‘Good holiday?’ Sash asks, kicking up the fallen leaves with her chunky knee-high boots.
I haven’t seen the boots before and I can’t say I care for them much; they’re deeply unfeminine, even on her gamine frame. They look strange against the softness of her long hair, as though she’s one of those composites in a child’s picture book; the top and bottom halves swapped to make nonsense characters. Fin used to love mixing pirates and ballerinas, farmers and sheep, his giggles filling me up with the joy only a child’s happiness can bring. His pre-school days were perhaps his happiest, which is such a sad thought I almost forget to answer Sash.
‘Feels like ages ago we were away,’ I tell her, trying to recall the warm days we’d spent in the Caribbean, the disquiet I feel at the recollection unsettling my previous good humour. I’d been so looking forward to seeing Sash, and now I’m sabotaging our time together. I smile and add, ‘Almost two weeks we’ve been back.’
‘Is that a dig?’ she asks, kicking the leaves even higher in protest. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to see you; I’m just so busy.’
I assure her it’s merely a statement of fact, which strikes me as a very Rob-like comment, but she seems content with it. I pull my coat around me as the chill wind sweeps across the empty park, as though it’s followed me from the top of the hill, its restless grip ever-present.
‘But it would be nice to see more of you,’ I tell her. ‘I want to show you the changes we’ve made to the barn.’
‘I’ll come over soon, Mum.’ Her tone is defensive, dismissive even, but there’s also a smugness to it, as though she’s holding a secret to her that warms her despite the icy day, something she clearly feels no need to share with her mother. ‘Like I say, I’ve been busy.’
‘Busy doing what?’ I tease, eager to eke out some kind of confidence. I link my arm through hers, enjoying again the pleasurable feeling of closeness and the rustle of burnished leaves beneath our feet. ‘Are you seeing someone?’ I ask, the thought only just occurring. She drops my arm and moves on, but I notice a smile on her lips, a sly grin which she cannot suppress.
We sit down, huddling together on a bench in the most sheltered spot we can find, the bare limbs of a tree above us. It’s been over a month since we’ve been in one another’s company, our return from holiday followed by a fortnight when Sash was far too busy to arrange anything. I’ve spent the time trailing after the decorators with a cloth or the Hoover, and making them endless cups of tea. They’d promised they would be finished before we returned from our holiday, but they’ve only just left. There’s also been the debacle with the too-big desk, and then the new blinds to be fitted, but we’re getting there. It’s odd, but I’ve felt little enthusiasm for the project, Rob taking the lead as far as the new colour-scheme for Sash’s room, and the overtly masculine furniture for his new study. My main aim is to have everything tidy by my birthday in two weeks’ time.
Sash lifts her khaki rucksack from the ground and unfastens it to remove a Tupperware container which she opens up with the edges of her nails under the rim of the blue lid, releasing a stale odour with a puff of trapped air from within. Sash informs me it’s vegan, a concoction of lentils and beans, although the aroma is redolent of tinned sardines.
‘What’s in those?’ she asks, looking tempted as I unwrap a foil parcel of thick-cut sandwiches.
‘Your favourite: tuna on ciabatta,’ I say, holding them out to her. ‘I’m trying to persuade your father to lose a bit of weight post-holiday, so we’re cutting down on meat.’
‘I’m trying to avoid meat and fish,’ she replies, taking one and grinning at me, the contents of the Tupperware inverted over the bin at her side.
‘Is your new boyfriend a vegetarian?’ I ask, biting into a sandwich too, earmarking the rest for Sash, who looks like she needs feeding up. If she has met someone then she’s clearly still in the skinny-infatuated phase, the comfortable weight-gain phase yet to come.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she says through a mouthful of food. Then she smiles and says, ‘He’s vegan, actually.’
‘And do we get to meet him?’
‘Uh-uh,’ she says, shaking her head whilst chewing, her hand covering her mouth. ‘He’s not your type and you’re definitely not his.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I ask, dropping my half-eaten sandwich back into the foil.
Sash apologises, but then reiterates her assertion that it’s true, we just won’t ‘get’ him. It’s seems unfair to be condemned for something I haven’t actually done, but I swallow down my comment and tell her I’m sure I’ll like him if she does, and I hope he’ll like me and her father too.
