by Susan Lewis
‘Mm, sorry,’ Angie replied, folding a pair of football shorts and adding them to the pile. ‘What were you saying?’
‘I asked if you know someone called Anya?’
Angie wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’
Grace simply shrugged and carried on with what she was doing. A while later she said, ‘She knew Dad.’
Angie stifled a yawn. ‘Dad knew a lot of people,’ she replied, and unplugging the iron she set it to cool on a worktop. ‘So what are you doing?’ she asked, glancing over Grace’s shoulder as a burst of laughter erupted from the screen.
‘It’s a student performing a Caryl Churchill monologue,’ Grace told her. ‘She’s really good and it’s dead funny. Lois wants me to learn it because she thinks it’s where we need to go next.’
Impressed, Angie nodded and went to pack away the ironing board.
Grace said, ‘Wouldn’t it be great if I could get a job as an actress? I mean one that pays megabucks.’
Angie had to smile, all too familiar with Grace’s dream. ‘It would indeed,’ she agreed, ‘and I’m sure one of these days you will, because you’re beautiful and talented and you deserve to be recognized …’
‘It could make us really rich,’ Grace enthused, ‘I mean if I got some good parts, and then we wouldn’t have to worry about anything ever again.’
Wouldn’t have to worry about anything ever again, Angie was thinking as she parked the van in a residential street close to the church. How wonderful that would be, and she so badly wanted to believe that day would come that she decided she would. It was better than scaring herself to death with the alternative.
Hearing her phone buzz with a text, she let it wait as she dragged her holdall from the back of the van, and tightening the strings of her hood set off past the 1950s semis with small gardens, brick porches and neat bay windows. Every now and again she caught a glimpse of those inside and couldn’t help wondering if they knew how lucky they were, slumped cosily in front of their TVs, or tucking into cartons of Chinese takeaways. They probably wouldn’t be sparing a thought for anyone without a home tonight, any more than they’d suspect it of her if they happened to see her go by.
When she reached the church boundary she forced down her fears about being here after dark and when no one else was around, and squeezed through a gap in the beech hedge next to the locked gate. Then, not daring to use the torch on her phone in case someone spotted the beam, she made her way carefully through the foggy darkness to the BtG courtyard. It would be bad enough if Ivan or the vicar alerted the police to an intruder; worse would be when they discovered it was her.
She crept quietly past her office to the charity store next door, and propped her bag between her knee and the wall to search for the key she’d had cut this morning. She was suddenly sick with dread that it might not work. She should have checked earlier, not left it to chance like this.
Her hand shaking, as much with anxiety as cold, she inserted the key in the lock and tried to turn it. It wouldn’t move. She couldn’t believe it. She tried again, but it still wouldn’t turn.
No, no, no, this couldn’t be happening.
With a horrible panic building she tried again, and again, wiggling, pushing, pulling, bruising her fingers and chafing her hands as she pushed uselessly at the wooden door. She couldn’t spend another night in the van, she just couldn’t.
There was always the office, she reminded herself, but Ivan often patrolled the place at night, and if he shone his torch in through the window he’d see her, huddled like a tramp on the floor.
Blinded by tears, she gave it one last go.
The lock turned and the door creaked open in a manner that seemed almost wearied by its decision to give in.
Soaked through and stiff with cold, she bundled herself and her bag into the store and locked the door behind her. She couldn’t worry now about how she’d get out if the key didn’t work again, she was just so glad to be inside where it was damp rather than wet, a degree warmer, and out of the fog.
It took a moment for her to adjust to the darkness. She didn’t move, simply waited, remembering from some random school lesson that night vision had something to do with rods in the eyes that acted as light detectors. Finally hers worked and she was able to see a small, smeary glass panel near the ceiling, and the shelves of clutter that lined the walls. The fusty stench of used and discarded clothing was stifling, the air was clogged by it, as if old earth and ash had been mixed with sweat and worse.
