by Julie Cohen
‘I think you’re hot.’
‘Think all you like, thinking is free.’
Blend in, watch and copy. Although in this case, Lydia was mostly copying from television, because nobody knocked back Harry Carter in real life.
He leaned forward and whispered, ‘Take one in the bathroom after school and text it to me. I won’t share it with anyone else, promise.’
‘In your dreams,’ she said, and winked at him, before turning away.
‘Just like Darren Raymond!’ yelled Harry after them, turning to his friends and laughing.
She linked her arm with Avril’s. ‘Come on, or we’ll be late and we won’t get to sit together.’
‘Will you?’ Avril asked as they reached the English block.
‘Will I what?’
‘Send Harry a picture.’
‘God, why would I do something like that?’
They reached the classroom early enough for there still to be seats together at the back. ‘He’s fit,’ said Avril. ‘And I think he likes you.’
‘Not my type.’
‘He might send you a picture back.’
‘Bleugh.’
‘Do you really not like him? Oh, do you have a pencil?’
Lydia gave Avril a pencil. ‘Why are you going on about Harry? You don’t like him, do you?’
‘No, I wasn’t saying I liked Harry – I was wondering about him for you.’
‘Because I thought you liked Zane.’
Avril shrugged. ‘He’s a little – I don’t know, boring.’
‘How do you know he’s boring? He never says anything.’
Zane was, in fact, way too thick for Avril. He was totally safe.
‘We Facebooked last night,’ said Avril.
‘Zane can type? That’s a surprise.’
‘He can’t spell.’
Lydia laughed in relief. ‘You need a speller?’
‘I just want someone who has something to say, you know?’
‘Like Harry?’
‘I wasn’t saying that.’
‘How bad was his spelling?’
Avril took her phone out of her bag to show her; Lydia hung over her desk.
‘Miss Toller? Miss Levinson?’ said Miss Drayton, walking into the room, and Lydia instantly launched herself back into her seat. ‘Is that your phone, Avril? Could I trouble you to turn it off and hand it to me for the duration of the lesson? We only have a few weeks until your exams, and I would like all of your attention, please. Then get out your copy of Far From the Madding Crowd and read to us from page 115. Start from the beginning of the chapter.’
Avril shot Lydia a wry look and gave her phone into Miss Drayton’s hand. She dug out her dog-eared, annotated paperback copy of the novel as Miss Drayton placed her confiscated booty on the top of her desk, a reminder to anyone else who might think of texting or tweeting during English. ‘The hollow amid the ferns,’ she began.
Lydia put her finger in her paperback to hold the place and she watched Avril.
When you spent most of your time with someone, you hardly ever got to really look at them. You were too busy looking at other things together. Even when you were talking to each other, you never actually stared at someone. You only glanced, glanced away, looked at other things.
Looking at her now was like a stolen square of chocolate, melting over Lydia’s tongue in the secrecy of her closed mouth.
Avril had rich dark hair, almost brown enough to be black, straightened today and spilling over her shoulders. She always tucked it behind her ears. Her fingernails were bitten short. She wore a tiny silver shell ring that Lydia brought back for her from Naxos when she’d gone on holiday there, before Mum and Richard had split up.
Her lashes were long and darker than her hair. There was a mole on her cheekbone, and freckles that came out with the sunshine. There were two holes in each of her earlobes – Avril’s mother hadn’t discovered the second one yet. They matched the holes in Lydia’s ears. They’d had them done over half-term. The piercing gun got stuck in Avril’s left ear and the hole bled. They went to McDonald’s afterwards and Lydia held a cube of ice from her Coke against Avril’s small intentional wound. The melting ice ran down her bare arm and Avril wiped it off with her finger.
‘He had kissed her,’ read Avril, clearly and not loudly, but in a voice that carried. Avril’s voice always carried. She used to stand in front of their class in Year Seven and read her book reports, back in those days when she wore her hair in plaits and Lydia asked Mum to do her hair the same way, though Lydia’s always slipped out and got ragged. They used to wear identical Mary Jane shoes. Even then, when Avril would read, Lydia would close her eyes to listen to the sound.
