When she was on her way back along the passage to the front door for another load, though, she could hear them talking.
“—needed it for the new garage floor and she never even used the bloody—”
“Sssh, Sunil, she’ll hear you.”
“—stuff, probably sold it. So why are you starting up the same way with the daughter now?”
“I’m not starting anything.”
“DIY. She specifically mentioned DIY. I had to act like an idiot to cover—”
“She’s just moved house. Of course, she’s going to be—”
“And why is she asking questions?”
“What questions?”
“And talking about you and her mother. Together. Making a link.”
“She’s going to hear you.”
And so Opal went back to the kitchen where she couldn’t hear a thing and opened up the two bags to start putting shopping away, stacking the fridge with lemon and coriander hummus, three for the price of two; 50-percent-extra flat-leaf parsley; and smoked peppered mackerel, buy one get one free.
TWENTY-TWO
THAT NIGHT, LYING IN her bed, melting into the plastic on her mattress (planning to unwrap it, squirt it with ten big bottles of Febreze, and take her chances), she could hear whatsisname next door sobbing again, worse than ever. She turned over and fanned the sheet. Too bad pal, she thought. Things come in threes and I’m full up of other people’s problems already. You’ll just have to cry.
But on the floor the next day she brought up a list for an FF Gilbert and was sure, nearly sure, that that was the name she’d signed beside on the clipsheet the van driver gave her. White bread, olive marg, oven chips, pizza … It sounded like him, and she wondered what the two Fs stood for. Fat Freddy, Franz Ferdinand, Full Fat. He’d asked for Gű two-pack individual lemon cheesecakes and there were none. Opal stopped and looked back at the list. Nothing suggested as a substitution. She should check out the back. And she couldn’t explain why she didn’t, except that thinking about him crying like that the way he did, and the way he stood on her step all crumpled and dusty, she thought he needed a laugh more than he needed a pudding. So even though if Dave chose that day to spot-check her pick she’d get the sack, she did a little substitution of her own. Instead of lemon cheesecake, she gave him a lemon, some cheese—half a pound of mild cheddar, the kind he seemed to like—and a cake. A small frosted occasion cake with a smiley face piped onto the butter icing and Smile! written in chocolate under it. Would he get it? Was it worth risking her job on the off-chance that he would? She was just reaching her hand into the tray to take the cake out again when she jumped at a voice beside her.
“Off at two?”
“Want a lift home?”
“I’m at Sandford, in the Broadleas.”
“Practically neighbors.”
“Kate’s coming to mine.”
“You can come too.”
Opal couldn’t think of a reason not to, so she nodded.
“Cool.”
“Because we’re going out Friday night.”
“So I’m going back with Rhianne to try on.”
“It’s Tuesday,” said Opal.
“It’s desperate,” Kate said. “I haven’t had more than a peck on the cheek since Christmas and that was from Uncle Bernie.”
“Do you want to come with us?”
“On Friday, she means.”
“And today too. We’ll stop off, get your stuff, and all go down to mine together.”
“I’m going round to my friend’s after work today,” Opal said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Where does she stay?”
“Headingley.”
“Bring her!” said Kate, and Opal had to try not to laugh. “Bring her out on Friday too, if she’s single.”
“Oh, she’s single,” said Opal, thinking of Miss Fossett’s ringless little hand slipping into the crook of her arm. “But she’s a bit …”
“What?”
“Quiet,” Opal said. “She’s got a lot of family stuff going on. That’s another reason I was so keen to come back to Leeds, actually. To help Norah. Stop her getting depressed … again.”
“Norah and Opal?” said Rhianne.
“Who calls a girl Norah?” Kate said.
“No wonder she’s got family stuff going on. Her mum and dad must be psychos.”
But Opal was grateful for the lift. It got her home miles earlier than her two buses, and she really did mean to go up to Miss Fossett’s, if she could find it again. Only, when the girls saw Sanj and Advay Joshi hanging around outside No. 8, vaccing out the backs of their cars, there was no shifting them. Rhianne turned off her engine and took the scrunchie out of her hair.
