,’ Delilah said. ‘I mean, how?’ rejoined Susie in the pink.
A dark, bird-like woman who had been introduced to me as ‘Rose who works full time said’, ‘You live next door?’
‘Yes.’ I cleared my throat, adding unnecessarily, ‘I’m Ailsa’s next-door neighbour.’
‘Verity grew up in Tooting. She’s lived here for ever.’ Ailsa said. She drew the last word out, turning the ‘ev’ into quite a drone.
‘How rare,’ Rose said. ‘I can’t imagine what that must be like. My husband and I were based in north London before moving to Wandsworth and when I was growing up we lived all over for my dad’s work. I never feel I belong anywhere. To be rooted, to be properly grounded. I don’t know – it shows you’re a much more loyal sort of person. It must give you some sort of inner decency, don’t you think?’
Ailsa said: ‘Verity is incredibly decent.’ She gave my hand a quick squeeze. ‘She’s very long-suffering.’
I took another sip from my goblet, biting the plastic between my teeth for a second, enjoying the sensation. We were on a slight hill and the grass stretched before us, past the bench, down to the pond, a little slimy but bristling with reeds and insects and waterfowl. I felt a wash of pride in my longevity and, yes, my loyalty.
I asked Rose what children she had and she said two: a teenage girl a year younger than Melissa, and a boy, Ferg, in the same class as Max. ‘You?’ she added.
‘Just me,’ I said. ‘I was my mother’s carer until she passed away. Not that that’s relevant – though she was quite child-like.’
Ailsa dipped a chip in a pot of violently red sauce. ‘You have a younger sister, though, don’t you? You sort of brought her up.’
The word seemed to stick to the front of my mouth. ‘Yes.’
‘Where is she now?’ Rose asked.
I pressed the goblet to my lips hard, hearing my breath as it hit the plastic. ‘Last I heard she was living in Brighton.’
‘That’s nice. I love Brighton. Does she have kids?’
I felt a solid lump at the back of my throat, a stirring of the old panic and alarm. ‘No.’
‘Verity hasn’t seen her sister for a bit.’ Ailsa said. ‘They fell out.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Rose said. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’
I tried to rest my plastic cup down on the rug, but it wouldn’t stay upright. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
I did take off my jacket then, though I was careful to keep my arms close to my sides, aware of sweat. The conversation moved on, Rose and Ailsa talking about their own children, joining in the moan about the summer homework. Rose’s work was ‘full on’; she was a lawyer in a big City firm. Ailsa asked if she had any breaks to look forward to, any holiday plans, and Rose said they were going to Cornwall. ‘Oh yes,’ Ailsa said. ‘You have a place. By the sea? Lovely.’
Max, a smattering of sunburnt freckles across his nose, was sitting with Maudie now, stroking her chin. Dear, sweet Max. Always so gentle.
‘What about you?’ Rose asked, drawing me back into the conversation.
‘Holidays aren’t really my thing,’ I said.
‘Oh I love holidays,’ Rose said, making it sound like a question of taste, a choice.
As I write this, I realise I sound judgemental. I don’t mean to be. I never disliked Rose – even later. She is just as much a product of her life and upbringing as I am. But I suspect it’s one of the things that drew me to Ailsa, and also what made life hard for her. She didn’t want to be a victim of her childhood or circumstances; she wanted to be better, different, more. She fought against the restrictions; it’s an instinct that has brought out the best in her, and the worst.
‘Ailsa?’ Rose was still on the subject of holidays.
‘Oh yes.’ Ailsa had been watching me, but she smiled brightly. ‘Nothing too exciting this year, really. Tom’s rented a cottage. Somerset.’
‘Oh, when?’ I said. A holiday? I hadn’t imagined that. ‘How long for?’ I already felt the lurch of their departure.
‘Saturday. We’ve booked it for two weeks. Tom wants to invite potential clients. Ricky Addison and Pippa Jones, who make the cooking show? They’ve got a place down there and he’s trying to get them on board. It’s tax deductible, I suppose.’ She rubbed her arm. ‘What about you, Verity? Do you ever go away? Fred? Does he invite you?’
‘Not really.’
She was studying me. A beat passed. ‘You look upset. Are you all right?’
