A Hundred Pieces of Me

by Lucy Dillon

  The three photographs of Captain Huw Pritchard that she still has flash into her mind: Dad in his Welsh Guards uniform, Dad in shorts on holiday, Dad with an SAS moustache in a rugby shirt, holding a pint of beer. He looks handsome in all of them, happy and sociable. The sort of man who doesn’t even think about making friends, they just happen.

  Georgina digs her nails into her palm. I can’t just be like Mum, she thinks. Dad fitted in everywhere he was posted. I must have some friend-making genes. What would he have done?

  She ignores the fact that she doesn’t know what her dad would have done because she can barely remember him. A dark streak of unfocused longing sweeps through her and, as the bell goes, she dives forward, carried by the hope that she’ll look like she knows someone if she barges in with the rest, but when she gets a seat, no one comes to sit next to her.

  The teacher – Mrs Clarkson, flustered in a mohair jumper – arrives, and Georgina fiddles with her pencil case. She’s sat too near the front. Again. The next class, she’ll aim for the middle.

  Did she hear the faint hiss of ‘. . . satchel’?

  ‘Good morning, first-years,’ Mrs Clarkson shouts over the racket. ‘Are we all here? Let’s make a start.’

  As she gets the register out, the door’s flung open and a small girl barrels in, wearing a blazer that’s so big her fingers are hidden by the sleeves. Her tie is knotted low and thick, more like a cravat, and she’s cradling her stack of books in one arm. No bag.

  No bag, thinks Georgina, making a mental note.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, miss,’ the girl gasps. ‘Missed . . . bus.’

  ‘Oh, that bus,’ says Mrs Clarkson, sarcastically. ‘Never seems to stop for McIntyres. Which one are you?’

  ‘Naomi, miss.’ The girl grins. She has two dimples. Georgina notes Naomi’s stubby plaits are the same colour as her satchel, a bright chestnut.

  ‘Don’t be late again, Naomi. Now sit down.’ The teacher looks up and sees Georgina for the first time. She blinks. ‘There. Next to . . .?’

  ‘Georgina Bellamy, miss,’ says Georgina, and someone definitely sniggers.

  ‘Quiet!’ snaps Mrs Clarkson, but it’s too late. This time Georgina can hear ‘satchel’ and ‘Georgina’.

  Naomi slides into the seat; she smells strongly of Impulse. As the teacher starts dictating their timetable, Georgina’s aware that Naomi doesn’t have a pencil – silently, she passes her one of hers, her name stamped on it in gold (another gift from Terry).

  They write down the unfamiliar new lessons – personal studies, RE, domestic science – then Georgina feels a nudge.

  Naomi pushes a note at her. Her writing is round, with big circles over the is, something Janet has specifically forbidden Georgina even to contemplate doing.

  Is this your satchel?

  Georgina shrugs, not wanting to rise to the teasing, but Naomi nudges her again, nodding under the desk.

  What’s the point in denying it? Everyone’s seen it. And anyway, Georgina thinks, with a flicker of defiance, so what? She writes, yes, in her neat cursive.

  Naomi shoots her a sympathetic glance, and in that second, even though Georgina is taller, bigger and probably older than Naomi, she feels herself being taken under a wing.

  My brother’s got a locker. You can dump it in there on way to next lesson if you want?

  Georgina stares at her half-filled-in timetable, stunned at the way Naomi’s read her mind. She’d happily ditch the satchel but in it there’s something precious: an entry tag from Ascot racecourse, pale pink and gold-embossed. She doesn’t remember her dad giving it to her, but apparently he did when he came back from the day’s outing with her mum, their anniversary treat. Dad tied the tag to her chubby toddler wrist and she paraded around ‘like a lady at the races’. It’s her lucky charm.

  Georgina’s father died not long after the trip to Ascot. She doesn’t have enough things like the tag. Things that prove the stories her mum tells her actually happened. Not that Mum tells her much. Captain Huw Pritchard was on a secret operation for the army when he was killed.

  ‘He was very brave,’ is about as much as Janet’ll say before her lips go flat and her eyes glisten.

  But the thought of ditching the satchel makes Georgina feel traitorous. She doesn’t want to be rude to Terry. He’s not awful, just a bit boring, and embarrassing with his old car. Her mum watches her like a hawk for signs of disrespect. Though if she has to take the satchel home bearing scars of a playground kickabout, won’t that be worse?

