by K. L. Slater
To distract myself while they tried to hurt me I’d think about our cat. Or Mum, when she’d had the first few drinks and would let me cuddle up to her.
But it didn’t really work.
That’s when I made up my mind to think of nothing at all, like a blank white wall.
Or being huddled up in the corner of a black room with no light, where nobody could hurt you.
It’s something I still do now – on the worst days.
* * *
I start in the kitchen, emptying out all the cupboards and wiping down the shelves before putting stuff back.
I throw Albert’s litter tray outside but I know he is not the smell culprit. Cats are extremely clean animals, unlike most humans. The mixed staff toilets at the delivery office are testament to that.
I mop the kitchen floor, and when all I can smell is acrid lemon cleansing fluid, I move on.
I clean room after room, vacuuming, spraying and wiping down endless surfaces.
As I work, it occurs to me to offer to help Ivy out with her cleaning, bearing in mind how poor her health is. Some days, I could go over to the house straight from work; she might like that.
I make up my mind to ask her later, at the hospital.
I find myself humming as I work, and I am astonished when I look at my watch to find I have been cleaning for nearly three hours. Visiting time starts in less than two hours at the hospital but I have to try and find just half an hour for a rest.
Staying home isn’t an option. I know how much Liam will be looking forward to my visit, and he’ll be gutted if I don’t get to the hospital.
Last night, I offered to pick Ivy up before each visit and take her back home at the end of the evening. Initially, she seemed rather reluctant but I wouldn’t let it go, and in the end, she accepted graciously.
‘It’s silly you struggling to get the bus when I’ve got time on my hands,’ I told her just before I left. ‘Friends should help each other out, don’t you think?’
She blinked at me but she didn’t answer. That’s gratitude for you.
When I get upstairs, I lie on my bed and cover my legs with a soft fleece blanket. I feel the mattress bounce when Albert jumps up, purring and kneading around the bed in tiny circles until, finally, he settles and snuggles against my legs.
My eyelids feel heavy and sore but my arms and legs are still too fidgety to sleep so I lie with my eyes open and study the fine cracks on the ceiling. I know each line, each fissure.
The cracks radiate out from a central fracture in the ceiling that looks worse than it actually is. Some of the cracks are so fine you can’t see them at first, but if you keep looking they slowly materialise in front of your eyes, creeping out like spindly insect legs into what you thought were perfectly smooth areas of plaster.
After a few minutes I close my eyes and do my breathing exercises but nothing seems to help.
I can still smell it.
I start to worry what will happen if the smell just won’t go away, even if I clean and scrub every crevice in the house.
What if it gets worse and clings to my clothes when I leave the house and other people start to smell it?
My thumbnail begins to carve away and I make a conscious effort to breathe deeper to try and dispel the negative thoughts.
Still, somehow I manage to drift off because the next thing I am snapping awake with a start, which makes me feel queasy.
I only intended to doze, to hover in that restful place between wakefulness and sleep, but now I’ve gone and messed it up.
A glance over at the clock confirms it is five fifteen, and I’m supposed to be picking Ivy up at five thirty to take her over to the hospital.
I throw off the blanket and jump out of bed, and Albert yowls his objections, stretching fully out and yawning, extending his shiny black claws.
Last week he left me a small, wet mound of innards and feathers to clean up. I think it must’ve been a sparrow.
Maybe that’s what the smell is: one of Albert’s ‘presents’ that he’s hidden somewhere.
I get dressed quickly and whip through my leaving-the-house checklist, not nearly as thoroughly as I’d like. But I remember to take the white box I’d bought the day before out of the fridge, and head for the car.
* * *
Ivy is waiting outside the house.
‘I didn’t think you were coming,’ she says, making a palaver about lowering herself into the passenger seat.
I glance at my watch; it’s only thirty-one minutes past five. I feel my scalp tighten.
‘You’ve no need to worry on that score,’ I remark. ‘You’ll find me reliable, if nothing else.’
Reliability. That’s one box that has always been ticked in my annual onetoone appraisal with Jim at work.
‘I’ve no doubt you are, dear, but there’s no accounting for the traffic at this time, is there?’
Some people insist on having an answer for everything. I stay quiet and start the car.
Soon as we reach the main road, we hit traffic.
‘You see, you don’t get this problem with the bus,’ Ivy comments. ‘They rocket down the bus lane even in heavy traffic, like our Liam on his motorbike. He often whips straight down the middle if there’s a traffic jam.’
Liam isn’t going to be whipping around anywhere on his motorbike right now.
She frowns at the queue of vehicles in front of us. ‘I’ll never rest if he says he wants another bike.’
‘Have you heard anything from the police yet?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’ll tell you when I hear anything.’
I hear the full stop loud and clear but I’m not going to let that put me off asking. It’s far too important.
We drive a few minutes in silence and then I remember my idea.
‘I’ll come over to the house one day, if you like,’ I say. ‘Give it a good clean so you don’t have to worry about getting it done.’
She turns to look at me.
‘That’s very kind of you, Anna.’ I can tell there’s a ‘but’ coming. ‘But really, there’s no need. I’m just taking things steady and I’m managing to get it all done so far.’
