The Second Life of Amy Archer

by R. S. Pateman

  The suitcase wheels rumble on the pavement as I head to the tube. I usually walk or take the bus whenever I go anywhere, which isn’t often – or wasn’t before Libby and Esme turned up. I let my world shrink until it reached no further than Durning Library or Marks and Spencer on the Walworth Road – Brixton if I was feeling brave. Now it feels bigger.

  The underground’s musty mix of newspapers, warm dust and coffee breath was once a part of my daily routine, but is now shockingly new. Almost exotic. It’s the smell of a past busy with activity and purpose, of a distant land of work and a forgotten world of leisure.

  I breathe in the memory of the last tube home on Fridays, of Brian’s hand in mine, of laughter, beer and happiness. I remember the trips I took with Amy. How she stood in the Butterfly House at London Zoo, enraptured by the luminous turquoise butterfly that settled on her shoulder. The hiss of lentils as she dropped them into the funnel of a contraption at the Science Museum, and sent them hurtling through plastic tubes with the turn of a handle. The dreams in her eyes as the Sugar Plum Fairy floated across the stage at Sadler’s Wells.

  I could have all that again, and more. New trips, new experiences, none of them more thrilling than having Amy just a hand and a heartbeat away.

  But it could all be snatched away from me too – for the second time.

  I am wary. Uncertain. Vulnerable. I am eager. Desperate. Hopeful. I am on the brink of discovering a magical future or reliving the nightmares of the past. Of loving and being loved once more. Of being trapped and fooled. Maybe, I think, the two are not so different after all.

  People surge around me on the platform with a frenetic but dead-eyed energy. No one knows or cares who I am or where I’m going. None of them would guess my mission or my mindset. At least I hope they wouldn’t.

  The train at Euston is busy, the luggage racks stacked with buggies and bags. In front of me, a woman with a dozing toddler on one shoulder struggles to shake the holdall strap from her other shoulder.

  ‘Need a hand?’ I say.

  The woman passes the boy to me. He stirs but doesn’t wake, twists his head into my neck and tickles it with his soft, warm breath.

  ‘He’s well away,’ I say quietly, brushing his cheek with a finger.

  ‘Let’s hope it lasts,’ his mother says. She eases the holdall to the floor and puffs out her cheeks. ‘No one wants a screaming kid next to them on a train. Least of all me.’ She bends down and hauls the holdall on top of the bags in the luggage compartment. ‘I don’t know which weighs more. That or him.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Ah, the terrible twos.’

  ‘He saves the terrible bit for me and his dad,’ she says wearily. ‘His grandma doesn’t believe us when we tell her what a demon he can be.’ She holds her arms out as I pass the boy back. His eyes open dreamily, then flutter and close. I miss his weight and warmth.

  ‘I believe you.’

  ‘You’re a wiser grandma than his is.’

  ‘Mother, not grandma.’

  I can feel her surprise. I’m surprised too. The words just slipped out. I don’t know if I feel stronger for it, more sure of my belief, or just pathetic and deluded.

  ‘Look after him,’ I say as I squeeze past her. I tickle the boy under the chin. ‘And you be good. Do as your mummy tells you. You might not always like it, but it’s all for the best in the end.’

  I walk through to the next carriage, settle into my seat and close my eyes. I catch flashes of days out with Amy at Legoland, Brighton, Hampton Court. I can almost smell her wet woollen coat, liquorice yawns, sun cream and TCP.

  A man opposite me tuts when my phone rings. He points to the sign on the window: Quiet Carriage. I get up and take the call by the door.

  ‘Beth. It’s Libby. Change of plan.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ I say. ‘It’s not Esme again, is it?’

  ‘No, she’s fine. It’s me. I’ve got to go to work for a bit. We can’t meet you at the station like Esme wanted. Sorry.’ She doesn’t sound too disappointed. ‘I’ll pick Esme up from her friend’s on the way home from work. We’ll be back by the time you get here. I’ll text you the address, okay?’

  A moment later I have the address and travel directions.

  Bus 43, 45, 105 from Piccadilly station.

  I take a cab instead. The driver is incredulous when I tell him I’ve not been to Manchester before.

