Everything She Forgot
Page 18
As a parent, Margaret tried to give her children all the love she had in her. She was compensating, but she didn’t know for what. She didn’t want them to feel the ache, which was almost all that Margaret could remember from being small.
Paula knelt before the couch to change the music on the laptop that was open on the sofa. She was wearing leggings and a sweatshirt with sequins on it. Her nails were painted dark glittery blue. She looked older than nine. Margaret smiled at her, remembering the baby she had been. Paula put on some Christmas tunes and then jived to them, spinning around with her long hair swishing back and forth.
“Dance, Mum, this is a good one.”
“In a minute, sweet,” said Margaret, feeling a twinge of guilt that she did not feel able to rise and dance as her daughter expected. “Good moves, darlin’.”
When the song ended, Paula collapsed on the floor beside her mother, midriff showing, her face full of glee. Margaret reached over and tickled her belly.
When Paula was born, Margaret’s mother had been dead six years. She had grieved for her mother anew, shuggling the colicky infant back and forth across the living room floor, not knowing what to do.
Margaret opened a tin of sweets that she had been given by her old colleagues in the Learning Support Unit. She and the children each chose a chocolate before they continued wrapping. The doorbell rang and Margaret went to answer it.
They lived in a terraced house off Oakwood Hill, with a painted awning above the doorstep. It was dark already and Margaret could not see clearly the young, hooded man who stood scuffing the garden path with the tips of his trainers.
“Hello?” said Margaret, swallowing her chocolate and straining into the darkness.
The young man looked up and she recognized him instantly. He pushed down the hood of his sweatshirt.
“Mrs. H,” he said, his breath clouding in the cold air.
Margaret held the door open and motioned him inside.
“Stephen! Are you all right?”
“I got expelled, miss,” he said, hunched. He had never been able to keep still and now he jived in her hallway, shifting from one foot to the other.
Both Paula and Eliot appeared at the living room door. “Hey, Stephen,” said Paula, blushing shyly. He raised his head in greeting to them both and drove his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.
“You guys take a break for a bit,” said Margaret, running her fingers through her daughter’s hair. “D’you want to put a film on for you and your brother? I might be a little while …”
Paula raised her eyes heavenward and turned into the living room, with exaggeratedly heavy footfalls.
In the kitchen, Stephen stood pulling the cuffs of his sweatshirt over his hands, as if he were cold. Instinctively, as she would have done for her own, Margaret poured crisps into a bowl and shook biscuits onto a plate.
“Do you want something to drink? I’ve got Coke or …”
“Coke, thanks.”
He crunched the crisps hungrily while she poured Coca-Cola into a glass.
“Can I make you a sandwich?” she said, placing the glass before him.
He tucked his hands under the table as if merely showing hunger was an admission of guilt. Then he grinned at her. “’Member that first time I came round, and you made me spag’ bol’ and everything …”
“I can make you spag’ bol’ again.” Margaret turned to him, one eyebrow raised. It was so good to see him, but she worried he would ask her to try to get him back into school.
She was wearing an old pair of jeans and one of Ben’s sweatshirts. Before other students, she would have felt underdressed, but Stephen had been at the house many times and she was comfortable to be herself. “Are you hungry?” she pressed.
“Nah, ’m all right, I was just saying, like. You’re just always so nice to me.” He pulled his hands underneath his cuffs again, and looked down at the table, suddenly shy.
“I wasn’t responsible for that decision to expel you,” said Margaret, sitting down opposite him. “I didn’t support it.” She spoke very clearly and calmly so that nothing could be misconstrued.
“I know, miss.”
Stephen met her eyes. His large brown eyes seemed hunted, making him look older than seventeen.
Margaret had taught Stephen how to read and write. She still remembered the day he appeared in her Learning Support classroom, covered in bruises, yet seemingly feared. It was his second year at high school but he had failed to meet any learning objectives. He had been removed from normal classes and kept in the classroom at breaks and lunchtime for the safety of other pupils. At the beginning he had been disruptive in Margaret’s classes—once trying to throw a chair through the window, although the window was plastic and the chair just bounced back into the room, hitting another student on the shoulder.
It was weeks before Margaret had been able to reach him. She had been to his home, met his bullying elder brother who was his only family, and seen his swimming trophies before she knew that Stephen could barely write his own name. His father was in prison and his mother had died.
He was bright but had been ignored and punished. Once she’d taught him to read and write he had changed completely. She had risen to management by the time he got his GCSEs, but she had cried with pride.
Margaret took one of the crisps. “I don’t know if you heard, but I was in a car accident and the decision to expel you was taken on the day I was off. It’s not what I would have wanted.”
“I know. I don’t blame you or nothing …”
Margaret sighed and ran her hands through her hair. “There was nothing I could do. Even if I had been at school, there’s no saying I could’ve stopped it happening.”
Stephen sniffed.
