by Camilla Way
‘Look at him, daft cunt,’ the jeering voice carries over to us, ‘chatting up the fat lass!’
I feel myself flush. ‘Shut up, that’s my mate,’ Edie says, and though her tone’s indignant, for a moment I think I detect a hint of laughter there too. I look back at her sharply but she’s turned away now and I can’t be sure.
Suddenly Connor mutters something and a loud laugh erupts. Heat courses through me as I realize they’re staring at my chest. I look down and see that my new top has started to gape at the neckline, exposing a large chunk of cleavage. Mortified, I tug at it, trying to cover myself. When I look at Edie I see her smile has vanished, her eyes cold as she looks from me to Connor.
‘Come on,’ she says to him sullenly. ‘Thought we were going to the rec for a smoke?’
He nods and they start to move away. At the last moment Edie looks back at me, ‘You coming, Heather?’ she says, not quite meeting my gaze.
I shake my head. ‘No, it’s OK, I better—’ But she’s already turned away.
Liam gets to his feet and glances down at me. ‘Later,’ he mumbles, before hurrying after them.
I remain where I am, watching them move off across the square, a dull sort of misery rising inside me as the crowd parts to let them through. Finally I get up and start to walk home, dragging my feet slowly. But as I’m crossing the bridge that goes over the canal, I glance down and see a figure hurrying along the towpath away from me, wearing a familiar coat. It’s my mother. I stop in my tracks and watch, astonished, as she walks off in the direction of Langley. What on earth is she doing? She’d told Dad she was spending the day in Wrexham, but that’s miles in the other direction – and besides, the canal is the last place I’d expect her to walk by herself. Baffled, I watch until she disappears from view before continuing on my way home.
After
Monica’s flat is very different from mine; much bigger, and, despite the security bars at the windows and the closely drawn net curtains, it’s light and warm and uncluttered. The kitchen she leads me to is clean and freshly painted with colourful prints on the walls and photos of her smiling sons stuck to the fridge. The dog I’d seen before lies peacefully in the corner of the room, merely thumping its tail when we enter. I take the seat Monica offers me and, with Maya on my lap, watch her as she puts the kettle on and begins to unpack her shopping.
She is, I guess, in her early forties, her small face lined beneath the red scraped-back hair that’s peppered with strands of grey. Although she’s very small she has a wiry sort of strength, a toughness in the way she moves and holds herself. When she pauses to remove her jacket I study the colourful, intricate patterns and pictures tattooed over almost every inch of her slender arms and shoulders. She turns and catches me staring and I feel myself redden as I look away. As she finishes making the tea and takes the seat across from me I shift Maya in my arms and mentally grasp about for something to say.
I wish I hadn’t come. I’m astonished that I have, so unlike me is it to barge my way into a stranger’s flat like this and now that I’m here I feel painfully aware that she must already be regretting having asked me, that she probably has a hundred better things to do.
‘Bug, was it?’ she asks, her eyes suddenly fastened on me. ‘You said you’ve been ill.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Not a bug.’ To my dismay I feel a lump in my throat and have to stare hard at the table until it goes away. I look at Monica’s hands cupped around her mug of tea, her slender fingers heavy with gold rings. I notice that her tattoos stop a few inches before her wrists and I feel myself oddly touched by this small, private segment of un-inked flesh. I shake my head. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I guess I—’
‘Been a bit low, have you?’ she asks, and when I nod she considers this before telling me, ‘I had that, with my first – Ryan. Couldn’t hardly get out of bed for weeks. My sister had to look after the baby for me, dragged me to the doctor’s in the end.’ She doesn’t look at me while she talks, apart from brief, penetrating moments when her eyes land upon my face, cool and warm at the same time, very different from Heather’s unblinking stare.
‘What was wrong with you?’ I ask her hesitantly.
She shrugs. ‘PND. Baby blues, whatever you want to call it. Doctor gave me some pills and I was all right after a while.’
Was that what it had been? I roll the thought around my head. PND. This deadening, dragging weight. ‘It’s been weeks, though,’ I tell her. ‘I haven’t … I couldn’t take care of her, of my baby.’ I feel a rush of shame, and my eyes fill with tears.