  Rebellion doesn’t come easily to Georgina. If she can find a reason, though, that’s different. Swiftly, while Mrs Clarkson is explaining about lunch queues, she reaches under the desk, unbuckles the hard clasps and gets the tag out from its secret place. She slips it into the inside pocket of her blazer, zips it up safely. Then she writes, thanks, on the note.

  Naomi grins at her, dimpling, and Georgina feels something change in the atmosphere around her. The class has moved on, is whispering about Mrs Clarkson’s funny eye, not about her. She grins back at Naomi, feeling the happy warm tingle of being liked. It might be OK, this school.

  Naomi flicks her gaze to the teacher, then crosses her eyes, and Georgina splutters in delighted surprise.

  ‘Georgina! Naomi!’ snaps Mrs Clarkson.

  They spin forward and Georgina sees the wall chart by the board: uniforms of the British Army from 1707 to the present day. It’s a sign. It makes her tingle again. Georgina is big on signs.

  The next day Naomi arrived at Gina’s new flat at half past nine for their regular Saturday-morning coffee date. It was a routine they’d got into when Jason and Stuart were at football practice together, and now carried on while Jason took two-year-old Willow to the out-of-town supermarket for some father-daughter bonding and illicit Haribo.

  Naomi wasn’t great at hiding her feelings at the best of times, but the horror on her face as she squeezed her way past the boxes stacked in the hallway was so blatant that Gina nearly laughed.

  ‘Oh, my God, Gee,’ said Naomi, struggling to unhook her jacket from where it had caught on a stray coat-hanger. ‘Where did all this come from?’

  ‘Where’d you think?’ Gina moved a box of electrical leads away from the door so Naomi could get in. ‘Dryden Road. It came yesterday. I’ve been up half the night unpacking.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to stick it all in storage? Sort it out bit by bit? Seriously, this would give me a panic attack.’

  Naomi wasn’t a collector like Gina. She and Jason lived in a new home on the edge of town, an exclusive development with views of the park and the cathedral. Their house was modern, and so tidy Naomi had a robot Hoover that could go round the whole downstairs without getting stuck on any clutter.

  Gina wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She’d already despatched three boxes that morning and dropped off some books and kitchen clutter at the charity shop. ‘I can’t afford more storage. You have no idea how much it costs to keep your sofa under a warm roof. It’d be cheaper to rent my possessions their own flat. Anyway, it would just stay there. This way I’ve got to sort through it. Sort or die.’

  ‘You joke, but this is like something from one of those documentaries.’ Naomi eyed the towering stack of boxes marked ‘Crockery’. ‘The ones where they have to dig people out from under their lifetime collection of used Christmas wrapping paper.’

  ‘It’s not as bad as that. Look, I’ve got a system,’ said Gina. She gestured towards the sorting boxes by the window.

  GIVE AWAY was stacked with paperbacks, vases and a bedside radio. SELL had a couple of limited-edition Emma Bridgewater plates that had once taken pride of place on her Welsh dresser. KEEP had only one thing: a 1940s brass desk-lamp Gina had found years ago in an antiques shop. In her head, when she’d bought it, it had formed the basis of a classic New York-themed study, but had always got lost in the clutter of her house. Here, against the white walls and empty shelves, it would be a proper feature.

  �
��Wow. You’re going to make some homeless kitties very happy.’ Naomi got as near to the big window as she could, and peered down at the drizzly high street, already busy with weekend shoppers. ‘I see you’ve got plenty of charity shops to choose from down there.’

  ‘There are five,’ said Gina. ‘Local dog rescue, Breast Cancer Care, Oxfam, Marie Curie Nurses, and Hospice at Home. I’ve already taken four bags to the dogs’ home. What?’ she added, when Naomi turned back, her eyebrows raised. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I don’t have to support the breast-cancer shop. The dogs are nearer. And they open earlier.’

  ‘I don’t mean that.’ Naomi picked her way back to where Gina was standing. ‘I mean, are you feeling up to sorting things out? On your own?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Gina, surprised. She’d thought she looked quite good: not having access to a bathroom’s worth of cosmetics had pared her routine down to an almost Parisian minimalist chic. ‘Really. It’s my heart that’s broken, nothing else. Why? Do I look like death warmed up?’

