This is Helen Bateman’s debut novel. She studied English Language and Literature at Lancaster University and has taught both subjects at Secondary school level. She lives in Yorkshire with her husband and looks after their three children full time. Writing is something Helen has always enjoyed and she feels blessed to now have more time to indulge in this privilege.
Copyright © 2014 Helen Bateman
The right of Helen Bateman to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The characters and events in this book are fictional.
Any similarity to real people, dead or alive, is coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the publisher.
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Soul to take
by
Helen Bateman
For all the precious Souls I have loaned including Harry, Lily and Grace.
For my loving parents, Brenda and Joe, who have taken care of my Soul for so long.
For my inspirational husband, Andy, who is the true mate of my Soul.
VICKY
“The world was spinning before I was born and it will spin long after I’m gone. It’s so easy to be a Nobody. I need to prove that I was here. To make my mark. To be remembered. To live on.”
Vicky tidies away the last sparkling, white plate from the dishwasher, closes the kitchen cupboard, rests her petite, skinny-jeaned bottom against the dark, granite worktop and seems pleased with her statement. She looks over to Dan for approval but there’s no sign of any; he merely raises a mug of tea to his lips and continues to flick the pages of his newspaper.
“I’ve been there two months now and hardly anyone even knows my name yet. I’m just not sure I’m going to get the recognition my skill set deserves,” she goes on.
“Look, love,” Dan finally replies, folding the paper, “What does any o’ that matter? ’ow many people d’y’think are bothered about me at work? Long as ah visit me farmers and tell ’em what they want t’hear, everyone’s ’appy. An’ anyway, if it’s recognition you’re after, just wait ’til y’come ’ome. Yer gettin’ yerself involved in plenty in’t village. Ev’ry won loves y’ here. Y’ll be the Queen o’Freddock, one day. Stop bein’ daft an’ get t’ yer committee meetin’.”
“You’re right,” she concedes, grabs what looks to be a fur jacket and totters through the hallway, towards the front door.
“That new?” Dan looks on.
“Yep. New Look sale. Nineteen, ninety nine,” she lies.
She’s off, clippety clopping down the High Street, mobile 'phone in hand, clearing off the last few emails from work. She stops and slows down. I’ve seen this manoeuvre so many times now. Ten minutes late is just far too early for Vicky. People might think she’s got nothing better to do than go to the meeting. She dives into the doorway of the village shop. In a frantic assessment of what she could feasibly be in there to buy, she spies Maggie shopping in the corner.
Although I've noticed Maggie around the village recently, I've not seen Vicky with Maggie before. It would appear they’ve not seen each other in a while either; their right cheeks are drawn together but they do not meet. The cold, freezer aisle air is kissed by both ladies. In the same moment that Vicky resumes her original upright position, Maggie goes in for the more continental double kiss greeting. There is an awkward fumbling around and a rather theatrical, red lipstick smudge results on Vicky’s nose. As I have learned recently, no-one tells Vicky anything that she doesn’t want to hear. The blemish remains.
“Dahhhrrrling, how aaarrrre you?” Maggie asks the entire shop. She is dressed head to toe in azure blue. Her silky dress, which can only have started out its days on the stage, flows from bronzed shoulders right down to the floor. Matching silk gloves and earrings glisten as the two ladies talk. It is hard to put an age on Maggie. She could be forty-something, fifty-something, or beyond. Good old war paint and a mahogany, shoulder length wig hide the secrets of her years. Maggie has clearly made her mark on the world.
“Going anywhere nice?” Vicky asks.
“No, just had a late one at school. The little dahrlings made a dreadful mess of the props cupboard this afternoon. Maybe I should have saved tidying up as the objective for tomorrow’s lesson!” Maggie laughs. “I have got a good game with a boxful of old spectacles up my sleeve though. That should keep them occupied for a while,” she plans aloud.
