I felt a stone settle in my stomach, so heavy, filling up the space, forcing me to drop to the floor and stay there.
Four
What else could she have done but try and go about her usual week? At times it had seemed things were just happening, as if to someone else. She lost hours in the launderette, the enormous glass bowl spinning in front of her: blurred colours, soaked clothes, the smell of detergent. The drum had long since fallen silent, but still she sat there, not registering.
‘Excuse me,’ a man in a khaki green jacket said, ‘I think it’s done.’
She mumbled as she got up and pulled at the door, removing the dripping items and taking them across to the dryers. The sound persistent and loud, drowning out her thoughts. The clothes were hot to the touch as she bundled them back into her cotton laundry bag and set off for home.
Another few days passed and then, Thursday. She didn’t leave the house, didn’t speak to another soul. Where would she go? There was only ever one place on a Thursday and she couldn’t go back there without him. She sat in her living room, forgot to open the curtains, remembering just as it was getting dark again. Something on the television, an old episode of Columbo, maybe two – not that she was able to follow the plot anyway.
Friday and the ironing was completed before she had thought to have breakfast and picked at her dry cereal, the milk on the turn, but she’d had no energy to head to the shops, had thought she’d survive. Another day with just the sound of her own breathing, the chatter from the television, which she had left on as if it could be a companion. She sat in her chair, her book slipping into her lap, picking at a nail, feeling the exquisite pain as she pressed it, reminding her she was still there. The curtains were open, the sky thick with grey cloud, blank. She looked away again, picked at her nail.
Still there.
* * *
Saturday morning, and she had a shock leaving the house, as if all the trees had lost their leaves overnight, the air nipping at her face and hands, the exposed skin at her wrists. The walk to the newsagent was hard going, the wind pushing her backwards as she bent her head into her chest. She felt the cold seeping through her coat, into her very bones, as if nothing would warm her again.
The bell rang out and she hurried to the counter, snatching up the newspaper for her weekly TV listings, not that she had the energy to circle anything in its pages. She remembered how she would scan its pages with her biro, circling programmes, underlining others, how she had learnt what he liked over their meetings. And the feeling forced her to place a hand on the counter, the pain immediate and intense, as if she’d been stabbed in her chest.
‘You fine there, Mrs?’ The familiar voice enquired from behind the counter.
She caught her breath again, not trusting herself to speak. Normally, she would ask after Mr Khan’s grandchildren, he kept photographs of them sellotaped to his till: grinning, toothy pictures of children dangling from playground equipment, ice-skating. One of the girls had her first competition on the ice last month. The questions froze on her tongue as she handed over her five-pound note.
‘Regan’s asked me for tap shoes for Christmas. Tap!’ He had a throaty laugh that emerged from a face covered in an enormous beard.
Maria found her reply stuck somewhere inside her. It didn’t help that she hadn’t said a word out loud for more than forty-eight hours. She wondered then if it mattered at all if she ever spoke again.
‘Clackety clack, my daughter’s told me it’ll drive her up the wall but you know Regan, she’s headstrong…’
This is a message for Ms Birch…
Regan and her tap-dancing. Another fad, Maria was sure. Would she give up ice-skating? Try a musical instrument next? Why should Maria care? She felt bone-tired as she took her change.
It’s Becky Leonard from Clive & Sons…
‘How nice,’ she croaked, the words flat. The sound didn’t seem like her voice.
I am calling regarding Albert Young…
‘Is everything good with you, Mrs?’ His eyebrows were drawn together, his black eyes pools of concern.
Maria nodded curtly. Was it that obvious? Couldn’t she just not be interested in someone else for once? Couldn’t she be allowed to be left in peace? Her hand closed tightly over the coins, her knuckles strained white.
‘Did you see my new Harry and Meghan mug? It’s the Wedding Edition.’
Mr Khan was fiercely patriotic, carrying a strong love of the country that had adopted his parents, the shop ceiling criss-crossed with British Flag bunting, tins of Scottish shortbread, Brighton rock and mugs with the royals on display next to the usual fare. Maria had a Queen Elizabeth II mug to mark the 50th anniversary of her coronation.
