She wonders how many people Eleanor sees in a day, and how many of those people talk to her, really talk to her, and not just to ask her if she would like a cup of tea. Olivia feels a pang of something like pain in her chest, but she can’t put a name to what it is.
‘I can find someone to get you a cup, if you like,’ she says, and when she speaks Olivia doesn’t recognise the sound of her own voice. She sounds strained, high-pitched, as though her voice is coming from someone else.
Eleanor looks over for the first time. ‘Who are you?’ she snaps.
‘Olivia.’
She isn’t sure what is wrong with this woman, whether she is unwell in some way or just elderly, but Olivia believes she sees a recognition that flashes behind Eleanor’s eyes when her name is mentioned.
‘Who?
‘Olivia,’ she says again, and a new possibility occurs to her for the first time, the possibility that this woman may have never heard the name Olivia before and has no idea that she exists.
‘Well make yourself useful and open the window a bit – I’m sweating cobs in here.’
Eleanor watches her as Olivia goes to the window and leans over to raise the latch. ‘Waif of a thing, aren’t you?’
Olivia has no experience of elderly people; she doesn’t know whether it’s normal for them to just come out with whatever thoughts flit through their minds. The urge to respond with something sarcastic usually comes naturally to her, but she swallows down a potential reply and instead says nothing, smiling at Eleanor as she stands back and moves from blocking her view of the silent television.
‘Where’s your uniform?’
Olivia feels panic kick in. The woman thinks she’s staff, but she doesn’t look like staff and no matter what else Eleanor may be, she already gets the impression that she is far from stupid.
‘I don’t work here,’ she says, knowing instantly that she has said the wrong thing.
Eleanor grips the arms of her chair and tries to push herself upright. ‘Who are you, then?’ she asks again, her voice filled with panic. ‘What are you doing in my room?’
She begins to try to push herself out of her chair, and Olivia notices the alarm cord that hangs just to the side of where Eleanor sits. If she pulls it, staff will come to help her; Olivia will be thrown out and she will never learn the truth. She’ll never know what’s going on. If the only person she can rely on to provide the truth is her mother, Olivia knows that it will never see the light of day. Her mother is a liar. She lies about everything.
‘Eleanor,’ Olivia says, trying her best to sound calm and in control. ‘My name is Olivia. I’m family.’
‘You’re not my family,’ she says, outraged at the suggestion. ‘I don’t know you. If it’s money you’re after, I haven’t got any.’
‘I don’t want your money. I just…I need to ask you a few questions, that’s all. About my mum.’
Eleanor narrows her eyes. She doesn’t know who my mum is, Olivia thinks.
‘Hannah. My mum is Hannah.’
Eleanor smiles now, and for the briefest of moments Olivia misreads the smile, welcoming it as a gesture of acknowledgement, of maybe even acceptance. She is wrong; she knows this as soon as the smile dips at each corner and turns into a grimace as quickly as it appeared.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Eleanor says, shaking her head and retuning her attention to the television, where a woman is trying to persuade a seller to knock five pounds off the asking price for a small silver tortoise brooch. ‘My Hannah doesn’t have any children.’
* * *
Eleven
Hannah
* * *
Hannah watches Rosie complete her homework at the kitchen table. A couple of times, Rosie asks a question, but Hannah can offer little more than a ‘hmmm’ or an ‘I’m not sure’ in response. Rosie may be doing Maths, or she might be doing Art, Hannah wouldn’t know. Her mind is trapped on the day’s events, and by the thought of Olivia, upstairs in her room, submerged in the silence she has chosen to keep herself immersed in.
She doesn’t want to think it possible, but the more her mind trails on the idea that Olivia might have been involved with that phone call in some way, the more her having done so makes perfect sense. Olivia hadn’t physically made the call herself; she couldn’t have, Hannah would have recognised her own daughter’s voice. There is a chance she may have got one of her classmates to pretend to be a caller from the primary school, though. Had the voice sounded young? Hannah can’t remember. In her panic over Rosie and where she might be, Hannah hadn’t paid attention to the voice, only to the words, and even those were blurred by her state of panic.
But is Olivia that close to anyone at school? She never mentions any friends, and Hannah finds it hard to believe anyone might have done that for her, not when they would have known that they would be guaranteed to get into trouble for it if they were to get found out. Either way, Olivia’s possible involvement preys on her consciousness, interrupting any other thoughts that might attempt to quash it.
‘Mum?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Go on.’
‘What was today all about? You know, at school?’
Hannah knew the question was coming. She is surprised it has taken this long to emerge. She smiles as though it was all just a silly mistake, something she wishes was the case. ‘Just a mix up, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.’
Rosie looks at her as though she wants to say something else, but instead of doing so she returns her focus to her exercise book. Hannah feels relief wash over her. She had expected more of an inquisition, grateful that it hasn’t come. Ten minutes later, she goes up to Olivia’s room.
‘Your phone,’ she says, extending an arm and holding out her hand.
She sees the panic on Olivia’s face, though she still refuses to react with words. Her expression is crestfallen, and Hannah wonders exactly what she will find when she checks through her call history. Will there be evidence of a phone call made to the house phone earlier today? If she finds it, Hannah hasn’t planned how she is going to react or what she is going to do about it.
