The Art of Hiding

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Yep.’ Tiggy removed her hat and ran her fingers through her wavy hair. ‘You look awful, by the way.’

  ‘Why thank you!’ she said sarcastically. This she knew.

  ‘So, how’s things?’

  ‘Same.’ Nina pulled a face. ‘Still no job, though not from lack of trying. Connor is barely talking to me and Declan is trying to look at it as an adventure, but I think he does it for my sake. He is in turmoil more than he is letting on. I must admit, even though I know he isn’t being that open about what’s worrying him, in some ways I’m quite grateful. It feels like one less thing to have to cope with, and I kind of pretend with him. Does that make me a bad mum?’

  ‘I’d say so, yes. It sounds like a cop-out.’ Tiggy stared at her.

  Nina felt her mouth move as her brain sought the words of gentle rebuttal that would also press home that there was no way her sister could know what she was going through. Grief, loss, betrayal – it was more than most people could cope with in one hit. ‘It’s not easy, Tig. We are all squashed in here together, and it feels like there’s no room to stretch, to relax. Not that I’m not grateful to Cousin Fred. I really am. I know having me here is a risk. If I don’t find a job soon . . .’ She let this trail.

  Tiggy gave a small nod, but chose not to comment. ‘Where’s Connor?’

  Her sister’s sudden coolness made Nina uneasy.

  ‘On his bed, at a guess. That’s where he usually is when he’s not out roaming the high street, avoiding the armed gangs and pushers.’

  ‘Good God, it’s not that bad!’ Tiggy scoffed.

  ‘I know, but try telling him that.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I can joke with you about it, but I’m tired, Tig, and I keep thinking that it will be good to get home. I picture my lovely bed – and it’s like a jolt to my system when I realise that our home is gone.’ She bit her lip. ‘Anyway, enough of my moaning.’

  ‘Yes, let’s have tea. I’m just passing and thought I’d pop in. Do you need anything? Are you okay for money?’

  Nina looked at her big sister, who was there for her when the chips were down, offering practical help when it was most needed. She stepped forward and placed her head on her sister’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tiggy.’

  There was a silent moment while both considered what the apology meant. In Nina’s mind it was clear. She knew that Tiggy did not have money to spare and was making this generous offer. How many times had Nina done a similar thing when money had been plentiful? The answer was rarely, as it hadn’t occurred to her, and the shame of that suddenly hit her.

  Tiggy held her close and cooed into her hair, ‘Jeg har dig, Nina. It’ll all come good. You’ll see.’

  Nina closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of her sister, and in an instant she was back in the little cottage in Frederiksberg on the day her mamma died.

  ‘Your mamma has gone to sleep and she is at peace now,’ her dad whispered. ‘In fact she is having the loveliest sleep you can imagine, and she’ll dream of you forever and ever.’ Tiggy, at seven years of age, knew better, and began to cry.

  ‘I don’t want her to dream about me, I don’t want her to be asleep! I want her to be here with me!’ Nina yelled with her fists clenched.

  ‘I know, I know, and we will miss her, but you don’t have to worry. I am not going anywhere and even though it hurts now, we will be fine. We just have to keep looking forward.’ She recalled the way he had let his head fall to his chest, as if the strength had left every part of him.

  ‘Jeg har dig, Nina.’ I’ve got you, Nina . . . Tiggy had taken Nina’s hand and pulled her close, and this was how they sat, while their father silently wept. ‘That’s it, my girls,’ he managed. ‘You need to look after each other, always.’

  But they hadn’t looked after each other; Nina had let down her side of the bargain. ‘I am so sorry.’ Nina spoke again, hoping that repetition might reinforce just how horrible she felt.

  After Tiggy left, Nina splashed her face with cold water and left the flat for the supermarket. She gripped her purse tightly. Hers was now a world of cash, and previously, if that cash fell from her pocket or was spent, the hole in the wall would simply provide more and, God forbid, if that failed, she could then call her husband . . . There would simply be more to fill its place. Things were so different; the small amount of money she had now was all that kept her and her boys from sliding into the abyss.

