‘Can I see him?’
I didn’t bother getting changed but jumped in the car and got to the vet’s just before five. That gave me an hour. The nurse brought Taz into the treatment room in a cage. He said it was up to me whether I opened it and gave me a towel in case the kitten ended up on my lap. When we were left alone I looked into Taz’s eyes. They’d cleared a bit to reveal a bright sea blue. But you’ve hardly lived yet, have you? I said to him, in my head. Taz gave a small meow as if he’d heard. I opened the cage door. What should I do? Would he like me to stroke his back? I directed my hand towards him and feebly the kitten swiped. His ears went flat.
His head rested on tiny paws. Out of curiosity I persisted and eventually he let my fingers tickle behind his tiny ears. I looked at the towel on my lap. If anyone could bear a few scratches it was someone who’d had several tattoos. As I scooped my hand under his stomach, his head turned and he nipped the side of my hand.
‘Bite all you like, Mister, whether you like it or not I’m lifting you out.’
Despite the protests I placed him on the towel. He was still too weak to stand up – and to stand up for himself. I scratched around his cheeks and the soft sensation of fur felt oddly addictive. Gradually the eyes turned to slits.
It was a physical closeness and companionship I’d missed in recent months. Until this moment I didn’t realise just how much and it sounded odd but I’d sensed that the cottage felt the same.
My hand moved away and down his back and the scrap of fur relaxed. Instead of using fingertips, I changed to my palm, going near the underbelly and even though his eyes were closed a paw swiped my way. I couldn’t help smiling and relaxed into the chair. The nurse glanced through the door’s window. Taz and I must have sat like that for half-an-hour. My phone rang but I didn’t bother answering it. Every now and again he emitted a faint noise, a kind of vibration and for some reason his purr gave me a sense of achievement.
Matt looked in. ‘Just five more minutes, Lizzie. We need to get him settled for the night.’ He closed the door. Taz lifted his head.
‘Don’t look at me like that, I can’t take you home, I’m not staying around.’
Taz gave a meow.
Oh crap.
Where could I hygienically keep the litter tray and what if he still had fleas? Now and again I slipped into the old groove of thinking like my parents.
‘Right, look… it’s just a temporary measure until the vet sorts out something more permanent. Is that absolutely clear?’
A roller purr.
What was I thinking?
I felt another vibration as Matt came back in and saw George Dolan’s name flash on my phone. Mum and Dad’s solicitor? What could he want?
‘I’ll pick him up Saturday, Matt, he can stay with me for a few days.’
Matt didn’t say anything as he gently returned Taz to his cage.
‘You win,’ I said.
‘It’s not me who’s the winner,’ he said and gave me a knowing look.
7
Five years ago
A tattoo needle penetrates the skin up to 3000 times a minute
I looked at the clock. Half past six. Ash would be here any minute. He’d gone to visit his eldest brother straight after lectures – or, more pertinently, his niece who’d started primary school last week.
I set up a bowl of crisps, on the low coffee table, along with olives and a bottle of champagne. It wasn’t the proper stuff – what my parents used to call cheap fizzy plonk would be a better description. I helped in the tattoo parlour as much as I could, increasingly shadowing Katya. I was time-restricted due to working in a clothes’ shop to pay bills. Kismet Tattoos didn’t pay me – but then didn’t charge for teaching me a craft either. I made the coffees and cleaned up, answered the phone and took appointments. My income was small but I managed.
I sat on the sofa impatient to share my news, yet Ash’s key didn’t turn in the lock until almost half past seven.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said and threw his light jacket across the sofa’s arm. It was designer; he’d been thrilled to be able to afford it in a sale. His presence took my breath away, the physical attraction still felt so strong. I ignored a tiny niggly voice that bobbed up into my mind and questioned how compatible we were long-term, with his yearning for the high life – compared to my jaded view having grown up with the big expectations attached to that lifestyle. He gazed at the wine glasses and half-empty crisp bowl. ‘Are we celebrating? You’re not pregnant, are you? I don’t think I could cope with kids after visiting my niece.’