“Opal!” she said. “You might have told us. I’d have bought something to change into.”
“Jeez, imagine a pair of snacks like that seeing us in our Tesco polo shirts.”
“Yeah, no wonder you changed into your little skimpy-pimpies,” said Rhianne, pulling Opal’s strap and pinching a bit of skin along with it.
“There’s five of them,” Opal said. “That two’s actually the ugly ones.”
Rhianne gave a long groan and slid down in her seat as if she was melting. Then she sat straight back up again.
“Jeez-us,” she said. “Katie, look over there. Look—it’s whatsername’s buggy.” Rhianne was staring across the street towards Mrs. Pickess’s shopping trolley on its little mat under its little plastic cover.
“Oh my God!” said Katie. “The buggy in the bubble. It must be her—what was her name?”
“Oh Opal, go over and knock on her door,” said Rhianne and started laughing. “I’m dying to see if it’s really her.”
“If she’s in, she’ll be out in a minute anyway to see who’s parked and what they’re at,” said Opal, and sure enough the door was opening even as she spoke and Mrs. Pickess, cloth in hand, started wiping her fly blind.
“It is!” said Rhianne. “It’s Lena Martell. It’s Lena bloody Martell! Wait till Eric hears this.”
“I thought she’d drunk herself to death,” Kate said. “We haven’t see her for months.”
“What did you call her?” Mrs. Pickess had disappeared inside again as soon as she saw that they were talking about her.
“Lena Martell,” said Kate, laughing. “One of Eric’s. You know Eric on Wines and Spirits? He’s got a hundred of them. Carlsberg Cathie, Sherry Lee Lewis. I think Lena Martell was some old country and western singer from when Eric was a lad.”
“But Mrs. Pickess doesn’t drink,” Opal said.
“She might have stopped,” said Kate, “but she certainly used to drink. A bottle a day sometimes, remember Rhianne? Eric used to sing it when she came in. At seven o’clock in the bloody morning like all the pensioners do. One day at a time, sweet Jesus, da-dah, da-dah-dah-dah-DAH.” They were swaying back and forwards now and kept it up until they saw that Sanj and Advay had noticed them at last and were standing staring, with their dust-busters held up like pistols, pointing into the air.
Rhianne screamed and dropped down under the dashboard.
“God almighty!” she said. “The stud brothers heard us singing Lena Martell! Jee-zus. Opal, get out if you’re getting out and let me crawl away and kill myself, eh?”
Opal let herself out of the car, and Rhianne backed away down the street.
“Don’t tell me you’ve joined a choir, Opal Jones?” Sanjit said. He always called her Opal Jones like that.
“Nah, Tesco,” Opal said. “It’s more of a cult.”
“Yeah, right, whatever,” Sanjit said, making her think of Jan and Paulo and whether there were any boys in the world who wouldn’t get annoyed if a girl said something funny. She turned away and let herself in at her front door.
Lena Martell. The song had rung a faint bell even if the name hadn’t, but it wasn’t the song that was niggling her. Carlsberg Cathie, what was the other one, and Lena Martell. She dumped her
bag down and went upstairs. Both bedrooms were clear now and she was making progress in the attic too, but she wasn’t finished yet, not nearly.
She went over to the nearest black bin bag, quite far over the floor now, and untied its bunny ears. The smell was enough to send her rocking back on her heels. Hot plastic and hot stale brandy. Worse than stale, really. Dried out, dark and sticky, like burnt sugar on a gas ring. And fumes too as she moved the bottles. She pulled one out and looked at it. Martell VS Cognac. And she thought about all the dozens and dozens of bottles she’d taken away and looked around at the dozens more bags still waiting. It had never occurred to her to wonder why, if Nicola was still going out to the offy, she didn’t dump the bottles in the bank on her way like she used to. But then Zula and Margaret had both said she didn’t go out much at the end. So how did she get the booze?
