I had to get to the flat door first. I knew there was something I had to hide.
Eventually I barged past Alan as we reached the landing by my door and I almost screamed, ‘It’s OK! I’ll open the door!’
In fact I nearly took him out as I lurched to the keyhole and slotted the key in the door.
‘Are you OK, Irish?’ I heard Rose whimper.
She called him Irish? How odd.
‘In we come!’ I trilled, and we all fell into the flat.
‘Get the stopcock, Irish!’ Rose gasped, and I dived into my bedroom and bellyflopped onto my bed, arms out, as if on a crucifix.
As I heard Rose and Irish Alan scrabbling around in the kitchen, I heard footsteps behind me.
‘What are you doing?’ It was Jax.
‘Just . . .’
I was about to say something ridiculous like ‘Just lying here.’
But what I was actually doing was covering Darren’s diary so Rose couldn’t see. I instinctively knew that she would want to confiscate it from me and I wouldn’t ever know what happened next. I didn’t want her to know about my family. They were mine, not hers. And here were all his papers, laid out on the bed, messy and out of order some of them, as I’d left them this morning, after I’d slept with them. I felt Rose was keeping secrets from me, that Darren and Rob were smack-heads, in and out of rehab. Well, I would keep secrets too. I knew something else about them, about a time from long ago, and I would keep that from her.
I saw in Jax, suddenly, an ally. I sat up.
‘Jax, can you do something for me?’ The urgency in my voice clearly excited her. She practically clapped her hands.
‘What is it? Sure.’
‘I need you to take this biscuit tin and hide it.’
She looked wrong-footed, as well she might. I scrunched up the papers, trying as hard as possible to keep them in some semblance of order, and squashed them into the tin, then handed it to her.
‘I don’t want Rose to see it.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll put it in my flat.’
‘Can you do it now?’
She nodded again and, without further ado, scarpered, tin in hand. As she did, I caught a glimpse of Irish Alan running past my door, then heard him running upstairs to the flat above. It felt like the whole house was banging, with Jax running downstairs and him running up. Rose came into my bedroom, looking agitated.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Oh, it’s not here. It’s the woman upstairs. You’ve water pouring through your kitchen too.’
‘Oh God, no!’
‘But don’t worry – Irish’ll sort everything. That’s our job.’
‘Thanks.’
And then she came and sat on the bed next to me, completely uninvited.
‘I don’t like the woman upstairs,’ she offered.
‘Right. Why?’
She shrugged. ‘Just something about her.’
Maybe I would get on with her, I thought.
‘I wouldn’t talk to her if I were you. She’s very standoffish and can be rude. Very rude.’
And it hit me. Possibly thanks to my lack of sleep, I’d never even thought of the woman upstairs. The one in the diary. The one Darren called Fatty Arbuckle. He had found her rude. She had been rude. She’d looked down her nose at him.
‘Save you being offended,’ she added, as if that would swing it for me.
I nodded, but I knew I was definitely going to seek her out.
‘How long’s she lived here?’ I asked.
‘I’m not sure. I only took over looking after this place once Frankie got ill. She was here then, but I’m pretty sure she’d just moved in.’
I didn’t relish this close contact with Rose, her sat right next to me.
‘So this place isn’t yours?’
‘No, it’s Frankie’s, but I’ve got power of attorney.’
‘What, she gave power of attorney to . . . her hairdresser?’
‘As I said –’ Rose was getting defensive now ‘– she’d really isolated herself.’
I took this in, though it was an odd one to swallow. Frankie must have thought she was some stylist.
‘Holly?’
I looked at her.
‘If you like, I can ask around for you, see if I can find anything out about the sons.’
‘Would you? That’s very kind.’
‘I know a couple of people who’ve known her a while, but . . . well, the impression I always got was that she’d cut herself off from everyone she knew. Become a bit of a recluse. I don’t know why she took to me, really. I’m nothing special.’ She still managed to do it. I could be feeling apathetic about her, almost negative, suspicious, and then she’d say something that made me warm to her. She was an odd mix.