After hanging her coat on the corner of a shelf in an attempt to dry it out she began layering second-hand clothes on the floor, creating a kind of mattress for her sleeping bag, and when eventually she slipped inside it, using the pillow she’d brought to support her head, she was almost snug. The air didn’t seem to stink quite so much any more, and the cold brick walls were starting to feel more like friend than foe.
She lay quietly listening to the rain, and faint scuttling and scratching noises that she hoped were outside. She wasn’t afraid of rats or mice, but she didn’t like them either, and she certainly didn’t want them running over her in the night. She quickly switched her mind to other places, other times, and found it helped to pretend she was camping in the Ardèche with Steve and the children. She imagined them inside their tent, the others fast asleep already as she looked forward to kayaking the next day, or paddleboarding, or fishing. Steve was right next to her. If she put out a hand she’d be able to touch him, and if he turned on to his back he’d probably start to snore. She wanted to wake him up, to feel him pulling her against him, to hear him laugh and groan as one of the children tried to snuggle in between them.
Suddenly remembering she’d received a text, she scrabbled for her phone, irrationally certain it was going to be from the person who’d told her Liam was safe. She hadn’t heard anything since, but they surely weren’t going to leave it there.
The message was from Grace.
TOM. Had to borrow £4 from Auntie Em.
TOM was time of the month, and though Grace still wasn’t regular Angie couldn’t detest herself more for not even thinking of it.
Deciding it was too late to send a message back in case it woke Grace up, she put the phone down again and tried to go back to the French campsite. Instead all she could connect with was a terrible build-up of despair. Somehow she must keep it in, force herself to pull away from the demons of self-pity and despondency that were threatening to engulf her.
Where are you going on holiday? she texted Martin in her mind.
To Switzerland, skiing. Do you want to come?
I’d love to, but I can’t leave the children behind.
Bring them too. Mine will be there, and I know you’ll get along famously with my wife.
She slept fitfully, the hours moving with cruel slowness, each fifteen minutes marked by the gloomy bongs of the church clock. By the time her alarm went off at five thirty she’d been fully awake for a while, too afraid of oversleeping and someone finding her here to relax into the early-morning embrace of unconsciousness.
It was still dark, but there was no patter of rain on the roof or sound of wind gusting in from the estuary. The cold was like real ice on her skin as she used the she-pee and thanked God that she hadn’t needed it through the night. She poured water from a bottle on to a wad of toilet roll and wiped it over her face and hands; then digging a hairbrush from her bag, she tugged it through her greasy hair. She could hardly stand the feel of it on her scalp, and it hadn’t even been a week since she’d last washed it. She imagined it stringy and lifeless, clinging to her face, even crawling with lice. She’d have to wash it at Emma’s later. She’d try turning it into an event by asking Grace to blow-dry it for her and maybe French-plait it again.
The prospect of the closeness and cleanliness buoyed her through the scramble to find fresh underwear in her holdall, and once she’d put it on she dressed herself again in the clothes she’d worn the day before and had kept on all night. If Emma�
��s washing machine gave out again she’d offer to go to the Laundromat since a hand wash would be no good in this weather, they’d never get anything dry.
Sending a silent plea to the lock to turn, she slid in the key and to her relief the door opened as though there had never been a problem. She stepped out into veils of clammy fog drifting in from the countryside like ghouls on their way to the graveyard. Locking the door, she pocketed the key and stole quickly through the darkness to the van. The streets were so quiet and still she could almost hear her heart beating. She felt achingly alone being out at this hour with no one else around. It was as if some kind of apocalyptic event had occurred and everyone had disappeared.
For one terrible, terrifying moment she thought the van had gone, but then she spotted it further down the street, right where she’d left it.
Hi Grace, phone contract taken care of and paid in full for next six months. A
Grace was in the sports changing room, staring at her phone and feeling all kinds of weird as she read and reread the message. She wasn’t sure if she’d really expected Anya to do it, but she obviously had, because Grace was still able to go online with her phone and use her apps. And six months were paid up front!
