by Frances Vick
‘If it’s someone you trust,’ Denise said carefully. ‘That’s the thing, you’ve got to trust them. They have to be a good person.’ She looked up, squinted humorously. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve still got most of my marbles.’
Kirsty smiled back. ‘You’re as tough as old boots,’ she said.
‘I am. And so’re you. There’s a lot of bad things about this town, but the upside is it makes you tough. What happened to you? It’s made you tough. You’ve just got to believe it, that’s all.’ She patted the table briskly, got up slowly. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to get on with tea. Alex and Tom…’ She waved vaguely in the direction of the sound of the TV.
‘Alex and Tom?’
‘Alexsei and… what’s the other one? Tomash or something. I call them Alex and Tom. Polish. Lodgers.’
‘You… you still take in lodgers then?’
‘I’d be left high and dry if I didn’t.’ Denise was all efficiency now, clattering plates out of cupboards, opening tins of murky-looking meat. ‘And it’s company. It’s quiet living alone.’
‘Mind if I use the loo?’
‘Aye, you know the way.’ One finger pointed towards the stairs. In her distraction and sudden activity, Denise seemed to have shed years. Kirsty too, heading up those familiar stairs, felt younger with each step, until, by the landing, she could have been ten years old again.
There was Lisa’s room. There was Tokki and Mohammed’s room. Or was it Alex and Tom’s room now? She pushed open the door, peered into a room coarsened by Polish cigarettes and aftershave. Then she opened the door to Lisa’s room, and for one strange moment it was dingy pink-and-white, the rumpled bed heaped with Care Bears, the kiss-practice George Michael picture still Sellotaped next to the smeary mirror, and Lisa herself was there too, just out of sight for sure, but surely there, smelling of orange chapstick and indifferently brushed teeth. But that only lasted for a second. The room was merely a mirror image of the room next door – a cramped, male, space. An adult space. Suddenly it felt wrong, so wrong, unfathomably wrong. How could Denise have done this?
How could she have given over Lisa’s old room to another lodger – and a male lodger at that…? How could she have moved on? Kirsty backed away and went to the toilet, tried to calm down. What had she done with Lisa’s clothes, her Care Bears, her silly little Pierrot pictures? Were they rotted to mulch in landfill? Burned? It seemed insane that a mother could do that, just erase all memories of a dead child.
‘But what do I know about being a mother?’ she told herself out loud. Perhaps she was being unreasonable. She’d unwittingly spun a Miss Havisham-type fantasy around Denise… A Denise that stayed in her house, where all those bad things happened, where her daughter was groomed, abused. That had to be unhinged, surely? Why should Denise be trapped living entirely in the past, guilty, bitter, dead inside? And she had to make money, didn’t she? Why not take in lodgers? Kirsty looked at herself in the mirror; the same mirror she and Lisa had once covered with toothpaste when they were five, the same mirror they’d practised pouting in when they were ten. She looked at her own, peevish face. Be honest with yourself, Kirsty; you don’t want Denise to be OK because that makes you NOT being OK even worse. If Denise didn’t feel guilt about letting out her dead daughter’s room, then why did Kirsty feel so crushingly guilty? How did Denise manage so well?
Perhaps it was the woman who did her cards. Perhaps that’s what helped her move on? After all, what’s the harm if it makes you feel better? She patted her face with water, took a few deep breaths, and walked down the stairs again, past the still shut living room door, back into the kitchen, where Denise was listening to talk radio and clattering pots.
‘That lady who does your cards? Would she see me?’
‘Don’t see why not,’ Denise told her. ‘She lives over the way, you could pop in on your way back.’
‘No. I mean, I’m a stranger. I don’t want to just ambush her. Maybe if you give me her number?’
And Denise did just that, her no-nonsense cursive covering the back of a shopping list.
Sylvia McKnight 706546
‘Wait, is she an older lady? White hair?’
‘She’s younger than me!’ Denise answered. ‘But yeah, it sounds like her. Why?’
‘I think I met her the other night, at Vic’s! It was her daughter that was doing that ceremony thing! That’s… so weird!’