  ‘England’s second city,’ he says. ‘And don’t let the Brummies tell you otherwise. They’ve got a rotten accent too. As bad as their football team.’

  He points out a few places on the way, his elongated vowels echoing Esme’s. The stone of the library is the same grey-white as my pebble. I take it as a good omen. The library’s columns and gently curving dome soften the gleaming angled edifice of the nearby Bridgewater Hall.

  ‘Good sound in there, they reckon. Never been in it, mind,’ the cabbie says. ‘Mozart and violins and what have you, not my bag at all. This place here, on the other hand, is right up my street. Or was, before they knocked it down and turned it into yuppie flats.’

  The sign on the door of the red-brick building says The Hacienda.

  ‘Best club in the world,’ he says, his voice too wistful for his boast. ‘They’ve all played in there. Stone Roses. Happy Mondays. Even Madonna before she was big. Saw the lot of ’em.’

  He looks at me in the rear-view mirror. I guess him to be in his mid-forties, which means he either started clubbing at a very young age, or has fallen victim to nostalgia for a past that was never really his. It strikes me that we may have that in common.

  ‘You’ve lived here all your life?’ I say, shifting in the seat.

  ‘Mancunian born and bred, me,’ he says, his back straightening with pride. ‘Manc till the day I die.’

  ‘City or United?’

  His grey-flecked eyebrows rise in the mirror.

  ‘United! Blood isn’t red for nothing.’ He gives a snort of derision.

  ‘Don’t Liverpool play in red too?’ I’ve assimilated more than I realised from Brian’s slavish attention to Sky Sports.

  The cabbie sucks in his breath.

  ‘Careful, no swearing in my cab.’ He fiddles beneath the dashboard. ‘That ejector seat button’s around here somewhere.’ He winks at me in the mirror. ‘It’s very tribal round here. In a friendly way. People will always help you out.’

  ‘That must come in handy.’

  ‘Just be careful what you ask,’ he says. ‘Once a Manc get his gob going, there’s no stopping him.’

  ‘Even better,’ I say. ‘Might make my trip a little easier.’

  ‘Business, is it?’

  ‘Sort of. I’m visiting . . . family. And doing research.’

  His forehead rucks with a doubtful frown.

  ‘Can’t see there’s much to research in Wythenshawe,’ he says. ‘Except Wythenshawe Hall maybe.’

  ‘What’s that?

  ‘A big old house. And a park,’ he says. ‘Worth a look if you’re at a loose end. Wythenshawe’s high point. Well, other than its rate of Asbos and its hoodie count.’

  ‘Oh? Is it that bad?’

  ‘Nah, not really,’ he says, flashing me a smile in the mirror. ‘It’s no worse than anywhere else, I suppose. Better than it used to be, apparently. My sister lives there. She loves it. Says she feels part of a real community.’ He brakes hard at some traffic lights. A green and silver tram rattles by and gives a forlorn toot. ‘Mind you, that backfired on her when she was caught in bed with a sixth-former. Not much community spirit then. Just plenty of gossip and bitching.’

  We pass rows of red-brick terraces interspersed with curry houses, all-night grocers, burger joints and bookmakers. Anti-pigeon netting hatches tower-block balconies crowded with satellite dishes, bikes and washing lines sagging with T-shirts and jeans.

  It reminds me of the Brandon Estate just down the road from me in Kennington. A lot of single mothers live on that estate a
pparently, so I’m not surprised that Libby lives somewhere similar.

  She hasn’t said much about where she lives or her financial circumstances, but I guess her to be struggling to keep her head above water. I can’t help thinking that most of the people on this estate are probably in the same boat.

  There’s the crunch of broken glass as the cab pulls alongside the kerb. The driver gets out and takes my suitcase from the boot. I give him a five-pound tip for his snapshot of a city I know nothing about. For his heads-up on a community I have to dig into and might, just might, become part of.

  He slips me one of the taxi firm’s cards.

  ‘Just in case you get lost or want to go exploring,’ he says. ‘Ask for Dave.’

  I thank him and put the card in my purse. As I walk to the door of the block, he gives a beep of his horn and drives off.

  The door opens before I can press the number on the intercom. Esme flings herself into me.

