Martha looked at her and noticed the red stain on her front teeth. It made her think of vampires. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I suppose it depends on what you want.’
This was too philosophical for the woman. She crumpled the smeared tissue and dropped it in the bin, then frowned, sighed again, patted her hair and left.
Martha did the best she could. She had never been very good with cosmetics, never used them much except for dances and parties. The object this time, though, was not so much to turn herself into an irresistible beauty, but simply to look different from the young woman who had left Whitby that morning. This turned out to be surprisingly easy. The eyeshadow and mascara accentuated her eyes, but helped to disguise their shape. Blusher highlighted her cheekbones, and the shadows it cast below altered the planes of her face. The lipstick thickened and lengthened her lips just enough to make her mouth look larger and fuller. All in all, she thought, admiring the result, it was a success. Already she looked like a different person, and she hadn’t even finished yet. She decided against wearing her glasses for the time being. Why go too far?
In the next department store, she headed for the small wig section. She didn’t want anything showy, like platinum blonde or jet black, but something perhaps just a little darker than her natural colour. It had to be longer, though, and it had to look real.
‘Can I help you, madam?’ an assistant asked.
‘Just browsing.’ Martha didn’t want anyone helping her on and off with wigs and making up her mind for her. That was the kind of thing a shopgirl might remember. Luckily, another customer came along, an older woman with tufts of hair missing, as if she’d been undergoing chemotherapy for cancer, and the assistant sidled up to her. The two of them began an involved discussion on exactly what was required, and the assistant led the woman over to a chair in front of a mirror.
Martha had never bought a wig before; she had never even tried one on. Gingerly, she picked up a long ash-blonde one just to see what it looked like on her. The effect was astonishing. The make-up alone had done a good job, but the addition of the wig changed her looks completely: it turned her into an entirely new person with a different history and personality. Martha stood and stared at herself, making up a story about the young woman she saw there: born in King’s Lynn, Norfolk, educated at an exclusive girl’s boarding school; sexy, independent, the owner of a chain of boutiques, perhaps, and often abroad on buying trips. Suddenly, afraid that people might be watching her, she snapped out of the game and got back to business.
After trying on a number of other hairpieces when she was sure nobody was paying her much attention, Martha finally found one that suited her. It was chestnut-coloured, but not unrealistically shiny, and curled under just above her shoulders. A short fringe fell over her forehead, too, and somehow this made her eyes look even more different. She carried the wig over to the nearest till, paid and took it away with her.
She took the escalator to the women’s toilets on the fourth floor. When she pushed the door open, a frail-looking woman with a scrawny body and a large head jumped up from where she’d been sitting on the edge of a sink and quickly stuck her hand behind her back. Martha noticed that she was wearing a sales assistant’s uniform – blue suit and white blouse, with a brass name-tag on the jacket identifying her as Sylvia Wield – and she looked as guilty as a schoolkid caught smoking behind the cycle sheds. When she saw it was only a customer, she relaxed and put her free hand to her chest.
‘You gave me the fright of my life,’ she said. ‘I thought it was the supervisor. Do you know, we’re not even allowed to smoke in our own lounge these days? That’s why I have to sneak in here whenever I want a fag. It’s usually quiet up here in furnishing.’
Martha smiled in understanding, then she went and sat in a cubicle until the saleswoman had gone. The shock of the meeting had made her own heart beat faster, too. When all was quiet again, she put on the wig and, looking around the door on her way out to make sure she wasn’t noticed, she slipped down the nearest staircase back into the street.
She knew she should get back to Whitby soon and check into a different bed and breakfast place, but while she was in Scarborough, she couldn’t resist a walk down to the harbour, just in case.
There wasn’t much activity there. The lobster pots were stacked on the quay, and only one or two locals stood around, painting their boats or fiddling with the engines. The smell of fish was even stronger there than it was in Whitby. Mixed with the stink of diesel oil, it made her feel nauseated. As soon as she became aware of a young lad leaning nearby against the wall and giving her the eye, she decided she was wasting her time and headed for the bus station.
