Last Kiss Goodnight

by Teresa Driscoll

  ‘Then we’re good, Martha.’

  Two hundred miles away and Glenda, the woman who will always call herself Matthew’s mother, is also rising early. It is his birthday. Her Matthew. And she gives up any hope of more sleep to leave Matthew’s father snoring and to creep downstairs. She makes tea which she cannot drink, closes the windows to the wind – rattling the shutters – and in the end decides to start the cake.

  No matter that he is not here.

  From the shelf above the fridge she reaches very carefully for the bright pink book which contains the recipe – a treasured legacy written on lined blue writing paper in fading ink. Her grandmother’s handwriting so beautiful – long elegant loops for the g’s and j’s and y’s. Glenda traces her finger across the page. In truth she knows this recipe by heart but loves this moment – taking down the book. Inviting her grandmother to help.

  Glenda works quietly, removing the lids of tins and cartons as slowly and carefully as possible, weighing the ingredients into separate white, china bowls.

  Across two oceans now, and at thirty two thousand feet for Josef Karpati it is technically time for breakfast. Most of the other first-class passengers have already righted their seats and allowed the cabin assistants to store away their blankets and pillows. But Josef is not ready for the next day. The next country. The next studio.

  He shakes his head as the stewardess taps his shoulder, coffee pot in hand. And then a jolt from this turbulence. The coffee nearly spilled. I’m sorry, sir. He says that it is fine. She is not to worry. Fastens his belt. And then he rolls back towards the window, grateful that the neighbouring seats are unoccupied. He is heading for another five-star hotel which will look precisely like the five-star hotel he has just left. Sometimes he tries to imagine his mother in these suites – rushing from room to room, stroking the marble in the bathrooms. Bouncing on the huge bed. But mostly he does not. Mostly he just wonders what on earth he is doing in this life.

  Back in Aylesborough Matthew now wakes fully – surprised and at first disorientated by the still unfamiliar surroundings. The window of his room at Mrs Hill’s bed and breakfast is in the wrong place – compared to his room at home, that is – and it still startles him that the light is coming from the wrong direction. Today, it is the light from the street lamp just outside the window – still dark beyond it.

  He has Geoffrey to thank for the introduction – sorted it all out that very first day. Mrs Hill takes in only a few guests over the winter months. She is quite a brusque woman on the outside – no family around now to soften her – but she has taken to Matthew, especially since coaxing him to play for her sometimes in the evenings on the little battered upright piano, neglected in the corner of the dining room. Elton John she likes. And the Beatles. Let it be, Mrs Hill. Let it be. Her guest house has seen better days – the wallpaper faded and peeling in places – but it is spotless and Mrs Hill cooks heavenly breakfasts; thick, salty bacon and fried eggs with crisp, brown, frilly petticoats.

  Matthew wonders if he should tell Mrs Hill that it is his birthday but decides – no. She may think he is fishing for a treat. A fuss. And then the questions. Why is he not spending it with his family? He should phone his mother again today. Yes. He should do that much. But aside from this, he will pretend it is just another day.

  Which no one at this moment can know that it is not…

  Geoffrey is the first to get the news.

  By the time Matthew arrives at work, he is sitting, ashen-faced on an old piano stool which doubles as the seat for the desk in the corner of the shop.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Matthew puts his bag down alongside the door to the office as Wendy appears in the doorway. She is holding a letter and only now does Matthew notice the identical brown envelope in Geoffrey’s hand.

  ‘So you too, Geoffrey?’ Wendy’s voice is trembling.

  For a moment the two friends just stare at each other.

  ‘Is everything all right? Shall I make tea? Has something happened?’

  There is no reaction – and so Matthew retreats to the office to give them some space, flicking on the kettle. Through the crack in the door he watches Geoffrey hug Wendy tightly as she dabs her eyes with a tissue and then they are comparing their letters – Geoffrey pushing his glasses up his nose and tracing paragraphs first on his paper and then Wendy’s.

