Rose and the dad – G – G – no, gone again – had the television on, but Heidi couldn’t concentrate. Things kept playing themselves in her head, she wasn’t sure what; thoughts, memories or the TV. Fragments that came from nowhere, bits of nonsense. She had knitted and knitted until her fingers were stiff and bent. She held up the neat rows and saw that it was another sleeve, but she’d already done two, she was sure. She rummaged in her bag, took out the other pieces – yes, there were two of them; how could she have been so silly? – and smoothed them over her knees. Funny sort of pullover it was going to be, with three sleeves! She laughed, and turned it into a cough.
Unravel it all, she could do that, the sleeve she’d just knitted, but then the wool would get into a tangle if she wasn’t careful. And she’d have to work out what she needed to knit instead. What did a jumper need? She frowned, puzzling over it. A front. A back. And two sleeves. Had she done the front and the back? Or was that years and years ago? That girl Hilly would help her, but she’d gone out when the phone rang. The other one had had a row with her mum and dad, a real humdinger that had left Rose in tears and the dad tensed with anger, and stomped off upstairs. The language that came out of her mouth! Heidi was amazed she even knew such words, let alone used them to shout at her parents. After she’d gone, Rose and the man had settled down in front of the television as if nothing had happened.
Heidi kept glancing at the piano. Stuffing the knitted sleeves back in the bag, she got up and opened the lid. She sat carefully on the stool, running a finger along the white keys, too gently to make a sound. Rose and the man were on the sofa, both of them half-asleep; they didn’t notice her.
It was funny how she still knew which note to start on, after all those years. She could remember that bit. The Hilly girl had been playing it earlier.
E D# E, she tried. She remembered their names. That sounded right. E D# E again, and then the rest followed: D# E B D# – no, the ordinary note this time, not the black one. Start again. Concentrating hard, she played the whole opening phrase without a mistake. Now it was time for Rachel to come in with the left hand. She looked at the lower notes, not knowing which ones were involved.
‘Mm?’ said Rose, propped sleepily on the sofa. She sat upright. ‘Mum? Is that you playing? I thought it was Hilly. I never knew you could play!’
‘Not really,’ said Heidi. ‘Only this.’
‘Isn’t that the tune Hilly was practising, before she went out?’
‘Für … Für …’ Heidi tried. She moved along the stool and patted it with her left hand, for Rachel to sit down. ‘You come and play!’
‘But Mum, you know I can’t.’
‘Come and play. Play the whole thing. Play all of it.’
‘I haven’t a clue how to. Wait till Hilly comes back.’
‘Come and play. Play the whole thing.’
‘Mum —’
I’m doing it again, Heidi thought, seeing Rose’s gesture of exasperation, hearing herself asking the same question again and again. I hate the way that happens! I don’t know I’m doing it and then I see them get annoyed, and I realize. Like a stuck record, I must be.
‘Sorry! Sorry!’ she said. ‘I don’t do it on purpose, you know.’
‘I know, Mum,’ said Rose. ‘I know you don’t. I didn’t mean to be irritable.’
‘Him, then,’ Heidi said, pointing. ‘That man there. Tell him to come and play. Play the whole thing.’
‘No, Gavin can’t play either, Mum. We’re useless, aren’t we?’
‘You’re unkind to me, do you know that?’ Heidi’s eyes filled with tears. ‘If you cared about me at all, you’d do a simple little thing like that for me. It’s always the same. I’m just a nuisance, aren’t I? Why won’t you let me go home?’
‘Mum, of course you’re not a nuisance. Come and sit down, and I’ll make you some hot chocolate. Would you like that?’
‘All right, all right! You don’t have to treat me like a child, you know,’ Heidi said, resisting Rose’s attempts to lead her back to her chair. Then, in triumph: ‘Für Elise! That’s what it was. Play it for me now! We used to play it together, you know.’
‘Who did?’
‘Me and Rachel,’ said Heidi. A key turned in the front door; someone was in the hall, and a car pulling away outside. ‘I hope it’s not that policewoman again,’ she told Rose. ‘You didn’t give her a key, did you? You must bolt the door.’
