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by Penny Parkes

  Jackie’s visits felt like a trial – like those Anna had seen on the television – as though every word from her mouth would be picked over and judged, used as a reason to take her away from Nitwit, Benji and Jasper. Away from Marjorie and the bedroom she’d come to love, not to mention the wonderful evenings they spent, curled up together on the sofa with a book, transported away to Narnia or Mallory Towers or even Africa. Times when Anna felt her limbs soften and her mind transported, hours flying by without a thought but for the lives on those pages.

  ‘You know,’ Marjorie said one day, as they stood side by side, rubbing butter into flour to make a crumble topping for the gooseberries they’d plucked only that morning, warm and plump, from the bushes in the garden, ‘this summer with you has been one of the happiest times in my life.’ She dropped a kiss on the top of Anna’s hair. ‘We were too busy travelling to have children of our own, Tony and I. It was a choice we made, but I’m not sure it was the right one.’

  She stopped, her fingers coated in flour, the butter already melting in the heat of the day. ‘I missed out on lots of experiences when I was younger, Anna. Sometimes because I was scared and didn’t realise it was okay to ask for help, and sometimes because I just wasn’t brave enough to speak up and say what I really wanted.’

  ‘Like the tea cosy lady?’ Anna replied, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to imagine Marjorie ever being afraid, or shy.

  Marjorie smiled. ‘Like the tea cosy lady.’ The beautifully knitted figure whose skirts wrapped around the earthenware teapot was a source of fascination to Anna, not least because of the tiny banner that read ‘Votes for Women’ in miniature black stitches. Her expression was fierce, yet softly crafted from wool, and the word ‘suffragette’ seemed to carry a deeper meaning that spoke to Anna, beyond the song in Mary Poppins, beyond the stories of bravery that Marjorie recounted.

  Was it okay, Anna wondered late at night, to admit to yourself that you too had been suffering? Not from anything brutal like the stories that filled the history books she now adored, but somehow deeper inside? A pain with such sharp edges that even to think of her life before – before, when she’d known who she was and where she was supposed to be – made her want to curl in on herself and smother it.

  Yet somehow Marjorie knew.

  She knew when the tears began to fall in the middle of the night, or when a memory was so sudden and so strong that it knocked the breath from Anna’s chest. She knew that a story, or a hug, or a walk with the dogs was sometimes better than asking over and over again those questions for which neither of them had an answer.

  Marjorie knew, and turned a blind eye when Nitwit began to sleep on the end of Anna’s bed, creeping up during the night to lie curled in her arms.

  Somehow knowing that other girls, other women – those suffragettes (not the knitted ones!) – had stood up and fought, made Anna determined. Determined to be strong. Determined to find a life that was hers alone, to share only as she chose. ‘You must always, always have a say in your own life,’ Marjorie would tell her, as she poured their morning tea, one hand, as ever, supporting the wobbly head.

  Suffragette. Serviette. Courgette…

  New words Anna habitually tucked away for another day. New words, new tastes. Avocados and plums, cherries and raspberries.

  Anna had made herself sick that first week at Marjorie’s, unable to believe that the bowl of fruit on the kitchen table was hers for the asking. Or that she could ‘help herself’. No sharing, no stiff white cardboard toast to fill her rumbling tummy. Anna had gobbled so many apples and so many tiny black grapes that her stomach had groaned in protest and Marjorie had flushed with embarrassment that she hadn’t thought to ration these sweet, juicy treats.

  ‘Grab me a spoon, Anna. It’s too hot for crumble – look!’ She held up her delicate hands and laughed, the mixture far from crumbly, but bound together into a single smooth, yellow clod. ‘The butter’s too soft; we’ll have to make shortbread.’

  Anna smiled; she liked it when this happened now. Even Marjorie’s frequent comment that ‘all plans were made to be changed’ didn’t carry the swooping wave of fear that it used to. It hadn’t for a while now; a few false starts to be sure, but gradually Anna was beginning to see that not all change was a bad thing. ‘It’ll be fine,’ Marjorie would laugh. And, by and large, it was.