I bite down on my tongue.
‘It’s very kind of you to offer though,’ she says again. ‘I’m sure you’ve got such a busy life with lots of friends and probably a boyfriend, too?’
I keep my eyes on the road. See how she likes a taste of her own silent medicine.
* * *
We get to the hospital at just gone six.
I’ve managed to get us here in record time, weaving in and out of the back roads to make up a few seconds here and there.
‘You’ve worked miracles behind that wheel, Anna,’ Ivy beams. ‘And it’s so nice having someone to chat to, on the way in.’
I glow inside. Maybe I’ve got it wrong and Ivy does like having me around after all. Any luck, she’ll completely relax before long and readily accept my help.
When we get up to the ward, Liam is sitting up in bed.
He still has a few tubes and pads attached to his chest and forearms but his improved appearance, compared to the day before, is astonishing.
Ivy rushes up to his bed and embraces him. I see Liam stiffen.
‘Hello. . . Gran,’ he mumbles awkwardly.
‘Careful of his tubes, Ivy,’ I say, setting down the white box I’ve brought in with me on the sliding table at the bottom of Liam’s bed.
I sit down in one of the chairs next to him and wait for her to stop her fussing.
‘How are you feeling, Liam?’ I ask.
‘I’m still aching but at least they’ve taken most of this stuff away now.’ He indicates the remaining tubes snaking across his chest.
‘You look more like your old self already.’ Ivy stares intensely at him, stroking his hand. ‘You’ll be back to normal in no time at all, you’ll see.’
Liam turns his head and stares out of the window.
‘I won’t know when I’m back t
o my old self,’ he says vaguely. ‘I can’t remember who that person is. Or was.’
‘Nonsense,’ Ivy says. ‘Another few days or so and it’ll all start coming back. The doctor said as much, didn’t he, Anna?’
‘The doctor said his memory “might” come back but that we have to be patient,’ I correct her. ‘In the meantime, we’re not supposed to be talking about it, Ivy.’
‘But how is he going to remember, unless I help him?’ She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a brown envelope. ‘I brought you some photographs to look at, to see if that helps.’
She spreads a short stack of curling black-and-white photos out on the bed.
‘Everything okay in here?’ A nurse hovers in the doorway.
‘Ivy has brought some photographs in to show Liam,’ I say pointedly. ‘I hope it won’t upset him.’
‘It won’t upset me.’ Liam squints briefly at the photographs. ‘I don’t know who any of these people are.’
‘Oh but look, here’s your grandad.’ Ivy holds up a small, dog-eared print of an old man in braces leaning on a spade. ‘Surely you must remember him?’
I wonder why she hasn’t brought more recent photographs in to show Liam, perhaps of his parents or his friends. Surely he’d have a better chance of remembering more up-to-date events.
‘It’s best we don’t rush this sort of thing, love,’ the nurse says gently to Ivy, starting to gather the photographs together. ‘It’s not just for Liam’s benefit; it can be very upsetting for you too.’
Ivy’s face crumples. ‘He was always so close to his grandad; they were inseparable until the day he died, and now he doesn’t know who he is.’
I wonder when the photograph was taken. Looking at it, Liam must have only been a small boy.
Liam lowers his head back onto the pillow. ‘I’m sorry,’ he sighs. ‘But the past is just a blank.’
Chapter 14
Joan Peat
Joan peered out of the window as Anna’s car pulled away from the kerb yet again.
Just lately, she seemed to be constantly in and out. Their daily cuppa had dwindled to the odd rushed five minutes here and there.
Joan missed her company but the thought she might be getting her life together at last made up for it. It’s what she had always wanted for Anna.
She sighed and sat down in Arthur’s chair next to the window. She liked it here where she could watch the street from behind the nets; not that there was much activity these days.
People didn’t seem to walk as much anymore. They’d rather jump in their cars and drive to the row of shops just around the corner.
If you believed all the news reports, children were only interested in playing in pretend worlds nowadays – virtual worlds, she thought they called them – on their computer screens. It was baffling.
Joan often thought that, had he still been here, Arthur wouldn’t have known what to make of it all.
But her Arthur hadn’t been here for years and now all she had left were her memories of how things used to be.
This was the very window from where they used to watch their five-year-old neighbour as she held one of her stuffed toys’ tea parties out on the street.
Joan smiled at the memory. She was never one for dolls, was Anna.
She glanced back at the open lounge door where she could see straight through into the kitchen.
Nearly thirty years ago Joan had been standing right there, just inside the back door, the first time Anna came round of her own accord.
She could see herself now, humming to the little radio she liked to have on in the background as she worked; her hands immersed in a sink full of suds. Neat printed short-sleeved dress with her pale lemon apron tied around her middle. Jet black hair clipped up and a little bit of rouge and lipstick, even though she was in the house.
She’d always liked to make the effort for Arthur.
It had been a hot, muggy day soon after Jack Clarke, Anna’s father, had left home.
The kitchen window was wide open but there was very little breeze and the air outside smelled of cut grass and scorched tarmac.