“You shouldn’t have had a knife in school, Stephen. You shouldn’t carry a knife at all.”
“I know.”
Margaret put her hands on the table. “I wanted to see you get your A Levels.”
“One day, maybe.”
“God, Stephen …”
“That’s why I came, like. I just wanted to come and see you, ’cause … it was just, like, y’know, what you said to me about trying my ’ardest. Well, after I got expelled, I thought I could give up or I could ’ave another go—”
“You can. It’s not over,” she interrupted.
“I’m applying to college. I thought you could be my reference, like.” Stephen pulled course information from his pocket, and an application that had been printed from the Internet and was dog-eared from its journeys.
Margaret exhaled with relief and smiled. “Good for you, Stephen. Good for you.” Tears sprang to her eyes and she pressed her lips together.
“It’s just a practice, like. I’ll do it online.”
Margaret unfolded the form and smoothed the creases. Out of habit, she looked it over for spelling and other errors. Stephen had neatly printed each line and everything was correct. He was applying to do three A Levels.
“Are you all right now?”
“I’m fine.”
“You were in that really big pileup on the M11?”
Margaret nodded.
“And you were all right. Figure you’re a pretty good driver, huh, miss?” He smiled, showing his perfect white teeth.
“It wasn’t skill, it was luck.”
Margaret brushed a hand over the application form on the kitchen table. She did it to signal a change of subject and also to steady herself. The talk of the crash had brought a tremor to her fingers again. “I’m proud of you for doing this … and all by yourself. It’s just what I would’ve wanted you to do. You get knocked down, but you get up again, remember.”
Stephen shrugged. “Only ’cause of you. You’re the best teacher ever.”
When Stephen left, Margaret went upstairs and splashed cold water on her face. She leaned on the basin and stared at herself in the mirror. It had been easier to sit and talk to Stephen, who expected her to behave professionally, than it was to face her
husband each night. It was a strain to hide how she was feeling from Ben and the children.
She went downstairs slowly. She could hear the children laughing at the film they were watching. She went into the kitchen and opened Ben’s laptop, then Googled nervous breakdown.
She read the text, biting her lip: Severe stress-induced depression, anxiety, or dissociation in a previously functional individual. The disorder will mean that the individual can no longer function on a daily basis. A nervous breakdown bears great similarities to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
She hadn’t been able to go through the box that she had taken from her father’s house. When she started to look at the collected articles and pictures she felt physically sick—yet the contents of the box, the burned man, and the memory of being trapped inside her burning car were Margaret’s constant present. Whatever she did, those feelings were inescapable.
She had called the hospital every day to check on Maxwell and now she thought of him again, alone and friendless, no loved ones knowing that he was hurt. She wanted to go and see him again. She needed to see him.
Before she closed the computer, she checked her Facebook account. Ben had sent her a message to say he was bored waiting to meet his interviewee and would be late home. She sent a message back although she knew that he was no longer online. She took long slow breaths as she left the kitchen and returned to the living room. The film credits were rolling; Paula was practicing her gymnastics and Eliot was trying to copy her.
“Can we go outside?” said Eliot.
“Not now, it’s too dark.”
“But I can take my flashlight.”
“No. It’s too dark. It’ll be time for dinner soon.” Margaret glanced at her watch, wondering when Ben would come home. She didn’t feel up to an argument. “Come on,” she said, sitting down and patting the couch beside her. “Come on, we’ll read another chapter of your Roald Dahl book.”
She had been reading George’s Marvellous Medicine to Eliot. Eliot leaned into her as she broke the spine of the book and struggled to focus. Paula was trying to do headstands, then looking up at her mother intermittently, red-faced with effort. Reading to her children was what Margaret loved most, and yet even this precious time was no escape. Her heart was beating so hard that she thought it might break through her chest.
“Mum, stop it,” said Eliot, elbowing her in the stomach.
“Stop what?”
“Your hands are all shaky. I can’t follow the words.”
CHAPTER 18
Big George
Thursday, October 3, 1985
IN THE MORNING, THEY SET OFF AGAIN. THERE WAS ONLY AN inch of Irn-Bru left in the bottle, and George let Moll finish it. He looked down at her as they left the Cheviot Hills. With her newly cut hair, there was a chance that she might not be recognized, but she was still a little girl in a crumpled school uniform with spots of blood on her collar and skinned knees scabbed over.
They left Northumberland National Park and headed south. There were farms on either side of the road and signs for deer and cattle. The car was running low on fuel, but George thought he could make it to Newcastle, which was only an hour away. They drove through towns like Longframlington and as they neared residential areas, an idea came to George.
At Morpeth, he veered off the road and drove into the town, rolling his window down and weaving through the housing developments.
“Where are we?” said Moll. “Are we going to visit someone?” He didn’t answer her. It was a quiet group of redbrick council houses with small fenced gardens. George hunched over the steering wheel as he peered out on either side, scanning the yards. It was another clear day—dry and bright, although there was a chill in the air. He turned into another street and sure enough there were three different yards strung with washing. He crawled along the curb inspecting the clothes on offer until he saw what looked like a boy’s green tracksuit.
