by Flynn Berry
I ate my breakfast. Across the table, Robbie attempted to return his piece of toast to Mum. A brass cookie cutter in the shape of a heart hung on the wall behind him, and a row of Russian nesting dolls was lined up on the windowsill. Everything in the room was so familiar, but so was the house in Belgravia.
Finn was begging at the table. He was a Skye terrier, like Greyfriars Bobby, the dog who waited by his master’s grave for fourteen years. Whenever we went into Edinburgh, I tried to convince Nell to visit the dog’s statue with me, which she only agreed to because the pub next to it, also called Greyfriars Bobby, served us sometimes.
I fed Finn and gathered my schoolbooks. While I put on my shoes, Mum was talking on the phone with Sabrina in Wales, as she did every morning. She said, “Claire, your shirt’s inside out.” Into the phone, she said, “Whose goats?”
Before Robbie and I left, I waved to Mum, who waved back, distracted, covering the mouthpiece of the phone with her hand even though she wasn’t saying anything.
* * *
*
• • •
Nell spent the bus ride hunched over a worksheet. “Why didn’t you do that last night?” I asked, and she sighed. The paper was gray at the edges and torn. Nell has four siblings, and most of her belongings came out of the house tattered.
She chewed the side of her thumb. “What about this one?”
“Factor that part out.”
“How does it factor?”
“X plus y, x minus y.”
She finished the last question and tightened her ponytail. A tractor went by us, pouring glittering salt onto the road before the snowstorm. Nell said, “Do you think we’ll have an early dismissal?”
I looked at the other students on the bus and wondered what would happen if they found out who I was. The girls at Francis Holland had stopped talking to me. Every single one. When Mum picked me up from school, I made sure to time my exit so it looked like I was leaving with a group of other girls. Sometimes I turned around, or waved, so I seemed to be saying goodbye to a friend.
The reaction would be different here. Some of them might like me more because of it, which would be even worse.
21
ALICE AND I have developed a routine. We play tennis on Saturday morning and then walk to Orange Square, where we both have an iced coffee and a danish at a table outside the café.
We have enough in common to never run out of things to talk about, especially since I’ve studied her photos. I try not to seem overly familiar, though, to maintain a level of reserve. We talk mostly about work, restaurants, books, travel. I’ve researched certain destinations so I can discuss them with her. Positano, Courchevel, the Maldives. I tell myself that this isn’t entirely lying, since my parents brought me to some of these places when I was little, I just don’t remember them.
I don’t go abroad often. My father has ruined foreign travel for me. I spend the entire time wondering if he lives there. In a train or car, I stare out the window at foreign villages, foreign houses, demented with not knowing if he’s inside.
Recently Alice and I have started to talk about relationships, which is a relief, since I don’t have to invent any of it. She asked if I ever want to get married, and I said no. I didn’t say, Would you, if you had my parents?
“What about you?” I asked. “Why did your last relationship end?”
“I had a call from his girlfriend.”
“No,” I said, and Alice nodded. “I thought you said you were living together.”
“We were. His company has an office in Seattle, he spent half his time there. We figured out that he’d been talking about marriage with both of us. I think he would have just kept it going. I might have found out when we were seventy that he had another family.”
“Christ.”
“Not the best year,” said Alice, tearing her danish in half.
I think that she likes me, but also that I fill a role for her. She hasn’t been back in London very long. Her best friend lives in California, and most of her friends here have just had children, she doesn’t seem to see much of them.
After tennis, we usually only stay in Ebury Square for as long as it takes to finish our coffees. Though one time I walked across the square with her to buy some flowers, and another time we shared a newspaper.
This morning I told her I had to pick up some groceries at the overpriced shop on the square, and she said, “I’ll come with you, I should get it over with now too.”
She ordered four steaks at the butcher’s counter. “It’s my dad’s birthday tonight,” she said. “I’m cooking dinner at their house.” She’s an only child, I wonder who the fourth guest will be.
* * *
*
• • •
While Alice cooks dinner for her father’s birthday, I meet Nell at a Chinese restaurant on Wardour Street. She came to London this morning for work, and has a few hours before catching the sleeper train to Edinburgh.
It starts to rain, and the window by our table fogs over. I wonder if Alice will still use the outdoor grill. I picture her under an umbrella, using a pair of tongs to turn the steaks, while her parents and their guest have a drink inside. Nell is looking at me. “What?” I say.
“I asked if you need to borrow a sleeping bag.”
I don’t know what she’s talking about. We stare at each other over the table, then I remember, with a turn in my stomach, that we’re supposed to go camping in Glen Coe in July.
“Nell, I’m so sorry. I can’t go this year.”
“Very funny.”
“No, really.” I don’t want to lie to her, but if I explain about Alice, she’ll be even angrier. “I can’t leave work.”
“Didn’t you already ask for the days off?”
“Harriet’s about to go on maternity leave,” I say, which is true. “Everyone has to cover for her.”
“Can we go in September, then?”
