by Penny Kline
When they finally reached the end of the road, they had to wait several minutes before it was safe to cross. Erin was being sensible, taking care, and later the irony of this hit her, like a punch in the stomach. If, as she normally did, she had hurried Claudia across in advance of the coming traffic . . .
Having reached the other side, Claudia slowed down to a snail’s pace. Still almost four months to go, but her bump stuck out like someone on the brink of giving birth. Not because of the baby, Erin thought, all those blueberry muffins, Danish pastries stuffed with dried fruit and gooey filling, and lemon drizzle cake, her favourite, devoured in a single sitting. Some people lost weight when they were expecting – Erin guessed she would be like that – but Claudia had latched on to the proverbial eating for two. Freshly baked, Erin, smell it, who could resist?
As far back as she could remember, Claudia had been larger than her, taller, broader, even though she was the second born and, according to their mother, quite a scrawny baby. And, since Erin had been only fifteen months old at the time, she had to take her mother’s word for it. Claudia was also noisier, more gregarious, untidier and more popular. They were different in every way imaginable but, as their father liked to say, comparisons were invidious.
‘Mum would have loved grandchildren,’ Erin said, but a bus was passing and Claudia had to ask her to repeat what she had said, the second time she changed it. ‘I said, that woman over there’s got a lot of kids.’
‘Rather her than me,’ Claudia laughed, ‘some people breed like there’s no tomorrow.’
‘I’m looking forward to being an aunt,’ Erin said, ‘but I want to be called Erin, not Auntie Erin.’
‘Auntie Erin.’ Claudia thought about it with a silly smile on her face.
‘Don’t say it.’
‘You don’t know what I was going to say.’
‘Yes, I do, a dried up old spinster. I hate the word spinster.’
‘Anyway, you can’t be a spinster. Spinsters are virgins.’ She pulled at Erin’s sleeve. ‘You never talk about Declan.’
‘No point. Ancient history. And don’t say there are plenty more fish.’
‘I wish I’d met him. I can spot a bad one a mile off. What did he look like? When you’re feeling better I’ll introduce you to scores of beautiful young men. There’s this Japanese guy. . .’
As they made their way home, Claudia complained that the walk to the shops had been fine but returning up the hill, was likely to finish her off for the day. ‘Oh, well, never mind, soon be back and now the central heating’s been fixed the house should feel like a furnace.’
The previous evening, a man Erin had never seen before had turned up at the house. She had no idea why he was there but when she came down from the loft, to empty her pedal bin, she heard Claudia say, ‘No. No, I’m sorry, you’ll have to find someone else.’
What were they talking about? Not the central heating. The jewellery Claudia made, and sold in the market? The man was in his late twenties or early thirties, possibly Turkish or Greek, and Claudia had not introduced him when she came out of her den and found Erin skulking in the hall, and a moment later he was shown unceremoniously through the front door.
Much of Claudia’s life was a mystery, but that was fair enough and Erin had long since given up asking about it, something she now regretted profoundly. Back in August, after she split with Declan, she had been only too grateful for a temporary home in the converted loft space, and had also hoped for some moral support which, as it turned out, had failed to materialise. Claudia was so besotted with Ollie she talked of little else and when, a few weeks later, he moved into the house, Erin had felt like an intruder and stayed in her “penthouse” flat – Claudia’s description, not hers – self-sufficient with her tiny shower room and table top cooker, licking her wounds like an abandoned cat. But self-pity gets you nowhere, and the dormer window let in plenty of light, so it was not long before she unpacked her materials and started on the first of the illustrations.
‘Wait!’ Claudia yelled.
‘Sorry.’ She was day dreaming again, and walking too fast.
‘I asked how your illustrations were progressing.’
‘Not too bad. The book’s about—’
‘Yes, guinea pigs. You said. I always wanted one but Mum wouldn’t let us have any pets.’
‘She was afraid you wouldn’t look after them.’
‘All right, I did neglect the goldfish, but—’
‘I found it floating on its side in murky water.’
‘And I screamed the place down, right?’