Olivia hands over the phone begrudgingly, slapping it into her mother’s palm. Hannah eyes her with annoyance before unlocking the phone, going to the call history and scrolling the results. She is met with immediate disappointment; the last call made from the phone was the week before, to Hannah’s own mobile. She remembers the call, about a forgotten schoolbook if she remembers correctly.
Handing the mobile back to Olivia, Hannah can’t escape the look that crosses Olivia’s face before she is able to quickly erase it. For the briefest of moments, she looked relieved. Hannah’s mind begins to run, wondering just what Olivia might be relieved about, what she feared her mother might see. And yet, there is something else she can’t avoid. Disappointment at finding nothing incriminating washes over her, and it surprises Hannah that she should feel this way about finding her daughter apparently guiltless. Would knowing she was responsible make it easier to manage in some way, or is it better that the person who made that call remains anonymous to her, lending bliss to her ignorance? Hannah isn’t sure; all she knows is that the strangeness of the week that lies behind them can’t be coincidental. Somehow, Saturday night is linked to the afternoon. All she needs to do is work out how and why.
‘Why do you hate me so much?’
She hasn’t thought the question before asking it; her brain hasn’t gifted her the time. Instead, the question falls from her mouth in a tone she realises is too panicked, the words ugly in their desperation and shameful in their exposure. She doesn’t want to show Olivia any sign of weakness, though she fears she already has.
‘Tell me.’
She hears the anger in her voice, but it appears to have no effect on Olivia, who sits, unflinching, staring at her as though all of this is normal.
‘Tell me!’
She feels the heat in her face, which
is ablaze with frustration, and she knows she needs to stop. If Michael was here now, what would he tell her? Calm down. You’re the parent. Stay in control.
Hannah waits a moment, giving Olivia a chance to do the right thing and finally say something, but when there is still nothing, she turns her back on her daughter and slams the bedroom door shut behind her. She stands on the landing, catching her breath and reprimanding herself for what just happened.
When she is calmer, Hannah goes downstairs and returns to the kitchen, where Rosie’s attention is still focused on her homework. A short while later, she is relieved to hear the sound of Michael’s key in the lock of the front door. She listens to him take off his coat and shoes in the hallway, and moments later he appears at the kitchen door. ‘How are my favourite ladies?’ he asks.
Hannah gives him a smile, but Rosie barely acknowledges him, immersed in whatever it is she is doing. He looks at his wife with a silent question, one eyebrow raised. She nods. I’m fine, it says, though they both know this is a lie.
‘Rosie, would you like to watch TV for a bit?’
Rosie looks up at her mother with surprise. She is barely midway through her homework, and television is rarely permitted on weekdays. Not waiting for a second offer, Rosie gets up from the table and heads to the living room, leaving the door open behind her. Hannah follows and closes it, wanting to keep whatever words may now pass between her and Michael to themselves.
‘Good day?’ she asks him, as though everything is normal.
‘Fine. Are you okay, love? What happened?’
Hannah smiles, but the gesture is forced and within moments of its appearance she is crying, hot tears rolling down her cheeks as she tries to swallow a lump of embarrassment that is lodged in her throat. She hates what this past week has made her, emotional and unbalanced, and she doesn’t want anyone to see her like this, least of all Michael.
‘Come here.’ He moves towards her, arms outstretched, and Hannah falls into his embrace. ‘Tell me all about it.’
Hannah does so, properly this time, filling in the details that she missed during their harried phone call earlier in the day. She tells him what was said and how she rushed to the school fearing the worst. She tells him about the reaction of the receptionist and about seeing Rosie in the hallway, running around without a care in the world. She tells him about the receptionist’s phone call to Sally and how she knew nothing of the call, and about how embarrassed and foolish she felt at it all. Hannah feels sure that the receptionist thought she was making it all up, that she is mentally unstable in some way.
‘I don’t understand it, Michael, why would someone do that to me? It’s not funny, it’s sick.’
Hannah knows how she sounds. Even to her own ears, her voice is shrill and erratic.
Michael closes his grip around her, holding her close. She rests her head on his chest, can feel him breathing in the smell of her shampoo. ‘It must all have a been a mistake somehow.’
‘But how?’ She raises a hand to her face to wipe her tears dry. ‘I don’t think it was. I think someone wanted to hurt me, and they used Rosie to do it. I tried to get the number from the phone when I got back home, but it was withheld.’
Michael is quiet for a moment. ‘But like you said, why would someone want to do that?’ he eventually says. ‘It doesn’t make any sense, love.’
It seems to Hannah that much of what has been happening in the house recently doesn’t make a lot of sense. She is still plagued by thoughts of Saturday night and by the solitary word sprayed on the kitchen cupboards. The thought of a stranger being in their home has filled her with sickness in the pit of her stomach, stealing her sleep and making her feel like a zombie during the days. Someone wants to unsettle her. Someone wants to make her feel as though she is losing her mind, and they are managing exactly that.