I nod, though I can’t imagine that far away yet, I don’t know when things with Alice will come to a head. I apologize again, a waiter comes with our wine, and Nell takes a long drink of it. I ask about her meetings. Nell translates Swedish books for a few London publishing houses. She shows me a new manuscript, with notes from her meeting in the margins.
Our dim sum arrives, and we eat greedily, fighting over the dish of plum sauce. Nell pours us more wine. I’m in an old jumper and haven’t put on any makeup, and I doubt Nell has noticed what I’m wearing. I’m so glad to be with her. It’s like an alarm sounding in a room has suddenly been switched off. I didn’t realize how distressing it would be, pretending to be someone else. Every time I see Alice, I’m lying to her. I thought it would be like following James, but I like Alice, she isn’t the same as her parents.
“Did you finish painting the house?” I ask, and Nell nods. I visit her often, and know her home as well as mine. The one floorboard under the straw mat that creaks, the ferns on the bathroom windowsill to look at while you take a shower, the red enamel fridge.
Nell tells me about a new bar in Merchiston, and it makes me homesick, desperate to walk down Morningside Road, with the black Pentland Hills in the distance.
“How’s Robbie?” she asks.
“The same.”
“Has he had any more seizures?”
“No, but he’s at more of a risk now that he’s had one.”
“Where is he buying it? Does he still have a prescription?”
“No, online.”
“Have you thought about telling the police?”
“He’d never forgive me.”
“I think he’d understand eventually,” Nell says. “Given the other option.”
After we finish our dinner, I take a cab with her to King’s Cross. On the concourse, she says, “My friend’s practice is looking for a new GP.”
“Where?”
&nb
sp; “Edinburgh, somewhere in New Town. Want to send her your CV?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Nell waves from the end of the platform, then she climbs onto the train and I walk down to the tube.
* * *
—
I’M FINISHING PAPERWORK at the practice when my mobile rings. There’s a long spell of static, and then Robbie says, “Hi, Claire.”
My chest tightens. I haven’t heard his voice in weeks, he’s only texted me. “Hi, Robbie.”
The static comes again, and a humming. He says, “Can I stay at your place tonight?”
“Of course, where are you?”
“On the train. We’re by Coventry.”
“Okay, see you soon.”
I have an hour of forms left, but will finish them in the morning. It’s drizzling outside, and I fumble with my umbrella. Coventry is at least an hour away, but I still walk so fast I’m nearly running. I have to get home, I have to get everything ready. Robbie might be hungry. I stop at the health store near my house and order a takeaway, a rice bowl with tempeh and vegetables. He likes soy sauce, I ask for extra packets.
I walk to Marks and Spencer and fill a cart with groceries, with fresh food, but also frozen pizzas and crisps. He needs the fat, he weighs less now than he did when he was fourteen. What would Mum say if she knew that.
I know some of what he eats. Loaves of soft white bread, packets of powdered doughnuts, marked-down tins of soup. He doesn’t have much of an appetite from the tramadol. He must be hungry a lot of the time, but not notice.
At home, I set the takeaway on the counter. It takes me a while to put away all the groceries, I never buy this much in one trip. I switch on the lamps, and find a clean set of towels, and sheets for making up the sofa. And then I wait. I try to read, and listen for the buzzer. Some cabs drive by in the wet, but none stop. I keep checking my mobile. The takeaway has gone cold, and I’m setting it in the fridge when the buzzer sounds.
Robbie is standing on the doorstep. I hug him, and with my chin hooked on his shoulder say, “It’s good to see you. Why did the trip take so long?”
“Broken rail,” he says. I take him in at a glance. He’s shaky on his feet, and all of his movements seem to require special attention.
Upstairs, he stands near the door with his backpack on. His hair is wet and plastered to his head, and his shoes are soaked through. He looks around my flat, and I wonder if he hates me for it. When he crouches down to pet Jasper, the dog is ecstatic, he always remembers him.
Robbie rents a room in a flatshare in Peckham. Someone might be staying in it, he might have sublet it while he was away for work, or he just doesn’t want to go back there yet. I won’t ask, I don’t want him to feel unwelcome. Robbie tugs at his jacket pocket, like he’s having trouble getting something out of it. After a while, he extracts a folded gum wrapper, considers it, returns it to his pocket.
“Do you want to take a shower?” I ask, and he nods. “I can wash your clothes.”
“I’ll do it.” Robbie removes them from his backpack and holds them against his chest. I listen to him close the machine and pour in detergent. He shuffles into the bathroom, and stays in the shower for a long time. “I used your face mask,” he says afterwards.
I laugh. “Did you?”
“Can’t you tell?”
“Are you hungry?”
He says, “I could eat.” He forms each word carefully, like his mouth is full of marbles.
I heat up the takeaway. He sits on the sofa with the plate on his knees. The food seems to be gone in a few bites, I should have gotten two.
We make up the pullout bed on the sofa. I bought the sofa with him in mind. He was still living in Bristol then, and I wanted a spare bed for when he visited. He sits up against the pillows, and Jasper lies across his legs. “Are you still hungry? I have more, I did a shop recently.”