‘No, it’s only Hilly,’ said the man. ‘Hello, love! Was that a car outside? Did Reuben’s dad bring you home?’
‘No, it was Saeed’s brother,’ said the Hilly girl.
She looks pleased with herself, Heidi thought. Like that other one, the blonde one. Like a smug kitten, that young madam is. Altogether too full of herself. Heading for trouble.
‘She wants her bottom smacked.’ Everyone stared at her; she was surprised to realize that she had spoken out loud. ‘The way she talks,’ she explained. ‘You shouldn’t let her get away with it.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Hilly, sit down and play that piano tune for Gran,’ said Rose. ‘Then perhaps we can all have a minute’s peace.’
‘Where’s my hot chocolate?’ said Heidi. ‘You promised me hot chocolate!’
Chapter Seventeen
Window Dressing
Three youths have been charged in connection with a brutal attack on a 17-year-old boy close to the town centre on Saturday night. The victim, from Weston Favell, was admitted to hospital, suffering from concussion, abrasions and bruised ribs. Police say the attack was racially motivated.
Chronicle and Echo
The shop window was Hilly’s special pride. The first time she had arranged it was when Velma had been ill; Jean, the manager, was impressed, and had made it one of Hilly’s regular jobs. An eye-catching window display would bring customers in to browse, and most browsers bought something, however small: if not second-hand clothes it would be books or candles, gifts or cards, pens. Some would pick up an Oxfam leaflet or magazine, or put a few coins in the collecting box.
There were two mannequins in the window – both female, impossibly slender, with bland, haughty faces. Hilly’s aim was that whatever garments they wore should sell within two days. One week she would dress them in party clothes; the next in streetwear, or in formal suits. Often she organized it all around one colour. Today’s starting point was a long purple dress with embroidery round the hem and neck, which she would have coveted for herself if it hadn’t been three sizes too large. She assembled a range of complementary garments: a white voile overshirt, a silky scarf in purples and blues, a beaded bag; for the other mannequin, a batik skirt, denim jacket and crochet hat. The dress and the jacket, she was sure, would sell by closing time, so she chose substitute garments to put ready. Now the rest of the window space. Cushions and mats, indigo, blue and white. Jugs and pots, a few draped scarves. Not bad, she thought, assessing the effect from outside.
Now books. Most of the books donated to the shop were fiction – romances, thrillers and children’s books – but every so often someone would clear out a whole houseful, and bring in boxes and boxes of old hardbacks, a collection built up over years. Many of these were unsaleable and would end up being pulped, but it was worth looking through carefully. A batch that had arrived yesterday was piled in boxes in the storeroom at the back. Sorting, Hilly found illustrated art books, in good condition, with colour plates: the Impressionists, the Pre-Raphaelites, Wassily Kandinsky. Those would sell, for sure; she priced them and arranged them, open at the plates that best suited her colour scheme, in the front of the window.
‘You going for lunch, Hilly?’ called Velma.
‘Just finish this first.’
It usually meant someone had died, when a whole private library was boxed up and brought in. Reader’s Digests, book club special editions, gardening books, cookery, fiction, out-of-date reference books, everything. Jean usually looked through to see if there was anything valuable, and took stuff weekly to the antiqu
arian bookseller in Wellingborough Road. Most of the rest was worth only a pound or two, if it happened to catch the attention of a browsing customer. It was so sad, Hilly always thought, when a house was dismantled: a life reduced to jumble, strangers picking over the remains. Objects lost their meanings, stripped of context. A book lovingly inscribed as a birthday gift ended up in a recycling skip; a cherished photograph was worth less than its frame.
Eventually, Heidigran’s house would have to be sold and cleared. There was no point keeping it on; it was a responsibility they could do without. But still no decision had been made, and Hilly had heard many conversations that went back and forth like tennis, her father and her mother, getting nowhere:
‘Can’t that what’s-her-name, Josie, come round more often?’
‘Yes, but she can’t give twenty-four-hour support, can she?’
‘What, then? Are we going on like this for ever?’
‘What’s the alternative? Have you got a magic wand?’
