by A J McDine
‘Lou -’
‘Ed loved you, that’s for sure. He never got over you. I was always second best.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true.’
‘Are you kidding me? You were ‘The One’, the love of his life. He worshipped the ground you walked on. I was there, remember. You were the original star-crossed lovers. Romeo and Juliet eat your fucking heart out.’
‘We were seventeen. Everyone falls head over heels when they’re that age. It would have fizzled out eventually.’
‘Ah, but you didn’t give it a chance to, did you?’
I ball my fists and press them into my eyes. I don’t want to go there, not tonight.
‘You know why,’ I say. ‘I had no choice.’
The fight leaves her and she buries her head in her hands. She mumbles something indecipherable.
I touch her arm. ‘What did you say?’
‘I want to go home.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘I don’t care what you think. I want to go home.’ She reaches in her bag and pulls out her mobile.
‘What are you doing?’
She looks at me blankly. ‘Calling a cab.’
‘Don’t be silly. I haven’t had anything to drink. I’ll take you.’
We sit in silence as I drive through the quiet streets. I was surprised when Lou gave me her address. I’d pictured her in one of the grand Georgian townhouses in St Dunstan’s, but she actually lives in a small cul-de-sac off Forty Acres Road where most of the houses are student lets.
I park outside and follow her to the front door. She fumbles around in her bag for her keys. I pretend not to notice the pile of empty wine bottles by the wheelie bin.
‘You can go now,’ she says, standing with her back to the door and the keys in her hand.
‘I’ll just see you in, shall I?’ I give her a bright smile. ‘Might as well, now I’m here.’
‘Just go home, Sophie. I’m a big girl. I can look after myself.’
I think longingly of my bed. I’m dead on my feet. ‘Are you sure?’
She nods.
A light goes on upstairs, making me jump.
‘Josh,’ Lou says.
I picture the boy on the escalator. Messy hair and laughing eyes. Half of me wants to see him again, to see if he really is the mirror image of his father. The other half wants to put as much distance as possible between me and all these reminders of the past. While I’m faltering, Lou makes up my mind for me.
‘For Christ’s sake, just piss off home!’
I hold up my hands in surrender.
‘Alright, I’m going. I’ll text in the morning, check you’re OK.’
I retrace my steps down the path to the car. As I fix my seatbelt I glance back at the house. Lou’s still fumbling with her keys. Before she’s had a chance to place the key in the lock the door opens and a man is framed in the rectangle of light. My heart starts thumping. Logic tells me it’s Josh. But it’s as if I’ve stepped back in time…
Chapter Seventeen
Then
Isn’t it funny how much brighter the world seems when you’re in love? Colours are more vivid, food tastier, jokes funnier. I’ve never been a cup-half-full kind of person - I’m too cautious, too much of a pessimist - but at the moment my cup isn’t full, it’s overflowing. There’s a spring to my step and a twinkle in my eye, and all those other clichés you think of when you pass a smiley person in the street.
Because I’m the happiest I’ve been in my life, and I glide around with a grin on my face and little bubbles of pure euphoria in my heart. Nothing can touch my elation. Not the dire news about the economy, or the bombing of the Israeli Embassy in London. It’s the middle of the summer holidays and I’m fizzing with excitement as the bus transports me to Whitstable and the love of my life.
‘For Christ’s sake, can you please wipe that soppy smile off your face. It’s getting on my tits,’ huffs Lou, sitting next to me.
‘Sorry,’ I say, even though the corners of my mouth refuse to turn down. ‘I can’t help it.’
‘Who else is going to be there? I’m fed up playing gooseberry to you two lovebirds.’
‘Erm, I think Kate and Toby are coming, and Toby’s mate Chris. He’s pretty cool.’
‘The rugger bugger?’
I nod and she appears mollified. Chris is just her type. Tall, blond and brawny. Not dark and gorgeously geeky like Ed.
‘Is tonight the night?’ she says, nudging me.
I flush. We haven’t done it yet, though we’ve come pretty close.
‘Well?’