Opal should have known there was something wrong with all those bottles too, all the same brand, all the same size. That wasn’t Nicola’s way. She stuck to brandy as much as she possibly could, it was true, although when she was on a proper jag and the money was low she’d move to sherry, vodka, strong lager, anything she could lay her hands on. But she always bought whatever was the best buy. Litres, flat half pints, own labels—no labels, sometimes from the Sunday market; or at least no label in any language Opal had seen before. And yet there had been a whole attic and a spare bedroom full of 70cl bottles of Martell VS.
And Vonnie Pickess didn’t drink.
And the only reason she would go so far from home—two buses, as Opal knew only too well from sitting on them day after day—was surely so that no one she knew would see her buying all that brandy and wonder why.
Opal wandered downstairs again, feeling the start of a headache. Why would Mrs. Pickess land Nicola in trouble, blabbing about Robbie Southgate and her knowing each other, and then start buying her brandy? One thing made sense if Mrs. Pickess suspected Nicola of something, and the other made sense if Nicola suspected Mrs. Pickess.
None of it made sense to Opal, that was for sure.
TWENTY-THREE
SO SHE WENT TO Headingley, to Miss Fossett, where things not making sense was part of the deal and she could handle it from long practise, even though it surprised her how much talking to an old lady with senile dementia was like talking to a woman in her thirties with a good drink in her. It was the stubbornness. Miss Fossett didn’t slur her words or sob on your neck, telling you she loved you and then telling you you’d ruined her life and she couldn’t get it back again—but the way she went on about how they were supposed to come and how she wanted to go back to the party? That was just the same.
Opal found the back lane and the vinyl tunnel straight away, no trouble at all. Nothing happened when she knocked on the door, but if the room with the DVD was at the front—Opal remembered how long that corridor was, how many doors—someone could stand here and bang the door into splinters without Miss Fossett hearing, especially if she had the telly turned up high like old people always did. So Opal started looking for a way around the side to try at the front instead.
There was no break in the tunnel walls, just twenty feet of smooth vinyl panelling like a rat-run. Out in the lane there was a garage door, but it was padlocked. Just as Opal let the padlock fall from her hand, she realized someone was watching and turned sharply. There, standing at the mouth of the lane, staring at her, was Shelley, the neighbor. She had a little girl by the hand and her mobile flipped open in the other, and she just stood there.
“Hi,” Opal said. “Me again. I came back to see Miss Fossett.” She walked towards Shelley, very casual, smiling, but she could tell that her face was red and knew her voice sounded funny.
“Oh, yeah?” Shelley said.
“Hello,” said the little girl, staring up at Opal. Opal gave her a smile, eyebrows wiggling.
“But she didn’t answer the door. I hope she’s not wandered off out again.”
“Was it open?” Shelley said.
“I don’t know,” said Opal. “I didn’t try it. Maybe she didn’t hear me, if she’s got her DVD on, I was thinking. It’s a big house.”
“You said that before,” said Shelley. “You’ve had a look round, haven’t you?”
Opal flushed even deeper. “Look,” she said, opening her arms wide. “No bag, no pockets. Do you want to frisk me?”
“Frisky!” said the little girl. “My friend Emily’s got a guinea-pig called—”
“Ssh, sweetheart,” said Shelley, looking at Opal as she spoke.
“Sorry,” Opal said. “I know you’re trying to take care of her. But honest, I really just wanted to see her again. I liked her. I—I wanted to hear some more of her stories. About her life. Look, I’ll give you my name and address, if you’re worried.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Look,” said Opal again. “You did mean and I know you did and you know I know, so let’s just …”
“I’m just being a good neighbor.”
“Course you are,” said Opal. “It’s the same where I live. The young ones look after the old ones, and the old ones help out the young ones. That’s how it should be.”
“Where do you live?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Opal. “Name and address. It’s Opal Jones, Six Mote Street. I’ll give you my mobile number and you can check it right now.” She held her phone out in the palm of her hand.
“Mote Street?” said Shelley, and she took a firmer grip on her daughter’s hand, pulling the little girl hard into her legs.
