‘Brenda? Oh yes, your landlady. She’s still helping out, then?’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘She comes in every day now. I rely on her almost completely for shopping and cooking – I don’t really go out any more because I can only walk about twenty yards before I need to stop and rest.’ He took a tobacco pouch out of his pocket and put it on the arm of the chair along with a packet of Rizlas. Slowly, with an old man’s hands, he rolled a thin cigarette. ‘So, you said Hannah’s been ill?’ He offered me the tobacco pouch.
I shook my head. ‘I haven’t smoked for years. And surely, I mean, should you be—’
He gave a tight smile. ‘Not going to make much difference now, is it? Anyway, Hannah. Is she better?’
‘A little, but there’s a long way to go before she’ll be back to normal. She’s had postnatal depression. It’s been bad. I mean really bad, and we’ve all had to take time off work to look after her. She couldn’t cope with the baby, or the house, or anything, really, and she’s still very fragile, so you see, I can’t possibly – you can’t, I mean . . . There’s no way she’s strong enough, so you mustn’t I was babbling.
Scott was nodding his head slowly. ‘Has she seen a doctor?’
‘Yes. They’ve given her tablets. And she needs to have counselling. Scott, you’ve got to leave her alone. She can’t take it, okay?’
‘What do you mean, “leave her alone”? I’ve told you. I think you should tell her. Or tell your husband first and you can tell her together, I don’t know.’
He sounded irritated; I hadn’t heard him like this before. His voice was stronger although he was still speaking quietly, even though we now appeared to be alone in the room.
‘Jo, be realistic. I’m not going to just walk up to her and say, Hey, I’m your dad and by the way, there’s something else you should know, now am I? Not unless I have to; not unless you absolutely refuse.’
I could feel a tightening in my chest, as though I couldn’t take a breath. ‘Scott, don’t you understand? She’s ill; she can’t take this.’
‘But she is getting better, right?’
‘Oh my God!’ I was on the verge of tears. I put my head in my hands. ‘Scott, can’t you just . . .’
‘Listen, two weeks, okay? I’ll be back home by then. Well, for the time being, anyway.’ He leaned forward again. ‘Jo, it’s the right thing to do, you know it is. And I do think it’s better coming from you. And tell her . . . tell her I’d really like to see her, just once.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Hastings, 1976
Jo wandered around the Old Town, waiting for the summer fayre to be over. She didn’t want to see any more morris dancers, or jugglers or smiling people with ice creams or candyfloss. Usually, she loved this part of town, with its little flights of steps in odd places, the alleys and passage-ways running between the streets and the Tudor houses, higgledy-piggledy timber-framed dwellings with an overhang jutting out over the pavement below because their upper floors were bigger than their ground floors. But today, she barely noticed its charm.
She could feel the skin on her shoulders prickling as she trudged up All Saints Street and past the strange, wedge-shaped house known as ‘piece of cheese cottage’. She ought to stop and put some more sun cream on, but she couldn’t be bothered. Scott had been so much nicer to her today until he found out about the earrings; it seemed doubly cruel that he was so pissed off with her now. She carried on walking aimlessly until she noticed that the pubs were beginning to open. Briefly, she wondered whether to risk going back to see if he’d calmed down yet, but it would be unbearable if he was still furious with her. Instead, she took a deep breath and walked up a flight of stone steps into the pub. She’d only ever walked into two pubs alone before, the one where she’d worked in Newquay and The Crown where she worked now – but she couldn’t face going there today because they’d know she’d been crying and would want to know why. And anyway, they all knew she was supposed to be doing the fayre.