  ‘You’re here! At last!’ she squeals. ‘I’ve been looking out for you for ages. Come on.’

  Her enthusiasm hits me as much as her resemblance to Amy: the blonde hair, the slightly gangly limbs, the light in her eyes and the smile that packs a punch every bit as potent as it was on New Year’s Eve. But there’s something else too; I get a sense of her warmth and eagerness, her empathy and desire to please. It’s just as beguiling as Amy’s used to be.

  She takes hold of my suitcase and drags it towards the lift.

  ‘Let me do that,’ I say. ‘You need to take it easy. After your fit.’ It feels wonderful to have a child to mother and fuss over once again.

  ‘I’m fine now,’ she says brightly. ‘Honest.’

  She presses the button for the lift.

  ‘I’m sorry if I said something to trigger it,’ I say. ‘I really didn’t mean to. The last thing I want is to hurt you. I’ll be more careful, I promise.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Esme says with a shrug. ‘The fits just come out of the blue. You’re not to blame.’

  ‘I wish your mother was so forgiving.’

  ‘So do I.’

  Esme gives me an odd sideways look, as if she’s talking about me and not Libby. The drop in my stomach has nothing to do with the prospect of getting into what looks like an old and unreliable lift.

  The doors grate and shudder as they open, releasing the stench of stale cigarette smoke. The No Smoking sign is splattered with what I hope is tomato ketchup, and there’s the ghost of old graffiti on the walls.

  I get in first and help Esme pull the case in. She presses the button for the second floor and the door slides shut.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ I ask her.

  ‘Nearly two years.’

  ‘You like it?’

  She nods her head vigorously.

  ‘Oh yes, it’s much better than the B and B we were in before. That was all damp and dirty.’ She wrinkles her nose at the memory. ‘But at least we had a roof. I feel so sorry for the people who have to sleep in cardboard boxes on the streets. When it’s really cold I give them my pocket money for a cup of tea.’

  I put my hand on her head and stroke her hair.

  ‘The only good thing about living in the B and B,’ Esme says, ‘was there weren’t any dogs there. The Staffordshire bull terriers around here scare me.’

  ‘They scare me a bit too,’ I say, cupping her chin in my hand. ‘But apparently they’re very good with kids.’

  ‘Good at chasing them.’ She looks up, her eyes wide and blue and gorgeous. ‘A white one chased me the other week when I was on my roller blades. I dropped my Mars bar and the dog ate it.’

  My stomach flips over. I’m not sure if this actually happened or if she’s channelling a memory of Amy’s, when she too fell over after being chased by a white dog. Only that was a Westie, not a Staffordshire bull terrier, and she dropped an ice cream rather than a chocolate bar. I remember having to buy her another one and soothing her tears as I dabbed TCP on her bloody knees and knuckles.

  I can feel her, hear her. Right now. Next to me. Telling me things. Conjuring memories. Mixing them up. Losing the thread, then pulling it and making the colours run until it’s hard to tell whether it’s Amy’s recollections staining Esme’s or the other way round.

  The door opens on to a lobby with the doors to two flats on each side. The smell of curry mixes with cigarette smoke and bleach. The jingle from an insurance commercial from behind one door collides with the thump of a rap track from another.

  The door furthest from the lift is ajar. Esme wheels the case towards it and pushes it open with her foot. ‘She’s here!’

  The sound of running water stops and Libby appears at the end of the corridor, clutching a dishcloth in a rubber-gloved hand. Her auburn hair hangs limp and loose, a few strands clinging to her forehead, which is damp with perspiration. Her T-shirt flaps around her skinny body, making her look younger than I know she is.

  ‘Libby,’ I say. ‘It’s good to see you again. Thank you for putting me up.’

  ‘It’s what Esme wanted,’ she says. ‘There’s even been a promise that she’ll help with the cooking, although that might not be such a good thing.’ She smiles at Esme, who feigns outrage at the criticism of her culinary skills.

  ‘I’d be happy to help in any way I can,’ I say. ‘Cooking, washing, cleaning.’

  ‘You’re good at cleaning!’ Esme says, pushing the suitcase against the wall. ‘You were always doing it, weren’t you?’

