by J. A. Baker
Going to live with Greta was the best thing that ever happened to Celia. She can honestly say with a great deal of conviction that Greta saved her. She gave her a new life and showed her how to live it. Had it not been for her foster mother, Celia feels sure she could have easily fallen through the cracks of an overstretched system and ended up going down the same route as her mother. She didn’t, and for that she will always be eternally grateful to the foster parents who went above and beyond their remit – nurturing, guiding, always being there with their wise words and loving ways.
Eva, however, did her utmost to spoil and ruin everything Greta put her way, whether it was new clothes, a lovely clean bedroom or the tiniest of gifts. Like the matching bracelets Greta and Tony had bought for Celia and Eva. Tony, Greta’s husband and their foster father, the man who worked so many hours at the local garage regardless of how cold it was or how tired he was, that they barely saw him.
Celia feels tears prick at her eyes. Even now, after all these years it still hits her hard; the memory of that day. The day that Greta took both girls out shopping into town telling them that if they helped her carry the bags back, they would both receive a hot dog and a milkshake as a reward for their efforts. The promised snack never happened. They went into town but there was a different purpose to their visit. It transpired that Greta had bought them both a silver charm bracelet as a gift for being the children Greta and Tony could never have.
Celia rubs at her eyes. Beautiful, thoughtful Greta and lovely old Tony, always with a ready smile and a dry, witty comment that entertained her no end and played to her unsophisticated teenage sense of humour.
‘You’re part of our family now,’ she had told them as they were led through a mysterious-looking alleyway. Damp ran in tiny snaking rivulets down the dark brick wall and both girls had stared at one another in mild horror as they followed Greta through it and out into a small paved courtyard where the sun lay in dappled patches on the ancient cracked flagstones. A diminutive jewellers shop was wedged in the corner, surrounded by a huddle of artisan shops that boasted unique handmade goods ranging from moccasins to loaves of bread.
Greta led them across the courtyard and into the crooked old shop where she greeted the owner with her usual sincere gusto. He had smiled at her and acted as if she were royalty, treating the girls with extreme care, his manner genteel and considered at all times. Celia had never known such grandeur and kindness and had cried when she was presented with the most beautiful bracelet that contained twelve tiny charms. Eva had lowered her head and complained that the shop smelt old and musty and that she was thirsty and needed her lunch.
‘One for every month of the year,’ Greta had said in that sweet birdlike tone of hers that always filled Celia with exquisite joy every time she spoke. It was in sharp contrast to her mother’s gravelly voice that was permanently edged with sarcasm and anger. Hearing her mother speak had always made Celia’s skin crawl with terror. It was usually an insult accompanied by a blow from one of her hard, bony fists. After years of enduring such goings on, having a conversation with Greta was like being immersed in a warm bath. Their chats were conversational opera which Celia treasured and stored in the deepest corners of her mind.
Eva, on the other hand, had taken the tiny velvet bag and shoved it deep into her pocket with a scowl, her face a mesh of angry lines and creases.
‘I hate jewellery,’ she had whined as they threaded their way through the crowds of shoppers. She had pouted and muttered all the way back home, and Celia had wanted to cry at how embarrassing and rude she was, but instead remained mute, too frightened to say anything for fear of upsetting Greta even further. Greta had tried to keep the atmosphere light by regaling them with anecdotes from her own childhood, like the time her younger brother had run away and the whole street had gone out looking for him only for him to be found hiding up the chimney in the old parlour later that day. She had tonnes of such stories; Celia thrived on listening to them, closing her eyes and imagining every inch of Greta’s childhood home with its old-fashioned lace curtains and chintzy fabrics. Eva once told Greta while she was in the middle of one of her stories, that she was a stupid old bat and that she should stop telling such awful lies, which was horribly ironic when Celia knew fine well the myriad of fabricated stories that Eva herself regularly came out with.
Only when they reached Greta’s vehicle did it become obvious what Eva had actually done. As Greta had unlocked the door, Eva had brandished the empty bracelet in front of her, her eyes glittering with mischief and menace. All that was left was the tiny, silver chain, bereft of any adornments. The small intricate shoe, the highly detailed seahorse, the tiny ruby heart. All gone. She had ripped each and every one of the miniature charms off one by one and scattered them around the cobbled streets of York as they had walked back to the car park.
To this day, Celia can still recall the look of abject hurt on Greta’s face as the slim chain dangled from Eva’s pale fingers. It hung there, taunting her with its broken links and twisted pieces of metal. Celia had swallowed down a huge lump and rubbed at her eyes with trembling fists. Eva, on the other hand, had laughed.
And then there was the time Eva decided she didn’t like the bed sheets and duvet cover that Greta had chosen. They were a powder-blue colour that matched the new curtains and rug that Greta had purchased only two weeks prior, and even as a naive thirteen-year-old Celia could see they were an expensive item, possibly even handmade, to finish off their recently decorated bedroom. They lasted less than a week. In a fit of pique, after one of Eva’s rages, she had taken a pair of scissors to them and by the time Celia had managed to stop her, the expensive fabric was in a hundred ragged pieces at her feet, the bedroom looking like it had been attacked by a pack of rabid dogs.