They had made each other who they were. Avril’s hair, Lydia’s laugh; Lydia’s holiday, Avril’s finger. They bought the same clothes at the same time, though the items looked different on each of them. Their histories were written on each other’s bodies.
That would never change.
‘Lydia Levinson?’
Laughter brought her back to the present. She was at her desk in the back of Miss Drayton’s room and everyone in the room had turned around to stare at her.
‘I know that Avril’s very pretty,’ said Miss Drayton, ‘but it’s your turn to read now, please.’
Avril smiled. She rolled her eyes and twirled her finger around her ear. Someone sniggered. From the front of the room, Lydia heard the name, ‘Bailey.’
The blush that she hated raced up her neck.
‘The next chapter? Particulars of a Twilight?’ suggested Miss Drayton. Lydia flipped pages and, clearing her throat, she began to read.
Chapter Four
Jo
JO HAD CBEEBIES on the telly and a fish pie in the oven by the time Lydia came home, Avril beside her. Both girls had shirts untucked, school jumper sleeves rolled up, coltish legs bare between skirt and socks. As always, they were taller than she expected, their long hair shoved into sloppy ponytails.
This past autumn, on the morning of the first day of school, Jo had suggested a brush. Lydia’s hair was so lovely when it was brushed smooth, falling in shiny coppery waves around her face and down her back. She’d given up any hope of the brush when she’d seen Lydia’s best friend at the door, come to pick her up for school. Avril’s hair was in a messy bun, and therefore Lydia’s would have to be, too. The two girls had dressed alike, talked alike, loved the same music and television shows, from the moment they’d met.
Lydia slammed the door and Avril sniffed the air and said, ‘It smells great in here, Mrs Merrifield.’
Jo looked up from the sink, where she was washing cherry tomatoes. ‘Fish pie. I made extra last week and froze it. You’re welcome to stay for tea, Avril.’
‘Can’t,’ said Lydia, heading out of the kitchen. ‘I just came in to get changed, then I’m going out.’
Avril gave Jo an apologetic smile. ‘We’re meeting some friends at Starbucks to revise. I hope that’s OK.’
‘No, I have to—Lydia!’ Lydia had started for her room, but she came back reluctantly. She leaned against the doorframe, ready to be gone again.
‘I’ve got to go into London to see your grandmother,’ said Jo, wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘I need you to give Oscar and Iris their tea. I should be back by nine or ten at the latest.’
‘I can’t,’ said Lydia. ‘I’ve got plans.’
‘I’m sorry, but this is more important.’
‘It’s schoolwork. We’ve got exams coming up.’ She recited it as if she were reading it off a sheet. ‘GCSEs can determine your entire future career, both academic and professional.’
‘I know, and that’s true – but Honor needs me, and it’s urgent.’
‘Why can’t Oscar and Iris come with you?’
‘I told you, I won’t get back till after their bedtime. I can’t drag them to London. Why don’t you stay here and revise? There’s plenty of fish pie, and Avril can stay here and have some, too.’
&
nbsp; ‘I arranged for us to meet Erin and Sophie at the café,’ Avril said. ‘They’re waiting for me there. Sorry, Mrs M.’
‘What about Richard?’ asked Lydia. ‘It’s about time he looked after his own kids for a change.’
‘Lydia!’
Avril looked down at her shoes, but Lydia stared right at Jo.
‘I’m not calling Richard,’ said Jo, hearing the edge in her voice. ‘There’s no time for him to get here anyway. I’m asking you, as a responsible near-adult, to look after your brother and sister for one evening while I go to see your grandmother, who needs me. And in fact, I’m not asking you –I’m telling you. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to stay at home.’
‘That is so unfair!’ Lydia turned around and stormed across the kitchen. Jo heard the door of her room slam, and sighed.
‘I’ve got to go. Sorry, Mrs M. I hope Lydia’s gran is OK.’ Avril slipped out.