‘He’ll probably charm you,’ Sash says, contemplating her sandwich as she adds, ‘Not so sure about Dad.’
‘Why not?’ I ask, wiping a smudge of mayonnaise from her cold cheek.
‘He’s very political,’ Sash says, the words delivered with pride, as though they were daubed on a placard she’s waving in my face. ‘And not your kind of politics.’ She flicks her hair from her face.
I ask what she means by our politics and she says I know what she means, ‘Yours and Dad’s kind of politics’, as if that’s supposed to illuminate her point. I consider her opinion, wonder at the gap in my understanding. When did my daughter become so disdainful of us? So apart? ‘Will we ever get to meet him, this . . .?’ I ask.
‘Thomas,’ Sash replies, helping herself to another sandwich, the mention of his name bringing back her secretive smile. ‘Let’s see how it goes; early days yet.’ She looks across at me, a sideways glance. ‘He’s a bit older than me.’
After her previous comments I hear myself saying that it doesn’t matter how old he is as long as he’s nice to her. I also resist the obvious question, ‘Exactly how much older?’ She smiles and says she’ll think about maybe bringing him over one Sunday for lunch. Maybe.
‘You know we’ll make him welcome,’ I say.
I look at my daughter who appears to be considering the veracity of that statement, as am I. Rob and I have found ourselves to be almost entirely friendless, those acquaintances we’d gained along the way proving to be transient, suitable for purpose at the time, but nothing more. Maybe that was due to them, not us, but we were the common denominator. Rob’s never been a mixer, preferring it to be ‘just us’, but now that’s only me and him and sometimes two people isn’t enough. He has his work colleagues and I had the children. It was neglectful of us and I’m not sure how to remedy the situation; any suggestions I’ve made about widening our net a little have always been dismissed by Rob as unnecessary. I envy him his surety that I’m all he needs or will ever need, even if at times I find that dependence too much of a responsibility.
‘We get on with most people, don’t we?’ I ask her.
‘You get on with your people,’ Sash says.
‘Is that what you think?’ I’m stung by her words, and more so because there’s some truth to them. I’ve always thought of myself as generous, altruistic, moral even, but perhaps I do need to consider my rather narrowed choices in recent years. I don’t spend every waking moment with Rob. I have a lot of free time, especially now Fin is at university.
‘I should get back,’ Sash announces, standing up.
I want to point out that we’ve only just got here. Surely she must have an hour for lunch? I haven’t even had a chance to show her the photos of our holiday. But she’s already striding out. I run to catch her up, then slow my pace to hers, savouring the precious minutes I have in my daughter’s company, ridiculously grateful for them. When she waves goodbye I’m surprised at the lump which forms in my throat, forcing me to walk away at speed. It’s only once I’m sure Sash must have disappeared inside her office building that I allow myself to look back, wiping away the ridiculous tears which have fallen. I wish I’d hugged her, tried to secure our next meeting, insisted she come over for lunch one Sunday soon. She hadn’t even asked about her brother, or mentioned anything about m
y birthday plans. I stare at the revolving door which took her away, watching the office workers who come in and out, speculating whether they know my daughter better than I do; are privy to the secrets she keeps from me. Then something else draws my eye.
Hidden amongst the alcoves and pillars of the next building I spot a recessed door with a sign propped up next to it: ‘Drop-in Centre – Please Come In!’ I must have passed it before, perhaps many times, but I don’t recall ever noticing it. It was of no interest to me, but now it reminds me of Sash’s suggestion that I try my hand at voluntary work. My previous discomfort at my cloistered middle-class existence pricks again at my conscience. I used to have a stronger moral compass, a wider view of life; now all I have are holidays and redecorating to occupy me. I still waver, caught between the impulse to find something meaningful to fill my days and the imprudence of such a snap decision, but something compels me to walk towards the drop-in-centre, just to take a look.
I’m struggling with the door, my coat pocket somehow hooked on the outside handle, when I hear someone approach, the kind of shuffling sound only associated with the bearing of an elderly person. I untangle myself and turn to face a white-haired lady who looks more befuddled than I do.
