Home Truths

by Susan Lewis

  Hating the fact that Grace even knew about anything like this, Angie went to close the laptop down. ‘That’s enough for now,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll put the chicken in the oven and start peeling the potatoes before we get a bunch of hangry boys on our hands.’

  Later, after they’d eaten every last mouthful of the roast, followed by a golden crust apple pie and vanilla ice cream, they settled down to play their usual game of Monopoly. It was a Sunday evening tradition, dating back to happier times when Steve and Liam had played too – always loudly, and Angie was sure they’d both cheated for they never seemed to spend any time in jail. These past few months it had returned to being a noisy and highly competitive couple of hours at the close of the weekend and this evening’s were no exception, with whoops of triumph over big property purchases, followed by groans of outrage at extortionate rents, and shouts of protest when someone was declared bankrupt. Angie was aware of Grace’s eyes flicking to her from time to time, wanting to be sure that her mother was genuinely enjoying herself and not secretly worrying herself into a state of panic.

  Angie wasn’t, at least not tonight. She was doing her best to think only of how blessed she was to be sitting here with her family, warmth coming from the fire, a solid roof to keep them dry, food to eat and no illnesses to scare them. There would be time enough later to think about Liam, when she knew for certain whether or not he was a person of real interest to the police. And as for everything else … There was no point thinking about that tonight either, so she winked at Grace to make her smile, the way Steve always used to, and was relieved when Grace winked back.

  Later, Grace was in her room that her dad had made look like an actor’s dressing room, with famous theatre and movie posters in an artful montage all over the walls, a mirror with big globe lights around it, a little seating area of bean bags and coffee table for when she had visitors, and there was even an old-fashioned modesty screen that he’d bought at an antiques fair and restored for her. It was draped with various movie props and costumes that they’d tracked down on eBay; she even had a pair of dancing shoes that had been worn by one of the stars of a Broadway show. He’d made her fancy bed frame with a canopy overhead smothered in muslins and lace that cascaded all the way down to the floor.

  She no longer had the computer desk he’d refashioned from an old escritoire for her to work at; after she’d uploaded photos of it to Depop it had sold right away for fifty pounds. The small collection of perfume bottles that her mum had started her off with when she was six had sold for eighty-five pounds, and the vintage-style doll’s pram Granny Watts had given her when she was four had sold for thirty-two pounds. It was amazing what people would buy, for most of her jewellery had gone – not the silver christening bangle, or her nine-carat-gold watch or the tiny diamond chip set in a signet ring that was supposed to be a family heirloom, her mum would have had a meltdown if she tried to sell any of that. It was the ordinary stuff from Zara and Next and Topshop that had gone, along with at least half of her old dolls and teddies, most of her books, her play shop, her Micro Sprite scooter and the bike she’d long since outgrown but had been planning to keep along with the vintage pram, in case she had a little girl one day who might like them.

  Now, as she uploaded yet more photos of clothes that had hardly been worn and even still fitted, along with a well-thumbed set of Winnie the Pooh books Auntie Em had bought her one Christmas, she was thinking about the way her mum had winked at her earlier, and how much it had reminded her of her dad. She loved it when her mum did that, but at the same time it seemed to dig right down in her chest to remind her of how much she missed him. Sometimes, to get herself past the worst parts of it, she’d talk to him, inside her head, as if he was still there and able to answer. She asked him to tell her what to do to help Mum, or if he was upset that she’d sold the desk, or what she should upload next; she even asked if he knew where Liam was.

  Do you blame Liam, Dad? Can you see him now? What is he doing? Do you want us to find him?

  She didn’t always hear him as well as she’d like to, and even when she did she thought she might be making it up, but occasionally she found herself slipping back in time to one of the chats they’d had when she was small, some that she actually remembered, others that she didn’t, but they’d made him laugh so much when he’d told her about them later that she’d wanted to hear about them again and again, just because he seemed to love them – and her – so much.

  ‘Daddy?’ she said.