  ‘If we make shortbread, can we dip them in chocolate?’ Anna ventured, jumping on board with this new and unexpected plan.

  ‘We can dip them in chocolate with orange zest,’ Marjorie agreed. ‘And then we can make the gooseberries into a fool.’

  Anna flinched, almost subconsciously, as she still did whenever there was name-calling or swearing. ‘Why?’

  Realising her mistake, Marjorie stopped what she was doing. ‘A fool is a delicious pudding, made from fruit and custard and cream – I think it might become your new favourite.’

  Anna frowned. Words had so many meanings it sometimes made her question her own memories. Perhaps so much of what had happened in her life was because she herself had misunderstood? Had there been a word or a plan that she’d mistaken one day, to cause her whole family to fall apart?

  Marjorie, however, was no fool and immediately saw the wistful expression filling Anna’s eyes, could hazard a guess at the stories she told herself sometimes, when her bottom lip was caught between her teeth, and her whole, tiny body became taut with confusion.

  ‘Taste this, darling,’ she said instead, scooping a little of the shortbread mixture from the bowl, distraction the one tool that rarely failed.

  Anna shook her head. ‘It’s not cooked yet.’

  ‘What can I tell you?’ Marjorie asked, popping a spoonful of the mixture into her mouth with obvious pleasure. ‘Sometimes things are nicer when they’re not the way you expect, or the way you think they’re supposed to be.’

  * * *

  Life in Marjorie’s house was certainly nothing like Anna had supposed it would be, that first day in the dusk; green and squat and ugly. For even amongst the ugliness of life, there was fun and laughter.

  When Jasper sickened and died, Anna had thought her heart would surely break, yet the fragile cherry sapling they planted over his ashes soon grew strong and each tiny pink bud brought with it a memory of the joy they had shared together.

  At least that’s what Marjorie said.

  Anna had simply added his soulful brown eyes to the roll call of loss she carried deep within her.

  Yet, with each passing month, Anna found herself walking a little taller, a little prouder. By the time she sat her grammar school exams, she had already found an affinity for words that brought with it a sense of satisfaction and achievement. Books filled her with joy, but numbers fought back, yet her determination only grew.

  Small, slight, devoid of witty stories and caring not one jot about fashion or boys, Anna’s sole focus was on building her own strength. She ran with the dogs, she watched the news, and increasingly Marjorie would lean across the kitchen table and entrust her with a task: pop to the corner shop for some milk; phone up the cinema for the film times; work out the connecting trains to get to London.

  Each task felt like another step forward, an honour really, to be entrusted with Marjorie’s supple brown purse, or a weighty handful of pound coins.

  And, in turn, Marjorie showed her how to ask for what she wanted. ‘Being bolshy will get you nowhere,’ she would caution, ‘and it’s always better if you understand what you want before the conversation begins.’ Hesitating, then, ‘Some people like to bend your words, Anna, convince you that you want something different – it’s okay to listen, they might even be right – but know your own mind. You’re the only one who has to live with the consequences.’ She spoke those words with such feeling that even Anna, in her short socks and pigtails, knew they must come from painful personal experience.

  Having an opinion, for the first time in Anna’s life, became something to be celebrated. Assuming she could expla
in why.

  ‘But why is an apple better than a banana? There’s no right or wrong answer – just tell me what you think.’

  And as she grew, even if only a little, they would catch the bus into town to buy clothes. New clothes. Never-worn-before clothes, that soon smelled of Fairy washing powder and the garden where they blew on the line in the sunshine.

  Somehow even the smallest task became an adventure: new words gave way to new ideas, new foods to new cities and galleries. Anna felt filled with possibility. She hadn’t even known that painting pictures could be a job. Or writing books. Or even taking photographs.

  ‘Find a job you love and you’ll never work a day in your life,’ Marjorie would laugh, never short of a fortune cookie saying. But she made a point that Anna had never considered before: life didn’t have to be hard and painful. It could also be filled with joy and beauty and, dare she even think it, love.

  Chapter 11

  Redditch, 1999

  Tempting fate. That was what they called it in the movies.