‘I dunno. Maybe,’ I hedge, thinking of the cerise-pink lacy bra and matching pants from Knickerbox I’m wearing under my denim shorts and teeshirt. Ed has invited us over for a barbecue as his parents and sister are away for the weekend. Mum and Dad think I’m staying the night at Lou’s. I don’t want to count my chickens, but tonight in all probability will be the night.
‘You might need these then,’ Lou says, scrabbling around in her bag and handing me a packet of Fetherlite.
‘Lou!’ I hiss, glancing over my shoulder, worried someone will have clocked the instantly-recognisable logo and assume I’m a good-for-nothing tart.
She laughs. ‘Don’t be coy. It’s about time you lost your cherry.’ She slips the condoms into my shoulder bag. ‘You do need to be careful, though. You don’t want one night of passion to wreck your whole life.’
I give her a withering look and stare out of the window, my stomach churning with nerves and excitement, as the bus chugs down Borstal Hill and into Whitstable. We jump off in Oxford Street and make our way to Ed’s house, a neat Victorian semi just off Island Wall and a stone’s throw from the pebbly beach.
Ed sweeps me into a bearhug and showers my face with kisses. ‘God, I’ve missed you,’ he mutters into my newly-washed hair.
‘You only saw me yesterday, you twit,’ I say, melting into his embrace.
‘Seriously, you two. You need to get a room.’ Lou shakes her head and makes a beeline for the garden where Toby, Kate and Chris have already started on the cider.
It’s an idyllic afternoon. After we’ve stuffed our faces on burnt sausages and burgers we take what’s left of the cider down to the beach and watch the sunset.
When the others decide to play truth or dare Ed whispers in my ear, ‘Shall we head back?’
I nod, liquid with anticipation, and scramble up the beach after him. At the top, where the shingle meets the sea wall, he pulls me towards him and kisses me until my legs go weak and I feel lightheaded with lust.
Finally he breaks away and cups my face in his hands. ‘I love you, Sophie Williams.’
My heart contracts. It’s the first time he’s said the L word. Darts of happiness prickle my skin like goosebumps. ‘I love you, too.’
So much it hurts.
He takes hold of my hand and we slip along the alley to the house. Later, as we lie beside each other in his single bed below posters of Suede and Pulp, he strokes my cheek and murmurs, ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Oh yes,’ I breathe.
Because I’ve never been surer of anything my whole life.
Chapter Eighteen
Now
I’m sitting in stationary traffic on the ring road, watching as the clock edges ever closer to nine. I try not to think about the grief I’ll get from Angela if I’m late for the first of the induction days we’re holding for our new volunteers. They aren’t due to arrive until half past, but I need at least half an hour to run through the work sheets with Geoff and Mary.
The car in front of me edges forwards. On the radio John Humphrys is grilling the Health Secretary on the funding shortfall in social care. I’m half listening, because the current crisis in mental health services has a huge impact on our gardeners, but I’m also wondering how Lou is feeling this morning. I check in my mirror for police cars and, when I’m happy the coast is clear, pick up my mobile and send her a quick text.
<
br /> How’s the head this morning?
The phone pings within seconds.
Sore. Can’t remember much TBH. But I expect I owe you an apology. Ed always said I was a Jekyll and Hyde drunk. Sorry if Mr Hyde made an appearance x
No worries, I type back. Just glad you’re OK. Talk later.
Whether Lou really can’t remember the things she said last night or chooses not to is irrelevant. She flipped so quickly from happy to hostile. It was the same when we were kids. Usually she was just loud and uninhibited when she was bombed. Drink fuelled her wild side. When we went clubbing she was happy to pop an E and spend the night dancing with strangers while I watched from the sidelines, worrying about how we’d get home. Every now and then she would turn spiteful, dripping venom like a poisonous snake, and then acting like nothing had happened the next day. At least this time she knows she was bang out of order. I will forgive her, but I can’t forget. There was real hatred in her eyes.
The driver behind me blasts his horn, making me jump. On the radio, John Humphrys announces the nine o’clock news and the traffic starts moving. I push all thoughts of Lou aside and make my way to work.
