She remembers thinking Liam’s voice was attractively deep when she and Giles were first getting to know him and Sandra, when Ruth had cooked dinner for them all and the four friends had sat around her dining table, the two women heavily pregnant, the men tucking into a bottle of brandy. The rigidity of Liam’s jaw, clean-shaven and angular like a model’s, had relaxed as he’d turned a glass in his hand, losing his focus to the drink. ‘We moved from Glasgow to this dump when I was about seven,’ he’d said, when the conversation of childhood came up, his smile a resigned crease on one side of his face. ‘It wouldn’t have been so bad if Mum had let me keep in touch with my old man, but she cut us off from everyone. Anyway, he clearly wasn’t in a hurry to stop me from leaving, the useless fucker.’ He took a lug of his drink, wincing at the volume of the single hit, the pain seeming to serve a purpose. ‘I’ve tried over the years to be good to her, but she’s a cold fish. Got to have everything her way. All that mumbo jumbo in her house she think’s gonna heal her. I’d like to sling the whole lot in the bin.’ His knuckles whitened around the glass. ‘San thinks it would do me good to cut Mum out of my life once and for all, but she’s not well, so you know, someone’s got to look out for her.’ Sandra flicked him a look, her thick lashes accentuating the alarm in her eyes, and in an instant Liam shrugged his shoulders and leant back in the chair, crossing his arms and turning his gaze to the ceiling. He’d shared too much, gone too deep, and now he needed to make out he didn’t care. Sandra scowled. ‘Like you said, babe. She hasn’t got your best interests at heart, just like she won’t be good for our son either, if your upbringing’s anything to go by.’ She stroked Liam’s arm. ‘Me and junior are your family now, you don’t need her. Anyway, now we’re married, it’s official.’ She winked at him. ‘You’re all mine.’ Ruth tensed for a possible backlash from Liam, but instead he leant across and kissed Sandra on the mouth. The couple’s lips stayed together a beat too long, and Ruth and Giles had scanned the dirty dishes on the table, their focus ending up on each other in a shared grimace. Even in the awkwardness, Ruth had experienced an inadequacy close to jealousy that she herself was unable to inspire that total and unremitting passion in Giles. Giles loved her in a way that had always felt enough, only now she was faced with this new style of blind dedication, she couldn’t help but compare. ‘Soulmates we are,’ Sandra said as the couple pulled apart, their lips making a wet noise. Her voice was high and wispy, lending it a fragility, and Ruth wondered if she was impelled to tell Liam these things to keep herself in his favour. ‘Liam’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you, babe?’
It was only the third time they’d all got together, and well before the slog of Ruth’s illness. Those occasional socials before the babies were born acted as a form of speed-dating, each of them complicit in the silent understanding that making friends at that stage in life could be hard. That Liam had been open was a compliment and the rapport was infectious. Ruth shared in return, trusting them with parts of her story she wished they now didn’t know, problems that could add ammunition to Liam’s arsenal against her. In her teens she’d struggled with depression, and for a short period was hospitalized. ‘It was just a glitch,’ Ruth added quickly, noticing Liam’s rigid posture. ‘I lost my sister. Well, she died. I mean, we never found her body because she drowned, so it just took me ages to get my head round it. Sort of went to pieces for a bit. Did everything I could to numb the pain.’ If Ruth hadn’t been pregnant, she’d have taken a big swig of the cognac in Giles’s glass. ‘Tam had been such a big character, she was brilliant at everything – star pupil, footballer, loads of friends – she was destined to go really far. And my parents were so proud of her, they never got over losing her. Well, you don’t, do you? I couldn’t even begin to fill the hole she left.’ Ruth was conscious of everyone watching, and she tried to even out her words. ‘I wasn’t jealous, though, I loved her as much as they did, was as distraught as they were. Without Tam around, we all kind of gave up on each other, lost the glue that made us strong.’ Ruth took a gulp of ice-cold water. ‘Mum and Dad all but said outright that they’d never forgive me for Tam going missing.’ She stopped herself there, didn’t want to go any further into the guilt that would always have its teeth in her. Under the table, she gripped Giles’s hand, speaking more to the floor than anyone in the room. ‘Mum died almost a year ago now. It was sad, of course, but then we weren’t that close after everything that had happened. And Dad’s remarried, he lives abroad.’
