The Thin Place

by C D Major

  Hamish wrote our address down in a small notebook he produced from an inside pocket. He had such an elegant hand, the writing so neat I could read it quite clearly upside down. He did seem very accomplished. He told me he would write as I saw Mother reappearing, her mouth still in its thin line, the grey roots of her hair combed flat.

  ‘I would like that,’ I said, and the smile he gave me in return was filled with such sweet promise I thought I might dissolve right there in the foyer.

  My days then seemed useless, chores taken up with fancies – that he might sweep up to our gate and take me out of there.

  The carriage clock was loud as I took Father his tea on a tray. He didn’t meet my eye; he’d had the shakes again. The dark room, musty with the smell of old books and urine, depressed me further. I couldn’t sleep for thinking about him: Hamish West. I dreamed of escape, lay with my feet up on the wall, head dangling over the edge of my bedspread, and tapped on it as if doing the Charleston and he was right there opposite me, curls framing his beautiful face, his full, red lips smiling over at me.

  Chapter 3

  AVA

  ‘Ava!’ Her mother answered the door in a floury apron, a wooden spoon in one hand, reading glasses propped on top of her greying hair. ‘I’m just doing the gravy . . . John! Ava’s here!’

  Ava followed her inside, the familiar chaos blasting her, along with heat from every radiator despite it being July. Her dad seemed to always be cold, Mum telling him to wear an extra jumper and stop sitting around.

  Her mother, one hand on the bannisters, hollered up the stairs, ‘John!’

  ‘Coming!’

  ‘Honestly,’ her mum muttered. ‘Man moves at a snail’s pace. Grab a drink, darling, and catch me up with everything . . . and remind me to give you back that book you lent me before you go, I whipped through it . . .’

  Ava felt her palms dampen. She gripped her bag as her mum rattled on. She had been waiting to tell her mother her news for more than eight weeks.

  The kitchen was the same as ever: a round dining room table that would easily seat eight if the chairs weren’t piled high with books and the surface wasn’t covered in folded old newspapers; abandoned crosswords; a large, well-thumbed dictionary; leaflets about pet insurance; a fruit bowl containing no fruit but about one thousand paper clips, an elastic band and some loose change.

  Ava’s mother returned to stirring a saucepan on the hob. ‘I’ve opened a bottle of wine . . .’ She nodded at the fridge in the corner, which was plastered with photographs, terrible paintings of stick figures with a questionable number of arms, and various tradesmen’s cards.

  ‘I’m OK,’ said Ava. ‘What are you making?’ She dumped her bag on the table.

  ‘Toad in the hole. Can you stay? We’ve got plenty. Your father probably shouldn’t have too many sausages anyway. Not good for him.’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Frances, stop giving away my sausages!’ Dad interrupted in mock-alarm from the doorway. ‘Heya, lass.’ He moved inside the room and gave Ava a peck on the cheek.

  ‘Hi, Dad. No, it’s alright, I can’t stay. I just wanted to pop in.’ Ava took a breath. This was it.

  ‘Pippa told me you’re going around there later.’ Mum continued stirring.

  ‘Ah, that’s nice.’ Dad moved a pile of books off a chair for her to sit down. ‘Glad you see each other, good for her after being stuck with the wee bairn all day.’ He started searching the table for his cigarettes and lighter.

  Ava mumbled, guilty that she hadn’t seen much of her sister in recent months and nervous now that the moment she had been building up to was suddenly upon her.

  Her dad lit his cigarette and sat back. ‘So . . .’ His eyebrows shot up. ‘You need to borrow money or you just want to check on your elderly parents?’

  ‘Speak for yourself, John!’ her mum said.

  ‘No one could accuse your mother of being elderly.’ Her dad inhaled on his cigarette. ‘She took Gus out for one of her six-hour power walks round the city. He’s been lying dead still in the conservatory ever since, poor dog . . .’

  ‘It wasn’t six hours – oh, John, do use an ashtray! And, Ava, sit down. Really. Tell us your news . . .’

  ‘I’m trying,’ Ava said as her mum returned to the gravy, almost physically incapable of staying still for more than two seconds. Dad blew out smoke, narrowing his eyes as Ava took a breath. ‘I came to tell you . . . I’m . . . pregnant . . .’

