The Switch

by Beth O'Leary

  “It might have worked,” I say, pressing my hands against my face. “It might.”

  “And what kind of life would Carla have had? It was her choice, Leena.”

  “Yeah? Well, she was wrong too!” I yell, dropping my hands to my sides, clenching my fists. “I hate that she stopped fighting. I hate that you stopped fighting for her. And who are you to say I left you anyway? Who are you to say I cut myself off?” The emotions are boiling hot and rageful in my belly, and this time I don’t push them down. “You fucking disintegrated. I was the one who held it together, I was the one who sorted the funeral and dealt with the paperwork and you fell apart. So don’t talk about me leaving you. Where the fuck were you when I lost my sister? Where the fuck were you?”

  Mum backs up slightly. I’m really yelling. I’ve never shouted at anybody like this in my life.

  “Leena…”

  “No,” I say, swiping at my face with my sleeve and wrenching the driver’s door open. “No. I’m done.”

  “You,” Nicola says, “are in no fit state to drive.”

  Fingers trembling, I turn the key in the ignition. The van splutters and revs, coming to life. I sit there, staring at the road ahead, feeling completely and utterly out of control.

  Nicola opens her door.

  I look at her. “What are you doing?” I say, my voice thick with tears.

  “I’m not bloody well letting you drive me anywhere,” she says.

  I open my door too, then, because Nicola can’t climb out of the van without help. My mum is still standing where I left her, her arms folded against herself, fingers wrapped around her ribs. For a moment I want to run to her and let her stroke my hair the way I would when I was a child.

  Instead I turn away and help Nicola climb down from the passenger seat. I feel bodily exhausted, as if I’ve spent hours at the gym. The three of us stand there, Mum and me looking this way and that, anywhere but at each other. The wind whistles around us.

  “Righto,” says Nicola. “So.”

  More silence.

  “No?” Nicola says. “Nobody’s going to say anything?”

  The idea of saying anything seems entirely beyond me. I stare at the tarmac, my hair drawing wet trails on my cheeks.

  “I don’t know anything about your family,” Nicola says, “but what I do know is that it’s about to start chucking it down and we’re going to be stood here like lemons in the middle of the road until Leena’s calm enough to drive, so the sooner we can sort all this out the better.”

  “I’m calm,” I say. “I’m calm.”

  Nicola gives me a skeptical look. “You’re shaking like a leaf and there’s mascara on your chin,” she says.

  Mum moves then, holding one hand out. “Give me the keys, I’ll drive.”

  “You’re not insured.” I hate how my voice sounds, all wobbly and weak.

  Mum steps toward us as a bus turns the bend and heads our way.

  “Well, I’ll call the insurance people then,” she says.

  “I’m not sure I fancy you driving any better than her,” Nicola says, looking my mother up and down.

  “Bus,” I say.

  “Hmm?” says Nicola.

  I point, then wave an arm, then wave both arms. The bus comes to a stop.

  “Flipping heck,” says the driver as she pulls up alongside us. “What happened here? Are you all all right? Has there been a crash?”

  “Only in a symbolic sense, dear,” Nicola says, already getting on. “You’re stable, then, are you? Not about to start blubbering?”

  “Umm, I’m all right, ta?” says the driver.

  “Good, good. In you get then, ladies. Off we go.”

  * * *

  Mum and I end up sitting across the aisle from one another, each looking straight ahead. I settle slowly in the bus seat, tears easing. Blowing my nose seems to make me feel a lot better, like it’s a formal end to all the crying, and as we wind our way toward Hamleigh, that terrifying sense of being out of my own control eases away, loosening the tightness in my ribs and the pounding in my throat.

  I’m not entirely sure what just happened, really, but there’s not a lot of time to dwell on it now—the bus driver is kindly taking a detour from her usual route to drop us in the village, but even so, we’re late.

  The bingo regulars are gathered at the corner of Peewit Street and Middling Lane, in front of the village shop; the rain started coming down a few minutes ago and most of the gang are only half visible inside enormous mackintoshes and rainproof ponchos.