  Making her way up and down the aisles, Nina cast an envious eye over women who shopped at great speed, tossing items into their cart with abandon as they worked down a long list of family favourites and reached for anything that caught their eye.

  That used to be me . . .

  She shopped slowly, careful to buy only what they really needed, comparing prices with precision. They now ate foods that she knew would fill them cheaply and warmly. Hovering at the pasta section, she ran her fingers over labels, looking for the biggest pack at the cheapest price, no longer concerned about the shape, design or even taste of a meal; these aspects were all secondary. It was about bulk in the healthiest, cheapest way possible. She selected a weighty pack of penne and laid it in the basket before moving on to potatoes and rice. Her own meals consisted of what was left on the boys’ plates and one bowl of porridge in the mornings. She had lost weight quickly and re-remembered the gnaw of hunger in her belly from childhood, when she would retire to bed with the feeling that the sides of her tummy were touching each other, her body coiled against the damp feel of the bed sheets.

  She added up the cost so far, nervous of going over her allocated amount. It was a funny thing, how she was adapting to life in these circumstances. Memories came back to her, thrifty little tips and hints that hadn’t occurred to her for years, habits of her gran – like keeping roasting tins in the stove so as not to clutter up precious, limited cupboard space; stacking bowls within bowls within bowls; rinsing cordial bottles with water to get every last drop; and placing a glug of vinegar in a half-bottle of ketchup and giving it a good shake, to make it last longer. And now as she wandered the aisles, she visualised the meals she would make and shopped accordingly, no longer frivolous or cavalier in her choices. Instead, she chose value brand everything, along with the mauled and dented tins that were reduced, figuring that canned soup was canned soup whether it came in pristine packaging or not. She made her way to the front, paid, and packed her bag, stopping to look at the community noticeboard on her way out.

  There were several leaflets advertising yoga, Pilates, playgroups and book circles, as well as handwritten cards where gardeners, handymen and babysitters touted their skills. Her eyes fell upon a typed card and the words ‘COOK WANTED’. Nina reached up and ran her finger over the print. It was for a place called Celandine Court. I can do that. I can cook. I know I can!

  ‘It’s only just gone up, that one.’ A girl in supermarket uniform nodded towards the board.

  ‘Right, thanks.’ She gave a small smile. This information felt like currency, a head start. Her heart raced. If she went there now, straight away, it not only showed eagerness, but also gave her an advantage over anyone else. Making a note of the address, Nina hurried from the store. With her bag of groceries over her arm, she half ran, half walked the length of Portswood Road, turning right and then left until, fifteen minutes later, she found herself outside Celandine Court, home for senior citizens. She walked up the block-paved driveway with a sense of trepidation. Suddenly she felt sick to her stomach and hurried to hide behind a bush. ‘I can’t do this. I can’t!’ she whispered.

  The bag of value brand pasta caught her eye in the shopping bag and reality hit: her funds were running out and in a matter of weeks they would be absolutely desperate. She pictured her boys going to school with empty stomachs and having to move to a hostel. Closing her eyes, she took deep breaths. ‘Okay.’ She pulled back her shoulders, wishing she wasn’t carrying her shopping and that she had dressed a little more appropriately. She looked down at her jeans and padded coat that h
id a raglan T-shirt.

  It would have to do.

  The 1970s red-brick building was a little uninspiring but two ornamental shrubs at either side of the door had been lovingly shaped and the sight of them lifted her spirits. She cast her eye over the pristine paintwork and clean windows and tried to picture the inside. It will be cold and institutional, but I don’t need to like it, I just need a job.

  She pressed the buzzer for access into the sparse, square foyer.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the male voice was loud, but pleasant.

  ‘My name is Mrs McCarrick, I don’t have an appointment but I am here about the position of cook that you are advertising?’

  There was a pause on the other end of the entryphone.

  ‘One moment please.’

  Nina looked back at the path and considered running off, before remembering she had already given her name. Come on, Nina, courage! You can conquer the world! It’s just that tiny ball in the palm of your hand! She pictured her little marble in its matchbox and felt a rush of confidence. She put her shoulders back and stood tall.

