by Lisa Sell
She knocked on the Pratts’ door, deciding to walk to school with Kelly willingly. They might even become friends. Stranger things had happened.
5
Present
Kay is a tornado brandishing a can of polish. She continues cleaning, viewing me as part of the furniture. The disapproving look for staying late again doesn’t go unnoticed. I’m thankful for the tinny music from her headphones, distracting her from giving another lecture on how I work too hard.
My office is a second home. A coffee machine, toaster, and kettle are added comforts. Returning to a silent cottage isn’t always worth the drive. Sometimes I need to be where others have been. Staying behind where activity and conversation have taken place satisfies my introverted nature.
Doreen’s e-mail has invaded my sanctuary. It’s odd how she thinks I was Kelly’s friend. She must know the decision to walk to school together wasn’t mine. Friends aren’t in the habit of killing each other either. Not that Doreen knows about it, and never will.
She has Ellen and Claire’s help. She doesn’t need me. Claire won’t get away lightly for giving Doreen my e-mail address. I shouldn’t have joined Facebook or accepted Claire’s friend request. Always focused on getting counselling business, Nicole sold social media as a useful networking tool. I couldn’t explain why I needed to hide.
The opportunity to find my sister and my old best friend, Johnny, convinced me to sign up. Mandy isn’t on there. Johnny ignored my friend request and messages. Scant details on a profile are all I have left of him.
When his picture changed to a wedding photo, the new millennium lost its shine and I gave up trying to contact him. Of course someone married Johnny. He was quite a catch, even as a boy: floppy fringe, ridiculously tall, and with a kind heart.
His wife’s heavy make-up and guarded posture made me question his choice. My jealousy was surprising. I told myself to get over it. Johnny doesn’t care about me. Not telling me his family was moving, a few months after Kelly died, confirms it.
I’m no longer a girl obsessed with Johnny Rose. A teenager’s flighty dreams have no place in a grown-up world. I’ve worked hard to leave the past behind. Many mistakes were made along the way but I’m finally succeeding. Doreen will not jeopardise it.
‘Fancy a bevvy?’ I wish Nicole didn’t creep around.
When I began working here, I changed my office layout. Facing the door was important. Regardless, Nicole’s stealthy ninja skills allow her to enter rooms unseen and unheard.
‘Not tonight, thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ve got the final assignments to complete.’
Studying after work is routine. I could do it at home but the television would go on and reality TV lures me in. Doodle manipulates my time too. He chews pens, sprawls on the laptop, and meows until he’s stuffed with kitty treats.
‘You’re no fun.’ Nicole sulks at the loss of a social partner.
I know she’s joking. Nicole’s encouragement convinced me to begin the counselling degree. She noted my compassion for our clients. Listening to her gripes about being married to an oncology consultant, who’s hardly ever at home, was added to my skill set.
‘Two assignments to research and write and I’m done.’ I make it sound easy.
I had to study an extra year because of appalling previous qualifications. There are also the complications of a demanding full-time job and having enough baggage to make me a more suitable client than counsellor. Still, I’m almost there. Soon I’ll be joining the Headway Practice as a counsellor rather than balancing the books, fixing printers, and keeping the clients rolling in.
Nicole understands how much this degree means. That’s why I interpret the wave as she leaves as one of solidarity and not grumpiness. Two glasses of wine are always her limit anyway. Guilt makes her leave the pub in a panic. Her children need one parent to show their face before bedtime. Nicole will not, ‘Allow my kids to think mountain girl, Heidi, is their new mummy.’ I tried to explain the au pair is a Dane called Eve, but an irate Nicole is a hard woman to reason with.
I’m surrounded by reminders of mothers: Nicole, Doreen, and my own. Although labelling what I had as a mother is far too generous. When it came to Mandy and me, Patricia Taylor didn’t have a maternal bone in her body.