“Wait here,” said George.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m gonna borrow something.”
He narrowed his eyes and scanned the street but there was no one around. It was after nine and people would be at work and at school. He vaulted over a wall into the garden and was startled by the sound of a dog barking inside the house. He yanked the tracksuit off the line, sending the pegs flying, jumped the wall again, and slipped back into the car, throwing the tracksuit into the back seat. He drove out of Morpeth slowly, looking into the rearview mirror until he was sure that they had not been seen.
“I’m hungry,” said Moll, as he turned on the radio.
“As soon as I see a shop, we’ll stop and we’ll go and get something hot for lunch, I promise. Can you hold on?”
He turned to her, and she nodded, and he winked at her.
It was late morning when they arrived in Newcastle and George parked in a multistory parking garage near the main street.
“Take your shoes off,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because we need to get this on you.”
“Why? I don’t like it.”
“We’ll get you something you like. It’s just … so you’ll be warm when we’re walking on the street. It’ll do for now.” He bit his lip, watching her, but she kicked off her shoes and so he leaned over and fed one foot and then the other into the tracksuit bottoms.
“Pull them up and take off your skirt.”
She did as he asked. The skirt was a pleated kilt and he helped her undo the second button.
“They’re all wet.” Her face was peaked.
“It’s only for a wee while, till we get you something better.” He held out the tracksuit top and she fed her arm through.
“It doesn’t smell nice.”
“I promise we’ll get rid of this as soon as we can.”
“I’m hungry,” said Moll again, when they got out of the car. The tracksuit was oversized and he could see patches of dark green where the fabric was wet. The white of her school blouse was still visible and so he zipped her up and pushed the collar inside.
“Where will we go to eat?”
“I’ll find someplace. Maybe we should get you some proper clothes first, then we’ll go get something to eat.”
The parking garage smelled of dank, wet concrete. It was half full of cars, but there were no people around and George was relieved. He offered Moll his hand as they descended the stairs to the street and she took it and kept hold of it all the way to the main street, where he took her into C&A.
As soon as they walked into the department store, it seemed as if every shop assistant turned to stare at them. George realized what a sight Moll was, with her shorn hair and damp, oversized tracksuit. He was nervous and almost left the store, but instead he pulled Moll in the direction of the escalator and they ascended toward Men and Boys.
“Your hand’s all sweaty,” she said, pulling away from him.
“Well, stay close to me,” he said. “We need to be in and out of here, quick smart. You’re hungry, aren’t you? We need to get out of here and get you something to eat.”
She was quiet but sullen, following him around, looking at the clothes.
He picked out a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, several Tshirts, socks, and pants for boys aged seven to eight, and then they went for shoes. She chose a pair of Batman trainers.
“Do they fit you?” he asked.
“Yes,” jumping up and down. “They’re bouncy.”
As an afterthought, he bought her an anorak and Wellington boots and a pair of thick gloves, a baseball cap, and a scarf.
Moll curled her fingers over the checkout desk and put her lips to them. The man folding and bagging her clothes winked at her. George risked tapping Moll on the shoulder. “Stand up properly,” he whispered.
He didn’t know how to predict her, had no idea what she would do. She looked up at him and he held his breath, but then she did as he asked. He smiled at her, and touched her head. She blinked slowly and shrugged at his appreciation.
“I’m hungry,” she said, whining now, when they got outside.
He hunkered down beside her and straightened the tracksuit on her shoulders. She was pale and wearying and he knew she needed to eat, but even though she looked almost like a boy now, she was still attracting glances in her damp, oversized clothes.
“Let’s go back to the car and change and then we can get lunch,” he said.
“No, now,” she whined.
There was a little shop off the main street and he bought her a packet of crisps and a can of Coke. She walked slowly, crunching the crisps and spilling little dribbles of Coke down the green tracksuit. By the time they got back to the car, the Coke and the crisps were finished.
The parking garage was still deserted. George pulled the tags off the jeans and T-shirt and asked her to change.
“Can you manage by yourself?” he asked.
She nodded, and so he walked ten feet away and smoked at the edge of the parking garage, looking down at the city. He was finished with his cigarette before she was done struggling into the new clothes. Finally, he went to help her, shaking her into the jeans and buttoning them up and wrestling the sweatshirt onto her. She put on her Batman trainers and he knelt to lace them.
“I can tie my own laces,” she said.
He stood back to let her, but she took an age, and his own stomach rumbled as he waited. She made a big loop and a small loop, whispering instructions to herself.
“You sure you don’t need me to help you?”
“No!”
He sighed, looking over his shoulder. He put her school uniform into one of the shopping bags and put it in the boot. Finally, she stood up, her laces tied.