‘She’ll help. Won’t cost anything.’
I said nothing. He knows I hate people in my home. Sanctimonious, that’s the word.
‘OK.’ He put his head in his hands for moment then looked up at me almost pleadingly. ‘Just a few nights, till I sort something out? It would be so kind.’ He gave me a small hopeful smile, caught my eyes with his. His look, I thought, was loving, almost like it used to be. He took my hand and squeezed.
‘Where’s she even from?’ I said. He hadn’t held my hand for such a long time. It felt nice.
‘Romania.’
To be honest, I wasn’t even sure where that was.
‘How old is she?’
He squeezed my hand. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Just for a few days?’
He knew I’d been dreading keeping Artie busy in the shool holidays. I thought a bit before I nodded. I wasn’t sure though. I’d seen the way she’d looked up him with her big dark shiny eyes.
But when she took off her jacket I saw she was wearing the crappiest of crappy clothes. She had nothing with her but a broken plastic satchel. Her feet were bare under the plimsolls, skinny mud-splashed ankles. Now sorry, but that is not what you’d expect your husband to be having an affair with. And anyway, if he was, why would he bring her home? Maybe she really was a stray, a refugee even? I would show him I could be kind. It was lovely, the way he’d looked at me, the way he’d held my hand.
While Mats made tea I took the girl upstairs, showed her the attic. He’d have to move things, make up the bed. I dug out some old clothes. I had a couple of stretch-velvet tracksuits – one pink, one navy, from when I used to be thinner – waiting to go to a charity shop. When I gave them to her, she stroked the material and looked about to burst into tears.
‘You are a kind lady,’ she said.
And I did feel kind. I handed her a towel and pointed her at the bathroom.
click
So Marta stayed for a few days, that turned into a week, that turned into a month, and I actually started to like her being around. At first I didn’t. Well, it was pretty weird, wasn’t it? But she was great with the kids, and had an efficient way of tidying that made it seem like nothing at all. It was like having a helpful friend, well like Rita, I suppose.
Was I using her as a stand-in? Never thought that before. No, I don’t think so.
But she was someone to talk to. We had to organise childcare for when I went back to work – and hey presto! She could be the nanny! Perfect!
One nice thing about her, she was there when I wanted her, but she also knew when to keep a low profile – like evenings she left me and Mats alone, went up to the attic where she had a portable telly. She was sensitive like that.
Something’s up with Mats, seems like he’s been squashed or hollowed out. I keep asking him, What’s up? What’s up? But he only says it’s hell at work, but you don’t need a medical degree to tell he’s depressed. I said to go to the doctor. He keeps having nightmares, sitting bolt upright in the middle of the night, covered in sweat. Why not go to a counsellor like I did? I said. No shame in seeking help, I said, look at me. But he won’t. Just like a man. He’s clammed up and taken to the bottle, drinking whisky at night, which I can’t stand, so it’s no danger for me having it around. I feel protective of him and it makes me love him more in a way. It’s like for the first time he really needs me. Our sex life’s back on track, well in an old married couple way, i.e. reliable but not all that often. (Suits me!)
click
This day came when we were watching afternoon TV, Marta and me. Neighbours had finished and Delia came on and she was making a simnel cake. Tommy was lying on the floor sucking his toes. It was nearly time to fetch Artie from school. Marta was happy to do that. I’d got her some clothes and a pair of trainers from C&A so she had decent stuff to go out in.
‘Do you have this cake?’ Marta said. ‘Is it a UK tradition?’
‘I’ve never had it,’ I said.
‘Maybe we could do it?’ She sat up, smiling – her smile was pretty like a flower coming out. ‘Maybe I could make a cake to say thank you?’
Delia was waxing lyrical about homemade marzipan.
‘Don’t bother,’ I said, ‘I’m not that fussed about cake.’
She looked disappointed. ‘Maybe Mats likes cake?’ she went.
I didn’t answer, realized I didn’t really know. How could I not know!
‘He’s more a savoury man,’ I said.