6
13th July 1985
Patricia had no patience for anyone who fell short of her exacting standards. Apart from her son, Liam, the Taylor family proved to be a disappointment. Liam pandered to her narcissistic needs and was seemingly obedient. Being attractive benefitted him. Visuals meant everything to Patricia. Her roots never showed, a hair was never out of place, and make-up enhanced every feature.
On the perfect appearance front, her daughters were a let down. They’d once been bright young hopes for moulding into Patricia’s image. Both were pretty but oblivious. Jennifer and Amanda refused to bend to perfection’s will. Jennifer was going through a phase of wearing shapeless second-hand clothing. To Patricia’s horror, her daughter scoured charity shops, rooting out clothes people probably died in.
After Jen purchased a cardigan, a neighbour expressed her joy to Patricia that her cast-offs still had some wear in them. Patricia was humiliated by her offspring wearing the estate’s rags. It was even more shameful to Patricia that Jennifer owned the garment of a woman rumoured to have an uncomfortably close relationship with her own son.
Amanda’s shortcomings were Jennifer’s fault. After all, she provided most of her sister’s care. Under Jennifer’s supervision, Amanda didn’t embrace femininity either. Her penchant for wearing dungarees was an abomination. Amanda had such potential, with naturally white-blonde hair Patricia would kill for. It was wasted on her child.
Patricia didn’t understand these girls who changed their names to Jen and Mandy. She’d tried to establish them with feminine names. Whenever they used the shortened versions, rage stirred within her. Patricia was convinced they did it to wind her up.
‘For crying out loud, Jennifer. Move this stethoscope away from under my flaming feet.’ Patricia kicked the offending item.
Jen grabbed the stethoscope, concerned for its fate. She took a seat alongside Mandy, who was blowing bubbles in the paddling pool.
Cushiony grass lessened the throb in Patricia’s foot. She wondered, once again, why her daughter persisted in the foolish dream of becoming a doctor. Twelve-year-olds changed their minds every five minutes. Jennifer would too. Doctors didn’t wear The Cure T-shirts and grubby clodhopper boots. Patricia cursed Mike for giving Jennifer money to buy her own clothes and allowing her to pursue an unobtainable future career. His belief in his daughters bordered on the ridiculous.
Patricia refused to have any dealings with the local GP who had recently visited Jen’s school to talk about his job. While the other children numbed each other’s arms with a blood pressure cuff, Jen was transfixed by the doctor’s speech. She’d wanted to be a doctor since she was eight. It began when Liz Norman, from Picasso Way, gave her a toy doctor’s case. Soon after, Patricia disposed of it. The gift confirmed Liz’s continual interference in Jennifer’s life. Dumping it kept Jennifer and Liz in their places. Patricia knew Jen put the rubbish out. It wasn’t about the box being gone but rather that Patricia allowed no one to have aspirations above the station she allocated. Finding the precious item at the bottom of the bin, Jen retrieved it. Losing it meant letting go of her ambition. Afterwards, the medical case lived in the safety of the Normans’ flat. Unlike Patricia, Freddie and Liz enjoyed watching Jen pursue her hopes and dreams.
While Patricia found it admirable that Mike considered an ambulance driver a close friend, she was annoyed with Scott Reilly. He passed on a doctor’s old stethoscope to Jen. It was a folly to allow the girl to harbour such notions, considering Jennifer would amount to little. She spent too much time listening to gloomy music, shutting herself away or gadding around with the odious Johnny Rose. Jennifer would inevitably become another council estate mother. Giving her practise in caring for Amanda was do
ing her a favour.
Liam would be the only one of Patricia’s children to do great things. Her perfect creation couldn’t fail. She beheld the immaculately presented fifteen-year-old boy emerging from the house. His sultry brown eyes and slick quiff emulated the brooding heroes from her romance novels. When girls sniffed around him, Patricia shooed them off. Her advice to Liam in the ways of dating was, “Don’t bring them home and don’t get them pregnant.”
Patricia admired Liam’s ripening biceps as he dragged the television into the garden. Putting the gym equipment on the catalogue account had been a smart move. Mike complained about the garage no longer housing his shoddy Fiesta. As usual, his complaints went unheard.