I’m not sure what is most surreal: the fact that Maggie has been teaching in the local Primary all day, dressed in her current attire, her casual attitude towards teaching methods or the fact that her arm is weighed down by a basket containing a box of half-price strawberries and a rather withered looking cucumber.
“Pimms,” Maggie adds when she realises Vicky is staring at her goods, “Thought I might need a little Pimms later. Anyway, you must get off to your meeting. You’re doing an amazing job, I hear, Vicky; that committee was nothing before you were Chair. You’ve turned it around, dahrling.”
With that strong emotional pat on the back, Vicky trots over to the cash machine by the door, visibly beaming. Transaction complete, her ’phone rings.
“Mum! Hi! Fine thanks. Yeah, I've had a great week. Oh, everything about it is better, especially the money. And it looks better on my CV. Dan says it’s the best marketing company to work for in Leeds. The journey’s not too bad either. How’s life in Spain treating you? Que tal? You impressed?”
As the device talks back, the mask momentarily slips. Vicky’s tone has changed and only her eyes speak the truth. “Why would we want to move to Leeds? I know it would be nearer to work but Dan’s family is just around the corner and quality of life is so much better here. It’s so beautiful." There is a pause. "I don’t remember saying that about people who lived in villages; there’s loads to do. I'm off to a committee meeting right now.” The regurgitation of what Dan constantly tells her almost sounds convincing.
Venturing further towards her destination, Vicky surveys the scene around her. It is indeed ‘beautiful’. The imposing Thirteenth Century church casts a protective shadow over its garden of those who will never leave. Floodlights showcase the well-manicured village green and the daffodils’ yearly cycle is beginning as green shoots optimistically spear through the cold, brown earth. Opposite the church, Freddock Primary School stands central and magnetic. Even in the still of the evening, its reputation pulls wealthy parents from an enormous force field. Those who want something a little better for their precious offspring are drawn here like zombies, casting aside what they previously thought was a sensible amount of money to pay for a three bedroomed semi-detached. I suppose the shenanigans of the Drama Department aren't too widely broadcast. No, there it stands, idyllic and proud, showing that Freddock is the ultimate place to bring up a family.
Vicky finally arrives at the Village Hall. Green paint crumbles from a wooden door which creaks as she opens it. Slightly taken aback as she enters, Vicky’s nose makes the most subtle of twitches, the kind a person unconsciously makes in response to an unpleasant odour. It could be the smell of soured milk from the beaker I saw spilt here this morning at Toddler Group or maybe from the damp fur of the yapping cocker spaniel who sat in the ‘congregation’ of the Pet Service the church held here on Sunday. Nevertheless, Vicky’s senses quickly adjust and she makes her entrance. With a beaming smile, she scans the room to be acknowledged. Four blue, plastic tables are arranged in a rectangular formation and the committee are seated at br
own plastic chairs. The meeting has not yet started but they are clearly waiting, already informally discussing the issues which have brought them away from their homes on a chilly February evening.
“You’ve started, then?” Vicky drapes her coat on the back of the only remaining empty chair and sits down. An apology or explanation would ruin the mystique.
“No, no,” replies an elderly gentleman, “Just ’aving a chat while we waited for you.” I understand the point being made and see the eyebrows begin raised, even if Vicky does not.
“Well,” Vicky begins, “I think the main objectives we need to address this evening are marketing of our Summer Fair and health and safety on the actual day of the event.”
“Okay,” a lady tentatively replies while opening a small pad of paper. “Shall I note that down or wait until you explain it to us?”
“Can ah just say, before we get any further,” interrupts the elderly gentleman. “An’ I want this documented,” he points a spindly finger at the notebook, “that there were ’ardly any teabags left in our cupboard when we come in tonight and there was an ’ole box left after last meeting. Someone else’s been using ’em and ah’m not going to keep paying for ’em if they’re gonna keep usin’ ’em.”
“Yes, Norman, I noticed that too.”
“Right,” Vicky nods to the secretary, “perhaps you could pop that in the ‘Any Other Business’, Barbara, and we’ll discuss it at the end.”