  The woman who opened the door was wearing a smart burgundy suit, a cream silk blouse, a string of pearls and neat square heels that matched the thin tortoiseshell headband that held back her dark, shiny hair. Nina’s scruffy jeans seemed even worse for wear. She ran her fingers through her hair, as if this might make the difference.

  ‘Can I help you? I’m Fiona. I manage Celandine Court.’ She stuck out her hand, which Nina shook.

  ‘Hello. I’m Nina.’ The woman was dazzling; it didn’t help her nerves an ounce.

  ‘Nina, I think there might have been a bit of a mix-up, for which I must apologise. My assistant Daisy is scheduling interviews and she’s off for a few days and hadn’t told me you were coming.’ She placed her hand on her chest in a heartfelt gesture. ‘So firstly, I am so sorry if we seem a bit unprepared, but that’s because we are!’ She laughed. Nina liked her honesty and felt the urge to match it.

  ‘Fiona, the fault is mine.’

  ‘Oh?’ Fiona studied her face.

  ‘I didn’t organise an interview with Daisy or anyone else. I just saw the card in the supermarket and came on the off chance. I figured I might be able to beat the competition and get here first!’

  ‘I did think it was unlike her.’ Fiona looked her up and down, as if checking her out, making a judgement call. ‘Well, as you’re here, I may as well show you around. Sign in, and I shall go over the basics and we can go from there. How does that sound? You can leave your bag here while we walk.’

  ‘That sounds great. Thank you.’ Nina breathed with relief; this was the furthest she had got in her quest to find work.

  Fiona punched a code into the internal door and Nina found herself in a vast reception that felt part hospital, part hotel. She looked at the grand display of white hydrangeas, the bushy heads of lilacs and the delicate stems of white tulips, and smiled. Flowers she knew, and they would always be the thing she loved. She looked up at the high cathedral-like glass roof, and was struck by the vast proportions. The place was light and bright. There was nothing cold or institutional about it.

  ‘This is lovely.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ the woman spoke with obvious pride. ‘Can I ask you to sign in? Name, time of arrival and telephone number.’

  Nina gripped the pen, leaned over the visitor book and scribbled down her details.

  ‘I always like to start with a tour, so you can get a feel for the place and our residents.’ The woman clapped her hands together, as if this was the cue to get the tour under way. ‘This area is known as the atrium. It’s the heart of the building, where residents can greet visitors or just hang out for a cup of something.’ Fiona pointed to fancy coffee machines, shiny white cups and saucers, and plates of biscuits sitting alongside. Smart sofas were positioned in squares around low coffee tables. Residents and guests sat on the wide comfy seats, some sipping coffee, some chatting; at least one was fast asleep, with his hands clasped across his chest and his head thrown back. Nina thought of Hampy, her father-in-law, whom she had dearly loved.

  A few young toddlers played with toys in a corner where a shelf overflowed with books and a big red plastic chest was stuffed with toys, puzzles and other items. ‘We encourage whole families to come and spend time here. It’s important for our residents that they can receive their friends and family, just as if they were in their own home, only with someone else doing the washing-up!’ She smiled. ‘There is no set visiting time. If people want to come here at three in the morning or ten o’clock at night, they are more than welcome. We are also able to put guest beds in the residents’ rooms for overnight stays. It means the kitchen is always busy, providing three balanced meals a day and catering for varied, special diets. You are just as likely to get a request for fish fingers or a plate of sandwiches for guests. We need that flexibility.’

  ‘Well, luckily I am flexible and fish fingers and sandwiches I can manage!’ Nina felt a surge of optimism. This was going well.

  Fiona returned her smile and the tour continued. The staff members wore bright pink polo shirts so they were easily identifiable and name badges pinned to their shirts. They reminded her of holiday reps whose responsibility it was to ensure that everyone had a good time. There was the faint tang in the air of decay, of urine, of rotting teeth and of breath laden with the chemical residue of pills, that no amount of bleach or room scent could mask. This she knew was the reality of old age behind the shiny veneer.