‘I’ll get Rose,’ she says, and shuffles away.
The room she slowly traverses reminds me of a village hall, much like the one where I used to take Sash and Fin to toddler group: dusty parquet flooring, pin-boards and posters on the walls; although here they carry more serious messages, shouting warnings of the dangers of drug use and the hazards of smoking. On a table beside me are piles of leaflets entitled ‘Making Healthy Lifestyle Choices’ and ‘Your Benefits, Your Rights’. I pick up a tri-fold pamphlet and flick it open, distracted from the contents by a generously proportioned woman walking towards me; presumably Rose.
‘After some advice?’ she asks, hands planted on her wide hips, pinning back a long, misshapen cardigan. She nods in the direction of my reading material.
I glance at the pamphlet I’d quickly discarded, the cover depicting a woman’s face covered in bruises, the word ‘No!’ emblazoned across her raised palm. ‘Oh no, not that,’ I say, appalled at the misunderstanding. ‘Sorry, no. I just picked that up; didn’t even read it.’ I push the pamphlet further from me on the table to emphasise my distance from its message.
‘Are you sure?’ Rose asks. ‘Lots of people come in with—’
‘No, sorry. That’s not it,’ I reply. ‘Sorry, can we start again?’ I smile at her. ‘My daughter said you needed volunteers, but that was a while ago, I’m not sure if—’
‘We always need volunteers,’ she replies, flashing me a wide smile, her upper gums exposed, pink and glistening. ‘I’m Rose, by the way.’
I tell her my name is Joanne. ‘Call me Jo.’
I follow her past wipe-clean tables and plastic chairs, our path impeded by the haphazard layout of the large room. She says it’s a quiet day, pausing to pick up a discarded crisp packet from the floor, but apparently some days it’s heaving in here; ‘You just never know.’ The food bank is always busy, she says, but that’s on a Saturday morning; for the working parents. I look down at my designer handbag and think of the shopping list on my phone: avocados and salmon fillets, bottles of wine and ciabatta. We squeeze around two sides of a table crowded with young lads discussing last night’s game, and then another table with just two occupants, the white-haired lady who first greeted me and a young woman at her side, the former squinting through thick lenses as they pore over the small print on a complicated-looking form.
‘You okay, Sue?’ Rose asks, looking back at me to raise her eyebrows, as if I know what she’s implying about her older colleague.
‘It’s an open-door policy here, which can throw up a few challenges, as you can imagine,’ Rose says, smiling back at me as we walk on.
I feel myself carried along by something I was at best undecided about, my impetuousness in pushing open the door rewarded with her earnest expectation the other side, politeness precluding an early exit. ‘I’m not sure there’s much I can offer,’ I reply as I continue to follow her, a clear image in my head of Rob’s expression as I tell him where I’ve been today.
We reach a door, the wood silvery grey beneath a thin coat of varnish. ‘This is Nick’s office,’ she announces, holding the handle. ‘He’s not in today, but you’ll like him. He’s quite an extraordinary man, really. Totally not what you would first imagine.’
The office is cluttered, an old-fashioned desk piled high with cardboard folders, stacks of them covering every surface and more papers piled on the floor, the only light leaking in through a high window behind the desk, the glass etched so there’s no view, just a blurred collection of colours, all dark. Rose offers me a seat and I look at the low armchair, upholstered in imitation leather, also covered in files.
‘Sorry,’ she says, rushing to clear the chair for me. ‘One day we’ll catch up with the rest of the world and go paperless!’ She dumps the files on the floor. ‘Okay, Jo. Welcome! Let me just find the right form and then we can get started.’ She sits down in the chair behind the desk and begins rooting through the drawers at her side. ‘You said your daughter’s a volunteer here?’
‘Yes. No. Not exactly. Sash works in the office block next door, but she’s only been here once.’ I think of Sash, poorly paid, but hopefully on a fast-track to better things. It’s not really the kind of work she’d hoped for, although I’m not sure what that might have been. Her interpretation of the ideal career has always been skewed in favour of ‘something fun’, but it was the first job she applied for and the only one she’d needed to in the end. I don’t think it suits her, corporate life, chained to a desk and phone, but at least it’s a graduate-level scheme with prospects.