She glanced in the direction he was pointing and gave a small grunt of acknowledgement. His frown deepened as she opened her handbag and deposited the change in her purse.
‘Is that all? Nothing sweet?’ He pointed to the newspaper on the counter in front of them with his laugh again but this time it made her muscles stiffen. He was right, of course – normally she added a chocolate bar to the mix, a Fry’s Chocolate Cream or a Daim if she was feeling brave and her dentures could take it. Today, she didn’t feel like it, didn’t even really feel like taking the newspaper although she did, folding it underneath her arm. Habit.
‘That’s all,’ she finished, feeling her face move but knowing the smile was stuck somewhere inside her.
His voice wavered as she pushed her way back down the aisle.
‘You sure everything’s—’
She didn’t wait for the end of the sentence, not wanting his pity or his questions, feeling a strange bubble of heat inside her that threatened to spill over. She didn’t deserve anything. Everyone should just let her go about her day and leave her alone.
She didn’t feel the cold as she walked back to her apartment, back up the stairs, barely noticing the smell of her flat – the unwashed surfaces, abandoned mugs of congealed tea, rumpled bedding.
The newspaper stayed on the kitchen counter, still folded in two, showing the top of a young girl’s head, her eyes staring at the ceiling. What had happened to that girl? Maria felt a flicker of her old curiosity before it was extinguished. She didn’t have the energy to unfold the paper and find out: no doubt it would depress her further and what did she want with that? She returned to her chair and spent the rest of the day and evening slumped in it, only getting up to go to the bathroom.
She skipped church the next day, not ready to face the perky female vicar with her energetic sermons, the jaunty hymns, the beaming congregation. She spent the day back in her chair, didn’t even change out of her pyjamas and dressing gown: there was really no point at all.
On Monday, she was still in the same place, as if she had lost an entire day. She was starting to feel as if it could be any day, any time, her usual markers fading. Today, she should be doing the weekly shop. She opened the fridge and smelt the milk, now long gone. A wedge of dried-out cheese, a shrivelled lemon, an out-of-date steak and kidney pie, a pot of soured cream and one wrinkled yellow pepper. She needed eggs, milk, fresh bread at the very least and yet she found herself returning to her chair, staying in her pyjamas and staring back out at the strip of window, the clouds today parting with weak winter sunlight.
The phone rang. She left it.
It rang again. She ignored it.
On the third attempt, she reached for the receiver. It was bound to be a cold caller, even ex-directory – some still got through. She felt the sudden urge to give them a piece of her mind.
‘Is that Mrs Birch?’ came the voice.
‘Ms,’ she snapped.
‘Oh, I am sorry Ms Birch, it’s Becky Leonard from Clive & Sons. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for a while now.’
‘I’ve been…’ Maria looked around her apartment at the dirty dishes left in piles next to the sink, her dressing gown abandoned in a pool on the floor, a half-eaten sandwich curling on a plate, soil from a plant pot that
she’d spilled trodden into her cream carpet. Neglected, sad, stale and yet even this glimpse didn’t make her want to clean it up. ‘… busy,’ she finished lamely.
It’s Becky Leonard from Clive & Sons…
‘It’s a busy time of year!’ the voice said.
I am calling regarding Albert Young…
‘Well, if it would suit you, we would be grateful if you could pop into the offices at your earliest convenience, please.’
No, no, no! Maria looked down at the stray crumbs on her lap, a yellow stain from some tea she had spilt. ‘Well, I’m not sure I’m… You see…’
She didn’t say another word as the voice continued, ‘It’s about Albert Young’s estate.’
Our baby girl had a tuft of blonde hair and the smoothest skin I’d ever seen.
We brought her home from the hospital and spent the first evening just staring at her as she slept, fists curled tight, both arms flung above her head.
‘She’s perfect,’ he whispered as he pulled me in close, stared down at the tiny bundle.
Everything ached, everything hurt, but in that moment, everything was also perfect.
‘I know,’ I whispered back. ‘I know.’
Five
She nearly cancelled the appointment – it was absurd to be getting a blow-dry when she hadn’t even changed into clean clothes, wearing her nightdress for three days straight.
Albie’s estate.
Albie was dead.
Albie was dead and his solicitor wanted to talk to Maria.
