by Jess Ryder
Like time, food can be a great healer. So I head to to Cathy’s Café in the afternoon and buy some iced cupcakes in an attempt to jolly things up. Back home, I make three mugs of tea, put the box of cakes on a tray and carry it upstairs. To my surprise, Alan isn’t around.
‘He’s gone to buy materials,’ Lori tells me. She looks as if she’s just come out of the shower. Her hair hangs like a thin wet curtain either side of her face and she’s wearing the swirly patterned top and jeans I bought her the other day.
‘You look great,’ I say.
She smiles. ‘It’s nice to put some clean clothes on. The dust gets everywhere.’
‘Tea and cake?’
‘Yes please. Shall we have them in my room?’
My room. I like the way she says that. She takes the tray off me and climbs the stairs. I follow her, gasping in amazement as I enter the attic.
The room is barely recognisable, no longer bleak and damp but colourful and cosy. A string of paper lanterns glow above the bed. There’s a knotted red rug on the floor, a paisley throw and several bright cushions on the mattress, a bedside table made out of an upturned crate, a shell lampshade overhead and a giant bean bag by the window. I had no idea all this was going on behind the scenes.
‘Someone’s been busy,’ I say.
Lori puts the tray on the rug and gestures at me to sit on the bean bag. It’s like sinking into a large bowl of Rice Krispies.
‘Alan turns up with something virtually every day,’ she admits. ‘I keep telling him I’m only temporary, but he will insist. You need home comforts, he says … Daft bugger.’ She opens the cake box. ‘Ooh, muffins. Aren’t they gorgeous! They look too good to eat.’
I let her have first pick and she chooses a cupcake iced with a large pink rose and silver balls. We peel the cases off and take large bites, giggling as spongy crumbs fall from the corners of our mouths and into our laps. I wash mine down with a large gulp of tea. Alan’s mug sits there, reminding us of his absence.
‘He’s a lovely chap,’ says Lori, obviously thinking the same thing. ‘I wish my Darren was half as nice.’
‘You haven’t mentioned Darren for a while. How are things on that front? Any more texts?’
‘No. He’s ignoring me.’ She licks her finger and picks the crumbs off her jeans, one by one. ‘Don’t want mice,’ she says, catching my gaze.
‘Is that a good or a bad sign? Him not being in touch.’
‘Bad, I think.’
‘Sounds like he’s playing games,’ I say. ‘Don’t be the one to crack first.’
‘I know … It’s weird, though, he’s never been like this before.’
‘You’ve never left him before.’
‘True.’ Her eyes glisten with tears. ‘I don’t want to go back yet. I don’t feel ready.’
I reach over and grab her hands. ‘Please, please don’t go back to him.’
‘It’s easy for you to say,’ she begins, but I wave her objections away.
‘Look at you, you’re so much happier and stronger without him. You don’t need him, Lori, and nor do your children. Stay here for as long as you need. Then tell Social Services the marriage is over and you want your kids back. They’ll protect you, I’m sure they will.’
She grunts. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Don’t let him win. Let me help you. Please?’
‘Thanks, love, you’re a sweetheart.’ She gently removes her hands from mine.
* * *
As the days pass, I sense Lori becoming increasingly anxious about Darren. Alan must be buying her cigarettes, because she keeps going into the back garden to smoke. She hasn’t left the house since our disastrous visit to Citizens Advice. She must be going stir crazy.
The garden’s very private. A brick wall, its top decorated with jagged pieces of glass, runs along the far end. There are high wooden fences on either side. It reminds me of a prison yard, although when Westhill House was a refuge, the garden would have had the opposite function. These were willing prisoners, and the object was to keep the perpetrators out.
Everything’s totally overgrown, but it’s just about possible to imagine what the garden was like back then. A large open space for little children to run around in, a vegetable patch at the bottom for women who wanted to grow things, and a paved terrace where everyone could sit out and breathe the sea air.