“Okay, Vicky,” she scribbles, “Can I just say, it’s not the Toddler Group Committee taking the teabags; we have a rota system so we never run out and it was my turn last month.”
“Ah’m not throwing ’round accusations, Barbara. Ah just want it sortin’ ,” Norman retorts.
“So anyway,” Vicky looks exasperated already, “I was thinking about marketing of the fair and it occurred to me that most families have kids in Freddock Primary, don’t they? So, I wondered if we could put some flyers in the book bags.”
“Flyers?” pipes up a previously silent voice from the corner.
“Small pieces of paper with the main details on?”
“Right,” he laughs, “I see. We’ve never done that before.”
“Frances, you’ve got kids in school, haven’t you? Would you be able to ask the Headmaster for us?”
“Yes, of course,” she obeys.
“You know them teabags,” Norman’s thoughts have clearly not drifted very far, “Ah think we need to be asking questions t’ Bowling Club. As ah say, ah’m not going ’round accusin’ folk but they’re the only ones it can be.”
And so the committee meeting continues. For three long hours they mull over Vicky’s marketing ideas, the health and safety issues, which as Norman points out have never been a problem for twenty five years, and most importantly, teabags. Finally, Vicky announces, “Lastly, I wondered if anyone would prefer to have the meeting at the pub next time?”
A general mumbling and shaking of heads indicates that a change of venue would be a revolutionary step too far. Vicky’s attempt to divert from teabag debates is quashed for another month. As the tables are folded away and the chairs are stacked in neat rows in the corner, Vicky makes a beeline for Barbara and Frances, who are deep in conversation.
“Erm, it’s my birthday next Friday and we’re having a few drinks at our house. Wondered if you’d like to come?” she interrupts.
“I’ll have to check with hubby,” says Barbara, “but thanks.”
“Bring him too. Get a babysitter. That’s great then. See you both about eightish?”
Frances’ only option is to nod, smile and watch as Vicky bounces out into the cool evening air.
Victorious in her quest, Vicky returns home. As she opens the front door and walks into the hallway, Dan is putting his coat on to leave, “Just off for a pint wi’ John. Back soon. How was the meeting?”
“They’re unbelievable, Dan. I spend hours trying to bring Freddock Summer Fair into the Twenty-first Century, trying to make it bigger and better. And do you know what they’re bothered about? Teabags!”
Dan laughs while texting on his mobile ’phone.
“I mean there’s only four months left until the big day and it’s a major event to organise. I feel like sending them all an email about our responsibilities as a committee. ”
“That presumes some of ’em ’ave a computer, let alone know how to receive an email, love,” Dan quickly kisses Vicky on the cheek and heads out of the door.
“True. I’ve invited some of the, you know, younger ones around for birthday drinks next week though....” Vicky trails off but Dan has gone. By the time Vicky takes off her coat and shoes and closes the door, she can see Dan through her lounge window. Already he is in the pub over the road ordering his drink at the bar. She goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge. Eight cans of larger, a pre-packed lasagne and half a pint of milk hold little appeal so Vicky flicks the switch of the chrome coloured kettle and makes a dark, black coffee. She opens her laptop and begins to plan her birthday celebrations. A click of a button orders a karaoke machine. Vicky leans back, smiling and hugging her mug of coffee. She surveys the kitchen and despite the disappointments of the evening, Vicky has a look of pride. Clearly imagining the scene of the future party, her gaze wanders from a silver American fridge freezer to a 1950’s style juke box. She walks toward the second gadget but catches a glimpse of herself in the reflective door of an integrated microwave. She pauses to take a closer inspection. Vicky narrows her eyes and looks horrified. She grabs a tissue and wipes a puzzling red mark from the end of her nose.
NELL
“I just think that second time around, I’ll be so much more relaxed. Not worry so much, you know?”
“Well I’m definitely different this time. And this one’s so easy, compared to Callum. Remember how he wouldn’t feed, or sleep?”
