The Last Day I Saw Her

by Lucy Lawrie

  She frowned.

  ‘All of your inklings could be explained that way.’

  ‘The music case?’ demanded Hattie.

  ‘You’d picked up on Miss Fortune’s emotions. She’d put the letter in your music case and she wanted you to notice. She was consumed with wanting you to notice. That’s why it started banging about. They do say, don’t they, that teenage girls can, well, be a focus for strong emotions, channel them, kind of thing.’

  ‘Like a poltergeist.’ She said it with a gusty sigh.

  ‘I don’t know about that. But think about it: the boy at Ramplings who was paralysed in the accident, he’d been obsessed with motorbikes for weeks before it happened. Even James, with the flies, you know, just before he . . .’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘And what you said about those noises, on the night when your mother attacked Miss Fortune. How you thought it was the pipes, from the hot water she was running?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said dully. ‘I see what you’re getting at. Maybe I was hearing the thoughts that were inside my mother’s head that night.’ She shrugged and looked me straight in the eye. ‘The sound of steel splitting bone.’

  ‘You were picking up on their thoughts, not their futures. Because, Hats, nobody can see the future, can they? I think it’s much more likely to be an extreme kind of empathy.’

  ‘What?’ She looked embarrassed.

  ‘Such an emotionally generous little girl, you were.’

  ‘If I was so empathetic, why didn’t I do something? Why didn’t I help her?’

  ‘She’d had two years in a psychiatric clinic, or whatever it was. What do you think you could have done?’

  ‘Maybe not then, but since Dad died I’ve only seen her, what, four or five times.’

  ‘She chose to live in New York, Hattie.’

  Her big brown eyes were shining with tears now. She gasped in a short breath, trying to hold in a sob.

  ‘But every time I look at you, or little Pip, I can’t bear it because what if I see something?’

  Like Pip in a pool of blood, X-rays with black masses invading the lungs.

  I waited for a rush of horror, a chill of terror, but it didn’t come. The mother in me stepped forward. Or the friend I’d been back then, loyal and unafraid, stronger than I’d remembered.

  ‘So what if you do?’

  ‘Do I tell you?’

  ‘Tell me. Don’t tell me. I don’t care, as long as you’re here.’

  ‘I thought it was some kind of demon,’ she said, a tear escaping down her cheek. ‘A devil. Some wickedness in me, making me see those things.’

  ‘No, no,’ I said, in the gentle, rocking way I spoke to Pip when he’d had one of his nightmares, and was trying to convince him – or myself – that monsters didn’t exist. ‘No, no.’

  ‘And then I told myself it was some kind of mental imbalance, some kind of hallucination thing that I could block out with medication. But maybe you’re right, Janey.’

  She looked at me like she was pleading with me to be right.

  ‘Maybe it was just my heart. I locked it away for all those years. And I couldn’t hear it. Not until I got you back.’

  A little bit awkwardly, I put my arms around her.

  ‘Help me, Janey.’

  What could she want from me, from Janey who jumped at the shadows in her own bedroom? Janey who couldn’t fall asleep without Christiansen because she was afraid of nightmares? Yet I was strong. For her, I was strong. I was more than myself. More than myself because of the me I was in her.

  ‘I’ve been carrying this around for so long.’ Her voice tightened as she tried to control a sob.

  I thought of my twelve-year-old self, who’d held Hattie on the stairs all those years ago. How I hadn’t needed to know. I just needed to be.

  Now – here and now – I could feel the muscles of my arms, tight with holding her. The breath, going in and out of my body without a sound. My feet, aching a little where my shoes met the floor. And just like an old favourite song, once known but long forgotten, I found I knew the words.

  ‘You can put it down now, Hattie. You’re not on your own any more. You can put it down.’