‘Before the illness she was very . . . loud. Aggressive. She drank a lot and. . . swore a lot and . . .’
‘Did she work?’
Gosh, my faux naivety was good.
‘Not while I’ve known her. I think she must have. She was never short of money. But again, she was a very guarded woman.’ And then she added, ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault. Looks like I landed on my feet, being adopted.’
Rose nodded. ‘I know she’s my friend and everything, but I’d say you had a lucky escape.’
And with that she stood, smoothed the creases in her skirt and almost floated out of the room.
I heard footsteps hurrying up the stairs. Then Jax hurtled in the hallway. I rushed to meet her and she went to whisper to me just as Rose popped her head round the living-room door. Aware she was being listened to, Jax raised her voice and said, ‘I’ve got to go out. I’m doing a reading in Bootle. D’you need that thing back?’
‘Later’ll be fine,’ I replied with a tight smile.
Rose interrupted, ‘The water appears to have stopped running. I think Alan must’ve located the source.’
‘And what do I do about my wallpaper?’ Jax actually folded her arms and tapped her foot.
‘If you phone your landlord and tell him, and we’ll see if her upstairs can claim it on her insurance.’
‘Okey-dokey.’
Rose disappeared back into the living room.
‘Jax!’ I whispered urgently.
‘What?’
‘The woman upstairs. What does she look like?’
‘I dunno. Why?’
‘What, you’ve not seen her?’
‘Well, yeah, I’ve seen her, but . . .’
‘Look, is she really fat?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Oh. Nothing.’
Jax looked confused and turned to go. She then quickly looked back. ‘Any news? Sorry.’
‘About what?’
‘Your mum.’
‘Long story.’
Jax nodded, then turned again and ran down the stairs.
Rose popped her head round the door, again.
‘I don’t think your kitchen appliances are going to work, you know. I think it’s done something to the electrics.’
‘Oh right.’
‘It’s OK. Irish can sort it tomorrow. He knows a man who can.’
‘OK. I’ll get a takeaway tonight.’
‘Well, I thought we might go one further.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Why don’t you come to us for dinner? Get to know each other a bit better.’
‘Erm . . .’
‘I do a lovely chicken curry.’
And because I was now a yes-woman, I found myself nodding.
‘Yes, Rose, that’d be great.’
Rose drove behind Alan through central Liverpool, but then we lost him at some lights. She drove in silence, the radio on, playing a local station featuring an overenthusiastic DJ who sounded like a cross between John Lennon and Timmy Mallett. It made me think of Iggy. To get to the Wirral, where Rose lived, we had to drive through the Mersey Tunnel.
‘It’s a tunnel that goes under the River Mersey,’ explained<
br />
Rose, needlessly. I had already worked that out for myself.
As we drove underground, Rose switched off the car radio and we were engulfed by the sound of engines bouncing off gas-chamber tiles. It was like hearing the scream of pollution. The temperature dropped, I pulled Michael closer to me like a tiny hot-water bottle, the yellow lights above lit our faces sporadically, and with the lack of daylight and air, I started to feel trapped. Anxiety rose in me slightly and I fidgeted in my seat. The tunnel became a metaphor for what I was currently doing with my life. The strange city, the strange people, the strange mother. And now I was going for dinner with a couple I hardly knew and didn’t really want to, frankly. I wanted to wind the window down, get some air, but worried that all I would get in this subterranean drainpipe was carbon monoxide. I looked to Rose, her face flicking from yellow to grey in the lights. She looked imperious, regal almost. There was something about her profile that was a little too perfect and I wondered if she had had a nose job. As if reading my thoughts, she turned and looked to me. It was an unnerving sight, the driver of your vehicle staring at you and not at the road ahead, especially in such a confined space as the tunnel, and she held my gaze for a little too long. She didn’t speak. She looked like she wanted to. Like she was building up to saying something. And then she didn’t. And then it was gone. And I worried about what it might have been.