I held out my hand and pulled him down for a kiss. I breathed in the last traces of his citrus aftershave. He applied it religiously every morning. It was expensive and a present from his brother. Whereas I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bought perfume. Perhaps it was the wine but momentarily tears threatened. My parents’ silence had lasted eleven months now. Mum had taken me shopping for my first ever scent – we’d visited a fancy department store. It was my sixteenth birthday and we went for afternoon tea afterwards. I’d felt so grown-up even though I was only allowed to wear it on special occasions unlike friends who sprayed theirs on for school. So much had changed in the last year but I bet she still wore her favourite in the black and gold striped bottle.
He collapsed onto the sofa and intertwined his long fingers with mine. My parents had always implied abstinence was the best contraception. However, at university I’d learned to trust my female flatmates’ reassurance that the pill and condoms were just as effective.
‘Everything okay?’ I asked.
‘Sure. Now, what’s all this about?’
I squeezed his hand. ‘Why has the visit to Ismail upset you? Is little Alena okay?’
‘Oh nothing. I’ll tell you later.’
‘Ash?’
He pulled away his fingers and his hands interlocked. ‘Ismail and Leah are worried. Alena’s been at school a week now and has hardly spoken about how it’s going. I like to think I’m her favourite uncle…’ He managed a smile. ‘So I tried to get her to talk but any question about school was simply answered with a yes or no.’
‘Maybe she’s finding it hard to make friends.’
‘It’s worse than that. I got her to do a drawing – with crayons. Well two. We both did them. I said it was a game. First of all we had to each draw a picture of the best thing that had happened since we last saw each other a few weeks ago – hers was a zoo visit, ours was the tour of that new art gallery. Then we did the worst. I drew me talking to my lecturer when he challenged me for handing my essay in late. He looked cross and was shaking a finger. I thought it might prompt something from Alena if she wasn’t getting on with her teacher.’
‘And did it?’
Ash leant back. ‘She drew herself and three other girls. They were bigger and had their hands curled into fists. She’d drawn big tears running down her cheeks. It looks as if she’s being bullied. From what I could gather they were jealous of her new trainers that lit up at the heels and it started with that.’
‘Oh Ash… at least you got to the bottom of what was the matter. Well done.’
He straightened up. ‘It’s helped me decide something I’ve been thinking about for a while. After finishing next year, I want to do a postgraduate course in art therapy. Working with people who are traumatised or ill – helping them deal with their problems through drawing or the use of other textiles.’ His eyes lit up as he described the courses he’d researched and the modules on using imagery as a form of psychological expression – and the excitement he felt at helping people use images to gain insight, where words failed. How eventually he dreamed of setting up his own practice, helping people and making good money, the perfect combination for him.
‘That’s just brilliant. You’ll be brilliant. It’s perfect.’
Gently he pushed me. ‘A lot of it’s because of you. Watching you blossom into your real self… it’s shown me what a boost of confidence can do; how people can chan
ge and become the people they were always meant to be. How they can overcome their past – you are so inspiring.’
I poured wine for him and we clinked our glasses together. ‘And today I’m celebrating because of what you’ve already helped me accomplish. I did my first proper tattoo.’ It still didn’t seem real. I’d finally inked on skin that didn’t belong to me or fruit. I’d always remember this day in September. It was one of those firsts, like the first time Mum took me to an art gallery. Little did she know it would contribute towards me longing for the career I followed now.
I’d had no one else close to tell about those firsts, not even siblings. It didn’t matter, said a voice in my head, you aren’t doing this for validation. Instead you are fulfilling your destiny. But I’d so wanted a sister or brother, especially as a young child and I remember often playing with my reflection. I’d stand in front of a mirror and pull funny faces and pretend the funny face looking back was another girl.
Ash stopped drinking. ‘Wow. On a client?’