  “What are we going to do?” Nicola asks from beside me, as we approach the gaggle of bingo-goers. “We’ve not got a van to take them to the bingo hall. Shall I tell them it’s off?”

  “Excuse me?” I say, wiping my face. “It is not off. All that’s required here is a bit of innovative thinking.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to…” Mum trails off on seeing my expression. “Right,” she says. “What do you need?”

  “Felt tips,” I say. “Chairs. And a face wipe, for the chin mascara.”

  * * *

  “Twenty-seven! Two and seven! Thirty-one! Three and one, that’s thirty-one!”

  My voice is hoarse from shouting after all that crying. Thank God for Grandma’s printer—it may have taken half an hour of slow, painful chugging, but it eventually produced fifteen bingo sheets. Sometime during that time my mother disappeared (probably for the best), but the rest of the Hamleigh bingo fans are sitting in every chair that exists in my grandmother’s house, plus three from Arnold’s. After some initial grumbling, the bingo players looked grudgingly impressed with the setup, and when I cooked up a few party platters Grandma had stored in the freezer and handed out some ciders, the mood of the room improved considerably.

  We’ve rearranged the living room so I can stand at the front, where the telly is, and the bingo gang can all see me. And, in theory, hear me, but that’s not going so well.

  “Eh?” yells Roland. “Was that forty-nine?”

  “Thirty-one!” Penelope yells back.

  “Twenty-one?”

  “Thirty-one!” she calls.

  “Perhaps Penelope should sit next to Roland?” I suggest. “So she can tell him what I’ve said?”

  “We wouldn’t be having this problem in the bingo hall,” Betsy points out primly.

  “Cider isn’t this good at the bingo hall,” Roland says, happily swigging from the bottle.

  “And those mini spring rolls are delightful,” says Penelope.

  I suppress a smile and return my gaze to the random number generator on Kathleen’s phone. My phone—previously known as Grandma’s phone—is too rudimentary to have such features, but Kathleen came to my rescue and lent me her smartphone. “Forty-nine!” I yell. “That’s four and nine!”

  “I thought you already said forty-nine!” calls Roland. “Didn’t she already say forty-nine?”

  “She said thirty-one!” Penelope shouts back to him.

  “Thirty-seven?”

  “Thirty-three,” calls another voice. It’s Nicola. She’s behind Roland, and I catch her wicked look and roll my eyes.

  Not helping, I mouth at her, and she shrugs, totally unapologetic.

  “Did someone say thirty-three?” asks Roland.

  “Thirty-one!” Penelope yells cheerily.

  “Forty—”

  “Oh, bloody hellfire, Roland, turn your fucking hearing aid up!” Basil roars.

  There is a short, horrified silence, and then a cacophony of outraged noise from the group. I rub my eyes; they’re sore from crying. The doorbell rings and I wince. I know who that’s going to be.

  I didn’t feel I could tell Jackson over the phone that the school van he kindly lent me had a dented bonnet and was currently abandoned just outside Tauntingham. It felt like an in-person sort of discussion.

  I hurry to the door, which is not an easy task when there’s an obstacle course of chairs and walking sticks to get through.

  Jackson’s got a slo
ppy gray beanie hat on, half-covering his left ear, and the shirt he’s wearing under his jacket is so crumpled it looks like he’s actively ironed the creases in. He gives me a smile as I open the door.

  “You all right?” he says.

  “Umm,” I say. “Won’t you come in?”

  He steps obediently into the hall, then cocks his head, listening to the commotion from the living room. He shoots me a curious look.

  “Bingo plan change,” I say. I squirm. “That’s … sort of what I need to talk to you about. There was a bit of an accident. With the van. That you let me borrow.”

  Jackson absorbs this. “How bad?” he says.

  “I’ll pay for it all, obviously, if it’s not covered on insurance. And I’ll walk up to where it’s parked and drive it back to you or straight to the garage or whichever is best for you as soon as this lot have left. And I know I’m already coming to help paint your classroom this weekend, but if there’s anything else I can do to make up for—for seemingly causing havoc in your life wherever I am able then…”

  I trail off. He’s looking amused.