  48

  Janey

  Miss Fortune hadn’t seen the fall. The pianist and the singers must have heard the commotion coming from the hall, the howling from Hattie, on her knees over her mother’s body. But they kept going, working through Emil’s greatest hits as Miss Fortune smiled and tapped her foot, and the Smythes and Cartwrights wondered what in God’s name was going on. I’d taken Pip in there, still asleep, and laid him on the couch beside Mrs Cartwright, before going downstairs again to crouch awkwardly with my arms round Hattie until the ambulance and the police arrived.

  Murray, of all people, had taken Miss Fortune away that night, after a desperate phone call from me. He arranged an emergency place at a care home, and paid an eye-watering sum up-front for her to stay there until the care situation had been sorted out.

  But when I phoned the care home, the day after the funeral, they said she was home again now so Pip and I went round to visit. I was glad to see Mabel when she answered the door. The flat seemed a bit brighter, too, and less musty-smelling.

  ‘How is she doing?’

  ‘Aye, nae too bad today. She’s bin at the piano.’

  Sure enough, a little chinking noise was coming from the music room. We walked in to find her sitting on the piano stool, picking out the top line of Shostakovich’s Second Piano Concerto with the fourth finger of her right hand.

  She flung up her arms when she saw us. ‘Jamie!’

  ‘Pip,’ said Pip with a frown.

  She laughed knowingly.

  ‘Pip, then,’ she said with a wink. ‘Sit down next to me. Do you see this little fairy dancing on the keys?’ The fourth finger picked out Incy Wincy Spider.

  ‘Would you like to try?’ She budged up on the stool and Pip climbed up carefully, first pulling himself up to kneel on the cushion of the stool, and then rotating round and unfolding himself to a sitting position. His legs looked so little, his shoes dangling only a few inches below the bottom of the seat. There was a purply bruise on his shin, just peeping out over the ribbed cuff of his sock, from where he’d fallen over one of his trains the day before.

  He lifted his hands to the keyboard, and stretched them out like two little stars.

  ‘Very good!’

  Pip dipped his chin, trying to hide a smile.

  ‘So,’ I asked Mabel, ‘did everything get sorted out with the care schedule and everything?’

  ‘Aye, I feel terrible about that day wi’ all the bother.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did you no hear? She hadnae bin taking her medication, and she got out and went off wi’ a wee kiddie. Ended up goin’ into emergency care. There was a mix-up at the agency, that’s why I wisnae here that day.’

  ‘You? You’re from an agency? I thought you were from the local authority.’

  ‘No, luv. I’m from the agency.’ She spoke slowly and clearly, a voice for speaking to those with mental deficiencies. ‘That Steve, when he had to go away, he increased my hours, ken, up to four hours a day. Eight till ten and five till seven. Because he wouldn’t be able to keep track of things from Newcastle an’ he was worried about her. It was to start the next day, but the agency sent me to Mrs Marquez three doors down, and poor Esme here was on her own for a day and a half wi’ no meals, and nobody tae give the medication.’ She shook her head and looked down at the floor. ‘It’s no wonder she went walkabout, poor soul.’

  ‘But the council? Steve, he said he’d tried to tell them he was leaving and just had to leave a message.’

  It might take a while to filter through.

  She shrugged. ‘He probably wanted her reassessed. He wants to get her into a home I think. Anyway, I’m here for now. I’ll see she’s all right.’

  ‘I’m so . . .’

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, my finger is spider!�
�

  ‘And now let’s pretend to be gorillas, stomping all over the keys!’

  A cacophony broke out, punctuated by peals of laughter from Pip, and happy gasps from Miss Fortune.

  ‘She’s so different today,’ I said.

  ‘She has good days an’ bad days,’ said Mabel. ‘But that Show-pann seems to perk her up. You were right about that. I’ve bin playing it for Mrs Marquez and all. And the ladies at the day-care centre. We play it in the afternoon, while we’re putting out the tea and biccies, and then I put on Rod Stewart for something a bit more cheery, ken. “Maggie May” an’ that? That’s my favourite. Played it for Esme too the other day, and it got a smile out of her.’

  And that, I thought as I left with Pip, just went to show, the ways in which a person could surprise you were pretty much endless.

