Scars

by Dan Scottow

  Would anyone miss her? Would anyone care?

  She could end it all so easily. All she has to do is let go of the rope.

  She removes one palm from the line, letting it dangle loosely by her side as she swings. Her heart feels as though it might explode from her chest. And then as quickly as the thought entered her mind, it is gone. She lifts her hand up, gripping the rope tightly once more. Digging her heels into the earth, she stops the momentum, and steps back from the brink, returning to her bicycle. She diverges from the road, but before too long the bike can’t handle the terrain. She abandons it, leaning it against some rocks jutting threateningly from the ground, continuing her journey on foot. Eventually emerging from the woodland, she glances about, blinking frantically as her eyes adjust to the bright sunshine. Close to the edge of another cliff sits a chocolate-box cottage. It makes her think of the witch’s gingerbread house from Hansel and Gretel. So small, so cute, it looks almost cartoon-like. She heads toward it. A wild rose rambles up the dry-stone wall around the perimeter of the property, its pale-pink flowers casting their strong perfume through the air. Blackberry bushes grow tall along the path, their blossoms promising an abundance of fruit later in the summer.

  Lucy laps it all up, breathing in the sweet, freshly scented air. A pyramid of stones is stacked on the ground. She stops beside it, thinking how clever it is, before continuing towards the property. As she approaches, an elderly lady who has been watching her curiously, stands from a bench in the front garden, waving. She is roughly five feet tall, and rotund, with rosy cheeks. Her face is covered with years of wrinkles and smile lines. A long brown paisley skirt flows in the breeze as she waddles across the lawn. She wears a thin white cotton blouse with short sleeves, and black plimsoles on her feet.

  Short pale-grey hair sticks up messily in every direction. She beams broadly, revealing a mouthful of straight but yellowing teeth.

  ‘Hello there!’ she calls. ‘Beautiful day.’ Her voice is like honey. Her accent pure west coast.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Lucy replies. She approaches the wall of the garden, and the woman leans forwards.

  ‘Not seen you around here before.’

  ‘No, I arrived yesterday. I’m working at Willow Cottage.’

  The lady raises her eyebrows dramatically.

  ‘For the artist?’ The way she says it, she makes it sound like a dirty word.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I’m Lucy.’ She offers her hand.

  ‘Lynda,’ she replies, shaking it tenderly. ‘Lynda Checkley.’

  Lucy reaches up, mopping moisture from her brow.

  ‘You must be roasting.’ The old lady eyes her long-sleeved jersey and jeans.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if it might rain. Didn’t want to get caught out,’ she replies.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  Lucy swings her backpack off her shoulder.

  ‘I’ve got some water somewhere in here…’ She fumbles with the buckles of the rucksack.

  The woman swats both her hands towards Lucy playfully.

  ‘Oh nonsense, I’ll get you something cold from the fridge. Come, sit with me. I don’t often have visitors these days.’

  Lucy checks her watch, and then ambles through the gate, taking a seat on the bench. Lynda disappears inside, and Lucy leans back, admiring the view. Willow Cottage has a wonderful outlook, but this place, at the top of a hill, almost on the very edge of a cliff… it’s breathtaking.

  The woman returns with a glass of something cloudy, ice cubes clinking together as she totters towards Lucy. She hands her the beaker, and a strong scent of lemon hits her. She takes a sip, the liquid refreshing on her lips. She presses the glass into her cheek, closing her eyes.

  Lynda offers her a cookie. It’s still warm.

  ‘Just out of the oven,’ she says cheerfully, sitting beside Lucy.

  ‘You’ve got a wonderful view here,’ she says, smiling.

  ‘Yes, I’m incredibly lucky.’ The woman surveys the surroundings, nodding to herself with satisfaction.

  ‘So,’ she continues, ‘you’re helping with the husband I take it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lynda shakes her head.

  ‘Was a terrible thing that happened.’

  Lucy assumes she means the accident. She nods, shrugging.

  ‘Anyway, young lady, I can tell you some stories, I’m sure…’

  She laughs heartily. It’s rasping, infectious. Heartfelt. Lucy can’t help but smile.