The cool gloom of the pub’s interior was instantly soothing, and because it was only just past opening time, there were no other customers yet – there was no way she could have walked into a crowded pub by herself. A collection of tankards and Toby jugs hung above the bar, and on the corner was a model of a Babycham deer scampering past a champagne glass. A huge stag’s head looked down from the wall. The girl behind the bar looked reasonably friendly, so Jo ordered a half of Double Diamond and a packet of crisps, paid the 22½ p and made her way to a table in the corner. There were a couple of folded newspapers on the seat and she opened one and pretended to read it while she ate her crisps and drank her beer and wondered whether she’d still be welcome at the house after this. Had Scott meant she should go temporarily? He’d sounded so angry; perhaps he meant she should go for good. Maybe he hadn’t really wanted her there anyway and now he had a good reason to ask her to leave. She felt a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach at the prospect. She’d begun to feel so settled at the house, and so comfortable with Eve, and even with Scott, although he couldn’t seem to make up his mind whether he liked her or not. She cringed when she thought about the earrings. Eve had looked so pale and ill earlier; what was she going to say when she found out that so much of her hard work over the last few weeks had been for nothing? She flicked her head as if to shake the memory away. Should she go straight back to the house and apologise again, she wondered as she finished her drink, or should she try to stay away tonight, perhaps write them a letter explaining how truly sorry she was? She could wait until it got dark and put it through the door. Perhaps Scott would have calmed down by then.
As she walked to the bar to buy one more drink, she noticed the two scrawny dark shapes hanging above her head. The barmaid smiled. ‘I know. Mental, aren’t they? They’re cats; mummified. The previous owners found them bricked up in the wall, apparently, and they reckon they belonged to an old witch who was supposed to have lived here. Tell you what, though, he’s going to have to move them soon. Bits keep dropping into the bleeding drinks!’ And she laughed. ‘Same again?’
Eve was always saying that she liked Hastings because it was such was an odd place, and Jo thought about this as she smoked her last cigarette. Where else could you go into a pub and find a mummified cat hanging above the bar? As she walked back to her seat, a horrible memory popped up in her mind; she’d forgotten it completely until now. It happened when she was four. She’d spent what seemed like a whole morning dressing up their old ginger cat in her baby doll’s clothes so she could push him round the garden in her doll’s pram. She’d been so pleased that she’d been able to make Tiger look pretty – she’d even managed to tie a frilly bonnet on him without getting scratched. It was only when she proudly wheeled the pram into the kitchen that she realised something was wrong. Her dad had leapt up and whisked the pram away while her mum quickly buckled her into her sandals, took her hand and led her outside. ‘Come on, Jo-Jo. No more tears, now. We’ll go to the park, shall we? How about a choc-ice?’ It wasn’t her fault, they told her. Tiger was very, very old, and he’d probably died in his sleep. But Jo had never, from that day to this, been able to remember whether the cat had been alive when she’d first tried to manoeuvre his front paws into the sleeves of the doll’s matinee jacket.
Despite the crisps, she was starting to feel hungry again and she didn’t have much money left, so she finished her drink and went back out into the street. The sun no longer blazed quite so ferociously, but it was still hot outside. She set off down towards the beach, stopping on the way to buy ten No 6 and a bag of chips.
The tide was going out, and the strip of glistening wet shingle it left looked so inviting that she went almost to the water’s edge, took off her sandals and walked along towards the pier with the cool water occasionally lapping over her feet. There was some movement in the air down here, but it was still so warm that it felt as if someone were opening and closing an oven door. Most of the families had gone now, but there were still pe
ople about. Further up the beach there was a group clustered around a small fire; one of the men was playing a guitar and a couple of the women were singing along to ‘American Pie’. She felt a pang. On Eve’s birthday just over a week ago, the three of them had built a fire down here and had sung Simon & Garfunkel songs so well that some of the other people on the beach had come over and joined in. Afterwards, everyone had laughed and clapped, and when the others had gone, the three of them had stayed on the beach, talking and gazing up at the clear night sky until the early hours of the morning. Would that ever happen again, or had she ruined their friendship for ever? She walked on past the pier and found herself in Bottle Alley, one of Eve’s favourite places. It was a stretch of the lower promenade