The new volunteers are sitting around the wooden-slatted table we use for our tea breaks. They’re a mixed, but promising bunch. A retired couple in their late sixties called Bev and Trev who ‘want to give something back’ now they’ve sold their cleaning business; Mary’s friend Margaret from the WI; a widower called Derek who worked on the land all his life but now lives in a sheltered flat with only a window box for a garden; a muscular-looking man in his seventies called Mike who is sporting an orange tan and impossibly dark hair for someone his age, and Roz, who is at least thirty years younger than the rest of them and looks completely out of place.
Ignoring the flutter of nerves in my stomach, I open my arms wide. ‘Welcome to Cam. We’re delighted you’ll be joining our team. For your first few sessions you’ll be working alongside me, Geoff or Mary, just so you get a feel for how we do things. Once you know the ropes you can choose which section of the garden you’d like to work in. There’s no point sticking you in the rose garden if veggies are your thing.’
I consult my clipboard. ‘Today Bev and Trev are with Geoff and Nancy lifting the spring bulbs. Mike and Margaret are with Mary and Rosie weeding the raised borders, and Roz and Derek are with me.’ I smile at them both. ‘We’ll be in the greenhouse with Martin potting up plants to sell at our open day in a couple of weeks’ time. If you’d like to follow me, I’ll show you where we keep the tools.’
We cross the garden to the cellar. I turn the key in the mortice lock and pull the heavy door open.
‘I don’t know how much you know about local history, but Cam is based in what was once the kitchen garden of Holborough House, a very grand 12th century manor house that was the ancestral home of the Holborough family. There’s a print of it in our office if you’re interested.’
‘What happened to the house?’ Trev asks.
‘It burnt to the ground in the late 19th century. The four walls of the kitchen garden and the wine cellar are all that’s left. By then the Holborough family had squandered all their money on gambling and dodgy business ventures so the house was never re-built. A local farmer bought the land and rents the garden to us for a peppercorn fee.’
I reach inside the cellar for the light switch and the cavernous space is bathed in a feeble yellow light.
‘There’s a handrail to the left. The steps are pretty steep so please be careful.’
‘This is some tool shed,’ says Derek, as he takes in the rows of neatly-ordered forks, rakes, brooms, spades and hand tools.
‘It’s Geoff’s domain.’ I laugh. ‘He’s a great believer in the old adage that there’s a place for everything and everything in its place. Woe betide you if you muck up his system.’
I hand everyone the tools they need and we tramp back up the steps. In the car park a diesel engine emits a phlegm-like splutter. The minibus has arrived. I smile at my new recruits. ‘Time to meet the gardeners!’
The moment I see Martin I know something’s not right. His shoulders are hunched and his chin is tucked into his chest as if he’s battling against a force ten gale. When I introduce him to Roz and Derek he mutters something under his breath, and when Derek offers his hand to shake he shrinks back as if he’s on the receiving end of a lethal uppercut.
If ever there was a stereotype of someone with severe mental health issues, today Martin is that person. He’s rocking back and forth from heels to toes, toes to heels, and every couple of minutes his head jerks to the side. He’s had facial tics before, but never this bad.
Derek seems unfazed, but Roz is silent. Watchful. Perhaps she’ll decide working at Cam isn’t for her. I overcompensate for Martin’s behaviour by being over-the-top chirpy, giving a running commentary as we repot the plants we’ve spent the last few months growing from cuttings and seeds.
‘Can I have your knife, Sophie?’ Martin says.
Roz’s head shoots up. Her eyes are wide.
‘Not today, Marty. We don’t need knives for potting on, do we?’
‘I want your knife.’
‘I said no, Martin. No knives today.’
His head jerks again and he takes a step towards me.
‘IwantyourknifeIwantyourknifeIwantyourknife!’
I’m aware of someone slipping out of the greenhouse behind me. I can’t tell if it’s Roz or Derek. But I don’t turn around. I can keep Martin calm if I can get through to him. He always listens to me.