  Her mum stopped stirring the gravy. Her dad’s mouth dropped open, his cigarette forgotten in one hand.

  ‘Twelve weeks,’ Ava finished in a small voice.

  There was a momentary pause and then her mum’s face broke into an enormous grin. ‘Oh my God, that’s wonderful. John, did you hear that? A baby, another grandchild. Oh . . .’ Tears filled Mum’s eyes as Dad got up, moved around to Ava and put an arm round her.

  ‘That is wonderful news . . .’ His voice was thick with emotion.

  ‘Don’t smoke that around her, John!’ Ava’s mum started flapping her hands, a shocked expression on her face as Ava laughed, the relief of being open with them overwhelming her so that she sank into a kitchen chair.

  ‘Take it out to the conservatory.’ Her mum continued fussing around. ‘We need to celebrate! Oh, I need to call your sister, John! Two grandchildren too. Ha!’

  Dad had stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Slow down, woman. Och, let Ava catch her breath.’

  ‘Do you want to see the pictures from the scan?’ Ava reached into her handbag for the well-thumbed envelope.

  ‘Of course!’ Her mum wiped her hands on her apron, her eyes sparkling as she reached for the images, pulling her reading glasses down to really inspect them. ‘Oh, look! She looks like she’s waving. Oh, are you going to find out if it’s a boy or a girl? John, look . . .’

  ‘Not sure,’ Ava said. ‘Fraser had to go back into school and we hadn’t wanted to plan anything until we knew the scan was OK.’

  ‘And it was OK?’ Her mum looked up sharply, concern filling her eyes.

  ‘Yes.’ Ava beamed. ‘He, or she, is in the lower percentile for weight, but nothing to be worried about . . .’

  ‘You were small. Only just six pounds,’ her mum said. ‘Your dad was always worried he’d pull a finger off every time he dressed you.’

  ‘They were tiny,’ he said. ‘God, I haven’t thought about that for years.’ His eyes misted over.

  Ava reached and squeezed his hand. ‘Don’t, Mum. You know us as babies and the Rangers results make him cry.’

  ‘Oh, another grandchild!’ her mum said again. ‘I can’t wait. And you’re telling Pippa?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  Her mum gave a satisfied nod, always worried about her daughters. ‘I’m sure she’ll be delighted. A little cousin for Tommy.’

  ‘How is she?’ Ava asked.

  ‘Enjoying being back at work, although Tommy is playing up at nursery. I think it’s probably because he’s feeling unsettled – Pippa was a little prickly with me when I suggested it. “Mum guilt”, I think they call it . . .’

  ‘Well, I’ll send her your love.’ Ava didn’t want to be accused of discussing Pippa behind her back. She started to slip the scan pictures back into the envelope.

  ‘Oh, can we keep one? I’ll put it on the fridge . . .’

  Ava handed one over, still amazed by the tiny black and white image. She had spent weeks trying, and failing, not to think too much about the small cluster of cells growing inside her, not until they had a scan to reassure them that all was well. Now she felt a flutter of excitement at all the time ahead to prepare and make plans. Her mother rooted around in a drawer pulling out another magnet for the fridge.

  ‘Actually, Mum, there were a few questions at my booking appointment that I couldn’t answer and . . .’ Ava coughed, realising that she was moving into largely uncharted territory. ‘. . . although the scan went well, I was hoping you could maybe shed some light?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Her mum
had stepped back to admire the scan among the photographs and paintings on the fridge.

  ‘Well, the nurse asked me questions about family history and, well, I couldn’t answer all of them.’

  Her mum had gone very still. Ava couldn’t see the expression on her face.

  Her dad looked over too and for a moment there was a crackle in the room as everyone waited for someone to say something. All the bonhomie of the past few minutes seemed to ebb away.

  Ava’s mum had been adopted and didn’t like to talk about it. ‘I’ve got a family of my own now,’ she would always say and that would be the end of it. But this was different. Now Ava was having a baby, surely her mum would open up a little more?

  Ava licked her lips as the seconds passed. The oven pinged, making her start.

  ‘I probably can’t help you much – all very normal, really. John, do lay the table. It’s a mess . . .’

  Her dad started out of his trance.