On the journey back to Whitby, she read Jude the Obscure, which she had bought at the same little bookshop on Church Street after finishing Emma. Within half an hour or so, it was time to get off again. This time, instead of climbing up to West Cliff, she turned into the area behind the station, another part of the town noted for its holiday accommodation. On a terrace of tall, dark guesthouses facing the railway tracks, all with VACANCY signs in their windows, she chose the middle one.
Moments after she had pushed the doorbell, a stout young woman with rubbery features came rushing from somewhere out the back and opened the door. Her hands were wet, and she looked tired and flustered, as if she was trying to juggle ten domestic chores at once, but she managed a smile when Martha said she’d like a room. She was probably only in her twenties, Martha thought, but hard work, children and worry had aged her.
‘Single, love?’ Her voice had a sing-song, whining quality.
‘Yes, please. An attic will do, if you’ve got one.’ Martha liked being high up in rooms with beams and slanting ceilings.
‘Sorry, love,’ the woman said, drying her hands on her pinafore. ‘The only single we’ve got is a small room at the back’
‘I’ll take a look,’ Martha said.
It was on the second floor, a depressing little room with white stucco-effect wallpaper, looking out on backyards full of dustbins and prowling cats.
‘It’s quiet,’ the woman said. ‘Being at the back, like, you can’t hardly hear the trains. Not that there are many these days.’
She seemed anxious to please. Martha reckoned that she and her husband probably hadn’t been in the place long and were finding it difficult to make ends meet. The woman had clearly made an effort to make the hall and rooms appear cheerful, but the house itself was drab and old; it gave the impression of being damp and chilly even though it wasn’t, and its proximity to the railway tracks must surely put people off. Martha didn’t mind, though. It was hidden, anonymous. Even if it didn’t boast a view of St Mary’s, it would make a cosy retreat. And she liked this woman, with her tired eyes and wash-reddened hands, felt sorry for her. In a way, Martha saw herself as perhaps a champion of women like this one – not just the obviously abused, attacked and assaulted, but the weary, the downtrodden and the dispirited.
‘How much is it?’ she asked.
‘Eight pounds fifty, love. And we don’t do evening meals. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right. I’m usually out then, anyway.’ Martha thought it over quickly: it was cheap, obscure, and the woman hadn’t asked her any awkward questions about what she was doing in Whitby all alone. There would be a husband around, no doubt, but he’d probably have a day job and, with luck, she wouldn’t see much of him. Even the husband at the other place had stayed out of the way except when she had arrived and left. ‘I’ll take it,’ she said, dropping her holdall on the pale green bedspread.
The woman looked relieved. ‘Good. If you’ll just come down and register, I’ll give you the keys.’
Martha followed her back down, noticing as she went how the stairs creaked here and there. That could be a problem if she had to sneak in late like before. But if she did a bit of discreet checking on her way up and down in the first day or so, she could find out exactly which stairs to avoid.
The hall
was much shabbier than the one in Abbey Terrace. There was no mirror, and even the advertising flyers looked dusty and curled at the edges.
‘I’m Mrs Cummings, by the way,’ said the woman, giving Martha a card to fill in. ‘Sorry if I seem to be rushing you, but my husband’s usually out on the boats so I’ve got to run the place more or less by myself.’
‘Boats? Is he a fisherman?’
‘Well, sort of. He takes groups of tourists out for morning and afternoon fishing trips. It’s not as if they catch enough to sell or anything, some of them just want a ride out in a boat. But he makes a decent living in season. Still, it means he’s up before dawn and often not back till after teatime. Depends on the tides, like, and how many want to go out. There’s good days and bad. We get by.’
It would have been too ironic to be true, Martha thought, if she had actually found herself staying in the same house as the man she wanted. But at least he might know where the fishermen hung out and what other local industries had close links to fishing. She could only question him casually, like an interested tourist, but it might be worth a try.
