Lily's House

by Cassandra Parkin

  How did he do it? What precise form did his violence take? Did he chase her around the house and trap her? Did she cower, sobbing, in the corner of the room? Or was it more sudden and surprising than that? What excuse did he make? And when she died, was she angry for the waste of her life, or simply glad to escape?

  Marianne appears by my side. I wave her away, but she’s determined to help, lifting the mattress with all the force of her slim little frame, her ribcage heaving, so I can fold the sheet beneath it.

  “It’s all right,” I say as soon as my hands are free. “I can manage.”

  “I need to learn, Mum. Let me help. Are these the right sheets? I thought bottom ones had sort of elastic in them.”

  “Most of them do, but Lily was old-fashioned. These sheets are probably older than I am. That’s why they’re so thick and heavy.”

  “And is that why there aren’t any duvets? Just blankets?”

  “We can buy a duvet if you want one,” I say, remembering even as I speak that we’ll be leaving in two days.

  “It’s all right. I like the blankets.” She picks up the top sheet. “Wow. This is heavy. What do we do next?”

  “Spread it out. No, the other way. It’s longer than it is wide, you see? Pull it all the way to the top.”

  “But then I can’t get in when I go to bed.”

  “You fold it over the blanket so it’s not scratchy.”

  “Oh, I see. So, Mum, if you get into a fight at school with your friend and you hit them, is that the same as when two people who love each other hit each other?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because… well.” The difference is so obvious, I can’t explain it. “Okay, so, when you’re at school you’re still learning how to be a civilised person, so you get a pass on some things. But when you’re a grown-up you know better. And you shouldn’t hit someone you love. Not ever.”

  “Not even if they’re really annoying you?”

  “Are you really annoying sometimes?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about me? Am I ever really annoying?”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Course I am. And do I ever hit you? Do you ever hit me?”

  “No!”

  “Well, then.”

  I’m braced for more questions, but the next thing she asks me is whether she could make a roast chicken for dinner, ‘all by myself, but with you watching in case I make any mistakes’. I agree instantly. It’s extravagant and wasteful and means we’ll have to go shopping again, but if eating roast chicken for the second time in three days will make Marianne happy, we’ll do it.

  The cat coils around our legs, twining and twining and opening her mouth in that pleading way that I secretly find adorable. Marianne, fussing over the last scrap of peel on a knobbly potato, stops what she’s doing to look at the cat critically.

  “This cat has the whiniest meow you ever heard,” she says, picking her up. The cat gnaws ecstatically at her chin, tiny white claws flexing against the tender skin of Marianne’s neck. “I still like her though.”

  “She’s not biting, is she?”

  “No, it’s a lovey bite, not a bitey bite. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind if she did bite, I’d still love her.”

  “Well, you should mind. You can’t let her hurt you.” Why do all our conversations today lead back to love and violence? “Maybe you should… no, never mind.”

  “What?”

  I keep forgetting James Moon is no longer someone we can visit. It’s hard to think of him as the slouching beast he really is.

  “Don’t worry about it. Put that cat down and we’ll finish the potatoes.”

  “What happens if we don’t finish the chicken tonight? Can I give it to the cat?”

  “No, you can’t. We can have it in sandwiches tomorrow.”

  I can tell from Marianne’s expression that she’s plotting a secret feast for the cat as soon as my back’s turned. She’s only known this little creature for a few days and already she’s pouring all her soul into winning its ungrateful feline heart. I should have bought her a cat years ago. I’m a mean mother and a bad parent. I tap her on the shoulder to make her look at me.

  “It’s all right. You can give the cat some too. Just make sure there aren’t any bones in it.”

  “Will Mr Moon be angry?”

  “I hope so,” I say before I can stop myself. “I’d like to make him as angry as I possibly can.”

  “But aren’t you scared?”

  “Why would I be scared?”

  “Because he used to… you know.”

  Oh, yes. Why can’t I get it into my head?

  I move Marianne’s curls away from her cheek so I can kiss her, and she offers me a brief half-smile before returning to her potato, looking as if she’s trying to kill it rather than simply peel its skin off. I look at the curve of her cheek, the shape of her chin, and most of all at the spirals of thick dark hair that fall around her face like the hair of a storybook princess, and feel a chill.

  I could put students into Lily’s flat, and take a long-overdue sisterly revenge on a violent man on behalf of a wronged woman. And in return, James has a secret that could destroy me. He promised me this morning he’d never say a word, but why would I trust his promises? Mutually assured destruction is as good a place as any to start bargaining.

  The roast chicken is perfect, at least as good as the one I made for the three of us (four of us, counting the cat) two days ago. Marianne shreds her meat into strands and studies them critically, scraping off the gravy so she can see more clearly.

  “Is it supposed to do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “Go into all little bits like this.”

  “Of course it is. It’s delicious. Can’t you taste how good it is?”

  “But is it supposed to look like this? Or did I cook it wrong?”

  “Even if you did it wouldn’t matter – since it’s the first one you’ve ever cooked – but as it happens, it’s perfect.”

  “You helped, though,” says Marianne. “You told me when to put it in and what time to take it out and when to put the potatoes on. I don’t think I could remember by myself.”