  The letters had arrived together, in a bundle of junk mail about pizzas and making your lawn green and stripy.

  Anna holding her breath as she tore open the envelope, looking up at Marjorie, only to see the same expression of hope and apprehension mirrored on her face.

  She hadn’t been able to read past the word Congratulations before her eyes had blurred.

  One of one hundred and twenty.

  All that hard work and studying had opened up a new world of possibilities, starting with a place at King James Grammar School.

  She’d barely noticed Marjorie slipping her own envelope into her trouser pocket to read later, so caught up was Anna in the unexpected, twirling excitement of her own achievement.

  ‘I am so, so proud of you, my darling, wonderful girl,’ Marjorie had said, eyes swimming with tears. ‘You did this, Anna Wilson. This is your moment. The adventure starts here.’

  Pulled into a tight, almost suffocating hug, Anna had been blown away by Marjorie’s reaction. Such emotion, such pride. It almost felt too much.

  But of course, it was the weight of the other letter, the other words that Marjorie had apparently half anticipated that caused tears of happiness to mingle with the grief she knew was coming.

  There had been a lump.

  Just a tiny bump really.

  Nothing to worry about.

  Or so Marjorie had said.

  Until suddenly, there was something to worry about, and the waft of Shalimar filled the sitting room again as Jackie and her clipboard returned, talking about ‘options’ and ‘best interests’.

  Marjorie and Anna were somehow silenced in the onslaught of nurses, and doctors, and social workers filled with good intentions.

  By then the stories and the fruit from the garden, even Anna’s good news about her grammar school place, were not enough to eclipse the truth.

  ‘A whole new adventure,’ Marjorie said, hands clasped tightly around Anna’s, the dogs perturbed by the comings and goings, whiney and clingy.

  How Anna longed to cling on too. If she never let go, if she never acknowledged the words that now filled their days. Words she had never heard before, which now buzzed around her head even as she slept.

  Chemotherapy. Radiation. Macmillan.

  ‘Don’t forget to gather new words, try new things and be brave, my darling girl,’ Marjorie said, swallowing hard as the tears clouded her words. ‘Life is what you make it and you only get one, so there’s no harm in going somewhere new is there?’ She paused. ‘Even here was somewhere new once.’

  Anna nodded, desperately seeking to reassure with a smile. ‘The bogey house,’ she said, making Marjorie laugh despite herself.

  ‘I’ll refrain from jokes about the rich pickings we’ve had here, then, shall I?’ Marjorie managed, pulling Anna into her arms.

  ‘Please don’t make me go,’ Anna whispered into her shoulder, the scarf covering Marjorie’s head tickling against her cheek, unable to stop the tears from falling, her hands from clasping ever tighter.

  ‘You’ve been the greatest gift in my life,’ Marjorie said. ‘Promise me, Anna darling, promise me you’ll keep looking. Build your life, build your family, find your home.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Anna.

  Chapter 12

  Dittisham, 2019

  It was always a source of wonder to Anna the disproportionate difference that a shower and a clean set of clothes could make.

  A fresh start.

  Literally.

  Indeed, as she drove south towards the coast a few days later, it was Anna’s soul that was rumpled and tattered, not her appearance. Gingerly she touched the swelling around her eyebrow, disguised beneath layers of adeptly applied concealer – as first impressions went, battered and bruised was hardly a look that inspired trust or confidence.

  Sleep, of course, had been elusive and the long nights at the Premier Inn had reminded her all too clearly that a hotel room was a lonely place to be at 3 a.m., with no distraction from her taunting thoughts, or in this case, the intrusive image of Andrew Fraser’s florid, leering face.

  The small hours of the morning often played host to all those old feelings of powerlessness, of impotence, that Anna worked so hard to avoid. The frustration of being dependent upon other people’s choices, not to mention their agendas, had been such a huge part of her childhood that she wondered whether its legacy would ever truly leave her.

  She may not have the stability in her life that people like Kate and Emily enjoyed, but her life and her choices were her own.

  Until this week.