‘I expect so,’ As a child, Claudia had always made her feelings abundantly clear. She was a strong character – everyone said so – and at the time Erin had been unsure if that was a compliment or a criticism. In any case she had mellowed a little as she grew older, or was it that Erin had learned how to stand up to her? Their relationship had remained tricky and she had often felt she had to tread on eggshells, whereas Claudia was free to speak her mind.
‘The editor wants some line drawings,’ she said, ‘as well as the full colour illustrations. Line drawings are cheaper to reproduce.’
‘Sorry?’ Claudia was brushing crumbs off her coat.
‘I said . . .’ But Claudia had no interest in the illustrations, and Erin recalled how once she had remarked, in all seriousness, that it must be nice having your hobby as your work.
It was getting dark and, as they passed the protesters at the building site, Erin wondered how the police had allowed them to invade the place. It was being converted into luxury apartments and the locals were angry, wanted – needed – affordable homes. Dressed in dark clothes, some wearing balaclavas, they shouted through megaphones, and one had handcuffed himself to a scaffolding pole.
Erin’s hands were full with the baby shoes in one bag and a collection of ready meals in the other. Claudia held a doughnut in sticky paper. Red jam ran down her chin and she wiped it away with the back of her hand, glancing at Erin and grinning.
‘Got to keep my strength up.’
‘Of course.’
‘After the sprog’s arrived I’ll go on starvation rations. I mean, after I’ve stopped breastfeeding.’
Claudia breastfeeding? It was such an unlikely idea. But people changed when they had a baby. Hormones kicked in. Maternal feelings took over. For the first time, it occurred to Erin that Claudia might be quite a good mother. Inconsistent, strict one minute, indulgent the next, but that was no bad thing for a child to learn. Life was not constant. Neither was it fair.
Exhaust fumes from the line of traffic filled the cold air and made them cough. A cyclist, clad in yellow lycra, raced by, his muscular leg jerking Erin’s arm and making her mouth a silent obscenity. Claudia had crossed the road and was looking up, calling out to one of the protesters. Impossible to hear what she was saying. Words of support, Erin assumed.
What happened next would return endlessly, in slow motion like one of those nightmares when your muscles refuse to work. A crashing noise as a length of scaffolding fell to the ground and bounced away. Claudia’s purple hat at her feet. Claudia herself lying on the pavement with one arm flung out and the taut skin of her abdomen exposed to the cold. No blood. The pole must have missed her. She had jumped out of the way and slipped. She was all right. Any moment now, she would scramble to her feet, laughing, and not even worried about the baby since she was so well padded, as she liked to describe herself.
But no sooner had Erin breathed a sigh of relief than to her horror she saw blood seeping from the side of Claudia’s head and running across her half-closed eye. A crowd had gathered and a young man was shouting into his phone. Someone said, Oh, my God, and a child’s high-pitched voice asked, ‘Is she dead, Mummy, is she dead?’
What did she do? Crouch down or stand helplessly above her? Scream or remain silent, dry-mouthed? People gazed up at the building then down at the scaffolding pole. The protesters were silent. An Asian woman, with a long, dark coat over a blu
e and white sari, stepped forward, taking over, and Erin heard her authoritative voice ordering the young man, ‘don’t move her.’ Traffic slowed and drivers strained their necks to get a better view. ‘She’s my sister,’ she told the Asian woman, ‘and she’s pregnant.’
The woman had her hand on Claudia’s neck, feeling for a pulse. Did she know what she was doing? Was she a doctor, or a nurse? Removing her coat, she draped it over Claudia’s motionless body, leaving only her head visible. A siren grew closer. Cars pulled up to allow a screeching ambulance to jump the lights. Two paramedics knelt beside Claudia, checking if she was still breathing, fixing a collar round her neck and carefully lifting her onto a stretcher before disappearing into the back of the ambulance.
‘Can I come with you?’ Erin’s voice came out as a croak. ‘I’m her sister.’
One of the paramedics helped her inside and she felt her head swim, and sat down, hanging onto the edge of the seat.