I stand in the conservatory watching Lori pace up and down, pulling on her cigarette and puffing smoke into the wintry sky. She stamps it out, then picks up the butt. I turn and hurry back into the kitchen – don’t want her to catch me staring.
She comes back inside, shutting the door behind her. ‘What are the plans for out there?’ she asks. ‘It’s a huge space.’
I make a show of rummaging in the fridge. ‘Well, some of it will be taken up by the kitchen-diner extension. Then we’ll build a large terrace, re-lay the lawn and dig a pond at the bottom.’
‘A pond?’ She sounds surprised. ‘What, for fish?’
I nod. ‘I like fish. They’re very soothing.’
She wrinkles her nose. ‘Aren’t ponds dangerous? For children, I mean … I guess you’re planning to have kids.’
‘Yes, eventually.’ I feel my cheeks blooming. It’s a sensitive subject between me and Jack. I’m thirty-one, and my biological clock is ticking. But our relationship has been going for less than a year; it’s too early for him to make that kind of commitment. ‘That’s why I want the pond right at the bottom,’ I say. ‘So I can fence it off.’
‘Oh, clever,’ she says. ‘Right. Better get back to work.’ She puts the cigarette stub in the bin and walks out of the kitchen, heading for the stairs.
Our paths don’t cross for the rest of the day. Strange that we can live in the same house and yet not be aware of each other’s presence. What’s it going to be like, I wonder, when Lori leaves and the building work is finished? It’ll just be me and Jack. And the ghosts, of course. The violent drawings flash across my inner eye and I silently shout at them to go away.
Jack gets home at a reasonable time for once, and seems in a slightly better mood. I cook a hotchpotch meal of leftovers and we drink a bottle of wine. We don’t talk about Lori, or the building work. Instead, we sit on the bed, legs outstretched, backs against the headboard, and watch a documentary on the laptop. If it wasn’t for the grim surroundings, it would be no different from when we lived in the old flat.
I start to feel bad about being cross with Jack for his behaviour recently. He’s clearly under a lot of strain. I even imagine we might make love, but when it comes to bedtime, he immediately rolls onto his side, facing away from me. Within minutes he’s snoring lightly, so I turn off the bedside lamp and close my eyes, praying the nightmares don’t come back.
It’s half-two when I wake up, disturbed by a sound I can’t identify or locate. I turn over to face Jack, but his side of the bed is empty. He must be in the loo, I think. But several minutes pass and he doesn’t return.
I sit up, blinking into the dark, cavernous space.
‘Jack? Are you there?’
I flick on the lamp, climb out of bed and put on my dressing gown. Leaving the room, I pad into the dark hallway, patting the wall as I try to find the light switch. The overhead candelabra flickers into life.
I pause for a few seconds, pulling the dressing gown across my body as my bare feet press into the ice-cold floor tiles. First I check the downstairs shower room, but it’s dark and empty. The kitchen is dark too and there’s no sign of light beyond. I open the door of the other front reception room, then the middle room, but meet only silent blackness. Where is he? I glance at the staircase. Surely he wouldn’t go up there at this time of night?
A wave of panic rolls over me. Rushing back to the room, I pick up my phone to see if he’s left me a message. But there’s nothing. My heart starts to pound and I feel dizzy. He can’t just have vanished into thin air. I sit on the edge of the bed and call his number, but his phone is switched off. The alarm clock o
n his side of the bed counts the minutes. My mind races through possibilities of where he might be, but none of them make sense.
Then I hear a familiar sound. The front door opening and closing, but very, very quietly. Standing up, I run out of the room and into the hallway. Jack is standing there, fully dressed and a little out of breath.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ I hiss. ‘I’ve been worried sick.’
‘You don’t need to whisper. Lori won’t hear you.’ He unzips his jacket. ‘She’s not here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She left the house about twenty minutes ago.’ He ushers me into the bedroom. ‘It’s so cold out there, I didn’t have time to dress properly.’
‘You followed her?’