An extension lead dangled near the paddling pool. Patricia considered mentioning it. Jen raised from the lawn, poised to shield Mandy from danger. It required too much effort for Patricia to intervene. Instead, she pulled the sun lounger closer to the television and slathered baby oil on her legs.
‘Does that man have to be on the telly?’ Patricia spat venom at Bob Geldof. ‘How dare a second-rate musician ruin my viewing? He could’ve brushed his hair before sitting next to Charles and Di. When’s Duran Duran on, Liam?’
‘Don’t think they’re playing.’ From the other lounger, Liam lowered his Aviators to focus on squashing an ant with his thumb. Despite the heat, Jen shivered.
If Patricia couldn’t lust over Simon Le Bon, no one was watching Live Aid. She lunged for the television set and snapped it off.
‘But Mum…’ Jen despaired at missing The Style Council. She wanted to compare notes with Johnny if Paul Weller still cut it, after his iconic years with The Jam.
Hopefully, Johnny was recording the concert, but the chances were slim. Rob Morgan, his mum’s boyfriend, often pawned their electricals. Rob was always involved in dodgy schemes and took risks. He wasn’t so reckless when it came to keeping his easily rankled partner happy though. The pawning ceased when Dynasty returned. Johnny’s mum wouldn’t miss salivating over Blake Carrington for anything.
Patricia’s sour face rendered Jen mute. Mandy stopped splashing. At six years old, she was already accustomed to her mum’s temper. Silence reigned in the Taylor garden. Patricia’s dominance sliced through the summer’s day. A shadow swept across the lawn and rested on Jen and Mandy. The Taylors separately idled the afternoon away.
‘U2 are on later. Put the telly back on.’ Liam’s command broke the peace.
His stare honed in on Patricia. Did she see control there? She decided not. Not her subservient boy. Liam understood Mummy knew best.
‘We must watch then, darling. I can’t miss Bono. A man with a mullet really does it for me. Switch the television on, Jennifer.’
Nauseated by her mum’s overt lust of a pop star, Jen welcomed the distraction. She complied. The weather obeyed Patricia too as the sun returned and rested upon her body. It bent to her desire to cultivate a tan to outdo Felicity Smith, frying in a hot pink bikini next door.
Jen sought shade by the shed, taking her stethoscope with her. She marvelled at Ultravox belting out Vienna. Midge Ure understood the trials of being the lesser recognised one, having a background role in the Live Aid partnership with Bob Geldof. Jen felt an affinity with Midge as he sang, wearing a heavy coat, on one of the hottest days of the year. She decided Midge Ure knew that, eventually, you can have your moment in the sun.
7
Present
Doreen’s mission continues with daily phone calls and a mountain of messages left for me at work. So far I’ve avoided her. Let’s see which of us breaks first. The reception temp was instructed to ask who is calling. Simple, you’d think, but I’ve had a narrow escape involving slamming the phone down on Doreen. I don’t want to do this, but she’s infiltrating my life. How did she find out where I work? I expect Claire’s to blame, again. She used to be a friend. Now she’s more of an enemy.
My mind is full of paranoid questions. Is Doreen messing with my head? Did she see something that day? I fight the urge to answer her calls and detail what I’ve lost: not being a doctor because of poor exam results, no family bonds, close friends, or partner, and a lifetime of guilt. Wallowing in a pity party against a woman whose teenage daughter died is shallow though.
I spend most nights staring at the ceiling, replaying the day of Kelly’s death. The line between truth and lies is blurred. It’s like digging out a beloved childhood film as an adult, only to be disappointed. Except with this, I have no fond memories to begin with. There are no rose-tinted specs to brighten up the barbarity. A girl died. There was blood. I made the blood flow.
I’ve not always been so introspective. Once, I was a party animal who sought thrills. To avoid probable death from excess, I had to choose sobriety. I’ve lost sight of it. Calling it medicinal, I’m drinking again. I must not open another bottle. Only months of rehab and sheer grit got me out of the pits of addiction.