  I smile ruefully.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I’m a bit of an expert.’ I try to come across as being amused by my knack for housework, but I’m not. ‘I’ve always got a handy tip or two. Not that I’m saying you need any help,’ I add quickly. ‘I’m not here to judge.’

  Libby’s eyebrows rise imperceptibly. I get a whiff of Fairy Liquid as she turns and walks down the hallway.

  ‘Come on,’ Esme says, ‘I’ll give you a tour of the flat.’

  It doesn’t take long. We follow Libby into a small, square kitchen with basic fitted units and a white lacquer table against one wall. The front room is larger, but not by much; the pine units and recliner sofa look like those I’ve seen on ad breaks during How Clean is Your House? In the bathroom, I have to concentrate to make sure my arm doesn’t accidently sweep the toiletries off the shelf attached to the wall. A limp showerhead drips into a washed-out bath.

  Esme points at a closed door.

  ‘That’s Mum’s room,’ she says. ‘I’ll be sleeping in there too for the next few days.’

  ‘Esme,’ Libby calls from the kitchen, ‘why don’t you take Beth’s case to her room?’

  ‘It’s my room really,’ Esme says, as I follow her. She takes my case from where she left it in the hall. ‘But I don’t mind you having it. I want you to be comfy. Like a home from home.’

  The bedroom is a blizzard of pink and purple. The plastic toys, shiny knick-knacks and glint of the sequinned lamp-shades make it look shiny and moist. Like an open wound.

  The air is stuffy, sweet with the smell of fresh, fabric-conditioned bed linen and sour with sweaty trainers and blow-dried hair. The Spice Girls strut and pout from posters on the walls and Baby Spice grins on the duvet cover and pillow. It’s an exact match with the one Amy pestered me for.

  Memories rush at me, stealing my breath, hurling me back into Amy’s room. Even the layout is the same as hers was: the bed under the window, the dressing table littered with scrunchy hairbands, bracelets and rings, a desk alongside it and mirror panels on the back of the door.

  There are a few differences: the CD player that Amy kept on the dressing table has been replaced by a small pink iPod and a speaker. There’s a pink laptop on the desk where Amy kept her pads and the Spice Girls have been joined on the wall by Lady Gaga and the cast of Glee.

  ‘I hope you like it,’ Esme says.

  ‘Of course I like it. I always did.’ I help her lift the case on to the bed. ‘But it’s tidier now than it used to be.’


  Esme grins.

  ‘I’ve tidied up specially,’ she says. ‘You don’t want to look in the cupboards.’

  I do and I will. I’m glad of the warning that they’re full to bursting and hope I remember to open them carefully.

  It’s wrong of me to pry and probe. Children have a right to privacy as much as adults do. I wasn’t one to go snooping for Amy’s diary or rooting through her drawers. I didn’t have to. She’d never keep anything from me. But I have to rummage around this time. I’m sure she’d understand – if she knew.

  ‘I hope Libby won’t mind me bringing one of your toys from London to add to that collection,’ I say, pointing at the menagerie of dogs, pandas, penguins and gonks on her pillow. ‘It’s in my bag.’

  Her eyes are wide with expectation. I pull Bagpuss from my bag. She takes the cat and rubs her nose against his.

  ‘Thank you. That’s really kind. I’ve missed him so much.’

  She gives him pride of place on her pillow.

  Libby calls from the kitchen that tea is ready.

  ‘Hope you like spag bol,’ says Esme.

  ‘Lovely,’ I say. ‘One of my favourites.’

  ‘It’s only Asda’s own brand,’ Libby mutters.

  Esme snuggles up to me.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she says.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘We’ve got a lot of catching up to do,’ she says.

  ‘That’s right.’ I grip her shoulder. ‘Especially me.’

  I give the bedroom a quick look as I close the door behind me. It’s like the lights going out on a film set. Fantasy or horror? I think. Either way, it’s a true story. All that’s missing is the truth.

  Esme insists I sit next to her. Libby flinches. The conversation between Libby and myself is an effort, but Esme’s babble masks the lulls effectively, like Amy’s used to during the tense meals I endured with Brian. Once we’ve finished, it’s a relief to escape to the bathroom for a long soak, after which I say I’m exhausted by the journey and need an early night.