Joan had been pottering around all morning, and when she opened the back door to put the rinsed milk bottles out, there she stood: fair curls knotted and tousled, with a runny nose. Joan guessed there hadn’t been a hairbrush near the child’s head in days.
When Joan appeared at the door, Anna seemed instantly startled. She clutched a bedraggled soft toy closer to her chest and made to run.
‘Do you like home-made lemonade?’ Joan called.
The child had turned back then and nodded cautiously; her eyes darting around the yard.
Joan had brought her inside and taken her through to the front room. Anna leaned shyly into her leg when she saw Arthur, and Joan was reminded of Janet-Mae and how little affection her daughter had showed her, even as a small child.
‘Who have we got here then, Mrs Peat?’ Arthur peered over his paper at her. ‘A pretty little fairy you found in the garden?’
Anna had giggled at that.
She stuck her thumb in her mouth and took a step towards him, still clutching what Joan could now identify as a ragged stuffed cat, colour unidentifiable.
‘Now, when you visit someone’s home it’s customary to tell them a little bit about yourself,’ Arthur said kindly. ‘Let’s see. What’s your name and how old are you, fairy?’
‘I’m Anna.’ She beamed, her voice clear as a bell. ‘I’m five years old next Tuesday.’
‘Five years old?’ Arthur exclaimed, dropping his paper. ‘Why, you’re nearly all grown up!’
From that moment on, Anna was sold on Arthur. Joan always told everyone the child worshipped the ground he walked on.
She had poured Anna a small glass of the cool lemonade she’d prepared that morning and taken it through to the front room with a malted milk biscuit.
Anna wolfed it down within seconds.
‘You liked that, didn’t you?’ Joan remarked. ‘Does Mummy make lemonade for you at home?’
Of course, Joan could already guess the answer to that, and she felt some satisfaction as Arthur witnessed Anna shaking her head, knotted curls bouncing.
‘Does your mummy know you’re here, dear?’ Joan felt she had to ask but wished immediately that she hadn’t. At the mention of her mother, the child quickly became fretful, twisting her hands.
‘I think we can safely say her mother doesn’t much care where she is,’ Arthur muttered under his breath.
It was true. They’d seen Anna wandering around on the street on many occasions, playing with her stuffed toys alone at the side of the road for seemingly hours.
Arthur always stopped Joan from going out to see if she was alright though.
‘Not our business, love,’ he’d said sadly. ‘Monica Clarke won’t thank you.’
And Joan knew he was right.
Soon after the mention of her mother, Anna’s bottom lip began to wobble. It was Arthur who’d put her at ease again.
‘Come and sit here next to me.’ He patted the sofa cushion. ‘I’ve got something here that a little fairy like you might like to look at.’
He reached down by his seat and brought out his frame of pinned butterflies. He liked to sit in his chair with a magnifying glass, studying the specimens for hours.
Joan had thought a lot about that frame in the last few years.
It was packed into a box somewhere in the spare bedroom. She had never liked having it around; it troubled her.
The way that something so full of life and beauty could be captured, pinned down and changed for ever.
Chapter 15
Anna
I wouldn’t consciously wish Ivy any harm, of course, but in the event she gets herself so upset about that old photograph and Liam’s inability to remember his late grandad that she collapses.
Right there at the hospital, in front of us all. They take her off on a trolley to recuperate.
‘Don’t worry, she’ll be fine,
’ the nurse reassures Liam. ‘She’s exhausted, that’s all.’
When the nurse has gone, Liam says, ‘I’m worrying that I’m not worried, Anna. I know I should be.’
My heart leaps when he remembers my name so easily. At last, I’ll get to speak to him alone without Ivy rattling on about the past.
I sit down on the chair right next to his bed; the one Ivy usually commandeers.
‘I feel guilty,’ he says. ‘That I have no feelings for my own gran.’
His slate-blue eyes bore into me.
I’m not used to people looking at me as closely. I can feel my face prickling up like it’s covered in nettle stings.
But Liam doesn’t look away, and I see that his eyes are kind and trusting and I like it a bit more then.
‘Tell me a bit about yourself,’ Liam says, still watching me.
‘Me? Oh there’s not much to tell.’ I laugh, scratching at my wrist. ‘Nothing interesting at any rate.’
‘Come on.’ He taps my arm lightly so I have to look up again. ‘Don’t be coy.’
For a second or two, I’m lost in those eyes, almost the exact shade of Danny’s. And that hair, with its subtle threads of gold that keep catching the light.
I wonder if this is how Danny would look, how Danny would be, if he’d only been allowed to—
‘Anna?’
‘Sorry,’ I mumble. ‘It’s just – I don’t know, I don’t really like talking about myself.’
Usually, I’d get annoyed if someone kept poking their nose in to my business but with Liam it feels different. It feels like he’s genuinely interested in me.
‘Good time to start then,’ he presses. ‘What do you do for a living?’
So I tell him the unimpressive truth; that I’m a postal delivery worker for the Royal Mail and that I live alone in a small end-terrace with my cat, Albert.
I can’t dress it up more than that.
It feels as if an invisible hand is squeezing my windpipe and I stop speaking.
‘When did you move there?’ he asks, and his eyes slide from my face to my clawing fingers.