where the rear walls had been concreted and studded with thousands of fragments of coloured glass, like an art deco mosaic. Eve had shown her this not long after she’d arrived. The light was fading now so it was difficult to see the colours of the glass, but it was still beautiful. When she came to an alcove with a bench, she sat down, lit a cigarette and smoked it slowly as she watched the sky darken even further. A huge yawn overtook her. Perhaps she could sleep here, then go back tomorrow and see how things were. As she sat looking out across the darkening water, she felt heavy, weighed down by sadness. With a sigh, she took her sunglasses and cigarettes out of her bag and put them under the bench, then she plumped up her bag to use as a pillow, curled her legs up behind her and lay down to try and get some sleep. The bench was hard and her sunburned shoulder was starting to hurt, but she felt so exhausted from the heat and the anxiety that she was sure she’d be able to doze. So yet again she was ‘sleeping rough’. How could she be in this situation again, especially after everything had started to feel safe at last? At least it wasn’t cold like that horrible night in London, just after her mum died. She swallowed back the lump that had started to form in her throat. People said that grief would gradually lessen over time, and in some ways it did. But every now and again, Jo found herself thinking that her mum had been dead for long enough now, and it was time she came back. She knew it was a stupid thing to think, but it was the permanence of death that was so difficult to cope with. The warm air moved gently over her bare arms and she closed her eyes, trying to ignore the burning pain in her shoulder by focusing on the soothing, rhythmic sound of the sea. A tear slid out of her eye, quickly followed by another, but she bit her lip to hold them back and soon drifted into a light doze.
The first thing she became aware of was the smell of tobacco and stale sweat, then she felt the hard wooden bench beneath her and, as she moved, there was a searing pain in her shoulder and the events of the day came flooding back. She tried to open her eyes but they were crusted shut with dried tears. She was aware of someone breathing and for an instant she wondered if it was Scott come to find her, but when she managed to open her eyes, it wasn’t Scott’s gently bearded face she saw just inches from her own, but an engorged penis and a big, calloused hand frantically pulling at it. She scrabbled to her feet, grabbed her bag and swung it at the man who jumped back, clearly startled. She only glanced at him briefly but she could see that he was an older man, his fat white belly showing through his untucked shirt and his shorts open and falling down. He’d let go of his penis and had a hand stretched towards her. ‘Please, I won’t hurt you,’ he called after her, but she was running along Bottle Alley now, her cork-soled sandals making an echo as they hit the ground. Thank God she hadn’t taken them off when she went to sleep. She ran on towards the pier, but when she glanced over her shoulder, she could see another figure coming towards her. Her feet crashed and crunched into the stones as she veered out of the alley and onto the beach. She could see the steps up to the street ahead of her, but as she ran towards them she heard more crunching footsteps behind her. It was difficult to run on a pebbled beach at the best of times, but her sunburned shoulder was killing her and she needed to pee – she could feel the beer sloshing around inside her. The footsteps were close behind her now and she could barely run any more. She was about to scream when a voice called, ‘Jo! Jo, it’s me, for Christ’s sake. Slow down.’
Scott. She stopped and turned round just as he reached her. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ he said. And at that, she burst into tears and half fell onto him. ‘I was asleep on the bench and when I woke up there was a man right next to me and he . . . he . . .’
‘Fuck, man. Are you okay? What happened?’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head and recovering herself a little. ‘No, I’m all right, he didn’t touch me or anything. But he . . . he had his cock out, and he was, you know, playing with himself, right in front of my face.’
‘Filthy pervert bastard,’ Scott said, putting his arms around her and hugging her tightly. ‘You sure you’re okay?’
She nodded her head against his chest. It felt so good to lean against him. She could smell a trace of beer on his breath, and tobacco, but it was different, not like the stale smell that had come from the other man. Scott smelled of Lifebuoy Soap, too.
‘What the hell were you doing asleep on a bench, anyway?’ He held her away from him now to look at her.
She cast her eyes down. ‘I didn’t know what to do, after . . . you know, everything today, with the earrings.’
Scott sighed. ‘We all make mistakes. Sleeping on a bench isn’t going to help, is it?’
‘I didn’t know whether to come back to the house; I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome.’ She wiped away another tear. ‘What did Eve say? Was she very angry?’