  ‘Mmm?’ he replied.

  She gave a small sigh to let him know that she required his full attention.

  Getting the message, he put down the screwdriver he was using to assemble her new wardrobe and turned to sit cross-legged on the floor facing her.

  ‘You know I’m five tomorrow?’ she said earnestly.

  ‘I do,’ he replied, matching her tone.

  ‘Well, when I have my party on Saturday, I hope you’re going to behave yourself. Only you don’t always, do you?’

  He crumpled in shame. ‘I promise I’ll do my best,’ he said.

  She frowned, not certain that was good enough. ‘I know,’ she declared, hitting on the answer. ‘I’ll ask Mummy to keep an eye on you.’

  His mouth twitched like he was going to laugh, but he sounded serious as he said, ‘I think that’s a very good idea.’

  She continued to sit where she was, hands folded together in her lap as she worked herself up to what else she needed to say. To her surprise he started to turn back to what he was doing. ‘I haven’t finished, Daddy,’ she told him bossily.

  ‘Oh, sorry. What else is it?’

  ‘Will Liam be coming to the party?’ she asked worriedly.

  The light in his eyes seemed to dull as he sighed and pushed a hand through his dusty hair. ‘I don’t know, sweetheart,’ he replied. ‘Do you want him to?’

  She didn’t want to say no, but she didn’t want to say yes either. ‘He might not be here,’ she said hopefully. ‘He goes out with his friends all the time.’

  Grimly, Steve said, ‘I wouldn’t call them friends, exactly, but you’re right, he does go out a lot.’

  ‘Where does he go?’

  With another sigh he gathered her on to his lap and wrapped his arms around her. ‘Things are a bit difficult for Liam at the moment,’ he said softly, ‘so we have to try and be patient and find ways to help him.’

  ‘Will it help him to come to my party?’

  Squeezing her, he said, ‘I’m not sure, honey. It’s hard to know what to do, but we’ll find a way to make everything all right, don’t you worry.’

  He wasn’t here to make things right any more, and it was horrible, so bad sometimes that she felt she was drowning in the need for him to pick her up in his strong arms and tell her it was all a bad dream. But he wasn’t going to do that, so she must try her best to help her mum the way she knew he’d want her to. The trouble was she would soon run out of things to sell online, so she needed to find another way to earn some money.

  Any ideas yet? she messaged to her best friend Lois, who was helping her to find out what kind of jobs were possible for girls of thirteen. She was already doing some of her fellow students’ homework for two pounds a time, but apart from the fact that she was helping them to cheat, it wasn’t nearly enough to make a difference for her mum.

  Lois’s reply came quickly. Still working on it, but will have info to share by tomorrow. #SAVINGGRACE.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Angie was sitting in the driver’s seat of her van, hands clutching the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the frosty green across the street where, back when they were a normal family, the children had played cricket against the adults in summer and roasted chestnuts and marshmallows over bonfires in winter.

  She should start the engine, head off into the day, but she was having trouble making herself go through even the most familiar of motions this morning.

  Grace and Zac had already left for school; Emma had taken them,
and she, Angie, needed to get to work. She had to clean a restaurant in town for one of her neighbours first – she must text to say that she needed the cash asap – and then she had a meeting with one of Bridging the Gap’s main sponsors. Later she was planning to carry out a job search for a couple of the residents – any success she achieved on their behalf always gave her a lift, so she was actually looking forward to that. Then she’d go to the office to answer emails and make phone calls. All this would happen as it should if she could make herself go any further from the house than this.

  It was the email she’d opened only minutes ago that was holding her in a paralysis of dread. It had been sent yesterday, but she hadn’t read it until after the children had left this morning, with Zac’s chirpy voice telling her he wanted a unicorn cake for his birthday.

  Came by the house earlier today. Your van was there, but reckon you slipped out while I was looking for you round the back.

  Mr Shalik wants to help you, Angie, so call me tomorrow.

  It was from Agi, the thug, goon, muscle, whatever anyone wanted to call him that Roland Shalik used as his right-hand man.