‘No – I’ve got a long way before that – but Katya let me do a letter on her sleeve of artwork, there was a small gap. That’s how she lets all her apprentices start. I had to do L for Lizzie.’
The dark eyes I loved so much shone. ‘Were you scared?’
Yes. I’d been putting it off. A while back Katya said my practise lines, shapes and writing were getting really good and it was time to proceed to the next level, but my parents’ voices, in my head, hadn’t just disappeared because we’d broken contact. Week by week I’d had to readjust to life without them, after twenty years or so of hearing their advice and talking through the smallest thing. They’d always been there to edit my ideas and point out the risks. Me putting a needle to someone’s skin went against everything they taught me in terms of career aspirations, health and safety, in terms of risking being sued and going to court or possibly prison. In terms of being seen as respectable and fitting in.
Although one month ago I had done an outline of a small rose on the inside of my leg, but that didn’t feel so risky as drawing something on another person. I loved roses, always had and as a little girl that particular flower covered notebooks and duvet sets and as I got older featured on t-shirts and pendants. I’d always make Mum a handmade card every year for Mother’s Day, bearing a big rose on the front.
‘Yes, my stomach was in knots, but you know what finally made me do it? You. All this time you’ve just listened without telling me what to do and suggesting I follow my heart, being so supportive of whatever course of action I’ve chosen.’ I kissed his cheek. ‘You’re going to make a fantastic therapist.’
‘You’ve done it, Lizzie,’ he said softly. ‘No one else can take the credit.’ His lips twitched. ‘Does this mean we can finally stop buying up the local greengrocer’s?’
‘No, I’ll still need to do lots of practice on banana and orange peel, unless you’d rather I go to the butcher’s for pig skin.’
‘The greengrocer’s it is and talking of food, I’m going to make tea. My way of saying I’m proud of you, Lizzie.’
We wrapped our arms around each other and kissed before heading over to the kitchen. Ash looked in the fridge and pulled out a tub of yogurt, chicken breast, mushrooms, potatoes and carrots.
‘That yogurt’s out of date. I meant to bin it,’ I said.
Ash took off the lid and inhaled. ‘It’s fine.’
He peeled carrots without rinsing them and didn’t wash the chicken. It was as if the universe had sent me the complete antithesis of my parents.
8
Now
Charms were worn as amulets in ancient times to ward off evil and cure disease
I sat on my sofa, next to Katya. We both drank tea, mine milky, hers black. I was all pastel hair colours and nature whereas Katya was skulls and night-time shades. It felt strange being back at the parlour with me not working here, with Ash not sitting on this sofa, watching his latest Netflix obsession. I eased off my Doc Martens and caught sight of the bracelet I’d had inked on six months after Mum and Dad died and one month after the huge misunderstanding with him. So far, the chain had two charms – a little rose and sketching pencil.
After a phone call with George last night I’d driven back to London to visit his offices. It was only an hour and a half each way and it made sense to pick up some things if I was going to stay in Leafton for a little while longer.
‘So why this visit to the solicitor?’
‘George was very apologetic. Dad… I can’t believe it but he wrote me a letter a few months before he passed. Somehow it ended up in another client’s file. George has only just found it. He feels terrible.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘He doesn’t know.’
George had offered to post it but I couldn’t wait that long. I didn’t sleep last night. The prospect of contact with my parents gave me hope. The hope I’d had a couple of times over recent years. Once or twice someone had called and just listened to my voice before hanging up, having withheld their number. My parents didn’t know my landline details but by its own definition a miracle didn’t need to be logical.
‘This is huge,’ said Katya and stared at me with sympathy. For years she’d had limited contact with her parents, staying close only to her late gran. Every month she sent back money for their medicines and heating yet they couldn’t be happy for their daughter leaving Bulgaria for England. They still had phone calls and she tried to get home for Christmas but they couldn’t understand their daughter’s aspirations.
I nodded, not knowing what else to say and I chatted about the weather, the traffic jam on the way down, how London had welcomed me back with market traders’ cries and car horns and how I hadn’t seen a single person in Leafton with a tattoo.