‘Come on, love. You know what they say at your Alzheimer’s group – you’ve got to find a workable solution that doesn’t leave you worn to a frazzle and still feeling guilty. There are residential homes. Good ones. Bob’s mother’s in the one in Rushden, and he says—’
‘No! I promised not to put her in a home.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t have promised! Not when it affects all of us. You, most of all. Look at you, you’re exhausted.’
‘I know I’m exhausted! But I can’t go back on it now. Who are we thinking of, here?’
‘Your mum, obviously. But we’ve got to think of ourselves, too. And the girls. All of us.’
‘A promise is a promise!’
Mum, Hilly thought, tweaking a scarf, draping a shoulder bag, can be just as obstinate as Heidigran. A promise is a promise: end of conversation. And she can’t really be blamed for that. What was she supposed to say to Heidigran, otherwise? I was lying when I promised? You’ve turned out to be too much of a nuisance? We can’t be bothered with you, now you’re old?
Meanwhile, Hilly and Zoë were in a state of cold war: avoiding each other, maintaining a hostile silence, staggering their going to bed and getting up so that there was no need to speak. The chill in their attic bedroom was enough to form icicles on the rafters. Hilly couldn’t suppress the thought that if Heidigran went into a home she could have her own bedroom back, and her privacy. By now it seemed a long-ago luxury that she shouldn’t have taken for granted.
She climbed between the plywood screens that divided the window from the shop, stepped down between the tie-rack and the trays of jewellery, and found herself face to face with Saeed’s brother Rashid.
‘Oh!’
‘Saw you and tapped on the window,’ he said, ‘but you looked as if you were miles away.’
‘Sorry, I – are you, I mean what are you—?’
‘Just wandering about, really. Is it lunch time? What do you do?’
‘For lunch?’ Hilly looked at her watch. ‘Sandwich in the back room, usually. But today I’m going to the library.’
‘Shall we go together? I’m going that way.’
‘OK,’ Hilly said. She could see Jean and Velma looking at Rashid with keen interest, the way she’d noticed some middle-aged women did stare at attractive young men: practically goggling. Boyfriend? they were clearly speculating. I wish, Hilly thought, aware of a small warmth of pleasure that had entered the shop with Rashid and lodged itself somewhere in her chest. ‘I’ll just put these bits and pieces away first.’
‘Your last week?’ said Rashid, out on the street.
‘That’s right. I’m back at school tomorrow.’ Hilly noticed that the magazine he held rolled in one hand was The Big Issue; there was usually someone selling them outside Waterstone’s. Rashid wasn’t the sort of person to sneer at her for working in an Oxfam shop. ‘How’s Saeed?’ she asked. ‘I don’t suppose he’ll be at college this week?’
‘He’s not too bad, thanks – no, rest at home till at least the weekend, the doctor said. But we’ve just heard from the police that three people have been charged – one with assault, two with GBH.’
‘Oh?’ Hilly said cautiously. ‘Are they in custody?’
‘They go to the magistrates’ court tomorrow.’
‘Will Saeed have to appear in court, when the case comes up?’
‘That’s what we’ve been talking about at home. There can’t be a conviction unless he gives evidence. But then there’s the fear of reprisals. That’s how they get away with it, gangs like that. They know people are afraid to make a stand.’
‘So do you think he should?’ Hilly remembered what Saeed had told her and Reuben – that one of the attackers had threatened him with: We know where you live. What must that feel like? Going harmlessly about your business, to know you were being watched, targeted?
‘I would, I think,’ said Rashid. ‘But I’m not Saeed. I don’t live here. I don’t work in town. I don’t walk home alone at night.’
‘At least the police know who they are now, those yobs.’
‘I think they did before. They’d been pulled in, had verbal warnings, that sort of thing.’
‘And what about your parents?’ Hilly ventured. ‘It must make them feel vulnerable, too.’
‘They’re upset, of course, very upset. That WPC’s been round a couple of times to talk to them. And someone from Victim Support’s coming tomorrow. There are people to call on,’ said Rashid. ‘All the same, I wish I wasn’t leaving, just at the moment.’
‘Leaving?’
‘For Oxford, Friday. I’ve got a job there.’