  And the two women begin to chat like old friends.

  14

  Diana

  Diana sits at her garden table. She shouldn’t have snapped at Lucy, she realises that. She feels foolish. Doesn’t want to scare the poor girl away on the first day. She sips a glass of cold white wine as she stares out across the water. The loch is flat calm, like a shiny royal-blue mirror. After all these years, it still amazes Diana how changeable the surface is.

  She hasn’t been into her studio today. Can’t bring herself to look at the portrait. Her limbs feel heavy, sore. She probably wouldn’t manage to paint anyway. She pulls a pot of pills from her pocket, popping two into her mouth without even looking at the label. It doesn’t matter. They all have the same end goal. She closes her eyes, washing the tablets down with her wine. The alcohol dispels the bitter chemical taste from the medicine.

  She holds her hand up before her face. It trembles, and she screws her fingers into a fist, shaking her head. She hears Lucy before she sees her, trudging through the grass, wheeling the bicycle beside her. She leans it against the wall of the house.

  ‘Pleasant ride?’ Diana calls out.

  ‘Very, but I couldn’t get too far on this.’ Lucy gestures to her ride. ‘The hill is too steep. I abandoned it and walked most of the way.’

  She takes a bunch of wild flowers from the basket on the front of the bike. Lifting them to her nose, she inhales deeply. Smiling, she carries them into the kitchen. Diana hears her humming from inside. The girl returns to the doorway.

  ‘I’m going to prepare some soup for Richard now. Would you like some?’

  ‘Not for me, thank you.’ She looks at the empty wine bottle on the table.

  ‘Could you be a dear, though, and open another Sauvignon Blanc from the fridge and bring it to me, please?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She disappears inside, emerging a few minutes later with the wine. She picks up the empty bottle, returning to the kitchen. Diana hears Lucy rummaging around, clattering pots and pans. She hums the whole time. Diana closes her eyes, letting the melody take her away. She pours herself a large glass, knocking it back. She refills and begins to sip. Before long, she hears sizzling, and the smell of onions cooking drifts outside. Saliva pools in Diana’s mouth, and she holds her hand to her lips, leaning forwards in her chair. She doubles over.

  Still Lucy hums.

  There’s a taste on Diana’s tongue, like bile, or perhaps it’s the chemical residue from the pills. She downs the rest of her glass of wine.

  A dizziness washes over her. She tries to stand but falls down into her seat. She glances at the bottle on the table. It’s almost empty. Trying to stand again, she steadies herself on her cane. Taking a few paces forward, the nausea radiates through her, her head spins, eyes roll up in their sockets. She blinks, trying to push through it.

  ‘Lucy!’ she calls out. In her peripheral vision she sees the girl appear in the doorway. She steps out onto the grass as Diana falls face forward to the ground.

  15

  Lucy

  ‘You’re back! You gave me quite a scare there,’ Lucy says as Diana’s eyes slowly open. She glances about, blinking a few times.

  ‘Keep this pressed to your head.’ Lucy passes her a tea towel wrapped around some ice cubes. Diana pushes it against the side of her face.

  ‘What happened?’ Her gaze darts round the garden.

  ‘You took a tumble as I was coming out of the kitchen. You called me, and as I stepped outside, I saw you
hit the floor.’

  Diana is on the grass, with her knees pulled up in front of her.

  ‘Would you like me to call a doctor?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m okay. I think I just stood up too quickly. It happens from time to time. These pills…’

  Lucy’s eyes flick to the wine bottle on the garden table, but she doesn’t say anything. Diana follows her gaze, then looks away.

  ‘So this has happened before?’ Lucy asks, her voice thick with concern.

  ‘Once or twice. Sometimes my brain works before my limbs do. You would think I’d be used to this by now.’ She nods towards her leg.

  ‘Here, let’s get you up.’ Lucy reaches down, placing her hands under Diana’s armpits. Diana braces herself against the ground and pushes.

  ‘Slowly now,’ Lucy whispers.

  They shuffle to the chair, and Diana slides down onto the slats.

  ‘Lucky you landed on the grass, but I think you still may have quite a shiner. The ice should help. Fingers crossed.’