Hannah places her palms on Michael’s chest and pushes herself away from him. When she looks up at him, she knows he is thinking exactly what she is. ‘You don’t think it’s possible, do you?’
‘What?’
She glances to the kitchen door, though she knows both it and the living room door are shut. ‘Olivia. You’ve thought it too, haven’t you?’
Michael sighs and tilts his head to one side, studying her as though she is a cause for pity. The look fills Hannah with frustration.
‘Don’t do that,’ she says, turning away from him. ‘Just say what you want to, Michael, you don’t have to look at me like that.’ She flicks the switch on the kettle and reaches to the cupboard above for a mug. ‘Do you want one?’
‘Go on then.’
As she is lifting tea bags from the ceramic pot that sits beside the kettle, Hannah feels her husband’s hands rest on her waist. When he speaks, his breath hits the side of her neck. ‘I wasn’t looking at you in any way,’ he tells her, speaking the words softly in her ear. ‘I worry about you, that’s all.’
‘I don’t need your concern,’ she says, shaking herself free of him. ‘I need you to tell me the truth. You’ve said there’s a chance she might be guilty of what happened here on Saturday, so what about this? Do you think she might be involved?’
His silence answers her question. He doesn’t want to think it, but that can’t stop him from doing so, not if the thought has taken root and is already beginning to grow. They can’t escape what Olivia is and who she might yet become.
Hannah makes their tea in silence before placing both mugs on the table. She takes a seat, waiting for Michael to join her.
‘Why does she hate me so much?’
‘She doesn’t hate you, Hannah.’
‘She does. I’ve seen the way she looks at me, and not just this past week. She’s always been like it. And now this refusal to speak to me. She hates me.’
‘She’s refusing to speak to me, as well,’ Michael reminds her. ‘Does she hate me too?’
Possibly, Hannah thinks, although she says nothing. Michael reaches across the table and takes her hand. ‘Look, Olivia’s fifteen going on twenty-five. This is a phase, we’ve got to remember that, okay. We’ve got through other things and we’ll get through this.’
Other things. Hannah meets his eye, knowing that their minds have taken them to the same place. She doesn’t want to return there, but she fears that soon she may have to, whether or not she is willing.
‘What if this is just in her, Michael?’
‘What do you mean, ‘in her’?
Hannah looks at him long and hard, her eyes widening to communicate her meaning. ‘You know what I mean,’ she says, not wanting to have to spell it out. ‘There are things we can’t control. No matter what we try to do, we can’t account for whatever nature is in her, can we?’
‘Oh,’ Michael says. ‘The nature nurture debate again?’
Hannah sighs tiredly. ‘You can’t just dismiss it. She’s not like Rosie, is she? They couldn’t be less alike.’
‘And the same could be said for most siblings.’
Michael stands and goes to the door. ‘I’m going for a shower. You need to stop this, Hannah, it isn’t good for anyone. You’re only torturing yourself with it.’
When he leaves her, Hannah sits back and closes her eyes. The teas she made are left to go cold while she contemplates everything that hasn’t been said. She has never wanted to say it, but she’s beginning to feel that somebody needs to. She hates herself for feeling this way about her own child. She wants to believe the best of her daughter. She wants to believe that she is a good mother. Sometimes, though, she’s far from sure of either.
12
Twelve
Olivia
* * *
Olivia hasn’t made it as far as her registration class when she hears her name being called down the corridor by the head of year. Mr Lewis is a PE teacher, built like a rugby prop forward, and to anyone who doesn’t know him he might appear to be the kind of person not to be messed with. Most of the kids at school know differently though; beneath the bullish exterior, he is as soft
and malleable as a ball of plasticine. Some of the girls have got away with all sorts after turning on the waterworks in his office, and according to some, as soon as ‘time of the month’ is mentioned he is quick to let most misdemeanours slip. Olivia wonders whether she’ll have the confidence to try to get away with either.
‘Yes, sir,’ she says, turning to his call.
‘Can I have a word, please, Olivia?’
He gestures to an empty classroom and she follows him in. ‘Mrs Peterson says you weren’t in your Biology lesson before lunch yesterday. You’d been in school though, hadn’t you? You’re marked in on the register.’
Olivia looks down at her hands and says nothing. She hears her stomach rumble; she can’t remember the last time she ate something.
‘You’ve got exams coming up. Don’t let things slip now, not when you’re this close.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
He looks at her expectantly, waiting for more.
‘Where were you then? This isn’t like you, is it.’
It’s said as a statement rather than a question, so Olivia doesn’t respond. There are a lot of things that aren’t like her, but not necessarily through choice. Nobody really expects anything of her, so that’s what she gives them. She wonders how it would feel to do something completely unlike her, something so unexpected that it would make people sit up and take notice of her.
‘I had to go home,’ she says.
Mr Lewis raises an eyebrow, still waiting the rest of the explanation. Olivia looks him in the eye before glancing down. ‘I started…you know…’
When she looks up, Mr Lewis’s face has already started to flush an uncomfortable shade of pink. ‘Right,’ he says uncomfortably. ‘Okay. Next time, uh, try to see one of the female teachers first, okay? Right. Off you get to registration then.’
The Argument (ARC) Page 10