‘Yeah.’ He climbs into bed fully clothed and pulls the duvet over himself. ‘I couldn’t sleep. Then I heard her coming down the stairs and leaving the house. So I threw some clothes on and went after her.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I wanted to know what she was up to, that’s why.’
‘She probably just needed some fresh air.’
‘I followed her down the hill. She had no idea I was behind her. When she got to the pier, a car pulled up; she got in and it drove away.’
My heart sinks. ‘What colour? What colour was the car?’
‘Hard to tell. A dark colour.’
‘Blue? Could it have been dark blue?’
‘I don’t know. Possibly. Why does it matter?’
I punch the headboard with my fist. ‘It’s Darren,’ I say. ‘She’s gone back to him.’
Jack sighs with relief. ‘Thank God for that.’
Chapter Fifteen
Kay
Then
Kay stood in the kitchen cutting off the ends of the flower stalks – at a sharp angle, the way her mother had taught her. It had been months since Foxy had bought her flowers, she reflected. These were from the girls at work. She filled the vase with tepid water and started arranging the blooms, unable to stop the wave of sadness that was breaking over her. Her colleagues had given her a card, too – Sorry you’re leaving! it said, in bright pink loopy writing. They’d all signed it and left kind messages, wishing her luck for the future.
But there was no future. Not on the career front, anyway. Many Congratulations had never been her dream job, but she’d stuck it out for over two years and been promoted to assistant manager of the branch. Foxy had wanted her to leave soon after they’d married, but she’d reminded him that her money would help buy a few luxuries for the house. For example, they’d recently bought a snazzy music centre that combined a record deck, cassette player and radio all in one. And she’d been paying for Abigail’s ballet lessons. She sighed. The little girl loved dancing, but she supposed all that would have to stop now.
She carried the vase into the lounge and placed it on the dining table. The chrysanthemums looked gorgeous but wouldn’t last long in this heat. Everyone had assumed she’d left because she was pregnant, which sadly wasn’t the case. She’d told them she simply wanted to devote more time to the family. Foxy never stopped moaning about the house being a mess, and he objected to her ironing in front of the television, even though they were usually his shirts. Also, he hated her working Saturdays and refused to look after Abigail. Instead, she had to get the child up extra early and take her on the bus to her parents’ house. Then at the end of the day, she had to do it all in reverse. It was always nearly eight by the time she got home, too late to start cooking – he didn’t like that either.
But the real reason he’d made her give up was his jealousy. True, they had met in the card shop, but that was the only time anything like that had happened to her. He refused to believe it. Flattering in a way, she supposed, standing back to assess the flowers, then rushing forward to rearrange them. A sign that he still found her attractive. Her colleagues thought it was ever so romantic when he turned up at the shop unexpectedly to ‘say hello’. Kay knew he was actually trying to catch her out. One time he found her talking to a sales rep about a new range of greeting cards. When she got home that evening, he gave her a good hiding for ‘flaunting your tits’ at the chap. She couldn’t go on like that. She gave her notice in the next day.
She instinctively rubbed a bruise on her upper arm – she could still see his finger marks from where he’d grabbed her a week ago after a row about something else, she’d forgotten exactly what. Something minor. His triggers were impossible to predict. There were more bruises on her back where he’d repeatedly knocked her against the wall. It was June. The weather was too warm to wear neck scarves and long-sleeved blouses. She was surprised the girls hadn’t noticed her curious new fashion tastes, but it probably never occurred to them that he hit her. They thought he was lovely. Everybody thought he was lovely – her parents, all her friends. Even she thought he was lovely – some of the time.
She went back to the kitchen to dispose of the foliage and cellophane. Maybe now that she’d left the shop, things would improve and the rows would stop. She would complete her chores while he was at work so that when he came home the house would be tidy and sparkling clean. And she’d make more of an effort with the cooking.