I look around the call centre, noting how grubby it’s become. Decoration is low on the list of financial priorities. Listening Ear getting a building in Oxford was a stroke of luck. We used to work from a tiny office in the middle of nowhere. Since the move, we’re more accessible for seeing people face to face, as well as talking on the phone.
A beep signifies a call coming in. It’s my turn to help someone.
‘Hello, you’re through to Listening Ear. I’m Jen, ready to listen.’
The line is quiet for a while. It always is. Callers often question if they can go through with it. I give the caller time to decide. I’ve been volunteering here for years. Human nature seldom changes.
‘I need help.’ Her voice scratches at the vocal cords to make sounds.
‘You’ve made a brave step in phoning us today. You’re safe. Can I ask your name, if that’s okay?’
‘Amy.’
It’s probably not, but it doesn’t matter.
‘Hello, Amy. We’ll take this slowly. If it gets too difficult to talk, silence is fine. This is about what you need. Would you like to talk?’
Silence.
The call centre is heaving. Each volunteer sits at a desk, poised to help. We’re in this together; helping those feeling hopeless and listening when people need to be heard. I’ve memorised the current tag line. This is no mean feat considering it changes each month.
Amy exhales. ‘I’m not sure if I can say.’
‘If you need to hear a friendly voice, rather than speaking, it’s okay. No pressure or judgement here.’
I’m lying. Since Kelly’s death, I constantly judge myself. You’re talking to a fraud, Amy. Don’t trust me.
Her words tumble out. ‘I did it. I did something awful. It’s my fault.’ The hatches of her fear burst open.
‘Let’s take this one step at a time.’
Perspiration tingles between my shoulder blades. People near me notice I’m not maintaining my usual calm exterior. We’re closely seated to fit in the volunteers. An elbow nudges mine and nerves make me jump. Swivelling the chair away, I swipe my sleeve across my forehead. Amy’s words are making my remorse pour out.
‘Are you able to talk about what you did?’ I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.
Coming here tonight was a mistake, but letting people down isn’t in my nature. I could have called in sick for the first time in seventeen years, but Jen has to be on top of things. Jen is unravelling. I’m losing it.
Amy continues. ‘I killed her and I deserve to be punished.’
I tear off the headset and dart for the toilets, rushing past looks of concern and bemusement.
…
After emptying most of my stomach, I sit on the floor of the cubicle, gripping the lino. I hold on, trying to stop everything falling away.
‘Jen, are you okay?’ The manager, Hilary, stands outside.
Between me and this door lies either sharing my criminal act and watching my life come tumbling down, or devising a lie to keep it together.
‘I’m fine. Be out in a sec.’
There’s no movement outside. Maybe Hilary has gone. I’m not ready to give a detailed explanation, although it feels like I’ve been found out anyway. Amy’s words were my own. She made my confession.
I inch the cubicle door open. Hilary leans against a sink.
‘How can you still look so pretty after being sick?’ Hilary asks.
I don’t reply. My ego isn’t boosted when someone says I’m attractive. It’s not about false modesty. Searching for beauty is damaging. I dealt with a mother who gave more love to her reflection. I refuse to be like her, even though we have the same nose and cheekbones. DNA should be able to be replaced. Inheriting Dad’s brown hair and eyes isn’t reassuring. He ceased to be a part of me when I left.
Hilary offers a mint. ‘Are you okay?’
Her head tilts to one side as if to say, “I am giving you a listening ear.” It’s her thing. Hilary eats, sleeps and breathes this place. She confided at an after-work social that she’s never had a partner. I spent the first part of the evening trying to keep her off the commiseration sherry. The rest of the night, I held back her hair as she lost most of a bottle of Croft Original. If my current situation weren’t so dire, I’d joke about our role reversal.
How do you tell your boss you killed someone and fear going to prison? How do you share that, with every shift, you’ve considered you should be on the other end of the line?
‘I must’ve eaten something that was off.’