As they sped up the hill, she managed to get enough breath to ask if Claudia was alive. The paramedic hesitated then nodded, murmuring something about how it would only take a few minutes to reach the hospital.
Chapter 7
Annoyed that yet again Jon had rushed off after Maeve’s lesson, not prepared to spend even a few minutes talking to her, Erin decided to phone Jennie. Claudia had described her as being up and down like a yo-yo, one day absurdly optimistic, the next, filled with gloom, but Erin was not sure how well she had known her? According to Claudia, Jennie’s actor partner, Ben, was either out of work, or worrying about the next job. Fortunately, during their time together, Jennie had managed to buy an old property she let out to students.
She might be busy. She had suggested they had coffee together sometime, but people often made vague invitations they had no intention of carrying out, so when Erin phoned, she was pleasantly surprised to hear how pleased Jennie sounded.
‘Oh, Erin, how are you? Any news of Ollie?’
‘Nothing.’
‘The baby?’ Jennie asked cautiously. ‘It must be dreadful for you. If there was anything I could do, but of course there isn’t. Still, I’m sure the doctors are wonderful.’ She cleared her throat, as though to announce that was enough of all that. ‘Come round whenever you like. Today?’
‘Actually, I need to get out of this place.’ Jennie was in the open, somewhere where the traffic was heavy and they were digging up the road. ‘I thought perhaps we could meet at Ava’s Place?’
‘Ava’s Place? Is that a good idea?’
‘Why not?’
‘No reason. It’s just . . . She’s a bit of a gossip and someone said she’s been spreading rumours.’
‘What kind of rumours?’
‘Oh, I don’t suppose it’s anything. Ava’s Place it is.’ Jennie was shouting above the racket. ‘I’ve just pulled up outside my student house – the boiler’s been playing up – so it’ll be in about an hour.’
‘Fine.’ Erin had expected her to say ten minutes, twenty at the most, and felt unreasonably put out. Jennie knew how worried she was, and would have little sympathy for Ollie since she believed people should take responsibility.
‘Oh, Erin?’
‘Yes?’ She thought she had rung off.
‘The accident. Do the police know what happened?’
‘A scaffolding pole must have come loose. There’d been objections to the luxury apartments. The police seem to think one of the protesters interfered with it. Someone wearing a hoodie was seen running away.’
‘So they may be able to trace who did it.’
‘I doubt it. I expect they just wanted to convince me they were doing their best.’
‘An hour then, Erin, certainly not more.’
Not enough time to make a start on a new illustration. Too long to spend sitting around, brooding. Ava’s Place was chaotic, but Erin liked Ava, she was warm and friendly, and if you lived alone that was important. And her tendency to play up to her larger-than-life reputation was one of the reasons her café was so popular. She gave the impression she and Claudia had been close friends, so the accident must have upset her a lot.
For the first time, Erin forced herself to go into the room where Claudia had made her jewellery. The dining room, an estate agent would have called it, but she and Ollie had eaten in the kitchen, and spent the rest of their time in the room at the front that had a bay window and looked out on the houses opposite.
Claudia’s den had been sacrosanct. No one, not even Ollie, ever entered it without knocking, and up to now the most Erin had done was put her head round the door. An image of Claudia, sitting hunched over her laptop, sprang into her mind, but the tears she expected failed to materialise. She felt numb, frozen in time, unable to accept Claudia would never sit there again.
The dark curtains, with their pattern of leaves and birds, had been drawn across and she pulled them back, letting in enough light to make the room less cheerless. How had Ollie felt, moving into a house that contained nothing of his, apart from some boxes of books? Still, in her experience, men were less attached to objects – nick-knacks and family photos – and before he arrived, Ollie had been renting a single room in another part of the city.
The hyacinth on the windowsill was in a bad way, dry, curled-up leaves, sticky with white fly. Erin dropped it into the bin, pausing to check what else had been thrown away. An old cinema ticket, a gardening glove, stiff with mud, a Milky Way wrapper and some nylon thread. Changing her mind, she retrieved the hyacinth from the bin, hoping she could revive it.