‘Not that weird,’ Denise told her. ‘The older you get the more you see things like that. Call it coincidence if you want, but still… Anyway, yes that’s her. Must be. What was the daughter called?’
‘Angela Bright.’
Denise smirked. It was impossible to fathom what the smirk meant. ‘That’s what she’s calling herself now, is it? Used to be Mary, or something like that. What’s she doing back here?’
‘She told me she’d come back to sort out her uncle’s estate.’
Denise snorted. ‘Estate? Makes it sound like the National Trust! It’s more like Soweto where they live. Estate, ye gods. You’ll be able to see it if you take the long way back to town – trailers, car yard. She lives there, Sylvia does; as for what’s-her-name, Mary or Angela or whatever, she upped sticks years ago. Left Sylvia struggling too, apparently. Sylvia’s hardly got a pot to piss in now.’
‘She… Angela, I mean, she did seem… They didn’t look like they had the best relationship.’
‘No. Though to hear Sylvia talk you’d think she was a saint. Some mums are like that, aren’t they though? Can’t see their kids for what they are. But don’t tell Peg I said that, ’cause she likes the girl.’
‘Peg knows Angela Bright?’
‘Peg knows everyone. No, I think Mary, or whatever her name is, is Peg’s niece? Something like that. Alex! Tom! Dinner!’
Kirsty knew that was her cue to leave.
She put Sylvia McKnight’s phone number in her pocket, and she did take the long way back to work, but the haze across the flat, murky fields obscured most of the estate. All she could discern were some long, low trailer-type buildings, some heaped scrap metal. It made her sad to think of such a sweet old lady living somewhere that dismal. But at least she had somewhere to live. What plans did her daughter have for her after selling the land? From what she’d overheard at Vic’s party, it didn’t sound as if she’d be staying with her daughter in America any time soon. Perhaps Kirsty would call up Sylvia, ask for a reading? It wouldn’t feel a peculiar, now that they’d already met and Denise had vouched for her. And maybe there was something in it? If it helped, what was the harm? Also, the old lady must be lonely, out there on that wind-lashed land all by herself… Kirsty slowed down, almost swung the car over to the side of the road with a view to walking over there now. Then she thought better of it. Work beckoned. And Sylvia McKnight wasn’t going anywhere.
Sixteen
Back at the hospital, Kirsty threw herself into Peg’s after-care plan: even though everything still depended on Mona, and Mona wasn’t playing ball, Kirsty still believed that if she reworded and rehearsed the pitch, Mona would see sense. But by six she was ready to give up; her office was stuffy, the plan becoming unwieldy, unworkable because she was trying to please everyone and the harsh strip light hurt her eyes and tightened her skin. She was just shutting down her computer when the ward sister knocked on her door.
‘There’s a lady – a friend of Mrs Leaves? She wants a word with her social worker – can I send her to you?’
‘I’m about to leave. But, sure. OK. What’s it about?’
‘Won’t tell me. I’ll just go and get her.’
The ward sister came back a few minutes later. ‘OK, she’s being a bit mysterious now. She says she doesn’t want to come to your office, but in the cafe?’
‘Why?’ Kirsty asked tiredly, irritably.
‘She says she wants to help. Something to do with… you know… the whole family. Being difficult? She says she has an idea.’
Well, she might be worth listening to. Anything, anything that mi
ght break the Peg Leaves impasse would be useful.
And so Kirsty made her way to the incongruously named Spice of Life cafe in reception, looking out for a woman built on the same towering frame as the Leaveses. What she saw wasn’t like that at all. The only person in the Spice of Life was a small-boned, fragile-looking old lady, with a halo of white hair and blue, blue eyes.
Sylvia McKnight.
It was such a shock that Kirsty actually froze a few paces away and watched the woman sit, vague, troubled, looking tenderly at anyone passing who might, conceivably, be a social worker.
‘Mrs McKnight?’ She watched the vagueness clear, and something like delighted gratitude flooding in its stead.
‘How strange! I was hoping it would be you!’ the woman said.
* * *
‘Families,’ Sylvia said. They were sitting in the corner of the cafe, nursing tea. The steam rose between them, a gauzy screen. ‘They’re difficult, aren’t they? But they’re all you have.’ She smiled. ‘I’m too sentimental, that’s what my daughter says. She’s right too, I am, but if you can help you should help. I’ve always thought that.’