“Yeah,” said Opal.
“Everybody takes care of everybody else in Mote Street?” Shelley took a step away, physically backed away and swung her daughter up into her arms. The little girl, picking up on her mother’s mood at last, it seemed, wound her fat fists into the straps of Shelley’s sundress and stared at Opal, all smiles gone.
“I grew up there,” Opal said. “I live there. It doesn’t make me a bad person.”
But Shelley was looking at her now like she’d not looked at her before, head to toe, considering, letting her eyes linger on the space between the bottom of her tee-shirt and her waistband—Opal made herself not tug her tee-shirt down—but she sucked her stomach in and felt the material fall down on its own anyway.
“I haven’t seen a look like that since I left school,” she said. “I bet you were a fucking bitch, weren’t you?” The little girl opened her eyes very wide and then buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. “Oh, she knows that word then?” Opal said. “Where did she hear that? Ballet class?” And she shouldered her way past the pair of them, nearly touching Shelley’s arm, but only because she was standing there in the middle of the narrow lane like she owned the world.
And although her eyes filled up with tears and her nose started running, no one watching her from behind—seeing how she swung her arms and rolled her hips, swishing along with her flip-flops dragging on the ground—would think she had a care in the world.
Plus, she told herself, trying to find a bright side, it would be easier to make pals with Miss Fossett if she didn’t have to bother what Shelley thought of her. Now she only had to get round Norah herself—which would be easy. And if anyone else started asking her what she was up to, chumming in with an old lady she’d never met before, she could say she didn’t trust Shelley, wondered why she was trying to keep everyone but herself away from Miss Fossett, that she—Opal—thought Miss Fossett needed someone really looking out for her, in case Shelley was … but Opal stopped herself. That was the kind of thing Vonnie Pickess would do.
Franz Ferdinand was in when she got home. She could hear his tap running, then the sound of a kettle lid being pulled off and jammed on again, and she wondered if his shopping had turned up yet—if it really was his. Wondered too for the first time what it would be like when the students came back in September if she could hear one sad single neighbor making himself a cup of tea. Then she remembered someone telling her once—when she was little; who was that?—that the big end
houses were separate squares of solid brick, and the two small houses in the middle of the row were really like one house cut in half, hardly divided at all. He had stood at the kitchen window and pointed along the back wall—Opal looked out there again now—and showed her how the two outhouses were built as a pair, back to back, and how thin the wall between the yards was. Telling her how, if he had the money, he’d buy two and knock them in together, make a decent place out of the pair of them. And then Nicola had snorted—she was sitting at the table behind them—and said if her place wasn’t decent enough, he knew what he could do and that Opal didn’t need him to show her round her own outhouse like a bloody tour gui—
Opal jumped. A door had opened, and she swung round thinking someone had come into the house. Then she let her breath go in a rush as she heard the door shutting again. That was exactly what she had just been thinking! It was Franz Ferdi’s door, through the paper wall.
Then she jumped again, just a little. Why else would he open and shut his door except to take in a delivery? She went into the bottom of the stairs and put her ear against the joining wall. He was back in the kitchen and surely that thumping sound could be shopping bags being dumped on a counter. Footsteps, and a cupboard door. More footsteps and then silence. Opal waited, her breath held, her lip between her teeth. And then she heard it. He was laughing. Quite loud, gusty whoops of laughter ending in a sigh. Then some silence and another chuckle. Then the footsteps started again and the cupboard doors and another new sound. Franz Ferdinand was whistling as he put his shopping away.
Opal took her ear away from the wall and sat back, resting her elbows on the step behind her and stretching her bare feet out, cooling them against the painted stairway wall. Next door the kettle sang—he doesn’t have a proper kettle either, she thought, just one on the cooker top like mine—and she imagined him getting a mug and dropping in the teabag, opening the fridge for some milk and opening a cupboard for a bowl—no, a bag; he was a man living alone—of sugar. Then sitting down and …
As She Left It: A Novel Page 14