  *

  ‘So it’s all sorted now,’ I told Murray. ‘Really, I can’t thank you enough for stepping in that day.’

  Murray waved the thanks away and turned to fill the kettle, splashing droplets on the starched cuffs of his work shirt. ‘It’s easy to do things like that when you’ve got money.’ He didn’t say it boastfully; his money was simply a fact to him.

  He switched on the kettle, set mugs on the counter, and then turned to face me, his hands clasped behind his head.

  ‘So, everything’s underway,’ he said with a suppressed, nervous excitement, the same sort I’d seen in him when a big corporate deal was going down.

  ‘What’s underway?’ I said.

  ‘I’m buying Gretel out of her share of the house.’

  ‘So you’ve broken up?’

  ‘Of course. After her behaviour, there was no other option.’ He shook his head, and I saw the muscles in his cheek tighten as he clenched his jaw. ‘It was appalling, the whole thing.’

  I felt a little rush of warmth. He was on my side now. Mine and Pip’s.

  ‘Did you get to the bottom of it? Why she did it, and everything?’

  ‘Cleodie, it turns out, is one of the PIs the firm uses.’

  ‘A private investigator?’

  ‘Yup. She’s the only female one on the books, apparently, and Gretel had used her a couple of times before. A woman can blend in better, in certain situations. She saw from her invoice that she lived near you and spoke to her about doing a bit of extra work.’

  ‘And Rose?’

  ‘Search me. Maybe she is her niece. Maybe she just borrowed her for Friday mornings.’

  I shook my head. ‘How did Gretel even persuade her to do all this? I mean, isn’t it basically illegal?’

  ‘Hmm. Well, it was something to do with her novel-writing aspirations. Gretel offered her enough money to give up the day job for a whole year, and also promised to set up a lunch with an aquisitions editor at one of the top London publishers.’ He shook his head. ‘Someone she went to university with, apparently.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, looking downwards like a little boy.

  I wasn’t going to let him away with it that easily. ‘Sorry, what was that?”

  He flipped back into lawyer mode and spread his arms expansively.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ he said loudly. ‘I wasn’t in control of the situation. Which is unforgiveable, given that Pip became involved. I’ll admit it, Gretel drew me in. She’s a very charismatic individual.’

  ‘She’s certainly very something.’

  His face dropped and he looked at me in confusion, like Pip when he couldn’t fit his trains together or find the right jigsaw piece.

  ‘I didn’t really know her at all.’

  ‘Oh, Murray. It’s not your fault.’

  He began pouring the tea. ‘From now on, my only consideration is what’s best for Pip. And Janey, I’ve got a suggestion for you. A proposal, if you will. For you to think about.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He placed the two mugs on the table, then turned back to the counter for Pip’s juice and a packet of Hobnobs.

  ‘So, as I said, I’m buying Gretel out of her share of this house, and I’d like it . . . No, I’d love it, if you and Pip would move in.’

  ‘What? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Think about it, Janey. It’s a big house, plenty of room for all of us. You could rent out your place and invest the money for the future. You’ll have the run of the place during the day when I’m at work, and, well, we could spend evenings together. Weekends. No back and forth for Pip. No worries about contact, and residence. No more lawyers, or hearings or any of that gubbins.’

  It was what I’d always wanted. What I’d dreamed of, those lonely days and nights in the flat. To be a proper family.

  He put the juice and biscuits down on the table, and positioned himself awkwardly behind one of the kitchen chairs, leaning his weight on it like it was a lawnmower, or a Zimmer frame. But his brown eyes were kind and steady as he held my gaze.

  ‘And Janey, who knows? Who knows what might happen. There’s always been something between us. Chemistry. That’s why we’re here, after all, isn’t it?’ He dropped his voice to a murmur. ‘We made Pip.’

  I looked at my feet. I could barely remember making Pip. Though I did remember the months of flirting in the office that had fuelled it.