What was she going to tell her mum? Maybe she didn’t have to tell her anything. They’d already got the new phone – a burner phone as the drug dealers called it – so from now on her mum would text and call on that. It would mean carrying two phones, but that was OK, she’d just have to make sure her mum didn’t see that she still had the other one.
For now she needed to thank Anya.
It’s really kind of you to do that. Thank you.
She was dying to ask Anya about the good news she was on standby for, but afraid it might seem pushy, she simply forwarded both messages to Lois who was at the dentist this afternoon and got changed for PE.
Angie was back at Emma’s for the evening, and in spite of her tiredness and mounting frustration that none of her efforts to improve her situation had worked today, she was blinking at her sister in disbelief, fully engaged with what she’d just said. ‘You’re going out with who?’ she demanded, planting her hands on her hips.
‘Sssh,’ Emma cautioned, nodding towards the sitting room where Zac and Harry were engrossed on the PlayStation. ‘I don’t want the children to hear.’
‘Who are you going out with, Mum?’ Harry shouted, his gaze never wavering from the screen.
Emma sighed and rolled her eyes.
‘She’s got a date,’ Jack called from upstairs.
‘What are you going to wear?’ Grace wanted to know, walking into the midst of it all and shrugging off her coat to hang it on the stair post at the end of the hall.
Emma treated Angie to a narrow-eyed glare.
‘What’s his name?’ Zac demanded, keeping focus on the game.
‘Never you mind,’ Emma scolded, and closing the sitting-room door she waited for Grace to do the same with the other door, and was about to speak again when Angie said to Grace, ‘Is something wrong?’
Grace simply slumped down at the table, phone clasped between both hands.
This meant there was.
‘We won’t be able to help unless you tell us what it is,’ Emma prompted.
Grace scowled. ‘I’m fine, OK?’
Emma held up her hands. ‘Just asking.’
Grace’s head went down again, and Angie trailed her fingers over her wavy hair. It was the time of the month, of course, but she could sense that something else was going on. Now clearly wasn’t the time to ask.
‘OK,’ Emma said, drawing it out, ‘if there’s nothing wrong with you, can we go back to talking about me?’
To Angie’s relief Grace laughed. To her aunt, she said, eyes wide with interest, ‘So who’s the date with?’
‘Wait till you hear,’ Angie cautioned.
Keeping her voice low, Emma said, ‘If you have a problem with me going on a date …’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Angie scolded. ‘It’s not the date I have a problem with, it’s who it’s with. He’s married, Emma.’
Grace’s eyes rounded. ‘Who are we talking about?’
‘Melvin,’ her mother replied. ‘The man who lives two doors down from number fourteen. What are you thinking?’ she hissed at Emma. ‘How can you …?’
‘If you’d let me get a word in,’ Emma hissed back, ‘I could tell you that his wife has left him.’
Angie’s eyebrows rose in shock that quickly turned to suspicion.
Emma mirrored the look. ‘Apparently it’s been on the cards for a while, and after she took off this morning he texted to ask if I’d like to go for a drink on Saturday night.’
‘Blimey, he didn’t hang around,’ Grace commented archly. ‘Must be keen.’
Emma shrugged. ‘Well, we can’t blame him for that, can we?’
Though Angie laughed, she was still concerned. ‘So she moved out, not him?’ she asked.
‘That’s what he said.’
‘So where are you going for your date?’ Grace wanted to know as she checked her phone.
Emma was about to reply when Angie received a text. ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ Emma cried, as Grace gave a gasp and dashed out of the room. She turned back to Angie and realized from the look on her sister’s face that her limelight was lost.
‘Take a look at this,’ Angie said, handing over her phone.
Emma scanned the message and gave a groan of anger as she sank down in a chair. ‘The bastard,’ she murmured through clenched teeth. ‘What I wouldn’t do to that man, given an axe.’