‘Breakfast is eight to eight-thirty,’ Mrs Cummings said. ‘I have to get it all over and done with quickly so I can get the kids off to school. And here are the keys.’ She handed Martha two keys on a ring. ‘The big one’s for the front door. We always lock up at about half past ten but you can come in when you want, and the Yale’s for your room. There’s a small lounge on the ground floor – it’s marked – with a kettle and a telly. Only black and white, I’m afraid. But there’s teabags and a jar of Nescafé. You can brew up there any time you like.’
‘Thank you,’ Martha said with a smile. ‘I’m sure everything will be fine.’
Mrs Cummings took the card Martha had given her. ‘Going out now, are you?’
‘Yes, I thought I’d just have a little walk before dinner.’
‘Good idea. Well, see you later . . . er . . . ’ She looked at the card. ‘Susan, is it?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Bye for now.’ And Susan Bridehead walked out into the late Whitby afternoon.
28
KIRSTEN
‘Yes, I am sure that Kirsten doesn’t need her stomach pumped,’ Dr Craven repeated patiently. ‘You saw for yourself, she brought up the tablets before they had time to work their way into her bloodstream. At worst she’ll feel a little sick and dizzy for a while – which is no more than she deserves – and she’ll probably have a heck of a headache.’
They stood in Kirsten’s room, where she lay tucked up in bed. Her mother was flapping about and wringing her hands like a character in a Victorian melodrama.
‘You’re upset, understandably,’ the doctor went on. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you were to take a tranquillizer and lie down for a while yourself.’
‘Yes.’ Kirsten’s mother nodded, then she frowned. ‘Oh, but I can’t.’ She looked at her daughter. ‘She took them all.’
It wasn’t meant as an accusation, Kirsten knew, but she was made to feel once again that she had done nothing but make a nuisance of herself since she got back home: first she had refused to go out, then she had been sick all over the living-room carpet, and now she was depriving her mother of the oblivion the poor woman so desperately needed in order to cope with the nasty twists of fate that had disrupted her life of late.
Luckily, Dr Craven reached for her bag and came to the rescue.
‘Samples,’ she said, tossing over the small foil and cellophane package. Inside were four yellow pills, each in its own compartment. ‘And I’ll give you another prescription to replace the ones you lost. Kirsten needs rest now.’
She scribbled on her pad, ripped off the sheet and passed it over. The brusqueness of her tone and gesture got through even to Kirsten’s mother, who normally seemed impervious to hints that her company wasn’t required.
‘Yes . . . yes . . .’ Clutching the package and the prescription, she drifted towards the door. ‘Yes . . . I’ll just go and get a glass of water and have a lie-down . . .’
When she had finally gone, the doctor sighed and sat on the edge of the bed beside Kirsten. ‘She means well, you know,’ she said.
Kirsten nodded. ‘I know.’
Dr Craven let the silence stretch for a while before she said, in a tone far gentler than Kirsten would have believed possible for her, ‘But it was a silly thing to do, wasn’t it?’
Kirsten didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure.
‘Look,’ Dr Craven went on, ‘I can’t pretend to know what you feel like after what happened. I can’t even imagine what you went through, what you’re still going through, but I can tell you this: suicide isn’t the answer. Why did you do it?’
‘I don’t know,’ Kirsten said. ‘It just seemed like a good idea at the time. I’m not being facetious. I didn’t know what else to do.’
Dr Craven looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I didn’t enjoy being outside. I wasn’t really hungry. I didn’t fancy reading a book or watching television. I was just at a loose end. Then I thought I’d get drunk, then . . . I’ve not been sleeping well.’
