The Nothing Girl

by Jodi Taylor

  We sat in silence for a long time.

  ‘It’s not easy, losing someone. Without warning. It’s like having a piece of yourself ripped out.’

  I nodded. That was exactly what it was like. He knew. He’d lost his mother. He’d lost Francesca. Both without warning.

  ‘It doesn’t do to dwell too much on the past, Jenny. Trust me. Of course you must respect the memory of your friend and the best way to do that is to carry on with your life. Hold the memories in your heart. Keep them safe and you’ll find they’re there when you need them.’

  I nodded, not looking at the empty corner.

  ‘Now, up you get. Come down and have something to eat. There’s donkeys to feed, gardens to work in, Kevins to advise. Your friend helped you. Now the time has come to pass on that help to others.’

  For a moment, I could almost hear an echo of Thomas’s voice in the corner. Russell had said exactly the right thing. Who would have thought it?

  I nodded. ‘You don’t look so hot yourself.’

  He smiled and got up. ‘My wife is a darling, but very high maintenance. I’ll be back in half an hour. Be ready.’

  I was very obedient. I did exactly as I was told. I showered and dressed, albeit very slowly. I ate what was put in front of me. I helped muck out the stables. I listened while Mrs Crisp talked of menus and household accounts. I sat with a trowel in my hand and watched Kevin work in the garden. I forgot to hide my chocolate digestives and a surprised but delighted Marilyn could hardly believe her luck. After lunch, we sat down with Kevin.

  He had his letter in front of him. It was folded, but I could just see the ending – ‘Your loving Mum,’ and three kisses.

  I would not have thought anything could pierce the fog of misery in which I had wrapped myself, but the sight of his face shocked me into thinking of someone other than myself for a change. Gone was the happy, relaxed Kevin who pottered about the yard, teasing and being teased by Marilyn. He looked exactly as he had on that first night. Except he was about a foot taller. And wider.

  Mrs Crisp put tea on the table, shot me a worried look, and then took herself off with Sharon, who was shooting worried looks at Kevin. The only sound was the cat, sprawled belly-up in front of the range. I didn’t know cats snored.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Russell, irritably. ‘Someone put a tea-towel over it. A food preparation area is no place to be showing us where his privates used to be. Suppose the vicar calls. Eh?’I tried to think of something – anything – less likely than the clergy turning up to visit the Gomorrah that was Frogmorton Farm.

  ‘Now then, young Kevin,’ he said briskly, but not unkindly. ‘What’s happening?’

  He swallowed. ‘I’ve had a letter from my mum,’ he said, which we knew, but he got no further.

  I felt Russell twitch with impatience beside me, and felt a twinge of alarm, but he said only, ‘Have you decided what to do?’

  ‘She wants me to go and live with her again. He’s gone. My step-dad’s gone. But …’ he trailed off, blinking at the letter.

  ‘But you’re not sure if you want to go back,’ supplied Russell. ‘You’re worried the same thing might happen again when the next man comes along. You’re not sure how you feel about her making you leave in the first place. And you’re worried we’ll make you leave now you have somewhere to go. You’ve had a taste of independence and you like it here.’

  And if he leaves he won’t be able to spend his days being reduced to blushing incoherency every time Sharon looks at him, I thought.

  ‘But,’ continued Russell, ‘you feel bad because you do really want to see your mum again, but you’re not sure what to say or do when you do see her.’

  He nodded.

  I was impressed. But, of course, he’d been in the army. Young men and their troubles were not the mystery to him that they were to me.

  ‘Well, to deal with these things in order. You know your mum best, of course. How likely is it to happen again? Do you think she will have learned from her mistake? And we all make mistakes, Kev. Even parents aren’t perfect. Everyone screws up occasionally. One day it might be you, but my guess is that when you do, she’ll still welcome you back with open arms because that’s what mothers do. It’s in their job description.

  ‘And there’s no chance of us chucking you out. Boxer’s got used to you and you’re the only one brave enough to tackle the garden without full SWAT-style protection and flame-thrower. So don’t worry about that. One day you will want to go. And we’ll miss you. But not just yet.’