  That aside, it was all very inspiring, she had to admit; the bright dining room was clean and comfortable with a beautiful view of the gardens, and the treatment rooms were well kept. There was even a hair salon and chiropodist. Nina managed to keep a lid on her excitement, smiling and nodding with enthusiasm in all the right places with half her mind on the time, thinking how the boys might be wondering what had happened to her.

  Fiona took her up to the residents’ floor above. They stopped outside a room. Nina looked at a shallow memory box on the wall. Inside were a few family pictures, what looked to be a striped regimental tie, and an image of a plane cut from a magazine. There were other boxes like it lining the wall.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked.

  ‘We find that a lot of our residents don’t respond to a number or a colour, but will know their room because they recognise the things that mean something to them – a photograph of a loved one or, as in Mr Sandler’s case, a plane. He used to be a pilot.’ She nodded. The door opened and a middle-aged man came out.

  ‘I couldn’t help but overhear. Do come in and have a look. Feel free, Dad loves a visitor.’

  ‘Oh, no, I really don’t want to impose!’ Nina felt awkward, embarrassed.

  ‘Not at all, in you come!’ the man urged.

  Nina walked in slowly. ‘I heard, Mr Sandler that you used to be a pilot. I can’t think of anything more amazing than flying above the clouds.’ She smiled at him, as though they were engaged in conversation, though Mr Sandler was staring out blankly into space with his head on his chest.

  ‘I think it’s lovely here,’ Nina said, smiling at the son.

  He answered on his dad’s behalf. ‘It really is. Dad is calm, safe, well-fed and settled.’

  ‘Ah yes, and well-fed is where Nina’s interest lies.’ Fiona gave her a knowing look and Nina pictured herself working here, preparing fish fingers for people like Mr Sandler . . .

  ‘Right, let’s make our way to the kitchen. I’m sure you’re keen to see it.’

  Nina followed along the corridor. ‘Food, as I am sure you know, becomes the focus of the day for residents and visitors alike. It punctuates the time and is very much looked forward to. We hold afternoon tea dances with lovely cakes and themed evenings, Italian and so forth, so the catering is varied. Would that suit you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Nina nodded, thinking how she might make fancy cakes and trying to remember sponges and fancies she had whipped up for the boys on occasion.

&nbs
p; ‘We have a lot of parties.’ Fiona smiled.

  ‘Don’t listen to her! This place is a prison!’

  Nina turned to look at a diminutive elderly lady with short-cropped grey hair, steel blue eyes and a wraparound cardigan encasing her tiny frame. ‘I had a date with Humphrey Bogart and they wouldn’t let me go. He was pressing that buzzer all night and they wouldn’t let him in.’

  ‘This is Eliza.’ Fiona smiled.

  ‘I tell you what, Eliza. My husband had to ask me out three times before I agreed to go. I think you’ve done the right thing, making Mr Bogart wait. He’ll only be keener when you do go for that date,’ Nina whispered.

  Eliza seemed to consider this. ‘Where’s your husband now?’ she shouted.

  ‘He died,’ she managed. It didn’t get any easier saying it out loud and was no less confusing for her, still torn between missing him and cursing him.

  ‘So did mine.’ Eliza held her gaze for a second, ‘It’s terrible, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘It really is.’

  Eliza patted her bent fingers against her arm, before shuffling off along the corridor. ‘Come and talk to me any time.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Nina felt quite overcome by the gesture.

  Fiona gave her a knowing smile and they made their way to the kitchen. There were two older women in hairnets and tabards, one mixing bread dough and the other peeling vegetables. Nina smiled meekly at them.

  ‘So, it’s a fairly standard industrial kitchen,’ Fiona said with a wave. Nina stared at the vast multi-rack ovens, the large, shiny chrome mixing machine and a huge griddle, all unfamiliar. The counter-tops were shiny stainless steel and a packed fire blanket and extinguisher sat within reach on the walls. She felt her enthusiasm sink, her smile fade and her nerves bite once again.

  ‘Where are you working at the moment?’ Fiona asked, her tone a little altered as if picking up on her unease.

  ‘I . . . I’m not. I am new to the area and job hunting.’ She hoped this practised response would suffice.

  ‘So, tell me about your last role.’ Fiona folded her arms across her chest.