Ignoring the other signs of jewellery making – a few metal tools and a bowl of multi-coloured beads – she opened the mahogany desk that had once belonged to their maternal grandmother, the place where she assumed Claudia had kept her papers. The first thing she noticed was the ink stain that had been there for as long as she could remember, possibly before she was born. If her mother was still alive, she could have joined her within hours of the accident, helped to decide about the baby, although they would both have felt the same, and together they would have grieved for Claudia; her youngest daughter and Erin’s little sister. Instead, she had to make-do with Jennie, and Jon if he could be bothered to spare the time.
Worrying about the baby, and about Ollie, had put her feelings about Claudia on hold. Each time they threatened to rise to the surface she found a diversion, concentrated on practicalities, but sooner or later they would catch up with her. Or would they stay firmly under control until the baby was born and Claudia’s life support was switched off?
Probably not a good move, but she had bought a book about pregnancy. At sixteen weeks, a baby was completely formed and had fine hair all over its body. At twenty weeks, its teeth began to form and the mother could feel it moving – Claudia had said it felt like the fluttering of a very large moth – and at twenty-four weeks it could suck its thumb and hiccup, and creases appeared on the palms of its hands.
As she was closing a desk drawer, a roll of twenty-pound notes caught her eye. Takings from Claudia’s jewellery stall? Held in place by a red rubber band, they reminded her of every gangster film she had ever seen and she felt compelled to count them, licking her finger when they stuck together and keeping a tally in her head. Almost two thousand pounds.
Why had no one paid it into the bank? Next to the money, a single sheet of paper had a list of names, some of them foreign sounding, and next to each a date – all the dates had passed – and an amount of cash. A. Hassaud. L. Jenkins. D. Winterbourne. P. Chin. M. Balumba. And a Christian name on its own, at least Erin assumed it was Christian name. Shadrack. The amounts of money were relatively large. Two hundred pounds, two hundred and fifty, a hundred and twenty.
Her first thought was Ollie’s photography. As far as she knew, he never exhibited his work, but she remembered Claudia telling her what a brilliant photographer he was and how a friend of hers had asked him to take pictures of her eighteen-month-old child, and he had spent the morning following the little boy round the park, waiting
for the right moments. Two hundred pounds for a photoshoot was a possibility.
Miss Havisham had appeared and was writhing round Erin’s ankles, hoping for food.
‘Oh, all right then,’ she told her, ‘but you’re as fat as a pig. How many dinners have you eaten this week?’
The cat let out a yowl and showed its sharp little teeth, and Erin was afraid she might be growing fond of it. Then her phone beeped. Jon? Someone had spotted Ollie? But the text was from Jennie, saying she was waiting for a plumber to fix the boiler but still hoped to reach Ava’s Place within the hour.
Replacing the list of names, Erin picked up the bin and left Claudia’s den, closing the door behind her with a guilty feeling she should never have been there in the first place. On the other hand, what was she supposed to do about the money, and the house, and all the bills that were bound to roll in? An unexpected feeling caught her off guard, anger with Claudia, but for what? For not being more careful, for leaving her to deal with the aftermath, for lying in a hospital bed, looking so serene and so alive.
Pushing the uncomfortable thoughts out of her head, she hurried towards the kitchen, followed by the cat.
Then she saw the corpse of a mouse.
It was headless, and what was left of it was lying on its side, bedraggled and with one tiny paw stretched out. Her first instinct was to ignore it, wait for Jon to come round with Maeve and ask him to dispose of it. But leaving it lying there would be worse so, finding a brush a pan, she took a deep breath and, averting her eyes, swept it up and carried it to the black wheelie bin at the front.
Jennie’s partner, Ben, was coming up the road.
‘Hi.’ He waved, crossing to her side and dropping his bags of shopping on the pavement. ‘How are you? Sorry, silly question.’
‘I’m meeting up with Jennie quite soon. Coffee at Ava’s Place.’
‘Good. Actually, Erin . . . No, sorry, in the circumstances it doesn’t seem right to ask, but have you noticed anything, about Jennie I mean?’
‘I’ve only seen her once since . . .’