SHALIK HOLDINGS
Re: 14 Willow Close
To: Angie Watts Cc: Ashley Jonuzi
Dear Angie, As a gesture of goodwill I will arrange for your belongings to be removed from 14 Willow Close, free of charge, and taken to your chosen storage facility. If you are unable to meet the cost of storage I’m assured help can be obtained from social services. Please send details of the facility as soon as you have them as there is someone interested in buying the property and I wish to press ahead.
Roland Shalik
Angie was still reeling at the last sentence and how inevitable, irreversible everything was becoming, and in such a short space of time.
‘That scumbag sends you a message like that less than four days after you move out!’ Emma spat in disgust. ‘And in the middle of the evening. I mean, no time would be good, but why now? And if he’s so eager to sell it makes you wonder if he’s got his own problems with money,’ she added tartly.
‘Delete it,’ Angie instructed. ‘I’m not responding to it, so you might as well.’
Emma looked pleased and wasting no more time she hit the dustbin icon, saying, ‘Dear Roland Shalik, Bugger off.’
Angie had to smile, despite the clenching of her nerves. He wasn’t going to go away, obviously, but she definitely wasn’t inclined to make things any easier for him. She was even considering breaking into the house on Willow Close to retake possession of it rather than remain homeless for one more night. Squatter’s rights? She might actually do it, were she not so afraid of the tactics Shalik would employ to remove her.
After going upstairs to say goodnight to the children, she returned to the kitchen to find Emma speaking to someone on the phone.
Melvin, Emma mouthed, pointing at the receiver.
Angie smiled. She was glad to think Emma’s life was moving in a positive direction, even if her own wasn’t – provided Melvin was on the level, of course.
Leaving her to it, she picked up her bag, blew Emma a kiss and went to put on her coat.
Time to return to the Hotel Storeroom.
Grace was under the covers, texting so furiously with Lois that she didn’t hear her mother leave. Anya wants to chat on WhatsApp tomorrow at four. We’ll go straight to yours from school, yes? OMG, what shall I say? What shall I wear? We haven’t even recorded the Top Girls monologue yet. She’s got to be genuine if she wants to chat, don’t you think?
Angie was inside the Citizen Service office behind the main council building, having turned up at nine on the dot in the hope of persuading someone in this department to speak to someone in housing about her urgent need for somewhere to live.
Was anyone listening? It never seemed as though they were, but she had to keep trying.
Since all twenty of the seats in the waiting room were taken, she stood against the wall and let her eyes fall shut as she tried to gather some strength into her thoughts as well as her body. It felt so long since she’d had a good night’s sleep, safe and warm in a bed, her children close by and a proper bathroom next door. The loss of her cherished home was crushing her both emotionally and physically, not to mention the debt that continued to rise, and Shalik’s email informing her that he was intending to remove her belongings was making everything worse.
She had to find storage somewhere, but first she needed to be sure that social services would cover the cost.
There were so many people waiting, and the sense of hardship and incipient despair filling the air was almost palpable. She could feel herself being sucked into it, yet another helpless victim of the austerity that had created a different class – the working poor, with jobs but no homes, always in debt.
She was one of the people she used to watch on TV and feel desperately sorry for.
Just before eleven she left the building, having spoken to no one. She had an interview with the Airbnb turnaround company on Heath Street at eleven fifteen and she didn’t want to miss it.
By midday she knew she might just as well have carried on waiting, for exactly as she’d suspected it was minimum wage, zero hours and she was unable to meet the demands of the job alongside her commitment to BtG.
As she returned to the van Emma rang. ‘Hey, where are you?’
‘Just about to go to Hill Lodge. Where are you?’
‘At the office. Have you spoken to Grace this morning?’
Angie immediately tensed. ‘No. Why? Is she all right?’
‘Yes, she’s fine. I just wondered if she’d told you that she babysat for an hour last night while I popped over to see Melvin.’