  “Why would you need to?”

  Marianne looks uneasy, as if I’ve caught her trying on my clothes. “Well, one day I won’t live with you any more.”

  “But that’s years away. You’ve got years to learn how to cook.”

  “But there’s everything else,” Marianne says, putting down her fork, so comical in her despair that I have to bite hard on my lip. “How to make the bed and how to clean the kitchen and how to make breakfast and how to pay the bills. And all my schoolwork as well. I don’t know how you do it all.”

  “Well, for one thing I don’t have to do your schoolwork as well.”

  “But you go to work.”

  “And I’ve got your dad to help.”

  “No, you haven’t. He doesn’t help at all.”

  “Marianne, that’s rude.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s true. You do the housework.”

  “I do my share of the housework, when I get home. Your dad does his share while you’re at school. You might not see it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.”

  “But he—”

  “That’s enough.” Marianne looks as if she might keep going, but I shake my head and point at her plate. “Eat your dinner. No? Okay, so how about pudding? Would you like chocolate pudding in a mug?”

  “I don’t want you to have to make anything for this dinner.” Marianne’s mouth quivers.

  “You cooked the nicest dinner I’ve had for ages, and I’m not just saying that, I really mean it. And if I’m in the kitchen making pudding, then I can’t possibly be in here seeing you feeding the cat, can I? How does it keep getting back in, anyway?”

  “So I’m allowed to feed it?”

  “No, but if I can’t see you it doesn’t count. Don’t leave bits on the floor or we’ll have
mice.”

  “She could catch them.”

  “Or we could not have them in the first place. Anyway, we won’t be here much longer. I know I keep saying it but we really are nearly finished now. And we can go back home to Dad.”

  “That’s nice,” says Marianne, without conviction.

  “And maybe when we get back,” I say slowly, “we can think about getting a cat of our own. Maybe,” I add hastily, knowing how little Daniel wants the increased responsibility and loss of freedom that comes with a pet, “and we need to talk to Dad first, and I’m not promising. But we’ll maybe look into it. Okay?”

  “Or maybe we could keep this one,” Marianne says, her face turned slightly away from me so she’s almost talking to herself. “I like this one. She’s got a black spot on her back sock.”

  It’s late when I finally escape from Marianne. She’s normally happy to be tidied away into her own space, quietly reading or drawing until she’s ready to put out the light, but tonight she’s uncharacteristically clingy, drawing me back again and again. Am I sure Mr Moon used to hit his wife? Is it really okay to not forgive him? But it wasn’t us he hurt so shouldn’t we be nice? Is hitting his wife as bad as murdering someone? But he didn’t kill her? Or did he? Would I tell her if I thought he had killed her? How did I know he didn’t? Question after difficult, unanswerable question, all with a generous helping of anxious brown eyes and pale cheeks. Eventually, at the end of my patience, I tell her sharply that it’s time to stop, I’m not discussing this any longer, and turn away so I don’t have to see her cry.

  I take myself off to the sitting room where I find that the cat has, yet again, crept onto the sofa and curled up among the cushions, even though I put her out on the landing and sternly instructed her to go home. I prowl around and eventually discover that the top window in the bathroom is open, although how she managed to swarm up and through the gap is beyond me. I shut the window tightly, then go back to the sitting room, scoop her up around her muscly middle and hold her firmly against my chest.

  “I’m taking the cat back,” I say to Marianne, through the crack in her door. She nods quietly, turning her face away so I won’t see she’s still crying. I’ll have to apologise later, but first I have to go and talk, again, to James Moon.

  Outside the flat, the cat stops wriggling and rests her chin on my arm so she can see where we’re going. Perhaps she’s hoping I’ll take her downstairs and open the front door for her, but it’s not going to happen. Tonight she has a job to do. She’s my thin excuse for paying a visit to James.

  He opens the door before I even knock, which annoys me.

  “Heard the cat,” he says in explanation. “Got a meow on her like a sobbing baby, that one. Goes right through you. Can’t ignore it. Well, I suppose you can. No offence meant.”

  “Please stop talking.” I hand him the cat, who scrabbles up over his shoulder and disappears inside. “I’m not trying to steal her, she keeps—”

  “Coming in. I know. Gets in through the bathroom window. Seen her do it. I suppose you want to come in.”

  “That’s putting it a bit strongly.”

  “Wish you’d stop acting like I’m the enemy.”

  “Well, I wish… I wish…” To my horror, there’s a hitch in my throat. This isn’t what I meant. I want to be tall and righteous, clutching what I know about him as my shield against what he knows about me. I want to be made of steel, of cold iron, or maybe piercing glass. I want to be cold and pure, ready to strike a bargain with the devil. And now my nose is full of snot and my face is getting red and James Moon waves a huge handkerchief that looks like a sign of surrender but is actually a victory flag. I snatch it from him and follow him inside.

  “Here.” In the sitting room James gestures towards one chair and begins to lower himself into another that stands in front of the lamp. “Sit there and we can talk.”

  “That doesn’t work for me. Give me your chair and you have that one.”

  “What’s the matter with you now?”