Kirsty shook her head.
‘I’m confusing you. I’m sorry. What it is, why I’m here, I’m Peg’s sister-in-law? Well, ex-sister-in-law since my brother recently passed away. And they weren’t married. And they hadn’t lived with each other in ever so long. But still. Family.’
‘How can I help?’
‘I wondered if we could have a chat about what happens after she leaves? The reason I’m asking is that Mona – you know Mona? She’s my late brother’s daughter? – yes, well they all want her back home, of course they do, but my worry is that they don’t really understand what a big job it’s going to be. Looking after someone who’s… poorly. I’ve just gone through that myself with Mervyn. I just want to make sure that Peg won’t be sent home too early, and just forgotten about. I don’t mean by you, but by the system…? You read about things like that all the time, don’t you?’
‘You don’t have to worry about that, Mrs McKnight, we have a care plan—’
‘And I bet Mona’s doing everything she can to ruin it,’ Sylvia said with a sad smile. ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, I know why she’d do that. She’s afraid. She… she’s still a child, Mona, in some ways. She’s scared that Peg’s getting older, she doesn’t want to see that she’s not as strong as she was, and she can’t face the idea that, someday, she’ll lose her. So she’s digging her heels in. That’s what’s happening, isn’t it? I know you can’t talk about cases, but that’s how it is, isn’t it?’
Kirsty slightly inclined her head.
‘Right, well, here’s how I might be able to help: I’ve got this big house, and I’d like to help her now. It’s only right, isn’t it? Maybe she could come and stay at my house? Peg and Mona? I wouldn’t mind having Social Services come in, and I’ll make any changes needed to help her get around? And my daughter, Marie? You met her, didn’t you? I’m sure she’d help while she’s here…’ Her voice trailed away just a little, doubtfully. ‘Do you think that would work?’
‘Marie? I thought she was called—’
‘Angela? Yes, she is. Sorry.’ Sylvia peered at her, smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not senile! She is called Angela. Now. It’s more of a professional name. But she was born Marie. I just… forget sometimes. Drives her mad!’ She took a sip of tea. ‘Now, how about this idea?’
It was an intriguing idea… semi-ridiculous, but deeply meant. There was no way it could happen. Kirsty played for time a little though, not wanting to disappoint such a kind-hearted woman, and – she realised this suddenly – not wanting to end the conversation either.
‘What does the family think about all this?’
The woman’s face seemed to fold in on itself. The eyes softened, the mouth pursed.
‘I’ve been a coward about that. I should’ve spoken to Mona, but she’s… she’s a tough nut to crack. Well, you know all about that, don’t you? Her and Mervyn never saw eye to eye and so I think I might have got tarred with the same brush; she’s always a bit rude to me, and I’m a little bit afraid of her! Isn’t that silly? I’ve known her since she was a baby, but still. That’s why I wanted to talk to the hospital first. I’m a bit embarrassed now, wasting your time like this.’
‘You’re not wasting my time!’ Kirsty told her warmly. She wanted to tell her not to take it personally, that Mona was rude to everyone, but then Sylvia probably already knew that…
Mrs McKnight smiled. ‘You’re very polite. Anyway, how’s your sister? And that lovely baby of hers?’
And so they chatted. Just light conversation, tentatively appraising each other. Kirsty asked about Angela, and Sylvia beamed with pride as she talked about her career in America.
‘I’ve seen pictures of the house – lovely it is! And a pool! But they have the weather for it there, don’t they? She goes to all these parties and premieres and I don’t know what else! Far cry from here, eh?’ Sylvia gestured at the walking wounded in reception, the dark, smelly forecourt, the whole gritty city beyond.
‘Is she staying with you at the moment then?’
‘Me? No!’ Sylvia was surprised, as if staying with your lonely, isolated mother was something bizarre. ‘No, she needs her home comforts. And my place, well, it’s still very ramshackle. Draughty, you know. The generator goes quite often. But obviously I’ll sort all that out if Peg comes to stay,’ Sylvia said stoutly.