  ‘You’re, well, I think you’re awesome.’ His face reddened with his use of the borrowed teenage word. ‘It feels right with you. Comfortable. It feels like home. When I see you and Pip, when I used to come on Fridays, I always just wanted to kick my shoes off and relax. I never wanted to go home. Never. I just wanted to stay there. With the two of you.’

  I thought of those Friday afternoons, the times I wanted to rub his shoulders, stroke his hair, the way I could watch them for hours, him and Pip playing. The way that Murray felt like family because of our DNA tangled up in the boy I loved so unspeakably much.

  ‘If – if – anything like that happened, we could take it slow. Very slow.’ But for a moment he looked as though he wanted to undress me there and then. My pulse quickened, a little buzz of adrenaline. Could this really happen? With Murray, in his thousand-pound suit, in the cold hard light of day? Away from the befuddlement of the client dinner at Gleneagles, or the cosiness of the flat on Friday afternoons?

  ‘And if it didn’t, we’d still have Plan A, to live here as a family. Not as a couple, but as partners. Co-parents. We’ve worked well as a team, so far. Gretel notwithstanding,’ he added swiftly, in a low-voiced disclaimer. ‘Nothing’s going to change that. I really believe we could make it work.’

  For a moment the idea felt like sliding into a hot bath on a cold night. There’d be no more waking up in the dark, alone in the flat except for Pip. There would be no reason, any more, for my heart to speed up when I opened the door into a room. No more constant, underlying dread of another little surprise waiting. There’d be Murray pottering around, or snoring from his bedroom, or at the very least about to arrive home from work soon. There’d be the warmth from the Aga, and Bingo asleep in his basket.

  ‘What if we met other people?’

  Who would I meet, though? I thought of all the men out there, single, separated, and divorced, adding their profiles to dating websites, hanging around in trendy bars. None of whom were Steve. Or Murray, for that matter, with eyes that looked like Pip’s when he smiled.

  He shrugged. ‘If that happened . . .’ he cleared his throat. ‘If you and Pip wanted to move on, move out, well of course I wouldn’t stand in your way. You’d still have your flat, your own place to fall back on. We’d set it up so that we could unwind the financial side of things easily. But we’d have tried our best for Pip. Don’t you think he deserves a shot at a proper family?’ He smiled, his expression sad and hopeful in equal measure. ‘Don’t you think we do?’

  *

  I phoned Hattie and asked her to come over that night, because that’s what friends did, wasn’t it? They talked over each other’s men situations and sorted them out. It felt a little strange though – unpractised �
�� and I could almost sense our twelve-year-old selves sitting beside us, ready to giggle at any romantic outpouring.

  ‘So what is your man situation?’ asked Hattie, pulling her face into a serious expression.

  ‘I still have feelings for Steve. And I was kind of thrown today. To realise that he did look after Miss Fortune. He didn’t abandon her.’

  ‘What about you, though? Didn’t he abandon you?’ Then she added, ‘That was quite good, wasn’t it? I sounded a bit like a therapist then.’

  ‘Remember at the train station, though. He said, “It’s like you wanted me to love you into existence.” Oh God, Hattie, I think he’s right. I wanted too much from him. More than he could give.’

  Hattie sat thinking for a moment, surveying her nails. I heard her breath, moving heavily in and out. I wondered what she was about to say. Perhaps she’d had one of her inklings. Perhaps she’d seen a dark aura emanating from me, one that reached out towards men with desperate, grasping tentacles.

  She looked up at me and delivered her pronouncement. ‘What a twat.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We all need loving into existence, Janey. That’s what love is.’

  I thought of Pip, whose gastronomic repertoire had now expanded to include plain pasta, and whose waist now proudly filled out all his age-three trousers. I thought of the Brahms Intermezzo I’d nearly mastered, practising on Hattie’s cherrywood piano into the evenings while Pip slept. And the tiny creature who I’d held, in trembling hands, and kissed, over and over, whispering words of love that would have to make do for a lifetime never lived.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Sounds like he was afraid you’d love him into existence. You’d make him grow an actual spine.’