  Kevin nodded again, staring at the table.

  ‘So here’s a thought. Go and stay for a weekend. That way you can come back quite naturally on the Monday which will give both of you chance to think things over in your own time. See how it goes. What do you think?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘And if she wants to visit you here, to make sure we’re not abusing you or selling you into slavery, then that’s fine. Just let us know so we can keep that bloody cat covered up. In fact, I’m not sure what it’s still doing here?’ he said accusingly.

  That was true. He’d initially demanded it be removed from the premises and when his entire household had stared reproachfully at him, had amended this to grudgingly allowing it to sleep in the stable, where at least it might prove useful keeping the rodents down. The cat, of course, had ignored him and snagged the warmest and most comfortable place in the house. His body language suggested he was immoveable.

  Kevin spoke at last. ‘There was something else,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The garden. I like it. I like doing it. I wondered … Well, I thought … The thing is, I’d like to do it properly. And all the time. So I went to the library and got some details about the college. And they do a landscaping course. There’s a certificate at the end of it. And then I could get a proper job. No, I don’t mean that the way it sounds, but I can’t impose on you for ever. It’s not a full-time course and I thought I could still work here, and then maybe, if I pass the course, you could give me some references. For a job, I mean, and maybe for if I find somewhere to live …’

  He pulled a crumpled leaflet from his pocket and shoved it in front of Russell and said to me, ‘But of course, I won’t go until the garden’s finished. I couldn’t anyway, because the new course doesn’t start until September, but I have to go and talk to them and find out what equipment I need and how much it costs and everything.’

  Russell was smoothing out the leaflet. ‘Well, good for you, Kevin. But a word of advice – go and talk to them now and get your name down quick. Sometimes they don’t run these courses if not enough people sign up and sometimes there’s too many people want to do it and it’s first come first served. Either way, go and talk to them. I’m going into Rushford tomorrow to shout at Charlie Daniels about this bloody feed bill again, or maybe just bang his head against the wall and set fire to his office – it depends how I feel – and you can nip off to the college then.’

  ‘All right, thank you,’ said Kevin, looking suddenly much better.

  ‘Right,’ said Russell, looking around him. ‘Anything else while I’m on a roll? Shall I lead us out of recession? Solve the problems in the Middle East? Find a competent politician? Put the cat out? No? I’m off to spend a quiet afternoon in my studio. Do you want to come, wife?

  Actually, I just wanted to go back to my room, but Thomas would have had something to say about that, so I nodded, picked up a book so he wouldn’t feel he had to talk to me, and followed him as he galloped up the stairs.

  What a difference. Tanya’s careful arrangement of his equipment was abandoned. Everything was everywhere. Pictures and newspaper cuttings were stuck higgledy-piggledy all over the walls. The now familiar smell of linseed oil hit me in the face. Stained canvases leaned against the walls. Both easels held a canvas – a landscape on one and something swirly on the other. Sketches, big and small littered the big table. On top was a rather nice study of some autumn leaves. I would h
ave liked to look through them, but good manners prevailed. I picked my way carefully across the floor, which was equally strewn with books, a couple of empty beer bottles, and a pizza box he was obviously hiding from Mrs Crisp. I cautiously zig-zagged to the sofa, made myself a little nest of pillows and cushions, picked up my book, and fell asleep.

  ‘Well, you’re a stimulating companion,’ said my husband, when I opened my eyes half an hour later. ‘I’d hoped for witty banter, the exchange of ideas, the stimulation of creative juices, the wifely chirps of encouragement, and all I got was snoring. Do you want some tea?’

  I nodded, still pulling myself together.

  ‘Well, stick the kettle on and make some, there’s a good girl.’

  I scowled at him, made two cups of tea, and brought one over.

  ‘What do you think?’