  ‘You look shattered.’ Naomi was always honest. Kind, but as honest as a lifelong friend – and someone who’d grown up with older brothers – could be. ‘You’ve got that shiny-eyed look you used to get when you wanted to pretend you were feeling better than you were. Are you sure you’re not pushing yourself too hard? This is me. It’s OK to be honest.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Gina didn’t want sympathy from Naomi right now: it would unbalance her fearless mood to be reminded that she needed looking after. ‘I look ropy because I’ve been up half the night chucking stuff into boxes.’ She paused, then said, with a ferocity that was only just covered by her smile, ‘I know what ill feels like. I’m not ill. I’m feeling a bit . . . raw, but not ill, OK?’

  Naomi tried to look satisfied with that, but Gina noticed she folded her arms. ‘Well, you know best, Gee. But you’ve got to tell me if things get too much. You don’t have to live here in all this chaos. Come and stay with us until you’ve sorted the boxes out. Hey, do that! Willow would love to have her fairy godmother around. And we’ve got room . . .’

  ‘That’s kind but there’s no need.’ Gina waved wryly at the mess. ‘I have to get this under control in one go, or it’ll never get done. And it’s therapeutic, working out what to throw away, what I don’t need any more. What might benefit someone else. It’s good.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the bit I’m having trouble with. You, getting rid of things.’ She pretended to feel Gina’s forehead. ‘You sure you’re all right?’

  ‘The more I chuck out, the better I feel.’

  ‘Well, don’t I feel bad,’ said Naomi, with a wry sigh. ‘I’ve just brought you one more bag to sort through. Some of it’s to eat, though. I bet you’re not eating enough.’

  ‘I’m hardly wasting away,’ Gina scoffed, then stopped as she remembered she hadn’t actually eaten since . . . the previous morning? Over the past few days her appetite had come and gone with the unpredictable surges of energy that propelled her into mad activity, then dropped away, leaving her staring, amazed and exhausted, at the unfamiliar place she was in.

  ‘Knew you wouldn’t have. That’s why I brought breakfast.’ Naomi pointed at the bag. ‘Don’t want you keeling over. Where am I going to get another best mate at this late stage? Eh? Not to mention a reliable babysitter.’

  Despite her cheery tone, Naomi’s eyes were searching her face with a motherly concern that made Gina feel a bit tearful. She gestured towards the open-plan kitchen. ‘Climb through and make us some tea, then. I unpacked the kitchen boxes last night. You won’t believe how much stuff we had in that kitchen. Do you know how many mugs there were? Forty-five.’

  ‘Forty-five?’ Naomi gave it the full comic timing pause. ‘Was that all?’

  ‘I know. Two charity bags full. There were seven different “I heart” mugs. Made me look very fickle.’

  ‘So how many did you keep?’

  ‘Five?’ Gina made it sound light but every keep-sell-chuck decision felt like a bigger statement to the universe about her future life. Keeping two champagne flutes was a hopeful message. She’d chucked the three-tier light-up punchbowl: end-of-season football parties were never going to happen again. Thank God. ‘I thought five was a good number. Somewhere between simple living and I-still-believe-I’ll-have-people-round-for-coffee.’

  Naomi considered it, then nodded. ‘I like that reasoning. Did you keep that glass cake stand? For birthday parties?’

  ‘I did. Where there’s cake, there’s hope.’

  ‘I agree. Now, where are your plates?’

  The kitchen was brand new and very streamlined, with no visible handles or appliances. The granite work surface gleamed after Gina’s cleaning fit in the small hours, and two of the kitchen boxes had been sorted and despatched. Only the bare essentials had made it onto the worktop: one balloon whisk, one spatula, one wooden spoon, one Microplane grater, one silver fish slice, all stored in a Victorian earthenware jar. Somehow the functionality of it, Gina thought, made her appear more like a serious cook than the cupboards full of unused pasta machines and juicers had.

  The juicer was dumped in the box of appliances marked SELL by the door, along with a waffle-maker, a mini slow-cooker and a coffee-grinder among others. It had been an expensive wedding present, but Gina was happy to see the back of it. Just looking at it brought back the gritty, bitter taste of apple core: it reminded her of the endless ‘healthy’ juice drinks Stuart had made when she had been too sick to eat. He’d never cleaned it out, and the crusty plastic parts had lingered on the side of the sink for days. The moment Gina put the juicer in the box she’d felt lighter. Lighter, but slightly reckless, as though she’d just chucked out an instruction manual for something.