Tommy began to fret and Marta picked him up. He cuddled against her, twisting a strand of her hair round his finger. I did feel a pang, I mean I am his mum, but then she was only temporary and it was giving me a rest. Soon I’d be at work anyway and it was nice to know he was happy with her. Mind you, I had to look away from the blissed out expression on his face.
The cookery programme finished and the local news came on. Headlines: two decomposed bodies found in the basement of a building in Edinburgh. I never saw such a look of shock on anyone’s face. Marta went white as a . . . well whiter than any sheets in our house (they’re taupe). I stared at her. Tommy had his hand tangled in her hair and she pulled it out, you could hear the rip of hairs, and he was left with them snarled round his fingers.
‘What’s up?’ I said.
She shook her head. ‘Is sad,’ is all she’d say. She went out then to pick up Artie and when she came back was distracted, waiting for more news.
I put two and two together then and maybe I made nine? I don’t know. I couldn’t wait for Mats to get home to—
click
Is this still working? The thing’s going round . . . so quick, quick before the tape’s finished.
Anyway. Suspicious about this murder, why was it was such a big deal to Marta? Bodies were a young woman and a middle-aged man, police treating the deaths as suspicious. Well that was obvious, I mean, two people don’t just drop dead in a cellar for nothing, do they?
Not that I ever thought it was her. But she might know something.
Later, I was upstairs with Artie, when I got this sudden feeling, like a prickle. I went halfway down the stairs and I could hear Mats and Marta talking in the kitchen, sort of quiet and urgent. I called her upstairs and went down.
‘What’s going on?’ I said to Mats.
He was shaking oven chips onto a baking tray. ‘Crispy pancakes or fish fingers?’ he said.
‘What were you two on about?’ I went.
But Tommy started up then and I had to go. Later I opened a bottle of wine, though it was Tuesday, and he said nothing. He poured himself a giant Scotch, sat staring at the telly with no expression through East Enders and a documentary about birds. When the news came on I watched him. There was no expression on his face at all. If you could iron a face, that would have been his.
‘I wonder who they are,’ I said.
He shrugged, emptied his glass.
I continued to stare till he turned and said, ‘What?’ and he seemed normal and puzzled and gorgeous. Of course it was nothing to do with Mats! What was I thinking? That he’d turned into a murderer, or she had done it? Tiny little Marta! I let it drop, decided to go upstairs and shower, get out my lovely vintage nightie, give him a treat.
click
OK. Tiny bit of tape left. A few days later Marta playing with Tommy on the floor. Dye on my roots, waiting for rinse time. When the news came on Marta’s head twisted round so fast I could hear the vertebrae crack in her neck. Headline news: the Toll Cross murders. They showed a picture of the dead local businessman, nice looking little guy, arm round his wife and daughter – such a shame; and an artist’s impression of the girl. Marta stood up, fists clenched—
click
Marta
Marta lies on her back, fists crammed into her mouth. The pain that is the loss of Alis is too huge. It presses the air from her lungs, the air from the roo
m.
That horrible picture, drawing of a dead face. Dead Alis. Alis dead.
What can she do?
What can she do?
Noises from the house go on beneath her. Ordinary noises.
But Vivienne, she knows something’s wrong.
Cracks in the sloping ceiling, the blind with its rows of poppies stuck down, broken.
It makes her think of a room where she and Alis lay when they first met. A cover with bright flowers, were they poppies too?
She clenches her stomach like a fist. She bore the death of Tata. She must bear this.
Her teeth grind till she can taste particles of enamel.
But no tears. Alis taught her not to cry.
What should she do? Go to the police?
And Ratman dead too.
Well that one is good.
From under her pillow, she takes the torn bit of newspaper that she’s studied so many times. A story about a corruption trial. Though the men were guilty the sheriff gave only a short sentence. Then he retired. That is the story. But what gets her is the picture of the sheriff. It’s not big or clear but it looks like Geordie. Exactly like Geordie.