I’m grateful that, in response, she merely reaches for a pack of cigarettes and lights herself one while I pull myself together. She exhales a long line of smoke before asking, thoughtfully, ‘This the first time you’ve been out for a while, is it?’ I swallow hard and nod. ‘Well, then,’ she says, ‘maybe you’re starting to feel a bit better.’ She smiles at me, and despite my tears I’m struck by how it transforms her face, making her look in that instant like a much younger, prettier woman. ‘Sometimes it just passes, goes of its own accord,’ she continues. ‘Hormones and that.’ She nods at Maya. ‘How old is she?’
And I realize with something close to panic that I have absolutely no idea. ‘Um, what’s the date again today?’ I ask as casually as I can.
‘First of October.’
Quickly I do the calculations. ‘Six months,’ I say quietly at last, ‘she’s six months old.’ But how could that be? How could I possibly have lost so many weeks? That would mean Heather had been living with us for over four months! I feel disorientated and afraid and at that moment Maya begins to cry. I try to quieten her, stroking her back like I’d seen Heather do, but she howls even harder, her face screwed into an angry red ball, her wail quickly gathering strength. ‘Shush,’ I say desperately, feeling a knot of anxiety in my chest. ‘Come on, Maya, please stop.’ But she only screams louder.
Monica, nonplussed, watches me for a while. ‘Here, let me try.’ She puts her cigarette in the corner of her mouth and takes Maya from me, moving around the room with her, shushing and jiggling her until she quietens, before handing her back to me. I take her nervously, certain that she’ll only begin to cry again as soon as I touch her. ‘Rock her,’ Monica tells me encouragingly. ‘Walk her around a bit and hold her close to you.’ I do as she says and am amazed when Maya settles contentedly once more in my arms. Monica smiles. ‘See?’ she says. ‘You’re doing fine.’ I look down at my daughter and wonder if it can be true.
We sit and drink our tea in silence, both of us watching Maya as she sleeps again in my lap, and I find myself wondering about Monica, about the scar on her back, about the locks and chains on her door, the security bars at the windows. After a while she lights another cigarette and says, ‘See you’ve got your friend here. Seen her going in and out with the little one.’ She blows out another stream of smoke. ‘Been looking after you, has she?’ And there’s something in the way she looks at me, something in her tone that suggests more than idle curiosity.
I nod. I had forgotten about Heather for a few minutes and I’m aware of the sudden sinking feeling her name brings.
‘Good friend of yours, is she?’ Monica persists and I think about how to answer this.
‘It’s only that I thought it was a bit odd,’ she continues when I don’t reply.
‘Odd?’
‘Because I recognized her, from before. I was a bit surprised to see her again, to be honest.’
‘Recognized her? From where?’
But we are interrupted by a barrage of knocks on the door. The dog wakes and begins to bark ferociously, baring two huge rows of gleaming teeth. Heather’s face flashes into my mind and I feel a stab of alarm, which disappears as soon as I look at Monica and realize with shock that she is almost white with fear. ‘Who is it?’ she asks, her voice low and tense. The hammering continues, and when a male voice calls, ‘Mum. It’s us. You’ve locked us out again,’ I see, when she goes to the door, the relief t
hat floods her face.
The tall, deep-voiced young men look amazed to find me sitting at their kitchen table. But they smile politely when their mother introduces us and I’m struck by how different they appear close to, compared to the picture I’d formed of them from afar. The eldest, Ryan, towers over Monica, an arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders, while his younger brother Billy kneels down to the dog, cooing lovingly at her as he strokes her ears. They fill the room, it seems to me, with their energy and their youth and their maleness, looking back at me with their mother’s sensitive, shrewd blue eyes.
‘You been all right, Mum?’ asks Ryan, watching her carefully. ‘Had a good day?’
She smiles. ‘Not bad. Did the shopping earlier.’
Billy looks up from the dog, his eyebrows raised. ‘By yourself?’ When Monica nods, he looks pleased. ‘Cool.’
Reluctantly I get to my feet, shifting Maya to my hip. ‘I suppose I better get back,’ I say. ‘Thanks, though, for the tea.’
Monica smiles. ‘You come back down if you need anything.’
It’s only when I reach the door to my own flat that I remember she hadn’t answered my question. What had she meant when she said she’d recognized Heather? Still puzzling it over, I take my key from my pocket and let myself in.