‘Your tattoos are pretty – I wonder what the village would make of mine. What’s this Leafton like?’
‘Olde worlde. Conservative yet friendly. Everyone knows each other. And we’re talking basics – there are no branded shops and what’s there is limited but I kind of like it. I’ve met a neighbour, Ben. Well, he’s the postman too and has been really friendly.’
Katya raised an eyebrow.
‘It’s nothing like that!’ I put down my drink, pushing away thoughts of Ben’s intense eyes and boyish freckles, my cheeks feeling hot. I didn’t dare catch her eye. She might work out that Ben was increasingly on my mind. Which was stupid. I wasn’t looking for love and he was simply being neighbourly. ‘Anyway, I’m only there for a few weeks.’
Katya looked at my luggage.
‘I just want the place to look more homely.’ For its sake more than mine.
‘It’s cool. Take as long as you need. You know what that most common and unoriginal of inkings says.’
Carpe Diem.
‘We’ve got a really good freelancer covering your shifts – but there’s no one here, now, who understands like you did that a cup of coffee is no good without a biscuit.’ Katya smiled and reached out to touch my arm. ‘I miss you, Lizzie and can’t wait for you to come back to work when… when you’re feeling better.’ She looked at her watch. ‘You’d better get going if you’ve got to see the solicitor and get back for a party. I’ll help you carry everything downstairs before my next client arrives.’
I washed up our mugs without replying.
‘Do you want me to come with you and we’ll read the letter together?’ asked Katya gently as she stood up. ‘I can cancel my client.’
A lump swelled in my throat. ‘I can’t believe it,’ I whispered. ‘What if Dad’s just repeated all the things they said that awful night of Mum’s sixtieth party? That I’m a huge disappointment and unbelievably ungrateful and—’
‘Then that will say more about him than you.’ She held the sides of my arms. ‘Look at yourself – you’ve got a career. You’re a caring person – I know your tattoo sessions take so long because you listen to those clients who want their stories to be heard and I remember that first year you shadowed
me and all the times you tried to win your parents around. The roses you sent on Mother’s Day, hoping your Aunt Fiona would pass them on. That time you mustered enough courage to send them a letter, asking if you could all meet up, even though you knew your note would probably come straight back unopened, which it did.’
Aunt Fiona didn’t even write down the address I’d put on the back of that envelope and to find me last year had to Google the parlour.
Katya kissed me on the cheek. ‘There’s nothing this letter of your dad’s can say that will reflect badly on the Lizzie I know.’
Fifty minutes later I was sitting in George’s office. I gazed at a framed print ahead – a poster of a mountain with some cheesy quote about reaching your peak. My relationship with my parents had probably reached a peak when I was ten, before I was at high school and exposed to new friends who enjoyed more freedom. At that age I basked in being seen as a good girl, keeping my room tidy and helping Mum weed the garden. Occasionally I wished I could have my best friend over more often but my parents were never keen. Looking back, I realised it was because they’d found out her mum was a recovering alcoholic. It didn’t seem to matter to them that she’d been sober for five years or that she was on the school parents’ committee.
But I didn’t question their reasoning. At that age you think parents can be unfair but not wrong. That’s one of the biggest shocks about growing up – realising they have as many weaknesses as everyone else.
‘Elizabeth? Lovely to see you. It’s been a while.’
George stood over me in his usual uniform – a three-piece suit, walrus moustache and holding a pipe. I followed him into his office, with its wooden panels and sage green wallpaper. George sat at his oak desk littered with family photos. The room would have shouted old-school masculinity were it not for the framed cross-stitch of a floral garland. We’d talked about art during one of my appointments last year. George’s grandma had taught him to sew as a small boy and effectively taught him to worry less about the teasing opinions of others. These days he found the cross-stitching to be a perfect stress-buster.
Summer Secrets at Streamside Cottage Page 5