Robbie shakes his head. I make us mugs of hot chocolate anyway, with double cream instead of milk. He’s so thin. He smiles a little to himself when I hand him the hot chocolate, and I think, I’m pushing too much.
“Do you have to go back to Lancashire?”
“No, we’re done.”
We watch a sitcom. Next to me on the sofa Robbie laughs soundlessly, with his shoulders shaking and his hand curled a few inches in front of his face. He seems different, less frenetic, and his voice sounds different too, it’s not strangled or flattened.
He says, “I don’t think I should be in London at the moment.”
I stay very still. “Where do you want to go?”
“Penbridge.”
“All right. We’ll call in the morning.”
We say good night. I close my door and climb into bed. He wants to go to a rehab, he’s asking me to bring him. This hasn’t happened before. He’s only ever tried to stop on his own.
• • •
I wake early. I have to call Penbridge. If they don’t have a bed, there are plenty of others. I have a spreadsheet of them saved on my computer.
Sunshine fills my bedroom. I can’t hear if Robbie’s awake yet. I open the door and moan. His sheets are folded on the couch. His plate and cup are rinsed and set on the draining rack.
22
IN CRAIL, I babysat for a family called the Fennells almost every week. They lived on Marketgate in a large stone house with a stepped roof. One evening, I waited on their stoop with my hands in my coat pockets, looking at the wreath on their front door.
“Hi, Claire,” said Rebecca. “Thanks for coming. Freezing out, isn’t it?” She asked about my classes while putting on a pair of heels, her voice warm and familiar. We knew each other well, I’d started babysitting for them two years before, when I turned fourteen.
Max and Lucy ran into the hall and attached themselves to my legs. After their parents left, we played a board game. Max went to sleep on his own, and I read to Lucy in bed from The Borrowers while she leaned against me. I wondered if her parents would still let me babysit if they knew about my father.
Once Lucy fell asleep, I went downstairs and opened the fridge. There was gourmet pizza, and containers of risotto and gnocchi and fish pie from an expensive deli in Edinburgh. I didn’t want to leave an obvious absence in the fridge, so instead I ate small amounts from a lot of different things, which, I realized, would seem even stranger to them if they noticed.
I did my homework, then wandered through their house, which was larger than ours, and had polished hardwood floors and Berber rugs. In the master bathroom, I looked at Rebecca’s jars, simple white tubs with French names. They were different from Mum’s products, the clay masks and peppermint foot rubs that she bought on sale at the co-op.
My eyes had pouches under them. I hadn’t slept well for the past week, since visiting the website about my father. I used some of Rebecca’s eye cream, which only seemed to make the pouches shiny as well as swollen.
A pile of black, navy, and cream cashmere jumpers was folded on Rebecca’s bed. I shouldn’t like them, I thought. I didn’t want to have anything in common with my father. Which also meant I couldn’t like horses, or yachts, or villas, though none of those seemed to be in the offing.
My friends at school were so careless with their infractions. They could be greedy, they could gossip and lie without thinking. I couldn’t. My father was a liar, I wouldn’t be anything like him.
I left the bedroom and went down to watch television. The Fennells paid for all the expensive channels, and I watched The Thirty-Nine Steps. I always chose differently in their house, like they would somehow know what I’d seen and judge me based on it. Or maybe these were my real preferences, and their nice house suited me better. I hoped not, that it was just that usual mixture, how you’re both more relaxed and more guarded in someone else’s house.
* * *
*
• • •
When I came home, Mum was in the sitting room. I dropped onto the sofa next to her, and she said, “How was it?”
“Good. They went to bed at eight and I watched The Thirty-Nine Steps.”
“I haven’t seen that in years. Did you like it?”
I nodded, shifting against her. “Rebecca Fennell has really nice jumpers.”
Mum laughed. “I bet she does.”
I wanted to tell her the rest. They were cashmere, I wanted to try them on, does that mean I’m greedy, does that mean I’m like him, do I remind you of him?
Mum patted my arm. She said, “I’m going to bed. Will you remember to turn off the Christmas lights?”
“Yes.”
“You forgot last night.”
“I won’t.”
I tried to read more about my father online, but couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking someone was in the house. I’d already gone downstairs twice to check the lock on the front door.
I was at the window, looking out at the row of streetlamps in the fog, when the idea came to me. I created an account on the forum, opened a new thread, and wrote, “Does anyone know where Faye and the children live now?”
I waited for replies for another hour, then tried to sleep.
• • •
The next morning, I ate breakfast at the kitchen table with Robbie, who was drawing up very precise plans for a gingerbread house, and Mum, who was reading the newspaper. I looked at her face and neck and arms. She didn’t seem to have any scars from where he’d hit her. I’d read that during the attack he reached his hand down her throat. I wanted to ask if that had healed too, or if it still hurt sometimes.
“Can you take Finn out?” she asked. I walked him down the high street, past the striped awning of the East Neuk Hotel, where Nell and I worked as chambermaids in the summer, and around to the harbor. On the quay, some tourists were taking pictures of the lobstermen, which the lobstermen pretended not to notice.