Jo counted to ten, and went to Lydia’s bedroom. It was on the ground floor, across the short corridor near the front door that was always clogged with wellies and raincoats. She rapped on the door. There was no answer, so she said through the door, ‘I’m going to dish up tea before I go, but you’ll have to sit with them, even if you don’t want anything to eat yourself. And you’ll have to clear up afterwards. Don’t forget to brush their teeth.’
No reply. Jo tipped her head back and looked at the ceiling.
‘Honor has had a fall. She’s in hospital. I’m going to bring her some things from home.’
A stirring behind the door, but no answer.
‘She’s all right,’ added Jo. ‘In case you were wondering.’
She waited for several minutes, and then went to the kitchen to take the pie out of the cooker and spoon out two portions on plates to cool. Jo was about to call Lydia again when the girl came into the kitchen. She’d changed into low-slung tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt that skimmed her flat stomach. She scraped a chair against the floor and sat down at the table. Jo opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again and went to fetch her handbag and car keys.
She was still seething, still rehearsing what she should have said, the perfect words to make her teenage daughter collapse instantly into the correct contrition, when she walked through the glass doors into Homerton University Hospital reception. It wasn’t until she entered the ward that the antiseptic smell of the hospital filtered through her awareness, and Jo closed her eyes and thought, Stephen.
The telephone call, ten years ago. Ten years ago, this June. The words from a stranger. Strapping Lydia, aged six, in the back seat where she immediately fell asleep. The drive to the hospital with her hands shaking on the wheel, Jo afraid she was going to crash until the moment she turned off the ignition. Carrying her daughter into the hospital, long legs gangling, and holding her in the lift, on their way up to see Jo’s husband, Lydia’s father, where he lay in a bed with a machine breathing for him. The chemical smell of fear and the little girl, asleep and trusting in her arms.
The lift dinged and Jo opened her eyes. Her flat soft-soled boots made no sound on the polished tile floor. Outside, the light was fading, but inside the hospital it was bright midday. She pumped sanitizer on her hands and went through to the ward reception desk. ‘Hi, I’m here to see Honor Levinson?’ she said, and the nurse set off to show her the way.
The ward was full of old people in beds. Some were asleep, some watching television; one or two had relatives sitting in plastic chairs near their beds. One man was lying on his side rapidly texting into an iPhone. Honor was sleeping in a bed at the far end. Her head was wrapped in bandages.
‘My God,’ said Jo, ‘she really had a fall, didn’t she?’
‘She’s sleeping, bless her,’ said the nurse. ‘She’s only been awake for a little while since I’ve been on shift, when I took her obs. Best thing for her. The bandages make it look worse than it is – she only has a few stitches on the back of her head. I’ll see if I can get a doctor to speak with you.’
Left alone, Jo pulled a chair up to the side of Honor’s bed and looked at her. She had never seen her mother-in-law sleeping before. Awake and upright, Honor was slender and tall, but under the blanket she seemed nothing more than bones. Her skin was waxy, her cheeks sunken over her glorious cheekbones. Her mouth was half-open, showing fillings in her teeth. She had a line going into her right arm. Her breathing was soft but audible.
Jo couldn’t believe Honor had named her as next of kin. Honor would never want Jo, of all people, to see her this way.
She looked old. Her long silver hair was untidy. Not unlike Lydia’s style, thought Jo, and she reached over to neaten it, when a voice said, ‘Hello, I’m Dr Mukhtar.’
Jo straightened up almost guiltily and shook the doctor’s hand. He looked incredibly young, smooth-cheeked as if he hadn’t yet started shaving. Was that a sign of getting older, when the doctors looked like children?
‘I’m Honor’s daughter-in-law,’ she explained. ‘I came as soon as I heard she’d had a fall, as quickly as I could.’
‘Yes, a fall at home, down the stairs I think. Concussion and a head wound. The most serious injury was her hip.’
‘She broke her hip?’
‘Yes. She’s had surgery this afternoon to repair it; luckily, we were able to operate quickly. There’s some osteoporosis, which isn’t uncommon at her age, of course, but from all accounts it was quite a fall.’
‘She must have been terrified,’ Jo said.