He shook his head. ‘Eve’s never, like, “very angry”. She was a bit pissed off about it, but only because they take so long to make. She’s not pissed off with you, though. In fact, she had a go at me for being such a prick. And she’s right; I’m sorry.’
Jo felt her heart lift. ‘No. No, it’s me who should apologise. And like I said, I swear to God I’ll pay you back. I’m sure I can do some extra shifts at the pub, and I—’
‘Jo!’ Scott held his hand up. ‘Cool it, man. If you want to do extra shifts that’s fine; and any extra cash in the kitty is obviously good. But don’t think you have to pay it back. Seriously. It’s not entirely your fault. Eve pointed out that neither of us had actually, like, told you how much the earrings were. And the price list was only on a scrap of paper, easy enough to lose. Eve reckoned she might have been distracted as well if she’d been in the same situation – a lost kid and that. So look, it could have happened to any of us, really. I’ve accepted your apology, now accept mine, huh?’
Jo almost cried with relief.
‘I overreacted, I guess.’ He looked at her. ‘I told you to go, didn’t I? I didn’t mean for good, you silly cow.’ He smiled. ‘Come on, let’s go home.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Jo woke early as usual, with perspiration pooling in the hollows of her collarbones. She longed for a proper shower, but they only had a rubber attachment that fitted on the bath taps, and anyway, they were supposed to be saving water. Once she was dressed, she went down to the basement, filled a bucket with washing-up water from the old tin bath then went outside and up the back steps to water the tomato plants before the sun rose too high in the sky. It was hot already, and it wasn’t yet eight o’clock. The patch of grass Eve had planned to turn into a mini allotment was parched and brittle, the soil nothing more than dust. It was just as well that Eve hadn’t felt well enough to dig it over in the spring, because anything that was planted in the ground wouldn’t have stood a chance.
Scott and Eve were in the kitchen already. A huge pan of strawberries and sugar was bubbling away on the Baby Belling and the fragrant perfume of hot, sugary fruit filled the room. They’d walked three miles to a Pick Your Own farm yesterday. It was half the usual price because the fruit was ripening too quickly, and they’d managed to pick almost twelve pounds of strawberries that were at their peak of ripeness but would probably have gone too far if left another day.
‘It’s busy in here,’ Jo said. ‘And it’s
only eight o’clock.’
Scott was stirring the jam while Eve scalded jars with boiling water; again there was this feeling of industry.
‘I wanted to get at least one lot of boiling done before it gets too hot,’ Eve said, ‘and anyway, we need to have this lot completely finished by about half eleven because Scott’s got a lunchtime gig in Battle, and my train’s at five to twelve.’
Jo was surprised by a slight flare of panic. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Covent Garden. I need more supplies.’
‘Supplies?’
‘For the jewellery,’ Eve muttered as she lined up the jars. ‘I need to build up the stocks again.’ She spoke quietly. She’d barely mentioned her jewellery-making ever since the summer fayre, and Jo was certain she was avoiding the subject because she knew Jo still felt guilty over those earrings.
‘Oh yes, of course.’ That day she’d met Eve in Trafalgar Square seemed so long ago now. ‘Eve, I’m not working today; is there anything I can do to help?’ She half hoped Eve would suggest she go with her, although she’d struggle to find the train fare. Maybe they could hitchhike like before? But instead, Eve asked if she’d mind going down to the beach to look for some small shells she could use for necklaces and bracelets. ‘Okay,’ she said, and tried not to look too disappointed.
The radio was on and the news was all about the drought and the dried-up reservoirs and how in some parts of the country people had to get their water from standpipes. The situation was becoming serious, the newscaster said, and if rain didn’t come soon, the whole country was in trouble. ‘Like it’s not in trouble already.’ Scott turned the radio off and shook his head. He lifted the pan of bubbling jam from the cooker and began filling the jars Eve had prepared. ‘Honestly, I used to be worried about living in squats and not having a regular income, but at least we’re not having to pay, like, a third of what we earn to the government. That makes me so fucking angry—’
The Secrets We Left Behind Page 18