Maria hadn’t known. She had spent three days going over every second of their meetings. Had he looked like a dying man? Had she missed the signs? He had complained of a sore neck a few weeks before, had been so grateful when she had given him a pack of paracetamol and a wheat-filled neck cushion he could heat in the microwave.
‘So thoughtful, Maria, so thoughtful,’ he’d said, his eyes crinkling as she’d handed it over.
A neck cushion and some over-the-counter pills and he’d been dying.
Hardly thoughtful. She must have missed so much more. He’d lost a little weight earlier that year. She’d commented at the time, remembering the heat flooding her cheeks as he’d teased her for noticing.
‘I last wore this jacket in ’72!’ he’d laughed proudly.
He’d told her he’d been walking more. Had that been a lie? And she had simply nodded and thought ruefully of her own body, sucked in her stomach as she’d stood to head to the Ladies’ room.
What a fool she’d been, thinking of herself.
She didn’t know how it had happened, hadn’t asked the solicitor, hadn’t managed to get the words out. Wouldn’t the solicitor assume she should have known? She had simply agreed a time, hung up, a hand reaching out before her knees had given way.
It had rained overnight and the street was spattered with droplets, some patches slippery underfoot from the frosty weather. She pulled her coat tight around herself, feeling the sting on her cheeks. Passing a homeless man in a doorway on the high street she averted her gaze, not wanting to be seen to be staring at him. Her breath was a puff of cloud in the air as she headed past the café, keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead, not wanting to see the familiar faded red-and-white checked tablecloths that Albie had never liked – ‘too cheap-looking for a lovely place like this’ – the warm bustle of customers inside, the loaf-shaped marble cake presented on the counter in a glass-covered stand.
Albie Young is dead.
Her pace quickened until she was stood outside the glass-fronted building, chest rising and falling with the effort. Stepping inside the salon, she caught sight of herself in the mirror to the side: pink cheeks, red-rimmed eyes and windswept hair. Her shoes squeaked, the white floor recently mopped, a small yellow sign warning of potential danger.
‘Maria!’ Mandy was straightening magazines on the low coffee table by the entrance, ‘You’re right on time.’
Maria was always surprised how someone so pocket-sized could contain all that energy. Mandy bounced over, wearing a low-cut black top and leopard-print leggings, her shoulder-length blonde hair a halo of curls around her face. ‘Let me take that,’ she said, whipping off Maria’s coat and hanging it in a cupboard to the side. ‘Nina,’ she called over to a woman with a thick brown fringe and black-framed glasses who was folding towels, ‘Maria’s here.’
Nina abandoned her task and came straight over, her eyes almost hidden by her blunt fringe – ‘bangs’ she had called them before.
‘Hi, Maria,’ she said, holding out the thin black fabric for Maria to put on, tying it at the neck. ‘Follow me,’ she added, leading her over to the row of sinks.
‘Massage?’ she asked as Maria settled back in one of three leather chairs.
‘No, thank you.’
Maria always said no. No fuss.
He’s dead.
Shoving the morbid thought out of her head, she let Nina get to work, answering automatically that the water was fine – it could have been warmer – and the new conditioning treatment sounded good. The strains of a pop song she didn’t recognise piped through speakers set up in the corners of the room and Maria let the music wash over her as Nina kneaded and rinsed her head. Normally, she might ask Nina something, enjoyed her quiet conversation but today, she found she didn’t have the energy for it, closing her eyes as the girl got to work.
‘All done! I’ve used a conditioning treatment today, it’s a new brand and I hope you like it,’ she said with a small smile. ‘Can I bring you anything?’
‘I’m fine,’ Maria replied.
‘You sure?’ Nina asked, knowing Maria nearly always wanted a magazine and a sweet tea.
‘I am,’ Maria said, staring at the old lady sat in the mirror opposite, a towelled turban wrapped around her head, small, red eyes, grey skin. This blow-dry wouldn’t touch the sides, she thought as Mandy appeared behind her.
Gone. And she hadn’t noticed a thing.
‘Good to see you, Maria. We were just talking about you the other day. You missed an appointment and we wondered if you’d gone somewhere nice. It seemed strange without you in here.’