‘KNIFEKNIFEKNIFEKNIFE!’ he chants, stamping his foot in frustration. He’s so close I can smell his stale sweat. My hands slide around my stomach, holding my baby close.
‘Martin, look at me,’ I say, with as much authority as I can muster. But his eyes are glazed. Whoever’s voice he’s hearing, it isn’t mine. I step backwards, bumping against the bench we were potting plants on moments earlier. Martin swings his arm above his head and I cower, waiting for the punches to rain down.
A movement to the left catches my eye. It’s Roz. She lunges forwards and in one fluid movement grabs Martin’s right wrist with her right hand, pushes his right shoulder with her left, and places her right leg in front of his, pushing him down. Taken unawares, he crumples to the floor.
‘Call the police!’ she says breathlessly. She’s holding Martin in an armlock, his cheek pressed to the ground. His body has gone limp. He meets my eye.
‘Not the police,’ he whimpers.
‘Not the police,’ I agree. ‘I’ll call his mum. You can let him go. He’ll be OK.’
‘Are you serious?’ shrieks Roz. ‘He tried to attack you!’ Her eyes are blazing.
‘I didn’t. I just wanted the knife to prick out the lettuce,’ Martin pants.
‘Roz, please let him go. He’ll be fine, I promise.’
She loosens her grip on his arm reluctantly, stands up and dusts her hands off on her jeans. Martin pulls himself to a sitting position and clasps his arms around his legs. He’s trying to make himself as small as possible. He used to do it a lot when he first came to Cam. The fact that he’s back in that dark place fills me with trepidation.
I’m reaching in my back pocket for my phone when Geoff appears with Derek at his side. Geoff assesses the situation with one glance and, to my relief, takes over.
‘Derek, perhaps you could join Mary and the gang for the next hour or so? Roz and Sophie, go and have a cup of tea in the office. Martin, you come with me and I’ll call your mum, shall I?’
Martin gives a tiny nod and Geoff shoos us out of the greenhouse. Roz follows me in silence to the office. For once I’m glad Angela has a mid-morning ‘meeting’ with Bob Wittershaw. If she finds out I’ve been letting Martin use my knife she’ll hit the roof.
Roz holds the office door open. ‘Sit down,’ she orders. ‘I’ll make the tea.’ She fills the kettle and switches it on, lines up two mugs, drops a teabag in each and takes the milk out of the fridge. Her actions a
re economical and precise.
‘Where did you learn to do that?’
‘What, make a cup of tea?’
‘You know that’s not what I meant. When did you learn to restrain someone?’
‘Oh, I worked in a nursing home for a while. A lot of residents had dementia. We were taught the different types of restraint during our induction. I’ve never had to use it before.’ She hands me a mug. ‘Should you be working here?’
I frown. ‘What do you mean?’
‘When you said you worked with people with learning difficulties and mental health problems, I assumed they’d be autistic, ADHD or Downs. A bit doolally but basically harmless. I didn’t think they’d be as bad as him.’ She jerks her head towards the door. ‘What’s wrong with him, anyway?’
I hesitate. We take client confidentiality very seriously at Cam. But then I remember Martin telling everyone himself at the recruitment evening. Roz must have forgotten.
‘He has schizoaffective disorder. He’s also bipolar. He’s fine when he takes his medication.’
‘And I’ve seen what happens when he doesn’t. He’s dangerous. Who knows what he would have done if I hadn’t been there. These people kill, Sophie. In the blink of an eye. Like that.’ She clicks her fingers. ‘You hear about it on the news all the time.’
‘Martin would never hurt me. He’s harmless.’
‘Why are you defending him? What did he want the knife for? Imagine if he’d stabbed you in the stomach, stabbed the baby? Would you still be defending him then?’
Blood drains from my face. ‘Don’t say that. He’s more likely to hurt himself.’ An image of Lou using my nail scissors to score gashes in her wrists forces its way into my head. Christ, what a mess.
‘I’m only thinking of you and the baby. What’s Matt going to say when he hears what’s happened?’