  A tap on the van window made her jump, breaking her so abruptly from the turmoil in her head that she almost gasped. She looked up at the face staring in, trying to process the reality of it. For a moment fear tricked her eyes into seeing a stranger, until she realized it was her neighbour, Melvin, who lived two doors down with his wife, Mandy, and their twin girls who were Zac’s age. He was clearly concerned, perplexed, as he circled a finger for her to lower the window.

  She did so and as cold morning air swept into the van her lungs grasped it as though she’d been suffocating them. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I was miles away.’ Melvin and his family hadn’t lived in Willow Close for long, and hadn’t gone out of their way to be friendly, just nodding good morning when they came out with the bins, or to get in the car. She understood that some people preferred to keep themselves to themselves, but she’d been surprised when they hadn’t joined in the carol-singing party that Grace and her friends had organized at the community centre before Christmas. Everyone else had taken part, bringing flasks of hot chocolate, mince pies and handmade ornaments to decorate the tree. Bob, from across the street, had asked Angie if she’d mind him being Santa this year, a role Steve had always played, and she’d told him she thought it was a lovely idea.

  Steve would have wanted her to say that, and Bob would hopefully never know that it had almost broken her to go and watch someone else in her husband’s place.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Melvin asked. He looked awkward, apparently not wanting to get involved if there was a problem, but here he was anyway. ‘You’ve been sitting there for a while,’ he explained. ‘Are you having engine trouble? I’m about to go into town so I can give you a lift …?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ she assured him. ‘I was just … I …’ Her hand tightened around her phone. ‘I was waiting for someone to call, and didn’t want to drive …’ She stopped, the fear of a call silencing her. It hadn’t happened yet, but she knew it would, just as she knew she’d have to take it.

  Melvin was watching her through the thick lenses of his dark-rimmed glasses, seeming to see past her excuse, all the way to … To what? Even she didn’t know the real reason she was sitting here like someone who had no idea how to drive, so there was no way he could.

  ‘OK, if you’re sure …’ He gestured behind him to his own car.

  ‘Sure,’ she insisted. She hadn’t realized until now that he was quite good-looking. She and Emma often likened men to movie stars, and she guessed Melvin-from-down-the-street could qualify, on a dark night at a good distance, as a bit of a Matt Damon. Smaller, thinner, kind of gaunt, but still managing to be attractive. He was more Emma’s type than hers.

  ‘I should be going,’ she said, starting the engine. ‘Hope you have a good day.’

  As she drove away she glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw that he was walking back down the street. She wondered what his story was, why he and his family were so aloof, although he’d seemed fairly neighbourly just then.

  By the time she’d cleaned the restaurant, and met with the sponsor who’d willingly committed for another year, she’d forgotten all about Melvin, had even managed to push Liam out of her mind for the time being. Now, having completed an hour at the office, she was picking her way through the ruts and puddles of a building site on the outer edge of town, heading for the portacabins tucked in against the hillside like metal mushrooms.

  She hadn’t received the dreaded phone call yet, nor had she responded to Agi’s email, although she was ready to admit that she couldn’t go on avoiding him. The trouble was she still didn’t know how to deal with the mess she was in, what her next step should be to avoid sinking her and her family completely.

  A burning prickle of fear coasted down her spine.

  As she approached the first portacabin a tall, muscular man in a hard hat and hi-vis jacket came out in a hurry, and almost collided with her at the foot of the steps.

  ‘Christ, I’m sorry,’ he apologized, reaching out to steady her. ‘I didn’t see you. Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she assured him, dimly aware that this was the second time today that she’d had this start to a conversation. He really did look concerned, and then his frown deepened as he peered at her more closely.

  ‘Do I know you?’ he asked. ‘You look familiar.’

  She shook her head, certain their paths hadn’t crossed, but it wasn’t rare for people to think they recognized her, since her face had been all over the press at the time of Steve’s death. Anyway, this man was a bit of a Daniel Craig, so she’d surely remember if they’d met.