  “S’all right.”

  “Really?”

  He pulls off his hat and scrubs at his hair. “Well, not really all right, exactly, but you’re harder on yourself than I could ever be, and it sort of takes any pleasure out of having a go at you.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I begin, then laugh. “No, not sorry. But thanks. For not being rightfully furious. It’s been a crappy day.”

  “And now you have bingo players in your living room.”

  “Yes. A crappy day that has taken a very odd turn. Do you want to come and join in?” I say. “There’s cider. And miniature foods wrapped in cardboard-like pastry.”

  “Cider,” Jackson says. “Not mead?”

  “Hmm?”

  A dimple appears in one cheek. “Well, I just wouldn’t put it past you to make use of this opportunity to showcase the joys of a medieval-themed evening, that’s all.”

  “I would not stoop to such levels!” I exclaim.

  “Then what’s that?” he says, pointing at the pile of swatches on the side table.

  Feck. “Err…”

  He holds up a couple of the little fabric squares. I’d been showing them to Penelope while the spring rolls cooked. They’re gorgeous—they look like they’ve come straight from Winterfell. The one currently in Jackson’s hand is a lovely gold color with a repeat pattern of a dragon on a coat of arms.

  “I’m thinking of … redecorating,” I say, ushering him toward the living room.

  “Redecorating your grandmother’s house? With dragons?”

  “You know Grandma!” I say. “Loves her mythology!”

  He looks amused, but hands the swatch back to me. We walk side by side to the living room; he stops in the doorway and surveys the chaos, his face unreadable.

  “Do you think Grandma would have a fit if she knew I’d messed up the living room like this?” I ask. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “Actually,” he says, smiling a little, “I was thinking what a very Eileen Cotton thing this is.”

  * * *

  It feels like I’ve only just turfed the Neighborhood Watch out of Grandma’s cottage when I’m seeing them again the next day at the village hall. It’s our second May Day Committee meeting. This is an important meet-up.

  I’ve prepared handouts. I’ve brought samples of honey-roasted nuts and sugared fruits and roasted meats. I’ve mapped out our key demographic for the May Day festival and detailed how perfect the medieval theme is for those fair-goers.

  “All those in favor of Leena’s idea?” says Betsy.

  No hands.

  “Sorry, dear,” says Penelope. “But Jackson knows best.”

  Jackson has the decency to look slightly abashed. He didn’t bring handouts. He didn’t even bring food samples. He just stood up, looked all shabbily sexily charming, and said some stuff about coconut shies and sunhats and throw-the-ring-over-the-pineapple. And then, his pièce de résistance: Samantha’s really set her heart on coming dressed as a satsuma.

  Oh, hold on …

  There’s one hand up! One hand!

  Arnold is standing in the doorway with his arm in the air.

  “I vote for Leena’s idea,” he says. “Sorry, son, but hers has falcons.”

  I beam at him. Jackson, as is his wont, just looks amused by everything. What does it take to rile that man?

  “I wasn’t aware you were part of the May Day Committee, Arnold,” Betsy says.

  “Am now,” he says comfortably, loping in and pulling up a chair.

  “Well, it’s still a strong majority in favor of Jackson’s theme, as I’m sure you’re aware, Leena.”

  “All right,” I say, as graciously as I can manage. “That’s fine. Tropical it is.”

  I’m smarting, obviously. I wanted to win. But pulling all that information together was the most fun I’ve had in ages, and at least I got Arnold on my team—and turning up to a village committee too. Wait until Grandma hears that Arnold the village hermit has been chipping in for the greater good.

  I mouth thanks at Arnold as the meeting moves on, and he shoots me a quick grin. Once Basil’s started droning on about squirrels again, I switch chairs to sit next to Arnold, ignoring Roland’s visible dismay at my change to the seating plan.

  “What possessed you to come along?” I ask him quietly.