Of course, Eva wasn’t all bad. There were times when she appeared so fragile, her moods so low and dark that both Celia and Greta feared she would do something silly, something permanent. She made idle threats about it that settled over them all like a heavy veil. The weekly counselling sessions she attended did nothing to alleviate her moods. Sometimes Eva would cry for days, her body wracked with sobs until she was so weak, Greta would tuck her up in bed and hand feed her pieces of boiled egg and toast like a mother starling feeding its weak, helpless chick.
That was why they always forgave her. That’s why Celia is here, in hot pursuit of her fragile friend. Eva was and still is, simply too breakable to risk ostracising her, regardless of how erratic and difficult and downright hurtful her behaviour was. So they managed her. Together, Greta and Celia, and whenever he could, Tony, looked out for her, tried their level best to steer her along the right path, a path Celia was only too happy to walk. Eva did it with a little more trepidation, questioning their motives and guidance every step of the way, lashing out if the mood took her, often screaming that she just wanted to be left alone and that Greta and Tony weren’t her parents and never would be and that her real parents would be coming to take her back any day. They all knew it wasn’t true. To this day, Celia still cannot work out whether Eva actually believed it or if it was simply a form of self-preservation to stop herself from unravelling completely.
Celia recalls Greta once telling her that she had been Eva’s twelfth foster parent. That number made her hair curl; just the thought of being shipped from house to house, from family to family, made Celia feel physically sick. Greta was Celia’s second foster parent. Her first looked after her well but became too old to carry on with her job and she was sent to live with Greta. That’s when she realised that compared to Eva she was truly blessed. She also knew at that point that she would always look out for Eva, make sure she felt wanted and secure. Nobody should have to spend their life being moved from place to place. As a child, Celia never questioned why Eva moved around so much. Only as the years passed did it become apparent.
Still… twelve homes. She wondered if that was why Eva despised the bracelet so much, with its constant reminders hanging around her w
rist; twelve charms. She often wonders if Greta realised the connection with the bracelet. Then again perhaps not, because there were days when it seemed that Eva despised pretty much everything and everybody. That’s just how she was. There didn’t seem to be any triggers or pattern to her behaviour. Eva was and always will be an enigma; her own worst enemy.
Celia keeps her eyes closed. She prefers it that way. There are days when her thoughts are too sharp to bear and she always fears that they will show in her face, that people will spot her weaknesses and see her for what she really is. Then other days, she lives her life like any other person and manages to forget it all. Funny, isn’t it, how the past closes in on you the older you get, tapping away at your brain, never letting you forget where you really came from.
She spent the latter part of her teenage years in a blur of parties and studying and hardly thought about her predicament at all. It was later that it hit her; the enormity of what she had been through. The gaping hole she had managed to crawl out of without being sucked back into it. Eva was also her benchmark. Celia saw in her what she could have become and always did her best to raise her standards. Every time Eva had a meltdown, no matter how low Celia was feeling or how bad the nightmares were of the life she had had to endure with her mother, she always managed to up her game and forge on with her day.
Of course, she hadn’t been moved from place to place like Eva had. What Eva craved was stability. What Eva really wanted was her parents back, whereas Celia was only too glad to be away from hers. She once read that children can survive many traumas and escape relatively unscathed as long as they feel loved. But what if they don’t recognise what love actually is? What if, like Eva, they are so full of bitterness and hurt that they reject the love that comes their way? Will they spend the rest of their lives searching for it, never resting until the picture they have in their heads, of what constitutes love, is complete?
Celia opens her eyes, tired of ruminating over what goes on in Eva’s complex brain. All the years Celia has known her and she is still no closer to working her out. Nearly twenty years of being an armchair psychologist and yet here she is, chasing Eva halfway across the country to make sure she is safe. All of those thoughts and guesses and suppositions haven’t helped her one iota.
The man sitting across from Celia snaps his laptop closed and stands up. He hoists his jacket off the luggage rack overhead and roughly slings it over his shoulders. She feels an element of relief. He was a mighty presence and she is glad he is getting off at the next stop. She much prefers sitting alone, especially since she has nothing to read and will end up locking eyes with somebody every time she glances around the carriage.
He doesn’t get off. In fact, the train shows no sign of even stopping. Instead he wanders down the aisle and sits elsewhere, next to somebody she presumes is a colleague. She hears him converse with another man about meetings and being late and how bad the Wi-Fi is on the train and feels only relief that he is gone. She notices two young women, who are wedged into a row of seats further up, grab their many bags and quickly stand up before heading towards her, the table and extra room for their baggage too good to ignore.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ they ask in unison before plopping down in a heap before Celia even has a chance to answer.
She watches as they shuffle about, arranging and rearranging their many bags and layers of clothing, making enough noise and fuss for a hundred people until eventually they settle themselves with a loud sigh and a gauche, embarrassed giggle.
Celia studies their faces as they reach into their respective bags for magazines and earplugs. They look about seventeen or eighteen but these days she finds it so hard to work out the ages of teenagers with their sophisticated ways and confident mannerisms that they could be even younger.