  Diana nods, avoiding Lucy’s eyes.

  ‘I’d feel more comfortable if we had a doctor take a look at you. Are you sure I can’t call someone?’

  ‘No, honestly. That’s not necessary. I’m a tough old bird. I’ve been through much worse. Besides, it would take him forever to get here.’ She smiles.

  ‘But if you ever do need to contact him, there’s a diary in the Welsh dresser in the lounge. You’ll find any relevant numbers in there.’

  Lucy nods.

  ‘I need to check the stove,’ she says eventually. She hurries towards the kitchen, glancing over her shoulder as she reaches the door.

  Diana sits on the seat, holding the ice pack to her face, shaking her head. Lucy returns to the hob, stirring the soup. It simmers and she breathes in, popping in some fresh herbs, and a palmful of salt.

  She turns off the gas, pouring the broth into the jug of the blender, whizzing the mixture to a smooth gloop, adding more water to thin it down, and puts some in a mug, carrying it out to Diana.

  ‘I know you said no, but you should really eat something. It will make you feel better.’

  Diana takes it, nodding, and blows on the surface before sipping.

  Lucy leaves her, heading back into the house. She slings a tea towel over one shoulder, placing a bowl of soup and a spoon onto a tray, carrying it out of the kitchen to Richard’s room.

  She knocks on the door before entering. She doesn’t know why, but it just seems the right thing to do. She pushes it open, stepping inside.

  ‘Lunchtime!’ she calls. Richard is in his usual spot, in front of the window. She wheels the chair round, sliding the free-standing tray table over his lap. She places the soup down and spoons some up to his mouth. The edge of the spoon clatters against his teeth, his jaw locked tight.

  ‘Come on, Richard, open up,’ Lucy whispers.

  His jaw remains clamped shut. She wiggles the spoon, trying to force it inside, and the brown liquid spills down his chin, dripping onto his clean white shirt.

  Lucy sighs. She pulls the tea towel from her shoulder, mopping his face, then attempts to shovel more into his mouth. Again, it drips down his front.

  ‘Not hungry? Okay, not to worry.’ She dabs at the mark. An orange stain remains on the fabric. She picks up the tray and exits the room. Richard continues to stare at the wall.

  She returns to the kitchen, pouring the bowl of soup down the sink, along with what is left from the pot on the hob, and washes the dishes. Leaving them to drain, she strolls outside to Diana, glad to see some colour has returned to her cheeks.

  ‘You’re looking much better.’

  Diana nods, handing her the empty mug.

  Lucy sits in the empty seat beside her. She stares out over the water, the sun glistening on its ripples.

  Two swallows chase each other in circles, skimming the surface of the loch as they chirp playfully. They dart past the end of the jetty and back out towards the middle of the lake. Lucy smiles.

  She glances at the wine bottle on the table. Considering what she should say.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, Diana. It’s maybe not my place to, but I’m speaking as an ex-nurse now.’

  Diana looks at her, narrowing her eyes.

  ‘You’re on some pretty heavy meds there,’ Lucy continues. ‘You might want to take it easy on the alcohol. Next time you fall you may not be so lucky.’

  Diana laughs.

  ‘You’re right. It’s certainly not your place to say. You’re here to look after my husband and to clean my house. You can keep your judgements to yourself. I can take care of myself.’

  Lucy nods, standing, smoothing down the front of her jersey. She has overstepped the mark, and she knows it. She returns to the kitchen, leaving Diana to watch the birds.

  16

  Lucy

  Sitting on the edge of her bed looking out of the window, she can hear Diana pottering around downstairs. She wants to go down, try to clear the air, but she feels she might only make things worse, so she decides to leave well enough alone. Feeling foolish, she shakes her head, cursing under her breath. Having made the decision to mention Diana’s drinking, now she would have to live with it.

  If Diana chose to contact the agency because of the incident and ask for a replacement… well, that would be unfortunate. With any luck, it wouldn’t come to that.

  She crosses to the window, glancing down to the garden table. Diana sits with the dregs of a bottle of wine. Two empties lay discarded on the grass beside her. She has her back to the house, looking out across the loch, sipping from her glass.