Relax, Holly, for I am driving you to your death. Alan and I are serial killers. And you are my next leather coat.
Or: I am actually your mum’s very old friend Margy. I cannot bring myself to tell you, though, because Alan knows not I was a working woman. Keep away from your mother. She is evil.
Although, as she was a hairdresser, it could just as easily have been: You know, lowlights would really bring out the shape of your face.
Eventually we saw light at the end of the tunnel – literally – and as we drove up into the daylight, Rose started talking. She had been so winsome and reserved driving from Gambier Terrace to the tunnel, then stoic in the tunnel, but it was like she’d given birth to a new personality now she was on the Wirral. The tunnel had been her egg and now she’d broken free, she could fly. She became garrulous, relaxed; her driving even picked up the pace. She was becoming excited, it seemed, or nervous. Heavens, she’d only promised to cook me a chicken curry – what was there to be nervous about? Or was she regretting inviting me? Like I had felt trapped in the tunnel, maybe she too was now fearing this was a bad idea. I was quite prepared for her to do an emergency stop, ricochet Michael off my knee and say, I’m sorry. I don’t think this was a good idea. I felt sorry for you today, finding out your mother was a bit bonkers. But now I . . . well, I’m just not bothered.
But the emergency stop never came, and her mood continued to brighten.
The street that Rose and Alan lived on on the Wirral was on a sweeping hill called Derwentwater Drive. It was remarkably similar in feel to the street in Tring where I had grown up, except these properties were 1970s built. They still exuded the same suburban ennui as Tring, as if their tight little frames were constricted by their narrow minds. All in my head, of course, but my lasting impression of home nonetheless. But whereas I saw Ted and Jean’s place as humdrum and ordinary, it soon became clear that Rose believed she lived in Buckingham Palace itself. It was evident she saw Derwentwater Drive as a destination address. As we drove up the hill, she gave a running commentary of who lived in each house, ‘Judy. Daughter’s a doctor . . . The Patels. Very competitive. Hot tub . . . The O’Haras. She’s had a breast removed, and he’s been caught getting up to mischief in toilets.’
There were no fences between the gardens in Derwentwater Drive and the houses seemed to pile up the hill on top of each other, like a trail of beige dominoes about to fall. Rose treated me to a ‘hilarious’ story about how Alan and she had minded a neighbour’s dog once when they went on holiday. (The Valentines. Number 43. Immaculate blinds.) Only the dog was a bit burly and he dragged Alan down the hill across every single garden. Rose could hardly get the words out she was laughing so much and she kept accidentally putting her foot on the brake, so we juddered up the hill as we went, and Michael bounced on my knee.
‘Oh, it was comical, Holly,’ she said, which reminded me of Francesca.
‘And here we are!’ she announced as she swung into the narrow drive in front of a very ordinary semi-detached of yellow brick, grey tiled roof and white wood panelling around all the windows. Concrete steps climbed to the front door and on each one Rose had planted a tub of brightly coloured flowers. Irish’s car, she informed me, was already in their up and over. (Garage, I presumed.) Rose made a big song and dance about putting the handbrake on as the drive itself was on a steep slope. And then she sort of fell sideways out of the car and staggered towards the house, almost holding on to the brickwork to steady herself. It was the first time I’d not seen her be ladylike.
‘I know it doesn’t look much from outside,’ gasped Rose as she uprighted herself to launch up the steps, ‘but wait till you get inside. It’s very deceptive.’
I nodded, pretending to be excited to enter this amazing Tardis-like house. She shot Michael a look.
‘He doesn’t eat butterflies, does he?’ she asked, wary.
I shook my head. ‘No. Not that I’m aware of. Why?’
‘You’ll see,’ she said.