‘Excuse me,’ one of them says with such a cut-glass accent it takes her completely by surprise, ‘I was wondering if you knew whether or not there was anywhere on the train where we can buy something to eat?’ Her eyes sparkle with youthfulness and vitality and her voice is in stark contrast to her alternative black clothing.
‘I think there’s a trolley coming round later,’ Celia replies softly, rapidly warming to both of them. They smile a lot and seem to exude and an air of kindliness and affability that Celia finds endearing.
She releases a breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding in and returns the broad grin that both girls are displaying as they each thank her and reach in their bags for purses that are almost as large as the bags they were retrieved from.
‘You off anywhere nice then?’ one of them says to Celia as she grasps a handful of notes and shoves them deep into her jacket pocket, pushing the purse back in place.
‘Me?’ Celia says with a slight upturn in her voice she wishes had remained inside.
‘A weekend away somewhere nice, is it?’ the red-haired girl says as she finishes tucking her purse back in place and rearranging a mountain of items around it before fastening the bag and stuffing it down at her feet.
‘Ah, well not quite,’ Celia replies, desperately trying to think up a feasible lie that has a grain of truth in it somewhere. ‘I’m off to Whitby to visit a friend.’
It’s not that far removed from the truth. Eva wouldn’t give two hoots about telling the largest of lies but it never sits comfortably with Celia. That’s the difference between them. Although she would never want to take the higher moral ground, both Eva and Celia know that that’s what it is that separates them – Eva’s propensity for causing untold damage, whether it be with her lies or her thoughtless ways. Celia has witnessed it first-hand over the years, seen the trail of destruction her behaviour has caused and grimaced inwardly, hoping against hope that one day she would change.
‘Really? That’s amazing! That’s where we’re heading too, isn’t it, Lizzie?’
Celia closes her eyes briefly and lets out a heavy sigh. The other girl nods animatedly, her black locks swaying about over her shoulders with such ease that, for a moment, Celia finds herself envious of them. Do these young women realise they have the world at their fingertips and that they have the ability to be anything they want to be? She hopes so. She desperately hopes they aren’t bound by past memories and horrors that interject their thoughts on a daily basis. Everyone deserves to be happy. She also hopes they leave her alone when they get there. As nice as they are, she wants to be able to meet Eva and sort out this sorry mess without being trailed by two youngsters who, despite being friendly enough, would never be able to comprehend her motives or understand her past.
‘You probably guessed that by our attire, no doubt,’ Lizzie giggles as she sweeps her gloved hand across their many layers of bizarrely arranged clothing. The red-haired girl is wearing a Victorian style velvet bodice of the deepest crimson and a black net shawl. Lizzie is wearing a military looking jacket and black leather gloves that reach her elbows. Along each one is a row of highly polished chrome buttons that gleam in the sunlight as she waves her hand about to fluff up her mass of backcombed hair.
‘It’s the Goth Weekend,’ the other girl says quietly as she detects the look of bewilderment on Celia’s face. The penny drops as the girl says it. Of course. Celia should have realised. Held twice a year, Whitby is the place where Goths gather for the bi-annual music festival. The town is filled with all manner of people dressed in weird and wonderful clothing, many paying homage to Whitby’s vampire connections and some even dressed as the man himself.
‘Tyler’s got a set of amazing fake vampire teeth, haven’t you, Tyle?’
Tyler responds by pulling out a set of the largest whitest fangs Celia has ever seen. They positively gleam in the sunlight that streams through the carriage window as they rush past a white-painted station where a smear of people stand. The concrete platform is a dot in the distance as Celia admires the fangs, incongruous in the relative calm of the carriage.
‘Pretty authentic looking,’ Celia says, unable to hide her joy at their eagerness. She finds
herself hoping they have a blast at the festival. They seem really nice, these two. They are genuine people and genuine folk these days are thin on the ground. Celia knows all about that.
‘Yeah, pretty cool, eh?’ Tyler smiles as she places the teeth back into her backpack. ‘Got fake blood as well. Looks like the real deal but I don’t want to open it here as I’m a right Clumsy Clara and it’ll end up all over the place.’
Celia laughs at her words, at their happiness and the innocence of it all. No hatred, no emotional baggage; just two young people out to have a good time and live their lives. The worry that was pressing down on Celia before they arrived lifts and it feels good. She could do with some light-hearted banter to ease her worries and take her mind off what she is about to do. Because it won’t be easy. Eva will make sure of that. There’s always a small part of her that hopes she is wrong; always a small part of her that wants to see the best in her errant friend. But she is also a pragmatist and knows this task is going to be a tricky one and it will take all her powers of persuasion to make Eva see that she is chasing a wish and that wishes are surreal and slippery. They are ethereal creatures that can’t be transformed into reality no matter how hard you try. She should know. And when the scenario that Eva has in her head fails to properly materialise, Celia knows all too well how she will react.
She shivers and bats the thought away. They will cross that particular bridge when they come to it.
‘Where are you staying?’ Lizzie asks and Celia feels her heartbeat falter ever so slightly. She hasn’t booked anywhere and now with the news that Whitby is hosting a festival as well as its usual throng of tourists, she is concerned that everywhere will be full.