“I do; you were even more exhausted than the rest of us!”
Nell watches the other two women, deep in their conversation and oblivious to her silence. At intervals, she inhales sharply, as if to make a contribution but each time, she fails. Finally, she seems to give up and glances down to the drowsy infant in Rachel’s arms. It lies motionless, like draft-excluder along its mother’s waistline. Rachel’s jumper is raised slightly higher than the baby’s head revealing the upper half of a swollen white breast. The child’s mouth adheres to it and a wiggling ear is the only sign that she is providing vital nourishment.
Nell’s gaze moves to Laura as she wrestles to get comfortable on the sagging red sofa. Every time she leans back, the weight of her enormous stomach is too much and she sits forward again. Nell passes her a cushion and a smile, a smile that remembers how she feels and longs to endure it again.
Three small children play in the corner. An olive-skinned girl prepares a dinner of plastic peas and bananas for her red-headed guest at the miniature, wooden kitchen while a sweaty-looking little boy pushes a dolly in a pram, at speed, towards the television in the corner.
“Callum,” sings Rachel, “please don’t break Nell’s telly-box. She’d be ever so sad.”
Nell’s mouth smiles at the toddler but her eyes tell him that if he breaks her 32” LED television - which is the only thing she has ever won from the multitude of magazine competitions she enters - she’ll take the gingerbread biscuit he’s currently smearing all over his face and stamp on it. Hard. “More coffee, anyone?” she manages.
“That’d be great thanks.”
“I’d love a water.”
Nell escapes the mayhem and heads for the sanctuary of the kitchen. All of a sudden she stops. Her eyes widen as something has clearly taken her breath away. A slow blink, as she turns on her heels, reveals that she is well aware of what has just occurred.
When she reaches the bathroom upstairs, silent tears roll down Nell’s cheeks. ‘Products of Conception’, I heard them tell her to watch out for at the hospital yesterday. ‘Products of Conception’. It sounds like the
symptom of a flu virus or a chest infection. Something to get rid of. And yet, watching Nell, sitting helpless on her bathroom floor, it is so much more. It is the final sign that her baby has gone. The bloody mass of fibre, lying on a tissue in the palm of Nell’s hand is not identifiably human but it’s the closest she will get to what she’d hoped for. She sits for a moment, her gaze frozen on her body’s expulsion. In a moment of what must be curiosity or simply a need to know, Nell reaches into the bathroom cabinet for a cotton bud and prods the crimson sack. Ironically, it is impenetrable and strong, protecting the failed inner cells.
“You okay in there?” shouts Laura.
“Yeah,” Nell tells them, “Just clearing up a bit: my Rosie’s been playing with the toilet roll again”.
Abandoning the amateur science experiment, Nell grabs a flimsy nappy bag and places the contents of her hand inside. Securely tied, she pops the bag on the top of the cabinet, and looks in the mirror. Failure, emptiness and rivulets of black mascara stare back. She washes her face, puts her shoulders back and heads back down to the kitchen.
As I struggle to comprehend Nell’s masquerade, she busies about, refilling the coffee machine and making a fresh jug of orange squash. The drinks are all placed neatly on a tray and Nell returns to her guests.
“We’re doing the whole nappy debate,” explains Laura, “I think I’ll give the real ones a try this time. You used them with Rosie, didn’t you?”
“Er, yes. I did,” Nell’s eyes widen with concentration as she struggles to descend back into their world.
“I just don’t think I could deal with the mess and the extra washing. I mean there’s enough of that already. We had to buy a new washing machine last week. The other was only two months out of warranty but I can’t complain because we use it so much. I mean, I know real nappies are better for the planet and everything but it’s just not for me,” Rachel concludes as she removes the sleepy child from her nipple. She pops it on her shoulder with one hand and readjusts her bra strap with the other like she’s been carrying out this rather skilful juggling act all of her life. Remarkably, the child’s slumber is undisturbed.
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