She hears the little feet of Arthur on the stairs. In he comes and sits beside her on the bed. ‘Are you OK?’ he says, patting her knee. The little boy is sensitive, more sensitive than his mother knows, to the feelings in the house.
Marta sits up, smooths her expression into a smile, even her eyes. Don’t make a fake smile for a child. And he really does make her smile, this earnest, little boy.
‘I’m OK my darling,’ she says.
‘Shall we do a story and feel better?’ he says.
His glasses are smeary, his hair, which never wants to lie flat, sticks up in tufts, there is orange round his mouth from spaghetti hoops.
‘It would be so kind,’ she says.
‘Wait.’ He jumps up and charges down the stairs. She leans over and peers at her face in the mirror, shuts her eyes quickly before the Alis image can replace it. She puts on a red jumper that Vivienne bought her, one that crackles when she pulls it over her head, brushes her hair, sips water. She switches on the bedside light and waits for Arthur to bring back his favourite book, Where the Wild Things Are, and as she reads it, she feels comforted by his warm, bony little body snuggling beside her.
‘There, are you betterer now?’
She smiles, yes, a real smile that hurts. ‘Much better,’ she says.
‘Again?’ He turns eagerly back to the first page, but there’s the sound of more feet on the very creaky stairs, and Vivienne comes in. She hardly ever comes up here. Marta’s spine stiffens.
‘Artie,’ Vivienne says. ‘Daddy wants you.’
Artie pulls himself away.
‘Everything all right?’ she sits beside Marta on the crumpled bed. ‘You could do with better light in here, couldn’t you?’
Marta nods. ‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘You want me to do something?’
Vivienne shakes her head. And then, startlingly, she takes Marta’s hand. Hers feels greasy with hand cream and there’s the smell of Atrixo. ‘We’d like to take you on as a nanny,’ she says. ‘What do you think?’
Marta swallows.
‘Well?’ Vivienne looks at her brightly, as if she expects delight, but Marta can’t pretend, she tries, she tries, but Alis is dead and despite her determination not to cry, the tears come.
Vivienne’s arm comes round Marta, and they sit awkwardly on the narrow bed. ‘There, there,’ Vivienne says. ‘Let me get you . . .’ She reaches for the box of tissues on the floor. Marta plucks a handful and buries her face in them.
‘Vivienne?’ calls Mats. ‘Vivienne?’
‘Up here,’ she calls.
‘Everything OK?’
‘Down in a minute.’
‘Want me to . . .’
‘I’ve got this.’
Marta can hear Mats’ heavy feet on the stairs, hesitating before they retreat. She can hear Tom shrieking and Mats giving up, going all the way down to the kitchen. Vivienne is being kind, but the weight of her arm is a pressure. Marta pulls away, blows her nose.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Only I am homesick.’ Her voice wobbles and she clears her throat.
‘Poor you.’ Vivienne pats her leg. ‘Look, how about this? You think about it. Staying. Maybe go home for a holiday – we could give you an advance. And then come back. The boys would love it.’ She clears her throat, touches Marta’s arm. ‘I would love it.’
‘I will think,’ Marta whispers.
‘Shall I bring you a cup of tea?’
This is so strange. Vivienne has never brought anything to Marta up here, never been so kind, but of course it is because she wants something. She wants Marta to say yes.
‘Is OK,’ Marta says. She wills Vivienne to leave now, leave her alone to think, to crawl under the duvet and turn to stone.
But though Vivienne stands, she doesn’t leave. ‘I forgot about the blind,’ she says, fingering the cord. ‘We’ll get you a new one. You can choose it yourself. And a lampshade. How about a shopping trip?’
Marta nods, dumbly.
‘We can decorate the room up for you, any way you like.’ Vivienne hesitates, clears her throat. ‘By the way,’ she says, ‘I was wondering about those murders.’ She sits down again, puts her hand on Marta’s knee. ‘I mean, you seemed very upset about them.’