Rose had started talking to Susie and I said quickly: ‘Tom came round yesterday. Did he tell you?’
‘What did he want?’
‘He wanted to know where you were. When he found out you weren’t with me, he was quite aggressive I’m afraid. He said he was going to ring the council, and it’s put me in a bit of a tizz.’
I could feel her eyes on me. ‘You mustn’t worry about that. Have you ever tried ringing the council? If you ring the number for Environmental Services, as he did, and press six or whatever it is for “filthy or verminous property”, there’s a recorded message that begins: “If you have immediate concern about the safety of a child . . .” I don’t know if it’s a mistake or whether it’s intentional; whether knowing about a child who’s living in a filthy house takes you to the top of the complaints queue. Either way it put Tom off. He flung the phone down in disgust, so you’re off the hook for a bit.’
I let out a deep sigh. It shuddered through me, almost overwhelming.
‘Oh, poor Verity. I’m sorry about Tom. I’m sorry he was rude. I’m going to have a word. He promised me he would keep out of it. You’ve been worried and I haven’t been any help at all. It’s just been one thing after another. The party, finding this house for Tom – big enough, nice enough to pass muster. And I’ve been busy myself doing the garden for Ricky’s London flat. But I should have popped round to check on you.’
I felt my shoulders sag. Her life was so full. She was fine. Parties, Somerset houses, Ricky’s London Flat. How foolish to think she needed me, that I made any impact on her life at all.
I sat there after that for as long as I could bear to. Ailsa joined the general conversation, which seemed to be about end-of-year presents for teachers. She made a joke about a circulating scented candle and found a funny video on her phone which made everyone laugh. Watching her, I realised she wasn’t an outsider after all. She fitted right in. It was her trick of friendship to make you think she was who you wanted her to be. When I decided I could leave without being rude, I collected my jacket, pulled the lead off my foot and stood up. I heard the crunch of plastic and a yelp from Rose. ‘Sorry! Work beckons.’ I managed to scatter some general goodbyes, disentangle a reluctant Maudie from her love fest with Max, and was soon heading back along the main path in the direction of Bellevue Road. Near the lights, I sensed footsteps behind me, bu
t it was only a runner who gained, overtook and jogged past, leaving only the tinny vibrations of headphoned music in their wake.
When the bell went that evening, I was still braced for a visit from the council, so I opened the door reluctantly, with the chain on.
Tom and Ailsa were both standing there. He was holding out a bottle of wine, and she was clutching a small white booklet which she waved in the air.
‘Max’s report,’ she said, as soon as I’d released the chain. ‘It’s so much better than last term. They’re thrilled with his progress. A five for English, effort and achievement. But also maths – better, two threes. And the teacher’s comments are just great: how his confidence has come on in leaps and bounds and . . .’ She flicked to a page and started reading, ‘ “He’s not afraid to plumb his own experiences and emotions”.’
Tom was nodding, also pleased, and I smiled broadly. ‘I’m so glad,’ I said. ‘He deserves it.’
‘So we are here to thank you’ – she nudged Tom to hand me the wine – ‘and Tom wants to apologise for being rude yesterday. Don’t you, Tom?’
‘Yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry. You got me on a bad day.’
I eyed him. The bottle in his hand was wet with condensation, straight from their fridge.
‘And we’ve got a suggestion.’ Ailsa had slipped her hand through Tom’s arm. ‘I know you won’t take money but we’d like to thank you so, we wondered whether you’d like to come down to Somerset for a couple of days? It’s a big house and we haven’t got guests the whole time, and you say you never take a holiday: what do you think? You and Max could do a bit of literacy. It would do you good to have a few days out of London.’
‘It might give you a bit of perspective on your own house,’ Tom said. ‘It might inspire you. You might come back with a renewed sense of vigour.’
I looked down at my feet. Hard to describe the combination of emotions – mortification and embarrassment, and a sort of confused delight. Somewhere in there, history was being rewritten but it didn’t matter: the force of other emotions swept away any unease. I couldn’t possibly, I told them. It was ‘too much of an imposition’. They waved my objections away. ‘It’ll suit us all,’ Ailsa said. ‘It’s mutually beneficial.’
Finders, Keepers: The mesmerising new thriller from the author of LIE WITH ME Page 17