  Arnold shrugs. “Felt like trying something new,” he says.

  “You’re turning over a new leaf!” I whisper. “You are, aren’t you?”

  He reaches into his pocket to pull out a small paperback: Murder on the Orient Express. Betsy looks on in horror as he sits back and opens it up to his page, despite the fact that Basil is mid flow.

  “Don’t get carried away, now,” Arnold tells me, oblivious to the stares from the rest of the committee. “I mainly came for the biscuits.”

  Whatever. Arnold is basically Shrek: a grumpy green ogre who’s forgotten how to be nice to people. And I plan on being his Donkey. I’ve already invited him around for dinner again this week, and he’s actually said he’ll come, so we’re definitely making progress.

  If Grumpy Arnold can come to a village committee meeting, anything’s possible. As the meeting comes to a close, I watch Betsy make her way slowly to the coat stand, smoothing her silk scarf against her throat. So we got off on the wrong foot. So what? It’s never too late to change things, that’s what I told Arnold.

  I stride over, chin lifted, and join her as she leaves the hall.

  “How are you, Betsy?” I ask her. “You must pop around for tea sometime. You and your husband. I’d love to meet him.”

  She looks at me warily. “Cliff doesn’t like to go out,” she says, pulling on her jacket.

  “Oh, I’m sorry—is he unwell?”

  “No,” she says, turning away.

  I walk beside her. “I know you must be missing having Grandma here to talk to. I hope that if you—if you ever needed help, or someone to speak to, you could come to me.”

  She looks at me incredulously. “You’re offering to help me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what would you be able to do?” she asks, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s mimicking what I said to her that first time she came around.

  “I’m sorry,” I say frankly. “That was rude of me, when I said that. I’m just not used to people offering help and meaning it, not when it comes to Carla’s death. People usually don’t like to talk about her so directly. I was taken aback.”

  Betsy doesn’t speak for a while. We walk silently down Lower Lane.

  “I know it was you who got the council to fill in these potholes,” she says eventually, nodding to the pavement ahead.

  “Oh, yeah, it was no big deal. They should have done it ages ago. I just made a few calls.”

  “It hasn’t gone unnoticed,” she says stiffly, as we part ways.

  18

  Eileen

&nb
sp; It takes me five attempts to pin down the uncharitable woman who lives in Flat 6. She’s so rarely in, goodness knows why she gets uppity about what people do in the building.

  The advantage to the lengthy delay before meeting her is that, by the time we are face to face, my irritation has cooled, and it’s not nearly as much effort to pretend to be polite.

  “Hello,” I say, when she answers the door. “You must be Sally.”

  “Yes?” Sally says, in an aggrieved sort of way. She’s dressed in a suit and not wearing any makeup; her black hair is pulled back in a lopsided ponytail. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Eileen Cotton. I’m living with Fitz and Martha, over in Flat 3.”

  Sally does a double take. “Are you?” she says, and I get the strong impression that she thinks I shouldn’t be.

  “I’m here because I hear you objected to our idea of running a small social club in the unused downstairs area of the building. May I come in so we can have a chat about it?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’m very busy,” she says, already moving to close the door.

  “Excuse me,” I say sharply. “Are you really going to shut the door in my face?”

  She hesitates, looking a little surprised. As she stands there, with her door half open, I notice there are not one but three locks on its side.

  I soften. “I understand your concerns about letting strangers into the building. I know it can be frightening living in this city. But our lunch clubs will be for very respectable old ladies and gentlemen, and we will still keep the front door shut when the club is going on, so any Tom, Dick, or Harry won’t be able to walk into the building. Only elderly people.”

  Sally swallows. I think she may be younger than I’d assumed—I find it tricky to tell people’s ages these days, and the sternness and the suit have thrown me off.

  “Look,” she says, in a brisk, no-nonsense tone, “it’s not that I don’t like the idea. But just because a person’s elderly doesn’t mean they can’t be dangerous. What if someone comes in, and doesn’t leave when everyone goes, and then they’re just lurking in the building?”