Marta hides her face in her hair, waits till she can control her voice. ‘Is just a shock,’ she says. ‘Makes me think, so many murders in my country, my Tata.’ The tremble in her voice is real. ‘And this dead girl, she looks like a friend of mine.’ Where the Wild Things Are is on the floor. Artie might want it. She could get up to take it down to him. Get out of this.
But Vivienne is nodding thoughtfully; Marta can feel the burn of her eyes. ‘Is that all?’
Marta stares at her lap. Go, she thinks, go, go.
‘I didn’t know about your Tata, Dad is that? Sorry.’
Go, go.
‘Don’t know much about Romania to be honest. That was the Ceaușescu one wasn’t it?’
Marta nods, staring at Vivienne’s hand with its gold wedding ring, its nails painted deep pink but scratched and chipped, the bones faintly branched under the white skin. She wills her to remove it, the weight enormous on her leg.
‘Must have been awful.’
‘Please,’ Marta says. ‘I want to go home.’
They sit in silence. Downstairs there is the sound of Artie laughing, the growl of Mats’ voice.
‘You don’t just mean a holiday do you?’
At last Vivienne lifts her hand and Marta feels released from something. She shakes her head.
‘OK.’ Vivienne’s voice is flat with disappointment. ‘I understand. Maybe once you’re home you’ll reconsider?’
Marta can say nothing.
‘How about we pay for your ticket, no strings, you go home and think it over?’
‘But I have no passport.’
‘How come?’ Vivienne shifts away to look at her better. ‘How did you get here then?’
‘I . . .’
‘You lost it?’
Marta nods, then shakes. She might as well be honest now, or honest in part, at least. She tells Vivienne how she was smuggled into the country.
‘What?’ Vivienne stares at her wide-eyed. ‘Oh my God! Does Mats know this? Oh my God!’
‘So I have no papers. I have nothing. Only what you have given me. You are kind.’
‘My God! Does Mats know? What does Mats know?’
Marta shakes her head.
Vivienne gives a tense little laugh. ‘I had no idea! This is crazy.’ She gets up, walks the few paces between the top of the stairs and the bed, fiddles with the blind cord, sits down again. ‘Smuggled!’ She put
s the tips of both thumbs in her mouth, scrapes the nail with her teeth. ‘How do you mean?’
Marta twists her hair around her fingers, tugs.
‘Well, we must get this sorted,’ Vivienne says at last. ‘I’ll phone the police.’
‘Please no,’ says Marta quickly. ‘I do not want the police . . .’
Vivienne frowns at her, eyes sharp and busy. What is she thinking? What is she guessing?
Marta shrinks in her own skin, waiting for what next.
‘There must be a way to sort this out,’ Vivienne says. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll speak to Mats. We’ll get you home.’
Once Vivienne has gone downstairs, Marta sits numbly, listening to downstairs: the TV, the children, the sound of Mats and Vivienne talking, quietly at first but growing louder, growing sharper, growing into a row. She reaches down and picks up the book, flicks through its pages. ‘Let the wild rumpus start,’ she reads. This is the bit Artie loves the best.
Mats
The door slams on Vivienne. Mats stands looking at its blank face, hears a groan as she hits the bed. Alcohol has fuelled her anger all evening; but he’s stayed calm and numb. He treads carefully towards Marta’s stairs. It’s dark up there. He goes up one step at a time, wincing at each creak. At the top he lightly taps the door and, stooping through the low door frame, puts his head inside. He can see the shape of Marta curled up under the duvet. The TV is on, but muted, an old film. A woman smiles and beckons, light flickers on the wall.
‘Marta,’ he whispers.
She sits up, reaches for the lamp, cheek creased, hair a dark storm round her face.
‘We have to go,’ Mats whispers. He picks up the TV remote and switches off.
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
‘I heard you fighting,’ she says. ‘It is my fault?’
‘Come on.’
She rubs her eyes, pushes back her hair. ‘Your wife is throwing me out?’
‘Bring your things.’
The Squeeze Page 18