  Until one entitled fool had thrown her best-laid plans into disarray, and with them Anna’s composure and hard-won self-assurance.

  Still, at least she had somewhere to go now and it actually felt really good to know that she was stepping in to help this new client at the eleventh hour. The same client who was inadvertently helping her.

  Saving her, if you felt like being dramatic about it.

  And, as she concentrated on the road, on only a few hours of snatched sleep and with her brow pounding into a tormenting headache, Anna gave herself permission to do just that. Just for a moment. Before she arrived and she needed to be on parade.

  Trustworthy, reliable, confident.

  The perfect house-sitter.

  * * *

  Several hours later, Anna pulled over into a grassy lay-by at the side of the road. Well, technically she supposed it was a road, but there was barely room for her tiny Mini between the steep banks either side. Should she happen upon a car coming the other way, it was surely each man for himself? Sheer anticipation of this eventuality had sweat prickling her chest and her arms taut on the steering wheel.

  She slowly breathed out, pulling on the handbrake, taking a moment to settle herself.

  The map on her phone screen showed the coast only a mile or so ahead, but all Anna could see, down in the trench of this country lane, was mossy rocks, overhanging trees and the rolling pastures beyond. Not quite Hardy country, but a few miles further over and it would hardly take a stretch of the imagination to see Tess herself wending her way through identical fields and valleys.

  The map disappeared, replaced by a photo of Emily, smiling in front of the Home Network logo, and an insistent trilling that was impossible to ignore.

  ‘Are you nearly there yet?’ Emily asked.

  ‘God knows,’ Anna said, only the sound of seagulls through her open window giving her any confidence she was even heading in the right direction.

  ‘Trust the directions,’ Emily replied, as she always did. ‘By all accounts, Dittisham is a glorious place and the weather forecast is amazing for the next week. You can just walk on the beach and put your face in the sun. Catch your breath a bit?’

  ‘Well, that does sound wonderful,’ Anna agreed, smiling despite herself. ‘Although the prospect of boats and birds makes me a little nervous—’

  ‘It’s only one very small bird,’ Emily cut
in. ‘And you’re not living on the boat. There just happens to be a boat there if you’d like to use it.’

  ‘I know, I know. And I’m not being a brat. I’m so grateful to you for sorting this, Em. Truly. Finding these new placements at short notice has got to be a nuisance.’

  ‘Nah – you’re fine. It’s quite nice to have someone available for the people who call up in a last-minute flap.’ She paused. ‘Look, before you keep leapfrogging around the country, I need you to be completely honest with me for a minute – are you okay? I mean, really, truly okay. Not the whole it’ll-be-fine fob-off?’

  Anna hesitated. ‘I am fine, though. Really. I mean, I’m angry. Furious, if we’re being specific. Who wouldn’t be? But once my eyebrow heals over…’

  ‘I just don’t want you to be there all alone, double-checking the doors are locked every five minutes…’ Emily’s enquiry was tentative, knowing all too well that Anna regretted sharing that particular titbit about her past. ‘Although nobody would blame you if you were—’

  ‘I can’t say the thought hadn’t crossed my mind too,’ Anna said reluctantly. ‘But you know, that’s fine, right? I would have thought a house-sitter with a touch of OCD was a boon. So, I check their house is all locked up. And if I check it again then, you know, where’s the harm?’ Anna’s jokiness was no real disguise and they both knew it.

  ‘Okay. Point taken. But you do see, Anna, that anybody – I mean anybody – would have a tricky time adjusting after what happened with that Fraser bloke. Split eyebrow or not, it’s going to take a little time to heal. Maybe moving around so much isn’t a good idea? Come stay with me? Or take an actual holiday?’

  Anna laughed. ‘I thought every day as a house-sitter was a holiday?’

  Emily all but growled. ‘I already apologised for that ad campaign.’

  ‘You did and, honestly, I am grateful, Em. Maybe a little sea air will blow the cobwebs away?’

  For a moment, Anna allowed herself to believe in that possibility. But didn’t there come a point, for every person with an eidetic memory, where they had long since given up on forgetting as even an option? Acceptance was a more realistic alternative.