  ‘But they can’t do this? Surely?’ Wendy is spit whispering now and Matthew struggles to make out the exchange – guilty at eavesdropping but distressed to see them like this.

  He can at least provide a really good cup of tea. Yes. And so, just as his mother taught him, Matthew heats the little teapot with boiling water, swirling it around and around three times, anticlockwise, and tipping it into the sink before making the tea. Then, as it stews, he stares for a time at the telephone – wondering if he should phone his mother. From the office. He has already made a brief, second call from the pay phone at Mrs Hill’s. Told his mum which town – on the strict understanding she does not tell his father. He peers again through the crack to see Geoffrey and Wendy still whispering together – Geoffrey tapping the letter with the back of his hand. Matthew dials. Three rings. Four. Five…

  ‘Hello?’ His mother never quotes the number. Always sounds startled like this – as if she cannot understand the source of the ringing.

  ‘Hello, Mum. Just a quick call again. I’m at work.’

  ‘Oh Matthew. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, Mum. I’m fine. Really.’

  ‘Are you coming home today?’

  ‘No, Mum. I’m sorry. Not yet. I can’t.’

  A long pause.

  ‘I baked you a cake.’

  Matthew bites into his lip and clears his throat against the surge in his chest.

  ‘Oh Mum, you shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘Well. Just in case. Never mind. It was no trouble, love.’

  Matthew looks at the teapot and can picture the larger blue teapot his mother uses. Tea leaves and a proper strainer. Never been convinced by teabags.

  ‘Look I’m going to have to go, Mum. But I’m fine. I’ve been up to the hospital. It’s closed. Being converted into houses and apartments. And I’ve got an appointment to see someone in social services. Next week.’

  Another long pause.

  ‘Is there any way you could help? The papers, I mean? I’m going to need the adoption papers.’

  ‘Love – they’re locked away. Your father… he…’

  Matthew puts his hand over the receiver so that she will not hear his breathing. Heavier now. He doesn’t want another row with his mother. Not today. Please not today.

  ‘Look – I’m sorry about the cake, Mum. I’ll ring you again very soon. I promise.’

  ‘You’re eating all right, Matthew?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ Matthew can picture the cake – tall and spongy with large air bubbles and a thick, oozing layer of chocolate fudge filling. His favourite. Three candles. Four. Thirteen…

  ‘Happy birthday, son.’

  She says it too late – over the dialling tone. Like a kiss to a child already fallen asleep.

  Matthew finishes the tea quickly and coughs loudly to announce his return from the little office to the shop floor. Both Geoffrey and Wendy reach gratefully for the drinks and look more composed.

  ‘We’ve had a bit of bad news, Matthew.’ Geoffrey sips immediately at his drink. ‘The council want us out. Notices to quit. They’re not renewing our lease.’

  And then, before he can explain further, the bell tinkles the arrival of Maria’s husband, Carlo – sweaty and out of breath.

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude. But do you know where Martha is?’

  ‘Martha?’ Three voices at once.

  ‘It’s Maria. She’s gone to the council offices.’ Carlo is looking at the letters, still in Wendy and Geoffrey’s hands. He pulls a face of knowing. ‘So – all of us then? Our café and you two as well?’

  ‘Well – good for Maria.’ Wendy’s expression ch
anging now. Defiant. ‘To go straight to the council. Yes. Good for Maria. That’s what we should have done.’

  But Carlo is shaking his head.

  ‘No, no. You don’t understand.’ He looks hesitant. Then embarrassed. And finally afraid.

  ‘She’s taken a frying pan.’

  14

  At the Council House reception a very pleasant young lady is now spectacularly out of her depth. Anna-Louise, according to her name badge (Lou to her friends), has only just completed her refresher training. She has been briefed therefore on the very latest advice on how to handle a suspicious package; how to evacuate (without panic) in the event of a fire and how to effect the Heimlich Manoeuvre in the event of choking.

  There has been no guidance on how to handle Italian grandmothers brandishing kitchen equipment.