  The room is hot, stuffy; the air stifling. Lucy pushes the sash up, but it does little to cool her. Hearing the movement, Diana peers over her shoulder up towards Lucy. Straight into her eyes.

  Lucy turns away, placing her hand to her face. She chews her thumbnail, shaking her head again.

  She decides to go for a walk. Heading out of her room, she darts down the stairs, stopping at the bottom as she sees the stain. She crouches down, running her palm across the smooth floorboards. Diana stumbles into the hallway from the kitchen, holding a fresh bottle of wine.

  She glares. Her eyes flick to the foot of the stairs, and she turns to go.

  ‘What is it?’ Lucy asks. ‘The stain, I mean.’

  Diana stops but doesn’t face Lucy.

  ‘No idea. It was there when I purchased the house. There’s a man coming next week to sand the boards down, try to get rid of it.’

  She hobbles away through the kitchen, out into the garden. Lucy narrows her eyes, lifting the runner which covers the stain. It’s large, spilling across the hall floor from the base of the stairs.

  Dark. Ominous.

  Why now, Diana? If it’s been here all along, why are you choosing to fix it now? she thinks.

  She stands, dropping the corner of the rug. She pops her head into Richard’s room. His eyes are closed, so she doesn’t disturb him. She heads out through the kitchen, into the garden, avoiding Diana’s stare as she leaves.

  17

  Diana

  She has drunk way too much. She knows that.

  It has always been the same. If someone tells her she shouldn’t be doing something, she does it all the more. It used to exasperate her mother.

  Diana’s face clouds, shaking the memories away.

  She stands from her chair. Swaying, she retrieves her stick, leaning her weight on it. She eyes the four empty bottles on the lawn, before downing the dregs of her glass. Waste not, want not, she thinks.

  She takes a tentative step towards the house. The horizon swirls around her. Lucy has gone for a walk. There’s nobody here to help her if she falls again, so she continues slowly. One foot forward, a rest, then the next. It takes her longer than it should to reach the kitchen. The whole time the world spins every which way. She lunges forwards, grasping the door frame, and waits while her head catches up with her body. She steps inside, her legs feel heavy. She smells smoke a
gain, stronger now.

  But there’s nobody else in the house.

  Her vision is double, blurry. Birdsong echoes in her ears, her senses seem heightened. A splash from the loch seems closer than it should.

  Where is she?

  Who is she?

  She’s back in the room; can’t remember the last occasion she was this drunk. She limps to the sink, just in time to throw up. Putrid stinking vomit splatters the white porcelain, the smell making her gag more. Opening the tap, swallowing down icy water, she rinses her mouth. Suddenly parched, she drinks it down greedily. Leaning on the edge of the worktop, she turns, glancing towards the door to the hall. Her head bobs to the front, then back. She feels like an idiot, getting into this state. At her age, she should know better.

  She moves forwards, taking baby steps. With each movement, she fears she may be sick again.

  Exiting the kitchen, she opens Richard’s door. She sees only blurred shapes. His face a pink mass in a spinning psychedelic tunnel.

  ‘Richard?’ she calls. She can hear his laboured breathing.

  ‘Richard… I’m not… I don’t feel too well.’

  Leaving the door wide open, she heads down the hall to her bedroom. Struggling to breathe, she clutches her chest, screwing her eyes tightly shut. Everything sways. The shapes around her, the window, the dresser… they seem to shrink into pinpoints, then balloon out again to full size, like a bad acid trip.

  Feeling her way round the walls of her room, she edges to the bed, collapsing forward onto the mattress. Her leg throbs, even the scar on her face seems sore.

  She pulls open her bedside drawer. The entire thing comes free, clattering to the floor. She fumbles around on the ground for pills, grabbing the first bottle her hand falls upon. She can’t see the label. Can’t even see the pot. It’s just a blur of shapes and colours. She flicks off the lid with her thumb, spilling its contents over the duvet. Retrieving a handful of tablets, she throws them into her mouth, swallowing without water. They stick in her throat, the bitter chemical taste rising to her tongue. Burying her face in the pillow, she prays for it all to stop.