  Two handsome men, and it wasn’t even noon. Maybe the day wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  ‘I know,’ he suddenly cried, ‘you’re Wattie’s wife. Steve Watts, the decorator?’

  As the pain of hearing her husband’s name tightened her heart, Angie said, ‘That’s right.’ It wasn’t a surprise that this man had known Steve, for just about everyone who worked on the buildings in this town had. ‘Don’t tell me, he did some work for you?’ she ventured. As everything about Daniel Craig – he wasn’t so much like him really, maybe better – suggested he was some sort of boss, it was a reasonable guess that he’d employed Steve at some stage.

  The man smiled. ‘When we could get him,’ he replied. Then his eyes softened in an almost tender way as he said, ‘I’m so sorry about what happened. It must have been very difficult for you and your family.’

  Angie didn’t deny it, why would she, but she didn’t want to get into it, so using words to cut off the swell of emotion she said, ‘I’m here to find out if you’d be willing to give a second chance to one or more of my residents. My sister and I run Bridging the Gap, you might have heard of it. Well, you might not have, but we help people, men mostly, to find their way back from difficult times.’

  ‘Actually, I have heard of it,’ he told her, going with the change of subject, though she could tell he was still thinking about Steve and no doubt remembering now the full detail of just how terrible his death had been, ‘but it’s not me you need to speak to, it’s Cliff, the site manager.’ He turned back up the steps. ‘He’s inside,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘I’ll introduce you and make sure he understands that this is a construction company that believes in second chances.’

  Appreciating his readiness to help, she stepped through the door he was holding open for her and felt the welcoming warmth of the interior embrace her. As expected, the place was a dumping ground for everything: boots, jackets, paperwork, plans, hard hats and every other kind of builder paraphernalia. Seated at an enormous desk in one corner was a gruff-looking man in his fifties with flattened grey hair, no doubt from the wearing of a hat, a bulbous nose, flinty eyes and a ragged white beard.

  No chance of making it a hat trick of handsome blokes with this one, she couldn’t help reflecting wryly to herself.
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br />   ‘Cliff, this is Steve Watts’s wife,’ Daniel Craig said. ‘Mrs Watts …’

  ‘Angie,’ she interjected.

  ‘Angie,’ he repeated with a smile that made her smile too, ‘wants to talk to you about taking on a couple of her residents. They’re blokes who haven’t had the easiest of times and need someone to give them a bit of a leg-up. I said we’d be happy to do that.’

  Cliff’s whiskery eyebrows rose in a way that told her he might not be quite as ready to throw out lifelines, were the decision his. Apparently it wasn’t, since he didn’t argue, simply said, ‘What skills do your residents have, Mrs Watts?’

  Prepared for the question, Angie said, ‘Most of them don’t have a skill, but they could be labourers, or maybe apprentices to some of the tradesmen …’

  ‘The tradesmen take on their own people,’ he interrupted. ‘That’s nothing to do with us.’

  ‘But you can put in a word,’ the man who was apparently his boss interrupted. ‘And you were telling me only minutes ago that you’re short of a gofer.’ He smiled roguishly in Angie’s direction, and checking his watch said, ‘Sorry, I have to go, but Cliff will take your details and sort something out for you.’ As pleasantly as it was said, it was clearly an instruction, but before Angie could thank him he’d gone.

  She looked at the older man, and tried to tease out a smile with one of her own.

  It didn’t work. ‘Write everything down,’ he said brusquely, and pushing a tea-stained A4 pad towards her he tossed a pen after it. ‘If you haven’t heard from me in a couple of days, you can give me a call, but don’t expect miracles.’

  Sensing this was the best she could hope for from this curmudgeon she wrote down her details, followed by the reminder of why she was there, and pushed the pad back to him.

  ‘Incidentally,’ she said, turning round as she reached the door, ‘I’d like to thank the man who brought me in here, but I don’t know his name or how to get hold of him.’