  ‘Did you get a drink, Ava?’ her mother said. ‘You’re making me nervous hovering like this!’ She fussed past Ava, fetching a glass and filling it with water before she had time to reply. ‘Did you work today? That’s a nice skirt. You’ll be needing maternity clothes soon, of course. Will you be on the news tonight?’

  Ava took a breath. She couldn’t let her mum off the hook as she always had in the past. Clutching her untouched water, she cleared her throat, aware of her mum’s eyes sliding from her face. ‘I know you don’t like to talk about your birth family, Mum, but maybe now . . .’ She trailed away, finding it too difficult to undo a habit of a lifetime.

  Her dad stubbed out his cigarette on a side plate. ‘What do you want to know?’ His voice was gentle as he looked at her.

  ‘Oh! I’ve overcooked the broccoli!’ her mother announced in a too-loud voice, her back to Ava as she turned off the hob. ‘I really loathe soggy broccoli. I should have timed it.’

  ‘Ava?’ Her dad gave her an encouraging nod.

  ‘John, have you laid the table?’

  ‘Frances . . .’ His voice was soft. Her mum ignored it.

  ‘Well,’ Ava said, ‘I wanted to know more about my medical history. I couldn’t answer some of the questions . . .’

  ‘John, have you seen the gravy boat?’

  Ava looked at her dad, his pale brown eyes meeting hers. He glanced at his wife.

  ‘Frances? Love?’

  The silence stretched on – just her mum opening and closing cupboard doors and tutting. ‘I was sure I put it in here.’

  At that moment Gus, her mum’s Wauzer, a ball of black fluff, wandered into the kitchen. As laid-back as her mum was frantic, dragged endlessly around Glasgow by his energetic owner, he padded across the room to Ava. She put down her water and reached to pat him, her hand disappearing into the springy curls as he gave his familiar piggy grunts of happiness that usually made her smile. Her mum pulled out the gravy boat.

  ‘Who put it there?’

  ‘Do you know what . . .’ Ava stood up. ‘Pippa will be waiting for me. I’m already late.’

  ‘It’s fine, love. Stay on a while,’ her dad said.

  ‘Let her go, John, if she’s late. Pippa will probably want to eat after a long day with Tommy. And she’ll be thrilled by Ava’s news.’ Her mum’s voice was high and strange.

  Her dad stared at her mum.

  Ava wished she had just kept quiet. ‘Yes, you’re right . . . well, I’d better go . . .’

  Ava had never pushed, had respected her mother’s silence on the subject. She knew she’d had a difficult childhood, estranged from both her birth and adopted families. But now it felt important to know more about her family history. This wasn’t just about her mum any more, she thought, as she placed a hand on her stomach. She almost pushed on, but the strained muscles in her mum’s neck and the wary expression on her dad’s face pushed the questions back down. She plastered a smile on her own face and picked up her handbag. ‘Enjoy your dinner. It smells great.’

  ‘You could stay.’ Her dad’s voice was lower, more serious.

  In that moment Ava wanted her mum to stop her, to tell her to cancel seeing Pippa. She wanted her to look less troubled, her words less stilted. Instead she stirred the gravy. ‘Lumpy; I’ll have to sieve it . . .’

  This was not how Ava had envisaged her announcement going. With a heavier heart she left the house without another word, the front door clicking shut behind her.

  Chapter 4

  CONSTANCE, 1949

  I have to stay here while they are outside cleaning. The dust makes me worse. My lungs are one of the things wrong with me.

  I am wearing my white nightgown with the button missing, thick woollen socks and my pink cardigan. I wonder if today I will wear my other clothes and my shoes and be allowed upstairs. Perhaps I’m too ill today.

  I am sick. I was born with things wrong with me and then I got polio when I was a baby. I don’t remember not being sick. I’m six, so that means I have been sick for six years. I’m learning my numbers. Six plus six is twelve, which is really old. I hope I will be twelve one day but maybe I will die before then.

  Someone drops something nearby. It clatters as if it’s metal. There are tiles with different colours on in the hallway and it sounds like something has hit them. I want to see and I press my hands against the door to peer through. My eyelashes tickle the keyhole but it’s all black – the key is in it today. I sink to the floor because it makes me sad. Sometimes I can see all the way through to the legs of the brown bear and count the different coloured stripes. Six plus six plus six is eighteen which is really, really old.