  ‘Can we try to keep calm, please? If you could just calm yourself…’

  Maria is by now enjoying the support of a not inconsiderable crowd – a jumble of bored and impatient local residents, queuing to air various grievances with council officials. An overweight couple with five children building a mountain out of the spare chairs. An elderly woman muttering about her bins and oversexed tom cats.

  They pull out all the rubbish and then howl, I tell you. All night…

  Maria, in no mood to queue, bangs her frying pan on one of the columns stretching floor to ceiling, evidently and ominously playing an essential role in keeping the first floor in position.

  ‘I want to speak to Mr Fullman.’ Smash. ‘Now!’

  Though the column in question is painted, suggesting plasterwork, the sound from the frying pan attack – smash – is surprisingly tuneful – confirming metal on metal.

  Anna-Louise explains that sorry but there is no way you will be able to see Mr Fullman without an appointment but if you would like to leave a message? Maria repeats her assault so that a high note is resounding over and over as Wendy, Geoffrey, Carlo and Matthew arrive.

  ‘Top A,’ Matthew whispers to Geoffrey, unable to help himself, for all the chaos.

  ‘Oh Maria. Please. This is not the way.’ Carlo puts both hands up to his head, covering his ears.

  ‘Tell me where else you can buy polenta in Aylesborough?’ Maria waves the letter from Mr Fullman’s office.

  Anna-Louise again presses the little security buzzer beneath her desk.

  ‘You close me down and where will the fishermen go – eh? Who will pay the loan on my new equipment? My new oven?’

  ‘Close you down?’ A tall, moustachioed man among the waiting crowd stands up.

  ‘They’re not closing down Maria’s café?’ He is looking around to see if others share his outrage.

  Still waving her letter, Maria now recognises the man as a Thursday regular (full breakfast – double sausage, sunnyside eggs)…

  ‘Ending my lease, they are. No consultation. No nothing. Three months’ notice and I’m out.’

  There are gasps and mutterings among the crowd. Anna-Louise picks up the phone as Maria resumes her onslaught with the frying pan.

  ‘If you don’t stop that right now, madam, I’m going to have to call the police.’

  ‘Santa Maria! The police?’ Carlo makes the sign of the cross.

  ‘Get Mr Fullman down here to see these people. Right now.’ The breakfast customer is still standing – jabbing his finger to underline each word. Right now, do you hear me? Right now.

  Anna-Louise – to hell with the bloody course – is now dialling 999 as Martha, breathless, appears in the doorway, Kate close behind.

  ‘We’ve only just heard…’

  Maria meanwhile is following the customer’s lead, using the frying pan as percussion to emphasise each of her own words. My – smash – father – smash – gave – smash – me – smash – that – smash – café.

  And then suddenly, as she mentions her father, Maria’s face changes. Her shoulders begin to shake – her mouth twitching too so that Martha is the first to take on board that her friend is in real trouble.

  Deeper trouble than others realise.

  There is no time to think. That is the problem.

  Looking back later, Martha will confide in Kate that if there had been time to think, she one hundred per cent would not have done it.

  But in the absence of time and options, Martha falls back on an old instinct – a buried reflex from long ago. And so, unthinking, and in a moment of unexpected panic, she does what she had once done regularly in times of extreme stress.

  Very quietly, and ever so quickly, Martha takes all her clothes off.

  The reaction is as inevitable as it is instantaneous. Loud gasps from the adults – some turning away in shock, laughter from two of the errant children, who allow the chair mountain to collapse – and for Anna-Louise temporary paralysis. Phone in hand, she cannot move her jaw as a voice on the line repeatedly enquires after the nature of the emergency. Fire, ambulance or police? What is the emergency, please? Hello? Hello?

  Carlo is so stunned, it is a few seconds before he has the presence even to turn away.