‘There are other options, Kirsten. That’s what you’ve got to remember. I don’t suppose I should be all that surprised you tried something foolish. As I said, I can’t imagine how you feel, but I know it must be terrible. What you have to do now is understand that there’s no quick and easy way back to health. Your body is taking care of itself well enough, but your emotions, your feelings are damaged too, perhaps even more than we realize. Rest will help, of course, and time, but you won’t be able to go on hiding for ever. There’ll come a time when you have to make the effort to start living again, to get out and about, meet people, get involved in life. I know it probably sounds terrifying just at the moment, but you must make that your goal. If you let your fears dominate you, then you’ve lost. You mustn’t give in, you have to fight it. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?’
‘I think so,’ Kirsten said. ‘I . . . I just don’t know if I can. I don’t know how.’
‘Sermon over.’ Dr Craven’s lips twitched in a smile again. ‘Now back to practicalities. Nobody can make you, but I strongly suggest that you see a specialist in Bath, someone who knows about the kinds of things you’re feeling. I can recommend just the right person.’
‘A psychiatrist, like you mentioned before?’
‘Yes. I feel it’s even more important now. I’ll set up an appointment for you, but what I want to know, Kirsten, is will you go?’
Kirsten turned her head aside and looked through the small window at the sky and tree tops. At least it had stopped snowing, she thought. That had been the last thing she had registered before coming over faint and retching on the carpet: how odd that it was snowing in August. It hadn’t been snowing at all, of course; it had just been her vision going haywire.
She turned back to Dr Craven. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’ll go. I don’t suppose I’ve got anything to lose.’
‘You’ve got quite a lot to gain, young lady,’ the doctor said, patting her hand. ‘Good. I’ll fix up an appointment and let you know. Now are you sure you’re feeling all right physically? No ill effects?’
‘No, I’m fine. Just a bit woozy. Mostly I feel silly.’
‘And so you jolly well should.’ Back to her normal self, the doctor stood up and walked to the bedroom door. Just before she left, she turned and said, ‘You can stay in bed till tomorrow morning, that’s quite reasonable for someone who’s done what you just did, but after that I want to see you up and about. Understood?’
Kirsten nodded. Left alone, she pulled the sheets up to her chin and stared at the long, faint crack in the ceiling. Her head was still throbbing and her stomach felt sore, but apart from that, everything seemed in working order, considering the mixture of pills and the amount of alcohol she had taken. As Dr Craven had said, none of the tablets had had time to do any damage, and she was suffering more from the effects of the Scotch, which was all t
he stomach wall had had time to absorb.
She would go to the specialist in Bath, she decided. Though she had little faith in psychiatrists, having studied and dismissed both Freud and Jung in a first-year general studies course, she felt desperate enough to try anything. If only he could get that dark cloud out of her mind and give her something – anything – to replace the terrible cold emptiness that she felt about everything. It wasn’t fear that kept her indoors, in her bed, it was just apathy. There was nothing she wanted to do, nothing at all. She felt foolish and despised, and that was about it. With a bit of luck, perhaps the specialist really could help. Maybe he could give her something to live for.
29
SUSAN
During the night, the seagulls by the lower harbour were just as noisy as the ones on West Cliff, but breakfast at Mrs Cummings’s establishment was an altogether less elaborate affair. For a start, there was no cereal, just a small glass of rather watery orange juice for each person. Nor was there a choice between tea or coffee, only tea. The main course consisted of one fried egg with the white still runny, two thin rashers of bacon and a slice of fried bread; there were no grilled tomatoes, mushrooms or slices of black pudding. There was, of course, plenty of cold toast and marmalade.
And the whole meal seemed to be taking place at fast forward. Sue was a little late coming down, as she had her face to fix and her wig to secure. No sooner had she sat down than the plate appeared in front of her. The tea had already been mashing for some time, and it tasted so bitter by then that she had to resort to sugar. She never had time to get around to the orange juice.
The only other guests in evidence were a bedraggled-looking bachelor in a grey sleeveless V-neck pullover, who hadn’t either shaved or combed his hair, and two bored teenage girls with multicoloured spikes of hair and warpaint make-up. Sue finished quickly, went up to her room to smoke a cigarette and pick up her bag, then wandered out.
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