Standing on the threshold of my flat I gaze in with fresh eyes at the cluttered hall, its threadbare carpet covered in the sea of half-full plastic bags and cardboard boxes that contain Heather’s belongings. It’s begun to rain again and the gloom of the outside world has permeated the three small rooms, the only light coming from the flicker of the TV in the living room, its pale, fuzzy blue glow seeping weakly across the passageway and carrying on its tide a babble of chirpy American voices, applause and canned laughter.
When I switch the overhead light on Heather jumps from the sofa and crosses the room to where I stand so quickly that I take a step back and knock my shoulder against the door frame. She stares at me, her eyes bright, her hands opening and closing by her sides in agitation and the thought occurs to me that she’s going to hit me, until I realize it’s Maya she’s desperate for and I hand my daughter over wordlessly.
‘Where have you been?’ she asks, already moving away towards a bottle of milk perched in its warmer on the arm of the sofa, and I wonder how long it has been there, waiting for us.
‘Out for a walk.’
‘I was worried about you,’ she says sullenly, as she settles herself with Maya and the bottle.
I sit down on the arm of the sofa. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. I should have told you or left a note or something.’ She doesn’t look up from Maya, who’s drinking hungrily now. ‘I thought it was about time I tried to pull myself together,’ I tell her, ‘and that maybe a walk alone with Maya would do me good.’
‘I saw you come back ages ago though,’ she says. ‘I watched you from the window.’
‘I bumped into a neighbour,’ I tell her, and when Heather’s eyes shoot to my face I falter before continuing: ‘Monica, who lives on the ground floor. She invited me in for a cup of tea.’ I shrug, aware of my defensive tone. ‘Maya was happy so I ended up staying for a while.’ But as I talk I’m conscious of Heather’s eyes on me, travelling over the surface of my face, her pupils twitching intently as though watching me speak rather than listening to what I say, and this lack of reaction is strangely unnerving, the way it is when you talk to someone whose eyes are hidden behind dark glasses. Eventually my voice trails away and we sit without speaking, the TV blaring.
Later, when Heather has bathed Maya and put her to bed I go into the kitchen and begin to clear up. When I’ve finished I close the door and sit at the table and think about Monica and what she’d said today, and I think about how I’d felt when I’d held Maya on the heath and looked into her eyes, and I hold the memory of it close.
I half wake, sleep clinging to me, my dreams reluctant to release me as my eyes stare into the blackness. I had been dreaming about Connor, and his scent, his taste, his touch is still with me, as though he could reach out across time and distance, through the silent, dark night and pull me back until I’m there with him again. I feel myself slipping, slipping, his fingers strengthening their grip, pulling me closer as I drift back to him. And then, all at once, I’m wide awake and alert, my heart pounding. Something had woken me. What was that? A sound, a movement close by, very close. I reach out to push myself up from the mattress and my fingers suddenly, shockingly connect with flesh. I cry out in fright, launching myself backwards so quickly that I almost fall to the floor. As I look wildly about me my eyes adjust to the milky moonlight and see that it’s Heather, sitting on my bed, staring back at me.
Confusion and fear twists in my gut. Is she awake? Sleepwalking? She doesn’t move, only continues to watch me intently. It’s so strange, so eerie. How long has she been sitting there? My voice when I manage to speak is a whisper. ‘Heather?’
She moves suddenly, leaning towards me a fraction, and at last she speaks, ‘You will help me, won’t you, Edie?’ she says. I stare at her. ‘You will, won’t you?’ she persists.
My heart stiffens, almost stops, and in the darkness I nod. ‘Yes,’ I whisper. Her eyes remain fastened upon me, and then, as if satisfied, she nods once and gets up, the mattress shifting beneath the absence of weight. I watch as she makes her way back to her bed, hear her grunt as she lowers herself on to it then zips herself back into her sleeping bag. Moments later, her breath deepens into a snore.
When I wake again bright sunlight is streaming through the windows, Heather is moving back and forth humming softly to herself, Maya slung across her chest. Nothing has changed. She glances over and smiles brightly when she sees me watching her. ‘I’ll make some tea, shall I?’ is all she says. Had it really happened? My dreams are so vivid lately. Uncertainty washes through me. It makes no sense, after all; what could she possibly have meant? A dream, that was all. Just another one of my dreams.