I followed her up the steps. It was then that I realized Rose was wearing cherry-red, shimmery, footless tights. Why had I not noticed them before? She had had her neck-to-floor leather jacket on all day and maybe only now was I getting a flash of her legs. They struck me as garish for someone so dainty and refined. Or trying to be refined. I had even started noticing that Rose’s accent went around the houses a bit. When she was distracted or agitated, she had a very broad Scouse accent, but most of the time she appeared to rein it in a little, as if she’d been to elocution lessons and was trying to remember for the life of her what they’d taught her. A bit like when I’d originally spoken with the estate agent and she’d added a ‘t’ to the end of her ‘yes’es. It was then I realized that maybe this refined act was possibly for me, being a Southerner, a breed apart. But why would I be someone she wanted to impress?
As she fumbled around in her handbag for some keys, the wind blew her coat up again and I saw the tights. Heavens. And just then the front door opened and Alan was standing there with what looked like two chintzy highballs of gin and tonic.
‘Welcome . . . to the madhouse!’ He grinned and handed me one.
I dreaded that inside, somewhere, there might be a poster of a chimpanzee in a suit on the phone saying, ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps.’ Actually, though, the reality was even more surreal. Every single nook and cranny of this otherwise ordinary three-bedroom semi’s hallway was covered in anything and everything to do with ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’. Figurines, framed drawings, stuffed toys, cushions – if you could get it with an owl or a pussycat or both on it, Rose had it here in her hall. I now noticed the front door had a stained-glass image of the owl and the cat; the bannister had black owl and cat shapes painted up its spindles; cuddly cats and owls hung from the ceiling. Even the beaded curtain between the hall and the kitchen boasted hanging metal silhouettes of owls. I think I’d have preferred the chimp poster.
‘Told you it was a madhouse,’ laughed Alan.
‘I see you like . . . “The Owl and the Pussycat”,’ I said.
‘And the award for stating the obvious goes to . . .’ Alan laughed again. Oh good, it was going to be an evening of Alan laughing. At everything. ‘Anyway, it’s not me, it’s her. She’s obsessed.’
‘Oh well, at least it’s just one room,’ smiled an embarrassed Rose. ‘Anyway, makes me easy to buy presents for. Show Holly the garden, Irish, while I check on the slow cooker.’
Of course she had a slow cooker. Of course it had been on all day. Rose Kirkwood was Mrs Suburbia. In footless tights.
Alan pushed through the
beaded curtain and I followed with Michael into a gleaming white kitchen infused with the smell of curry. There were framed posters on the walls showing various paintings of white Greek houses, sunsets over Greek villages. Each one had the word ‘GREECE’ written at the bottom, just in case you had been born under a stone. Alan then opened the back door and led us across some crazy paving towards the garden. To reach said garden, Alan had to open a mesh door in a mesh fence, a bit like we were entering a tennis court. I then discovered that the first third of the thirty feet or so garden was encased in a mesh. It was like we were standing in a cage. It was full of the most beautifully coloured flowers, and juddering between them a host of delicate butterflies.
‘Rose also likes the butterflies,’ chuckled Alan.
‘Amazing,’ I said. I was pretty stunned. It just wasn’t what I expected to see in a suburban back garden.
‘Neighbours call her the Butterfly Lady.’
There was another door leading to the rest of the garden, and I opened it to let Michael out in there. Alan and I followed him and stood on the other side of the mesh, watching the butterflies dancing.
‘Come here and look at this,’ Alan said, sounding enthused.
I followed him to the far end of the mesh cage and he pointed out what looked like some nuts hanging from sticks.
‘They start off as caterpillars. Then they wrap themselves up in that stuff and turn into pupae – that’s what they are. Then one day they break free and become the butterflies.’
I nodded. I knew all this from primary school, but seeing it first-hand did bring back to me what an amazing feat of nature it was. I looked back at the house. Bizarrely the back of the house looked nothing like the front. Continuing the Greek theme from the kitchen posters, the rear of the property looked like it had been ripped away from Pathos, tossed by a tornado and landed here on the Wirral. The pebbledash was all painted white, and the back door a vivid royal blue. Before I could pass comment on it, Alan was speaking.
‘Hear you’ve had a shit of a day.’ He said it casually but sympathetically. There was something so soothing about his Irish accent that he was instantly more likeable and empathetic than his wife.
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