  Naomi found the side plates in a cupboard; there were six, all plain white. ‘Wow, this is a change from Dryden Road,’ she said, stroking the smooth almond units, with their sleek handles. ‘Very modern. What have you done with that lovely old hanging airer from the kitchen? Is it in storage?’

  ‘I had to leave it. And the Welsh dresser. And the butcher’s block. The buyers wanted the kitchen exactly as it was, so I got the estate agent to haggle them up.’

  ‘You left the butcher’s block?’ Surprise broke through Naomi’s politely encouraging expression. ‘The one you dragged back from that holiday in Yorkshire?’

  Gina shrugged. ‘Where was I going to put it? Anyway, it’s part of that kitchen, not this one. What? Why are you pulling that face?’

  ‘Because you made such a fuss about . . . Are you getting enough sleep? Sorry, forget I said that. I guess it’s just that . . .’ Tact and concern struggled on Naomi’s face. ‘It’s just that you put so much of yourself into that house,’ she finished. ‘You don’t have to walk away from it all just because . . . well, you know.’

  ‘It’s someone else’s house now,’ said Gina, and she didn’t mean the family who’d bought it.

  Naomi almost said something, then changed her mind. She patted Gina’s arm. ‘Let’s have a croissant. They’re in the bag.’

  Gina lifted the paper carrier-bag onto the counter top. Inside there was an expensive three-wick hyacinth-scented candle; a couple of glossy magazines; a tub of cookie-dough ice cream; a bottle of wine; and some still warm croissants. All old favourites. Nearly the same selection of treats Naomi had brought round after every hospital treatment, barring the wine. In the end, Gina had got wine in for Naomi to drink while she was sitting with her – one of them, at least, deserved to be excused the juicer.

  ‘Ah, yes. I remember these. No self-help books?’

  ‘Nope. I reckoned you were a bit past them now. And it sounds like your mum’s sent you all the best ones already.’

  ‘I don’t know about the best ones . . . Did I tell you she accidentally gave me one of hers in her last consignment – How to Cope with Your Child’s Divorce?’

  ‘God, really?’

  ‘Really.’ Gina put the ice cream in the freezer for later. The chiller
drawers were beautifully free of stray peas and old ice-cube trays. ‘I’m very tempted to write “It’s not always about you, Mum” across the first page and give it back to her. You’d think she was the one who’d been dumped, the way she’s acting.’

  Naomi laughed, but then looked remorseful. ‘You won’t, though, will you? I know Janet drives you mad, but she means well. And when you’ve lost two husbands before you’re fifty . . .’

  ‘“. . . you know what it’s like to be alone.” Yeah, we’ve had that conversation. And no, of course I won’t say anything.’

  ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to nag. I know it’s easier to be patient with other people’s mothers. But at least Janet’s around, and not constantly swanning off to foreign parts with her new bloke like mine. ’ Naomi put the kettle on. ‘So – what’s the latest with Stuart? Is he still texting you, or has he picked up the phone?’

  ‘Still texting. It’s better that way. It’s not like we’ve got a lot to say to each other. Has Jason seen him since . . . since he moved out?’

  ‘No. He wasn’t at football this week. Jay won’t tell me anything anyway. You know what blokes are like. What happens in the changing room stays in the changing room.’ Naomi’s lip curled eloquently. ‘But he sends his love. He thinks Stuart’s lost his mind. Says if there’s anything we can do . . .’

  ‘Thanks.’ Gina pulled the horn off a croissant. ‘But I’m hoping it’s going to be straightforward. I mean, we’ve no kids to argue about, the house has been sold, he’s got the cats. It’s just a case of giving all the details to the solicitors and letting them get on with it. Rory – thanks for the recommendation, by the way, he’s brilliant – says he can probably get things sorted out in about three months. Four months if people are away.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad the practical stuff’s in hand. But what about you? You’re being so calm.’ Naomi poured boiling water onto the tea bags and poked them impatiently. ‘I’d be going after that cheating bastard with a pair of nail scissors. Seriously, you just have to say the word.’ She pushed the mug over the counter with a fake-menacing smile that was only half joking. ‘It doesn’t have to be nail scissors. It could be Veet. Or laxatives.’