  He’d done a delightful sketch of Marilyn peering angelically through her fringe, usually just prior to doing something completely outrageous.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I said. ‘That’s just how she looked before she ate that pack of chocolate digestives. Can we frame it?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I was thinking we could use it as our Christmas card. It’s going to be our one and only Christmas together so we ought to make it a bit special. You know the sort of thing, “Season’s Greetings from Russell and Jenny Checkland.” We’ll send them out to people we like and in a few years their rarity value will make them worth a bit. They’ll become collectors’ items and when I’m rich and famous, people will auction theirs off for a fortune.’

  Something else I’d forgotten about during my current bout of misery. In just over six months, I would be leaving, and whereas a little place somewhere to share with Thomas was an appealing prospect, suddenly, living alone wasn’t half so inviting. But I didn’t want to appear clinging and pathetic, so I sipped my tea and nodded.

  He didn’t say anything either, and the silence just went on and on. The view outside darkened as the afternoon wore on. A bit of a metaphor, really.

  A couple of weeks drifted by. The weather warmed up. Kevin and I cleared more of the garden. We borrowed books from the library and I downloaded various bits from the Internet. We propped them up in front of us and did our best. I tried hard to be enthusiastic, but inside was always a great, gaping Thomas-sized hole.

  Russell was painting – we could hear him shouting. Occasionally, something got thrown across the room. But most afternoons he was out. Or if he was staying in, he’d get a telephone call, shout something incomprehensible over his shoulder, jump into his Land Rover, and roar out of the yard. No one knew where he was going. I ignored the little voice inside which said: ‘You know where he’s going,’ because Thomas would want me to and actually, how much did I care?

  The cat, as unstoppable as continental drift, oozed into the living room and lay in front of the fire each evening, adding the distinctive smell of hot cat to the room.

  Kevin came back from his mother’s, looking tired but better and, on the next visit, Sharon went with him.

  Mrs Crisp spent less time in her room. I learned to cook Shepherd’s Pie, Chocolate Sponge, Toad in the Hole, and Spag Bol, all with varying degrees of success. If she noticed she was teaching me single woman dishes, she said nothing.

  Marilyn put on weight, learned how to open the door into the mud room and from there into the kitchen and was discovered pulling the cloth off the table in an attempt to dislodge the fruit bowl.

  ‘Clever girl,’ said Russell, admiringly.

  ‘Naughty girl,’ chided Mrs Crisp, not very convincingly.

  ‘Lucky girl,’ I thought. You never caught Marilyn worrying about the future.

  Russell and I went to dinner with Andrew and Tanya. I watched the unobtrusive togetherness that comes from a shared understanding of each other and realised I was lonelier now than ever before.

  The silver lining was that Uncle Richard and Aunt Julia were away for three weeks in Portugal, where they went every year.

  ‘Poor old Portugal,’ said Russell. ‘What did they ever do to us? Now then, Jenny, it’s your birthday on Saturday. What would you like to do?’

  I’d forgotten. Because all my days had been pretty much the same, I’d never had a good sense of time. I could usually identify the current season; narrowing it down to the month was a bit more difficult; and naming the actual date was pretty well impossible. It was a good job he reminded me.

  I remembered back to last year. Thomas and I had rented John Carpenter’s The Thing and with a household-sized bar of chocolate had enjoyed an evening of delighted terror. This year I wasn’t even sure I could be bothered.

  Other people, however, had different plans. Russell awoke me at some awful hour, bouncing across the room like an over-caffeinated Tigger. I suspected he’d stood outside the door, looking at his watch until it showed the earliest possible time Mrs Crisp had told him would be acceptable.

  He handed me a cup of tea. A tray with a rose would have been nice, but this was Russell. At least it was in a receptacle.

  ‘Birthday breakfast downstairs,’ he said. ‘Don’t be long.’

  Chance would have been a fine thing. Fifteen minutes later he was banging at the door again. I bundled my hair up in a scrunchie and opened the door.

  ‘This way,’ he said, grabbing my wrist and for a moment, I was back in my first day here when I’d got the tour. How exciting and wonderful everything had seemed. When Thomas had been with me. How could it all go so wrong?