Today is one of those perfect golden autumnal days when the sky sparkles over London, cloudless and blue. But Heather stands with her back to the window watching me in silence as I get Maya ready to go out. I’ve noticed recently that with every passing day, the stronger and more capable I feel, the more despondent Heather seems to become. Today she hasn’t even bothered to have a shower or get dressed; instead she picks miserably at a piece of peanut butter on toast, wiping her sticky fingers on her dressing gown as she follows my movements around the room.
When she sees me grappling with the poppers on Maya’s jacket she darts over to help. ‘Let me do that,’ she says eagerly, ‘this one’s a bit tricky.’
I’m surprised at the rush of irritation I feel. ‘It’s fine,’ I say, resisting the urge to smack her fingers away. ‘I can do it.’
Later, when Maya and I are ready, I pause at the door, feeling the customary pang of guilt. ‘What are you going to do today?’ I ask her. ‘It looks really nice out there.’
She shrugs. ‘I could come with you,’ she suggests.
I nod, frowning as if thinking it over. ‘Yeah, you could, but look, we’re ready now and we won’t be very long anyway, so we might as well just nip out quickly.’ When she doesn’t reply I can’t help adding, ‘Besides, do us good to have a breather from each other, don’t you think? Cooped up together the way we are. This flat’s so tiny …’
‘But I like spending time with you,’ Heather replies, and I smile, and I nod, and I mumble something in agreement, and finally I open the door. But before I leave I pause. ‘Heather?’ I say.
She looks up eagerly, ‘Yes?’
‘Do you have my phone?’ Her eyes immediately flick away and she doesn’t reply. ‘Only, I was wondering where it was.’
She shrugs. ‘Don’t know,’ she says vaguely. ‘I put it somewhere …’
A flash of annoyance. ‘I’d quite like it back please. I need to phone my uncle.’
She nods again, and still doesn’t meet my eyes, but I see something flicker across her
face that makes me pause. ‘Heather?’ I say.
She looks at me sullenly. ‘Yes, OK, I’ll find it.’
And then finally, in the strange, thick silence, I leave.
I haven’t seen Monica since the day I went to Blackheath so I’m pleased when I bump into her outside her front door. ‘How are you?’ she asks.
‘I’m OK,’ I tell her. ‘Actually I’m a lot better.’
She gives me one of her quick, shrewd appraisals. ‘Good,’ she says. ‘Where’re you off to?’
I shrug. ‘Just going for a walk.’ I make a face. ‘Had to get out.’
‘I’ll walk with you,’ she says, and I feel a ripple of pleasure. It’s been so long since I had friends that I’m not sure how it’s done any more – how you make that leap, show someone that you want to spend time with them. We walk in silence for a while, Maya babbling happily in her buggy, the soft October sun on our faces. ‘Why’d you have to get out of the flat?’ Monica asks.
I hesitate, thinking of how to answer, but in the end I say, ‘There’s not much room with the three of us there.’
She nods. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I’ll bet.’
And there’s something in her voice that reminds me of what she’d said before about Heather. ‘What did you mean,’ I ask her, ‘the other week, when you said you’d recognized my friend? Where had you seen her before?’
‘Months ago,’ she says, lighting a cigarette. ‘I used to see her hanging around outside.’
I laugh nervously. ‘Hanging around?’ I ask. ‘What do you mean? When?’
‘Soon after I moved in.’ We’ve reached the park gates now and we walk to the furthest side, to a bench beneath a horse chestnut tree. ‘I have a problem with my ex,’ Monica continues, staring straight ahead. ‘We moved here to get away from him. I try not to let him get to me, but I spend a lot of time looking out of the window to check he’s not out there, especially at night when I can’t sleep.’ She glances at me. ‘There she’d be, your friend, sitting on the wall opposite our building, sometimes at two or three o’clock in the morning.’ She shakes her head, frowning. ‘I even went out to talk to her once, see if I could find her a hostel or at least give her some food, but she ran off. Went on for weeks, it did. Couldn’t believe it when I saw her coming in and out of our building a few months later with your buggy.’