Maria didn’t really know what to say, seeing Mandy’s expectant face, surprised they had noticed when she hadn’t appeared. She hadn’t bothered to cancel it, the days after she’d found out about Albie a blur of nothingness.
‘No, I wasn’t away.’
…about Albie Young’s estate…
Mandy was distracted as she removed the turban, comb gripped in her teeth: ‘You want Nina to get you a tea? She keeps trying to make people try this new liquorice-flavour stuff. It’s properly disgusting, but she seems to love it.’
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Maria said primly, normally enjoying the buoyant warmth, the atmosphere of the lively salon, the blasts of the hairdryer, the conversation. She always left feeling better: more attractive and less alone. Today, though, she regretted coming – exhausted already by the well-meaning questions, the attention.
‘…Been up to anything interesting? And how is your gentlemen friend? Albert innit?’ Hairdryer cocked at her hip, Mandy smirked.
The question made Maria start, her eyes darting around the room. What should she say? How could she even begin to…?
‘He’s well… yes, well,’ Maria mumbled, not able to get the words out.
Maria felt the room close in on her, her breath growing shallow, wishing she had ordered her usual sweet tea, could distract herself by taking a sip of something.
It’s Becky Leonard calling from…
Fortunately, at that moment Nina appeared, pulling Mandy away to deal with a delivery man at Reception. ‘Sorry ’bout this, Maria,’ she called.
Nina stood, a shy smile on her face. Maria hadn’t known what to say to Nina when she’d first started working there five or so years ago, but over a few visits she’d noticed her through the open door to the backroom, engrossed in a book. That had given Maria the confidence to start up a conversation the first time. Today
, talk of books froze somewhere inside her.
‘She telling you about the coin?’ Mandy asked, pointing her comb at Nina.
‘I hadn’t…’ The blush crept up Nina’s neck.
Maria frowned, every response slower.
Mandy removed the towel and started combing Maria’s hair. ‘She’s been on and on about this coin she found at the weekend, could be Roman or from the fifteenth century or the third century or some time ages ago… There could be more of them…’
‘It’s not Roman,’ Nina muttered, a small smile flickering on her face. ‘But—’
‘I don’t pretend to understand it,’ Mandy said, cutting in, ‘Spending her weekends out with a beeping pole and a little trowel. Still, she tells me she likes it,’ she added, as if Nina wasn’t standing right there.
Maria knew Nina had a metal detector; she’d inherited it after she had chucked out her long-term boyfriend after seeing ‘sexts’ on his phone. Maria remembered because she hadn’t heard the phrase ‘sexts’ before and had never giggled so long and hard at the hairdresser’s. Mandy had had to stop that blow-dry for her to catch her breath. The memory of that moment almost made her mouth twitch into a smile, a second of feeling something other than this strange, dream-like misery.
He’s dead.
The smile stayed deep inside her.
‘Still, best thing you got out of that relationship, if you ask me. Could make you wealthy, unlike that no-good layabout,’ Mandy said, shouting to be heard above the blast of hot air.
Nina reddened further before moving away to greet a customer at the door.
The rest of the blow-dry was spent listening to Mandy, who was telling Maria more about her latest foray on the dating scene. She had been married but it had ended when he’d run off with someone he met on a cruise Mandy had saved for a year to go on: ‘I wish he’d got that Norovirus half the ship went down with.’
‘So, I tried this new online site but the photos, Maria, are something else. Then you meet them and it’s like you’re meeting their larger, hairier, older brother. And the descriptions of the women they want,’ she scoffed, tugging on a strand of hair as she met Maria’s eye in the mirror, ‘always thirty-five to forty-five despite the fact they look like they’ve been round the block and then round it again…’ She moved the hairbrush through Maria’s hair, drying as she went. ‘Made a mistake describing myself as generous of bosom, of course. Attracted some right sorts, had to change it to curvy… And hobbies… Oh, don’t get me started… I started talking to a man who described himself as a “gamer”, a gamer, Maria, like he’s a twelve-year-old boy with a PlayStation. Honestly, that’s not a man’s hobby, am I right? Where are the carpenters, the metal workers? PlayStation!’ She huffed, cocking her head to one side as she inspected her work.
The Wish List of Albie Young (ARC) Page 4