‘She was probably part of the Lunch Time Club,’ Rose replies, pulling out more folders to pile them on the ones already stacked on the top of the desk. ‘I don’t recall a Sash, but there were a few of them came round from there. I think they’ve tired of us. Faddy, some young people.’
I want to defend my daughter, but unfortunately Rose is right. I watch her sort through another drawer of folders and then she declares, ‘Ah-ha! Here they are. I’m assuming you don’t have a current DBS certificate?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Disclosure and Barring Service Certificate. It’s a background check to make sure you don’t pose any risk to the vulnerable people you’ll be working with.’
I hadn’t thought about the threat I might pose to the patrons of the drop-in centre, more the other way around, but I recall Sash mentioned something about a check. ‘No, I don’t have one,’ I reply. ‘But if it’s a problem, please don’t worry, I wasn’t actually—’
‘It’s very straightforward, but it does take a few weeks to come through, and until you’ve got clearance we can’t offer you a place as a volunteer.’
‘Oh, I see.’ I’m surprised to find I’m disappointed.
‘Everyone assumes they can walk in here and we’ll fall over ourselves to recruit them.’ Rose’s words, although startlingly honest, are spoken with a disarming smile. ‘But we have to protect everyone who uses the centre. I actually think it’s better this way; a good test of your commitment.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ I reply, sensing in her a perceptiveness I hadn’t immediately recognised.
‘Let’s get the form-filling done, then I can show you around. Had you thought how many hours a week you might spare, Jo?’
I tell her I hadn’t, but maybe a couple. She replies that anything is good, they’re so stretched, but consistency is important, so there’s a rota. I hadn’t expected it to be so formal, imagining a couple of older ladies, much like the white-haired lady who’d greeted me, doling out tea and biscuits to a queue of unsavoury characters.
Apparently Nick, the much-lauded boss, is an ex Community Development Officer, and before that he was in corporate finance, so he’s got loads of experience.
‘If
you ever need any advice, he’s your man,’ Rose informs me.
There’s training provided, but that’s mainly on the job, she says. She blames funding issues and I nod as if I have knowledge of this myself. The last time I worked in any capacity, paid or unpaid, was before Sash was born, typing up dictation and filling in carbon memos. It would seem times have changed. It’s daunting, but there’s a stronger emotion too; I feel I’ve opened up a raft of opportunities outside my immediate experience, my mind skipping ahead to where it might lead. It’s scary, but aren’t you supposed to scare yourself every now and then?
‘Of course you can come to me at any time,’ Rose says. ‘I’m always here, practically my second home.’
I pull my chair closer to the desk as Rose places a pen in front of me, searching in my bag for my glasses.
‘We’ll need some ID: driving licence, that kind of thing,’ she says. ‘Did you have any thoughts as to what skills you might bring?’
‘I can make tea,’ I reply, looking up from the form.
‘That’s a good start,’ Rose says, smiling at me. ‘But I’m sure you’re up to more than making tea. How are you with computers?’
‘Not too bad,’ I reply, returning her smile. ‘I have a laptop at home.’
‘Then that’s settled,’ she says, grinning at me now; the disproportionate amount of gum somehow less alarming this time, as if I’ve already got used to it.
7
Four Days After The Fall
After last night’s discussion with Rob, when he told me everything about Sash and Fin’s new living arrangements, I should perhaps be feeling a little better; if not about the kids then at least about my husband. He seemed open, told me I could ask him anything I liked, but inside me the constant struggle to separate out the past, real and imagined, goes on. I look at Rob now as he smiles across the breakfast table, his expression all care and concern, but his face morphs before me, becomes contorted with anger as I relive how we’d argued before my fall. If I fell. And then I see the naked man in my dreams, and feel again my desire, shameful in its intensity. Rob stands up, placing a hand on my shoulder as he passes my chair. The clatter of his bowl in the sink causes me to jump and he looks back at me and frowns, then says again he’s not sure he should go to work, although he’s already heading towards the door.
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