  “If you sit with your back to the light I won’t be able to hear what you’re saying.”

  “You sure you’re not making this up? Playing on it to annoy me?”

  “I’ve got better things to do than make up problems I don’t have to annoy you.” My brain knows what he is but my heart won’t feel it. We were sort-of friends, and now we’re not, and I can’t get used to it. I take the seat by the lamp, wondering if my face is as inscrutable to him as his would have been to me.

  “Meant what I said,” he says, before I can speak. “Won’t say a word. You’re not the first to pull that trick. Won’t be the last either. Probably a couple more cuckoos in her class who don’t know it. None of my business. Doubt your husband would listen anyway. No one your age has time for anyone my age.” He shrugs. “There. Said my piece. Now you can say yours.”

  “Stop being so bloody nice. It won’t work. I still know what you did.”

  “What are you talking about, what did I? Oh, that.”

  “I suppose you think that’s none of my business,” I say. “But for the record, you make me sick. I can’t believe I ever spent time with you. I can’t believe I let my daughter come into your home.”

  He stares at me defiantly. He doesn’t look ashamed. Instead he looks as if he’s enduring my rudeness for some private but noble reason of his own. Why is he letting me speak to him like this? He’s been far nicer to me than I’ve been to him. How could this gentle, forbearing man have attacked his wife so savagely that Lily could hear it through the floor? Tears gather in my throat again. I hope he can’t see. Did he ever hit Lily? Surely she wouldn’t have allowed it. But what if he did? What if she spent her last years in terror? James stands up and reaches over me. He takes his handkerchief from where I’ve stuffed it down the side of the chair, careful to keep a respectful distance, and puts it back into my hand.

  “Wash it before you give it back,” he tells me. “Don’t want your snot all over my clothes. Disgusting.”

  “You blow your nose and keep it in your pocket all day, and you think I’m disgusting?”

  “Better for the environment.”

  “Tissues are biodegradable.”

  “Mucky old process to make them though. Ever seen the mess that comes out of a paper mill? Come on, woman, say what you came here to say. Got better things to do than watch you sob into your hanky.”

  “You mean, your hanky.”

  “Stop being pernickety.”

  “How could you do it? Tell me.”

  “Thought you wanted to talk about those students you’re going to put into Lily’s flat to drive me mad. Want me to beg you not to?”

  “Of course I’m not going to let the bloody flat to bloody students, you stupid old man. I only want to know why you did it. I thought you were a nice person.”

  “Course you didn’t think I was a nice person!” He’s trying to look angry, but instead he looks hunted. I suddenly have the scent of blood in my nostrils. “Stop trying to butter me up. Glad to hear about the students. Now go home and leave me in peace.”

  “No, I won’t. Tell me. Tell me.” I stand up and now he’s the one cringing as if he thinks I might attack him. I loom over him, trying to be as imposing as I possibly can. “Tell me! I don’t even care about you, I want to know about Lily! Did you hit her too?”

  “What? No!”

  “So what did you do? What did you do to make her like you? She hated bullies, all her life she hated them. So why would she like you?” I clench my hands into fists. “Tell me!”

  He sits up straight and yells something into my face, but his face is so distorted with emotion that I can’t make sense of it. Then he shuts his eyes and turns his face away. He looks pale and exhausted.

  “I didn’t get that.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “I’m not being stupid. Tell me again.”

  “I said,” he repeats, looking right into my face and moving his lips slowly and with great care, �
��you got it the wrong way round. That clear enough for you?”

  “What do you mean, I got it the wrong way round?”

  “It was the drink,” he says, and swallows hard and rubs fiercely at the end of his nose with the back of his hand. “The drink. Not her. She wasn’t happy. Drink made her feel better. Then it made her angry. Couldn’t let her do it in public, shouting and threatening to… the boys would have died of shame. Seemed easier to stay with her. Let her take it out on me. She was always sorry afterwards.”

  I feel the click in my head as I finally understand what should have been obvious all along.

  “So why didn’t you tell anyone?”

  He glares at me.

  “Why doesn’t anyone tell anyone? No one’s business but ours. Besides, it was never serious. Could get worse falling down the stairs.”

  “But why did you let me believe—”

  “Because I was ashamed!” He’s yelling at me now, his face red and angry. “I was bloody well embarrassed, all right? What kind of a man gets hit by a woman? Should have been able to stop her.”

  “So why couldn’t you?”

  “Well, I’d have flattened her, wouldn’t I,” he says, as if this is obvious. “Only a little thing. Not even your height. Couldn’t hurt her.”

  “But you let her hurt you.”

  “I could take it. She couldn’t. She was unhappy. Couldn’t fix it for her, so the least I could do was… all right? Got your pound of flesh now?”

  “But,” I say slowly, “why did you tell me not to go through Lily’s things? Why did it matter if I found out?”

  “Not discussing it,” he says, and waves an imperious hand. “Take the cat with you, if you like. She likes your daughter better than me anyway.”

  “You mean, your granddaughter.”

  A tiny smile crosses his face.

  “Little monkey she is. Glad I’ve met her. But I’m not her grandfather, not really. Just some old fool who lives downstairs and shares a few chromosomes.”