‘It should be a comfortable place for you too, shouldn’t it? You mentioned having osteoporosis?’
Sylvia pushed one thin hand through the air, dismissive, humorous gesture. ‘Oh don’t worry about me! I’ve been fine up to now, after all. If you gave me double glazing and proper heating and all that I wouldn’t know what to do with myself!’
Kirsty remembered how much pain she’d been in at the party, how desolate and depressing her home had seemed from the side of the road. Sylvia’s idea of fine was different to most people’s, it seemed, especially her daughter’s. Kirsty tried to imagine the manicured, poised Angela Bright in Beacon Hill. She couldn’t.
Eventually though, their conversation dried up a little, and when the lugubrious manager of the Spice of Life skirted around them for the third time, they took the hint and got up to leave. Standing upright, Kirsty could see that Sylvia had lost even more weight since the party. She was now almost pitifully thin; tiny wrists swam in the sleeves of her cheerful yellow cardigan, and her twig-like calves tapered even further to impossibly slim ankles – so slim that at first it seemed that she was wearing oversized men’s boots, but which were in fact completely normal ladies’ brogues. Then, suddenly, the old woman’s face turned the sick cream of parchment, her eyes, filled with what looked like agony, fixed on Kirsty’s. She wobbled on her heels, caught the edge of the table, sat back down again.
‘Mrs McKnight? Are you OK?’
‘Little bit dizzy, that’s all.’ The woman laughed self-deprecatingly. ‘Got up too fast.’
‘Stay here. Let me get you some water.’
The woman put one hand up – I’m fine, the gesture said – but she made no attempt to get back up. Her colour had returned to her cheeks a little though, and her gaze was less ghastly, though more confused. She looked like someone waking up from a trance. She drank her water with little, bird-like sips.
‘Are you feeling any better?’ Kirsty asked anxiously.
‘I am, thank you.’
‘And did you drive here, or get a taxi, or…?’
‘I walked. That’s probably what happened. I overdid it. It’s a long trek, but I like to walk, and I never thought anything of a few miles’ hike when I was younger. That’s the thing, your body gets old, but it doesn’t tell your mind. So you end up doing silly things like this, worrying people. Anyway, I’m fit as a flea, now! Thanks again for looking after me!’ She got up with difficulty.
‘You’re not walking home?’ Kirsty cried.
The woman took out an imp
ossibly old mobile phone. ‘Well, I could call a taxi. I think there’s a number in somewhere? I put it in, but I’m terrible with technology. And taxis don’t like going to where I live.’
Kirsty hesitated. ‘Well look, I’m on my way home. Perhaps I could give you a lift?’
The woman shook her head firmly. ‘No. You get yourself home. I’ll be fine.’
‘I’d feel a lot better if I dropped you back. It’s no trouble.’ Kirsty was firmer now too.
‘It’s way on the other side of town though, Beacon Hill?’ she inclined her head apologetically. ‘If it’s too out of the way—’
‘No. No it’s not out of my way. Not really. Please, let me do this.’
* * *
The geography of Beacon Hill seemed to change in the dark. The place had swollen, spread like a stain, and Mrs McKnight’s directions added to the sense of disorientation; lefts and rights were taken seemingly at random. They drove past the burnt-out house Kirsty had seen earlier.
‘Terrible business that,’ Sylvia said. ‘Arson, they say. It was in the papers a few years back – one or two kiddies killed, parents. My late brother knew the family.’
‘He did?’
‘Oh yes. He was on the news and everything. The whole family, and the dogs, burnt up like that. Terrible. I think it was that that made him sick. They said it was cancer, but I’m sure the shock didn’t help.’
‘I used to know a family here too. When I was little. Denise Cook? I think you know her too?’
‘Oh lord, Denise! Oh, did you know little Lisa? God love her! That was a terrible business.’
‘It was,’ Kirsty managed. She missed the turning and shot out towards the motorway. ‘Oh god, sorry! Sorry, I’ll need to turn around.’
‘No, it’s my fault. Nattering on about that horrible business. Must’ve brought up some bad memories for you, I’m sorry.’ They were silent for a time. ‘Do you have any children yourself?’