  But for Martha it is only one reaction she cares about. It is Maria she watches. And just as Martha hopes, the shock and the extremity of the gesture stops her friend instantly in her tracks, diluting her stress and slowing her breathing as they share the stage spectacularly now, so that the frying pan is finally inactive as two security guards appear – one of them rushing forward instantly to remove his jacket in an attempt to cover Martha up.

  ‘That’s it – show over. Everyone out. Out, please. All of you.’ The second security guard holds his arms wide like a farmer controlling a herd of sheep and ushers the stunned crowd towards the door at the other side of the room as Anna-Louise finally finds her voice to explain to the police officer on the phone that there is a naked woman and a woman with a frying pan in the reception hall of the council offices and could someone come, please. Quickly.

  The security guard’s jacket is in fact too short to restore Martha’s dignity completely and so while Martha stands still as a statue, eyes locked on Maria, Kate is the only one who does not, through embarrassment, avert her gaze from Martha.

  For Kate it is not just the surprise of the streak, but the shock of Martha’s body. This lean, fit frame with its flat stomach – the slimness of her hips. This taught, enviably muscular body – toned from the harsh physical work over the summers across Europe. But the biggest and most intriguing surprise?

  The faint, smile-shaped caesarean scar on Martha’s stomach which precisely matches her own…

  Part II

  Part Two

  15

  The first time Martha woke properly in Millrose Mount – sufficiently, that is, to rise above the sedation – she had been there two days already.

  She was just eighteen years old.

  As she widened her eyes to the shock of the cracks in the high ceiling, with its glaring striplights and the incongruous addition of a large but immobile fan, there was the jolt of déjà vu. Also a nurse towering right alongside her bed.

  ‘Now then, young lady – are you ready to stop with the thrashing and the drama and let us try to help you?’

  A blurred tumble of scenes played out in her head. Thrashing, and yes – a lot of shouting. I need to get back there. I mean it. The police. I need the police.

  Martha’s heart and head began to pound in unison as she realised the echo of the voice in the midst of this cascade of jumbled images – of pushing and shoving and of pain, something sharp in her arm – was her own. Her strongest urge still was to sit bolt upright.

  And then, heart booming, her mind suddenly stopped. An elastic band stretched and stretched almost to the point of inevitability; the snap imminent but everything paused at the very moment of full extension. She stilled herself. She held her breath. She fought against the panic to let the tension ease ever so slightly, bit by tiny bit, so that she could feel the sweat on her back and smell the odour of stale body. Hers. She stared some more at the cracks in t
he ceiling. The cobwebs on the dormant fan.

  ‘What day is it?’ It was a different version of her own voice again. Raspy and thin. Her throat incredibly dry. She felt woozy and disorientated. Detached and afraid.

  ‘Thursday.’

  And then the enormity of it all hit her. The true meaning of the maelstrom of the sounds and the blurred, confused images. The thrashing and the screaming. If it was really Thursday, she had lost two days.

  ‘So, you feeling calmer? Going to behave so we can we can get you up? Have a nice bath. Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  During that first bath, supervised in silence by the same nurse who kept looking at her watch and tutting, Martha stared down at the caesarean scar on her stomach, ragged and red and magnified through the water, and tried to stop crying – tears dripping into the water. Tried instead to work out the part she would need to play next.

  The part that would get her through this nightmare. Undo this mistake. Get her to a phone. Get her to the police. Get. Her. Out.

  She honestly thought if she could just find a way to fight the adrenalin and the panic, she would find some way to work this out. But Martha was very young.

  And very wrong.

  Over the coming days she tried every part she could think of to try to change her new and shocking circumstance. She played up. She played down. She hurt herself. She stopped hurting herself. She screamed. She was quiet. She took her drugs. She spat them out in the nurses’ faces.

  Nothing changed anything.

  On the rare occasions she was taken to the small consulting room to speak to her doctor, he would place in front of her this huge and unrecognisable version of why she was there.

  And she would interrupt him and tell the real story and he would shake his head and look at the nurse. More tutting and mumbling about their duty of care and how much they all wanted to help her. To keep her safe. But it was an important first step for her to face up to what had happened…