To be fair, Foxy had a lot on his plate right now. Micky was in trouble again and this time it was going to court. He’d been encouraged to join a local Sunday league football team, the idea being that sport would channel his aggression into something more positive. But there’d been a nasty incident on the pitch, during which Micky had managed to fracture an opposing player’s jaw. He’d been charged with assault – much to his brother’s fury and indignation.
Micky was pleading not guilty on the grounds of self-defence, but Kay didn’t rate his chances. The Foxton brothers were too free with their fists. It seemed to be in their blood. She understood all the reasons – difficult childhood, alcoholic mother, growing up without a decent male role model – but even so. You’d think that if you’d been a victim of violence yourself, you’d be less likely to subject others to it, not more.
* * *
The following Wednesday, she collected Abigail from school as she always did. The skies were cloudy but the temperature was extremely warm. Muggy. She was trapped in a long-sleeved blouse and a pair of tight flares when she should have worn a summer dress. Her armpits were sticky with roll-on deodorant, but it hadn’t stopped the sweat. She was sure she had damp patches and didn’t dare raise her arms.
The bell had rung for the end of school. Within seconds the kids would start to stream out, like water from an overflowing bath. Kay stood in the playground trying not to catch the eyes of the other mums, who were standing in small groups, chatting. She was much younger than all of them and suspected they looked down on her for being a single parent. Not that she was single any more, but Foxy was refusing to adopt Abigail and wouldn’t let her use his surname. School letters still came addressed to Miss Watson, even though Kay had told the office twice that she was married now. It was as if they didn’t believe her.
She pasted a smile on her face and craned her neck, searching among the blue-and-white checked dresses for Abigail’s jet-black hair bobbing between the blondes and mousy browns. Most of the boys and several girls she recognised from her daughter’s class had already emerged and were being scooped up by their mothers, who were snatching reading bags and rescuing trailing cardigans. The corners of Kay’s mouth turned from up to down as she waited. Where was she?
‘Abigail’s mother?’ The teacher was walking towards her carrying a brown cardboard folder.
‘Yes, that’s me.’ Kay felt her heart rate speed up. ‘Where is she?’
‘She’s helping Mrs Evans tidy up the paint pots. I wanted to have a little word with you, if you don’t mind. In private.’ The teacher, Ms Gardiner – she was very particular about the Ms – gestured for Kay to follow her back into the building.
Kay scampered after her. ‘What’s happened? Is she in trouble?’
‘No, she’s fine. Shal
l we go in here?’ Ms Gardiner led her into a small side room next to the office. It was known as the nit room, because it was where the school nurse inspected the children’s heads. Inside, there was a narrow bed where sick pupils could lie down if their parents weren’t available to take them home. There was also a small desk and two upright metal chairs with canvas seats. Ms Gardiner took one of them and nodded at Kay to sit in the other. She put the brown folder on the desk, but didn’t open it.
‘What’s the problem?’ Kay asked. Teachers always made her feel nervous, although to be fair, this one was young and very informal. She wore gathered skirts, long beads and hooped earrings. A hippy, and judging by the emphatic ‘Ms’, a women’s libber. Today she was wearing a blue cotton top patterned with flocks of white birds. She probably didn’t shave her underarms, Kay thought as she squirmed on her seat, waiting for Ms Gardiner to explain.
‘We’re a little concerned about Abigail,’ the teacher began, leaning forward. ‘She’s become a bit withdrawn. She used to be so lively, so willing to join in, but recently …’ She paused. ‘I was wondering … is everything all right at home?’
Kay felt the woman’s gaze burning into her face; it was as if she had X-ray vision and could see through the heavy foundation Kay had applied before leaving the house. There was the faintest remnant of a bruise on her upper cheek. Usually he left her face alone, but she’d got in the way of his fist, or so he’d claimed. Was Ms Gardiner looking at her long sleeves and putting two and two together?
‘Everything’s fine, thanks,’ she replied firmly.
Ms Gardiner smiled weakly. ‘I gather Abigail has a new daddy.’
‘That’s right. I got married last year … We’re still sorting out the adoption,’ she lied.