Giles squeezed her hand back even though she knew she was probably hurting him, and he saved her by jumping in with his own family saga, of being a late surprise for his parents, the willowy mistake at the wrong end of their childbearing years. ‘My brothers used to tease me,’ he said. ‘Called me arty-farty. Never let me hang out with them, said they didn’t want the responsibility.’ He scraped a knife across his dirty plate. ‘After they left home it was like Mum and Dad were going through the motions. I guess you would be exhausted after four boys, wouldn’t you!’ He laughed. ‘No one was cruel or anything, but looking back, my childhood was kind of joyless. I couldn’t wait to leave.’ There was a crack in his voice, perceptible probably only to Ruth, and Giles covered it up by clearing his throat. ‘Mum and Dad are about a four-hour drive away and, well, you know, everyone seems happy enough with the card I send them at Christmas.’ He turned to Ruth, eyes glinting as if he’d refreshed them with sea water. ‘A couple of grown-up orphans, aren’t we?’ Sandra had leant into the table. ‘Seems like we’ve all got a lot in common then.’
Ruth works on in the garden for a few minutes, eying the doorstep stand-off between Liam and his mum, attempting to interpret their body language. It’s hard to imagine that same man all those months ago confiding some of his deepest feelings at her dining table. Thinking about it now, Ruth realizes it was only Sandra who kept her secrets under wraps that day. Most likely, and very sensibly, Sandra intuited it wasn’t the right environment to open up. Ruth already knew most of Sandra’s secrets anyway, from their first couple of weeks of meeting, when it felt like Sandra was at a confessional, getting all her old shit out in the open in case Ruth had any doubts, and Ruth had felt instantly attached to this woman who, under her pristine surface, seemed vulnerable and in need of support – the irony being that it’s Ruth who’s ended up leaning heavily on Sandra. Once during that early time, Sandra had teared up recounting how her dad had passed away while serving a sentence. ‘He used to call me his little princess, always looked out for me, especially when things got crazy with Mum at home.’ This was the only time Ruth had ever seen Sandra’s make-up smudge. ‘Whatever bastard up above dishes out heart attacks, took the wrong parent if you ask me.’ At the dining table in Ruth’s house, however, Sandra had swapped-out sharing her own secrets for generosity, artfully pulling out the stories of her friends with sympathetic nods and gasps at the right moments of revelation, and Ruth had felt held. She wishes she could be more like Sandra, more like her old self: assured, less transparent.
Liam throws up his arms and again tries to pass into his mum’s house. This time he’s shouting and Ruth has no trouble hearing. ‘Why can’t I come in? You’ve never been like this before.’ Miss Cailleach turns from him and goes inside, closing the door behind her. Liam stays put, staring at the shut door as if he could burn a hole in it with his eyes, hands on hips, widening his toned torso, the barrier a challenge rather than a denial. Then the door reopens and his mum steps into the yard with a couple of brown padded envelopes and a box or two – the computer parts he gets sent to hers as he’s out most of the time fixing tech at his clients’ houses. She hands them to him and strokes his arm before moving to hug him, stumbling a little as he brushes her off. Ruth witnesses less of the obstructive matriarch she’s been led to believe and more of a lonely old woman who’s spent years getting it wrong by her boy.
Wind sweeps through Ruth’s hair. Without realizing, her hands have grown numb. Nails blue, skin puckered white and bloodless, feet like rocks
in her boots. She packs up her tools as best as she can with her useless fingers as the baby monitor on her belt bleeps – time’s up. Ruth retreats to the front door as Liam stomps from his mum’s garden. No eye contact with Ruth this time.
Upstairs, Ruth lifts Bess from her cot. The baby’s cheek has been tram-lined by the sheets and Ruth holds her daughter close, breathing her in as she takes her through to the front bedroom. Once, Liam’s mum would have cared for her own son in this way, never imagining that one day he’d hold her in such contempt. Outside, Miss Cailleach is at her gate watching Liam walk away, clumps of hair coming loose from her bun, as if the style was put up in a hurry.