‘Well, it says on her notes that Mrs Levinson was—’
‘Dr Levinson. She’s got a PhD; maybe two. She gets ever so cross if she’s called Mrs.’
‘Is that so,’ said the doctor politely. ‘Well, Dr Levinson was conscious when she was admitted – she rang 999 herself – but she was confused.’
‘I can’t imagine Honor confused.’
‘She was in a great deal of pain, and there was the concussion. We’ve been monitoring her carefully. At her age, a broken hip is no laughing matter. Does she live by herself?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, we’ll be keeping her in for several days whilst she recovers from the surgery, and she’ll need to talk with an Occupational Therapist to make some plan for her care when she gets out of hospital. She’ll have to have physiotherapy to restore as much mobility as possible, and she’s going to require a lot of help with day-to-day living.’
‘Of course. We’ll sort something out.’ Jo looked back down at Honor. Poor thing, she thought, and was instantly surprised that she could ever think such a thing of her mother-in-law. She was certain that her mother-in-law had never thought such a thing of her.
Honor’s home was a tall, narrow brick house in Stoke Newington, raised from the pavement by a flight of stone stairs, which were slippery with the light falling rain. The key to the front door had been with the few belongings that had been taken with Honor into hospital. Jo let herself in and wiped her feet on the doormat, looking around.
It felt empty, inhabited by silence and the papery smell of books and dust. Jo turned on the light and saw the blood on the floor. It was a trail, crossing the hallway from the bottom of the stairs to the lounge. There was a larger patch of it near the stairs, where a laundry basket lay upside down.
‘Oh, Honor,’ Jo said. She stepped over it and went down to the kitchen to get a cloth. The teapot sat near the kettle; a tea towel was discarded on the table next to an open-spined book, but that was the only clutter – a huge contrast to the way Jo had left her own kitchen. She found paper towels and cleaning spray, rags under the sink and some carpet cleaner, and brought them upstairs.
Jo took a moment before she began cleaning, regarding the blood warily. Was it going to make her sick? She wasn’t good with bodily fluids, with vomit or wee or blood. She gagged changing Iris’s nappy sometimes, still. In the end she got down on her knees and sprayed the fluid on the stains. The scent of fake lemons covered up any smell that the blood might have had, and the stains on the floorboa
rds came up easily enough with the spray. It was surprisingly bright red on the paper towels. It looked as though Honor had lost quite a bit of it.
Jo’s stomach hitched and she put the back of her hand to her mouth, thinking of lemons. Round and yellow, sharp and dimpled and fresh. Lemons on trees, growing. She swallowed and bent back to her task.
The floor itself wasn’t all that clean. Dust and dirt came up with the blood; there were dust bunnies near the skirting boards. Jo worked her way across towards the stairs and nudged the laundry basket out of the way. There was something small and white crumpled underneath. Jo picked it up: a pair of knickers. She gazed up the staircase and saw another pair, and a vest, and some other things.
Honor Levinson would never leave her knickers in public view. The sight of these, lying where they’d fallen, was somehow more horrible than the sight of Honor’s blood.
Jo stood and quickly gathered the clothes together, putting them in the righted basket. She couldn’t tell if they were clean or dirty, and she wasn’t about to inspect them closely to find out. She’d take them home to wash them.
She had to stop again and put her hand to her mouth when she went into the lounge and turned on the light. It was like something out of a horror film. There was blood on the carpet here, and a large dark stain near the sagging chintz sofa. A table was overturned and the phone lay beside it. Jo righted the table, wiped blood from the phone, checked for messages. None.
Jo attacked the rug with carpet-cleaning spray and wet rags, and managed to get most of the blood out, but there was still a brown stain in the Persian weave. She double-checked the room to make sure she hadn’t missed any spots of blood, keeping her gaze trained carefully on the floor, knowing the danger in looking too carefully at the photographs on the wall. Once she was satisfied, she carried the cleaning stuff downstairs, her arms aching from the scrubbing, and threw all the rags and the paper towels in the bin. Then she washed her hands and arms with washing-up liquid and, sighing, put on the kettle for a cup of tea. She hadn’t had anything since the coffee in the café with the children this afternoon.