  The table was laid with a huge breakfast. Russell served Buck’s Fizz. My place had a little pile of presents. I was touched they had taken all this trouble. Mrs Crisp gave me a little book of simple recipes with, most importantly of all, colour pictures of the finished dish so I had something to aim at. Sharon gave me a pretty scarf. Kevin had carved a little mouse from a piece of wood. What a talented boy he was turning out to be. And there was a big box of chocolates from Boxer, the cat, and Marilyn. I opened all my cards and stood them on the table in front of me. No one mentioned there was nothing from Aunt Julia or Uncle Richard. Maybe it was in the post.

  We all sat down together, and even I picked up a little of the excitement in the room. The Buck’s Fizz helped. When we’d finished, Sharon got up and Russell said, ‘Close your eyes.’

  Not without some misgivings, I did as I was told. I heard a space being cleared on the table. Something was put down. There was whispering.

  Finally, Russell said, ‘OK, open your eyes.’

  It was a birthday cake. It was THE birthday cake. It was fabulous. Two storeys high – or whatever you call a cake with two floors, covered in green and purple iced stripes and spots. The two levels were deliberately crooked, giving it a wonderful lop-sided look. Big purple cellophane bows decorated the sides and funky green sparklers were carefully embedded in the top. It was the most exuberant, joyful cake I’d ever seen in my entire life.

  Russell lit the sparklers and they all sang, ‘Happy Birthday’. They all looked so pleased and excited and I thought suddenly how lucky I was and that maybe the future could take care of itself after all.

  ‘Don’t try and blow the sparklers out,’ said Russell helpfully. ‘But don’t forget to make a wish.’

  So I did and it came true.

  We all had a slice, there and then. The bottom layer was orange and lemon and the top layer was chocolate, so some of us, Russell, had two slices.

  I said to Sharon, ‘Did you make this?’

  She nodded, proud and happy, and I made up my mind there and then that she would have her own cake shop one day. Genius like this deserved world-wide appreciation.

  Eggs, bacon, mushrooms, toast, marmalade, birthday cake, and two glasses of Buck’s Fizz. I was feeling more cheerful than I had in weeks. I tied the scarf round my neck and carefully put the mouse and book to one side.

  There was an odd pause and in the silence, I heard the sound of an engine.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Russell. ‘I wonder what this could be.’ />
  ‘Oh. Perhaps I should open the gate,’ said Kevin.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sharon. ‘I will help.’

  ‘I will come too,’ said Mrs Crisp and I stared at them, wondering if I wasn’t the only one who’d had too much to drink at breakfast.

  Russell stopped and for some reason shoved a couple of carrots in his pocket, but I’d been married to him for nearly six months now and it took a lot more than that to amaze me these days.

  A horsebox was backing in through the gate. There were lots of shouted instructions which Martin Braithwaite had the sense to ignore. At last, he switched off the engine and jumped down.

  ‘Morning all. Happy Birthday, Jenny.’ He began to let down the back. Kevin went to help.

  ‘Stand here, Jenny,’ said Russell and disappeared inside the box. Everything went very quiet. Suddenly, I was breathless. Something was going to happen. He re-appeared, and following him down the ramp, picking his way carefully, came a neat, dapple-grey horse, sturdily built and with an iron grey mane and tail.

  He arrived at the bottom, lifted his head, pricked his ears, looked straight at me – at me! – and uttered a soft, low sound.

  I was transfixed; rooted to the spot. Huge, liquid, dark eyes surveyed me placidly and apparently I wasn’t found wanting because he stretched his head towards me.

  I stepped forward. He lowered his head and I felt his warm breath through my T-shirt. I gently stroked his cheek. He was beautiful.

  ‘Happy birthday, Jenny,’ said Russell, softly, and put the leading rein into my hand.

  Chapter Twelve

  I felt exactly the same disbelief I’d experienced when he asked me to marry him – that this was something too good ever to happen to me.

  ‘Here,’ said Russell, handing me a carrot. ‘Show him you’re his friend.’

  He took the carrot very gently, his soft lips tickling my palm. I gently stroked his velvet nose.

  ‘That was good, Jenny. You’re very confident,’ said Russell. This was probably not the moment to tell him I’d spent the last fifteen years with an invisible horse.