Hilly tried not to let her disappointment show. ‘What sort of job?’
‘Painting, decorating. Doing up a whole house, with a mate of mine. Matt. His dad’s bought the place, and Matt’s going to live in it with some other students. I’m staying there too till I’ve made other plans.’
‘It’s daft, but I’ve never been to Oxford and done all the tourist stuff,’ Hilly said. ‘Even though it’s only – what? Forty or fifty miles away?’
They had reached the Central Library. Hilly hesitated at the entrance, wondering whether Rashid was going to leave her here and go wherever he was going, but he looked at his watch and said, ‘How long are you going to be? And what time do you have to be back? Is there time for a coffee and a sandwich somewhere?’
‘Oh, I should think so. I’ll be quick – I’m only getting a CD.’
Rashid came in with her and looked at the newspapers and magazines while she searched the racks of CDs. She was hoping to borrow a recording of Für Elise, but, finding only concertos and sonatas in the Beethoven section, she chose the ‘Emperor’ concerto instead.
‘Are you another pianist?’ said Rashid, taking the CD while she put her library card back in her bag.
‘No – well, I’m only a beginner. Reuben’s the pianist. He’s trying to teach me.’
‘He seems a nice guy, Reuben. Have you known him long?’
‘Oh yes, since we were at junior school. He’s my best friend.’
‘And,’ said Rashid, as they emerged onto the busy pedestrian area, ‘does Saeed get in the way of that?’
Hilly hesitated, not wanting to recall the feelings of resentment that had prickled her on the night of the concert. ‘Maybe. Not sure, yet. It’s all so new.’
‘Settlers is on your way back,’ said Rashid. ‘Would that be OK?’
They sat at the only spare table, a small one in the corner, squeezing past shoppers and carrier bags to reach it. The weekday staff were strangers to Hilly: an unsmiling girl of photogenic appearance and an over-good-looking boy who couldn’t resist checking himself in the wall mirror each time he passed with an order. Hilly saw Rashid noticing this, and they exchanged smiles.
‘Will Saeed come back here?’ Hilly asked.
‘I hope so. If he doesn’t, it’s giving in to intimidation.’
Hilly thought about the time she had sat here and heard the thumping on the wi
ndow, seen the leering faces and the crude gestures. Tuck and Pete, having a bit of fun. Marking out their victim. She told Rashid about this, and he nodded grimly.
‘One good thing is, there’s likely to be increased police presence around the town. It’s wrong if people are afraid to go out at night. But I don’t think Saeed should walk through dark alleyways on his own.’
‘Do you think,’ Hilly said cautiously, ‘it would be a good idea if Saeed came out about Reuben? Told your parents?’
‘No,’ he said emphatically. ‘I don’t.’
‘Oh.’ She felt rebuffed.
‘I know you’re probably thinking it’s best to be open,’ said Rashid. ‘Not to have secrets.’
‘Well – if he didn’t have to worry about your parents finding out, or guessing – I mean, Reuben’s told his mum and stepdad, and they’re fine about it.’
‘But it’s different for us. Especially for my parents’ generation, not so much for ours. It’s just not acceptable to them, gay-ness. They see it as a wicked perversion. It’d be a disgrace to the family.’
‘But they’ll have to know sooner or later!’
‘Will they?’ Rashid looked at her steadily.
‘How not? He can’t tell lies all his life!’
‘No, I mean …’ Rashid’s glance flicked down at the table, up again to her face. ‘This thing with Reuben – it’s fairly new, isn’t it, like you said? It may not last.’
‘I think it will, as far as Reuben’s concerned. I mean, I know him. And if Saeed’s gay, it’ll be someone else if not Reuben.’
‘But does he really know he’s gay – Saeed, I mean? It’s not as simple as people sometimes assume – one thing or the other. It could be just a temporary – infatuation. How sure is Reuben?’
‘About himself? Oh, he’s known for a couple of years at least. But, well, what would your parents do, if they found out about Saeed?’
Rashid frowned, shook his head. ‘They’d be terribly upset, for a start. They’d put pressure on him. Stop him seeing Reuben, for sure. Keep him grounded.’
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