Giles is trying another weaning technique, letting Bess feed herself, and she’s mashing batons of finger food into the tray of her high chair. The little girl’s food interests are narrow – bland beige carbs: bread, pasta and potatoes – and the family tailor their appetite to its newest member, meaning lunch is drab and stodgy. Ruth will pile on the pounds this way, but as Giles is in charge, cooking another meal for herself is a hassle. Plus the extra medication seems to be making her care less. Their little girl takes ant-sized bites of food and spreads the rest over her face, throwing any stragglers on the floor. Giles sits with them to eat, forking in his food in silence, his mind located in work, breaking off occasionally to do aeroplanes with Bess’s food to encourage her to eat anything at all. Her little mouth opens in obedience, as it rarely does with Ruth. As soon as Giles has finished, he takes his computer upstairs to the airlock of their bedroom, on hand if Ruth needs him and present to administer her medication.
A knock on the door, a courier with a package.
‘Would you be able to take this in for your neighbour?’ the man says. ‘She’s not at home.’
Ruth checks the address on the packet. It’s for Miss Cailleach for once, not Mr Smith. Such a strange name, impossible not to take notice of, but Ruth wants as little to do with Liam’s tricky mum as possible. She checks behind the delivery man to see if anyone’s walking past. No one’s around. ‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘but I’m not really in touch with her. Is there another neighbour you can leave it with?’
The man tips his head back with a frown. He sighs. ‘Right.’
‘Who’s at the door?’ Giles calls down.
‘No one,’ Ruth’s replies. The courier’s eyes flash with something hard. ‘I . . . I mean, it’s only a delivery.’ She can’t look at his face. ‘No one we know, is what I meant, sorry.’
He begins to put the package in his satchel, but Ruth reaches to grab it from him. ‘It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll take it. I’m sorry.’ He checks her with narrowed eyes as she stumbles on. ‘I just thought I wouldn’t have time. I’ve got a baby, you see, and I’ve not been well.’ Too much information, she tells herself, and stop apologizing to strangers.
The courier hands her the package. Ruth backs into the house, squeezing the parcel between her fingers. It’s an A5 padded envelope, lightweight and squidgy with intrigue. She puts it on her kitchen counter for Giles to take over later.
Ruth lays Bess on her play mat. The little girl’s cheeks are rosy and shiny as she looks up at her mum. It’s only been a couple of days but she seems to be filling out having Giles around to feed her. Ruth takes a few photos of Bess on her phone, planning to load them onto her laptop later and add to the folder marked ‘Bessie’, proof that mum and baby exist, confirmation too that’s Ruth’s progressing and will one day be fixed. She smiles hard at her bonny little baby, hoping to present a different mirror to the usual frowns and tears. The little girl returns a quizzical look, as if Ruth’s expression is one she’s never seen before.
‘I’m so sorry, sweetie,’ Ruth says, her heart aching with love, and she kisses her baby’s soft face. ‘You deserve so much better.’
What damage will an adult Bess display? Perhaps she’ll find it hard to make friends or connect to joy. Ruth’s baseline fear has always been that her poor parenting would result in having Bess taken away, but perhaps Bess and Giles actually would be better off without her, if she simply walked out of the door, caught a train to the end of the line, and from there made her way to the sea, pushing forward from the shore until the water was over her head, deeper and deeper until there was nothing but a big black ocean of beautiful silence. What’s stopping her?
At the end of the winter day, when there’s only an hour of light left in the sky, Ruth wraps up Bess ready to sit with her in the front garden while she continues to prune and weed their raised beds. Bess doesn’t resist or cry, and Ruth’s pleasure in these easy minutes is golden. She tips the wheels of the buggy over the threshold as Miss Cailleach passes on the pavement with her trolley. Ruth ducks back inside her house. In her rush to hide, she bumps the kitchen counter behind her, sending a dirty pan clattering to the ground.
Giles calls out from upstairs, ‘Everything OK, Ruth?’
She attempts to shut the door in front of the pushchair, but the space is small and the door remains wide. Giles’s feet clomp down the stairs.
‘Ruth?’
The neighbour passes into her own front garden and stares at Ruth struggling in the kitchen.
‘I’m fine, I just knocked over a pan, that’s all.’ She pivots the buggy inside and pushes the door shut.
‘Where are you going?’ Giles asks. ‘Do you need something from the shops? I’m just finishing up some calls. If you wait a bit, I’ll come with you.’