  There’s a cough and someone is moving in the corridor. It might be Annie or the other woman who helps her some days and calls her ‘hen’. I think it’s Annie because the footsteps are gentle and I imagine I smell oranges. Sometimes Mr Hughes has to come inside with his gardening things and his boots are heavy and he clicks his tongue once, twice, three times. It makes me giggle. He looked over at my door one day and I wanted him to come inside because I wondered whether his big boots would make a different noise on the wooden floorboards.

  But he can’t come inside. Nobody is allowed in my room. Not even to clean it. I have to stay away from other people or they could make me so ill I might die. And if you die then you don’t wake up the next day.

  Mother cleans my room with me but some days I can’t help because it’s a bad day and I’m tired and my tummy aches and aches and stuff comes out of my mouth which she takes away in a bucket.

  I don’t feel like things will come out of my mouth today and I get back up and lie on my bed so my head tips off the edge and my hair nearly touches the floor when I put my feet up on the wall. Above me is a small shelf of books. There’s a tiny spider underneath it and I say hello to him today. Rabbit is sitting on my pillow and she has one floppy ear and one eye and two arms but on one the stitches have come out and Mother says she can mend her. I had stitches once but not in my arm, on my tummy. And the doctors mended me but not really well because I’m still sick. I talk to Rabbit and tell her things that I make up. I am good at making things up. I think of the pictures in the books I read and pretend that I am in them. In my books the children go outside lots and that is where the real adventures happen.

  Mother visits me when they are gone. I hear the key turn and something makes me put my legs down and twist so I’m lying back on the top of my bed. She nods as she appears, her hair in soft waves today. She isn’t holding my shoes in her hand and that makes my stomach hurt – not with something coming out of my mouth but with a sad feeling because I don’t think this is one of the days I get to go upstairs.

  ‘They’ve finished,’ she says and I sit up in the bed.

  Lots of things spill out of my mouth because it isn’t the same as with Rabbit; I feel like I need to tell her everything in my head because she might not stay long and then I’ll be alone again. And sometimes she answers my questions and sits on the wooden chair on the other side of the room with
sunshine diamonds on her cheeks from the pattern on the window and helps me with my numbers and letters.

  ‘You should rest,’ she says. She tucks me back in under my sheet even though I’m definitely not tired.

  I almost say no, but she doesn’t like it when I refuse and I like her visits. I hate it when she doesn’t come back for hours, sometimes a whole day, and I don’t want that. I feel a hole inside me today that scares me. I swallow down the words, the idea that we should play a game. A few weeks ago she taught me a card game. Or we could read together. I like it when she reads to me best, so I haven’t told her how much more I can read myself now.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ she says in her whispery voice. And I do because this normally means that she will stroke my head and I love when she does that. The bed creaks and I tip slightly to the side as she sits. I can smell fish, mackerel from breakfast, as a shadow passes my face. I feel her hand, warm and soft on my forehead as she murmurs a song. I know the song and sing it with her in my head.

  Hush a bye, baby, on the tree top . . .

  The song always ends the same way, though. I think after the fall the baby will need to be mended like me.

  Chapter 5

  AVA

  By the time Ava arrived, Pippa had put Tommy to bed. ‘Come in, I was just putting stuff away,’ she whispered. Ava followed her down the hall, noticing the couple of inches that had been lopped off her hair.

  ‘I like your hair.’

  Pippa rubbed her neck self-consciously. ‘Bit short.’ She kneeled down on the red rug in the living room, a glass of almost-finished white wine resting among toys in every colour and size. ‘Sorry. I wanted everything tidy for you but then I started drinking. Grab some. It’s in the fridge . . .’

  Ava walked through to the kitchen, dumped her coat and bag and opened the fridge. A triangle of parmesan cheese slipped forward. The contents were crammed in as if Pippa was preparing for the apocalypse. Pippa’s house, like her parents’, was always full to bursting with stuff. Was Pippa’s comment about tidying meant to be a dig? Ava poured herself an orange juice, wishing it was wine. She felt her nerves build as she returned to the living room.