‘I was just . . .’ Ruth stares at the cold, parched yard, her plan to clear their tiny patch pointless in this weather. With a baby, so many choices have been taken away, but in addition to her glacial days, she’s under this house arrest. Everyone, including herself, is pussyfooting around her ability to be even remotely independent. All she needs is an excuse to feel the wind on her face. ‘I’ve got a package.’ She holds up the parcel the courier left, like she’s won a prize. ‘For the neighbour. I was going to take it round.’
Giles glances across the alley with a half-smile. Miss Cailleach has already gone inside. ‘Who, Liam’s mum?’
‘I won’t be long.’
‘Okay.’ Giles draws out the syllable with concern. Behind his eyes, invisible calculations whirr. ‘Shall I come with you?’
‘Giles! It’s only next door.’
‘But she’s not really a safe contact for you. I mean, didn’t she say stuff about the petrol station?’
Ruth lowers the package, her shoulder joint still a little painful from where the man yanked her arm two days ago. She mumbles to the floor. ‘I misheard her, that’s all, remember? The chainsaw was really loud.’ Even the act of repeating this helps convince Ruth it’s the truth.
‘Really?’ Ruth can see in the way he’s leaning forward, almost rupturing with concern, that he wants to say no. ‘Well . . . I’m not sure.’ But he’s trying to be fair, she knows he is. Her going out on her own will be breaking the rules. ‘She’s obviously a bit tricky. Remember what Liam’s told us about her?’
Ruth exhales and shoves the package on the worktop. Her shoulders droop, head bowed.
A grumble deep in Giles’s throat – ‘Umm’ – his vocal cords charging up. ‘All right then. But don’t get caught up in any nonsense. Perhaps leave Bess here? And come straight home?’
‘Yes,’ she replies, brighter than she intended. ‘I will.’
Ruth grabs the parcel and bundles past her husband as he begins to unstrap Bess. She walks from her gate into the neighbour’s garden with the small thrill of being out further than her gatepost, alone. Next door’s yard is the mirror of her own, only with a different layout and plants, as if she’s stepped through the looking glass. She marches to the neighbour’s door, the top third of which is a glass panel like her own, only here it’s screened by a heavy curtain made from the same fabric that’s at the front window, still pooling on the damp sill.
Ruth knocks. On the other side of the door the neighbour pulls aside the drape and eyes Ruth, face lined with suspicion. The curtain drops
, the door remains shut. Not sure whether to knock again or return home, Ruth shuffles against the embarrassment of being an unwanted caller. She holds her knuckles up to the glass one more time as a chain rattles and the door opens. The neighbour’s hair is down from its bun. Silver and white strands fall across her shoulders.
A smile breaks on Miss Cailleach’s face. ‘Welcome.’
Ruth holds the package in her sightline to hide her sudden shyness. ‘This came for you when you were out.’
The neighbour stands to one side. ‘Thank you. Please, come in.’
‘No, it’s fine really, I’ll just leave it with you.’ She holds the parcel out at arm’s’ length.
Miss Cailleach takes the envelope and quickly inspects it. ‘Aye, yes, this one’s for me. Makes a change, eh?’ She smiles and places it on the kitchen worktop next to her camera. Up close, the camera body is boxy and battered, and the long lens has a few dings too, like a reporter’s souvenir from the frontline. Ruth inwardly scoffs at the archaic contraption; it would be so much easier to use a phone, but she imagines that kind of technology is beyond her neighbour’s grasp. The woman’s still smiling. ‘Well, come on then,’ she says with that creamy lilt of Scottish dialect, already at the sink filling the kettle, the door wide, heat pouring out. ‘Born in a barn, were you?’
Ruth steps inside as her neighbour pushes the door closed behind her. Open shelves in the little galley kitchen are stacked with mismatched crockery, plus jars of pulses and spices. Well-thumbed cookery books take up most of the space on the worktop, and bunches of dried herbs tied with twine hang from the ceiling. The room reeks of vinegar, as if a bottle’s been spilt. Without her baby, Ruth’s hands feel twitchy at her sides.
‘Can I get you a cuppa?’ the woman asks.
‘Oh, um, yes. Just ordinary builder’s, please.’
‘Make yourself comfy.’ Miss Cailleach gestures towards the lounge. ‘The brew won’t take long.’
The Hidden Girls Page 13