by K. L. Slater
‘I only do Wednesday afternoons at the library,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m sure I could find a bit more spare time to help out with the project.’
‘That would be brilliant, Rose.’ Gareth’s eyes stayed on her longer than they ought to, seeing as he was supposed to be watching the road. She held her breath until he turned his attention back there. ‘This project is going to get the whole village back on its feet and it would be so great to have you be a part of that.’
‘I really hope you’re right,’ Rose said, suddenly feeling a little downcast. ‘My dad is a shadow of the man he used to be. The day they closed the pit, he started to fade.’
‘He hasn’t found another job yet?’
Rose shook her head. ‘It’s not through lack of years of trying but there’s just nothing going around here.’
Gareth took a sharp right turn and Rose saw they were suddenly in a car park. In the end, the journey to Mansfield had seemed to take no time at all. They’d chatted easily and now she felt much more relaxed. Even her face felt a normal colour again.
Gareth turned off the engine.
‘I am right about the village improvements. Hopefully, you’ll learn to trust my judgement.’ He winked and she felt the heat begin to crawl into her neck again. ‘Stick with me and your life will get better. Do you think you can you do that? Can you trust me, Rose?’
‘Well – yes, I think so.’ She faltered under his intense stare, wondering if this meant he was already planning to invite her on another date.
Later, when she replayed their conversation in her mind, she would think it was a rather strange thing for him to ask, seeing as they had only just met.
16
ROSE
PRESENT DAY
On Fridays, the library is only open in the afternoon, from two until six o’clock, so I decide I’ll put the morning to good use and continue my surprise sprucing up of Ronnie’s house.
Last night, despite feeling quite tired, I’d enjoyed making a difference and had worked until fairly late next door before coming home.
Often my empty evenings stretch on a bit, which is why I tend to go to bed early most nights if I’m not watching something on television. It’s surprising how slowly the hands of the clock can turn when you’ve nobody to discuss your day with or put the world to rights with over a glass of wine.
I suppose I ought to be used to it by now. Still, it made a change for the hours to fly by like they did last night.
I fed Tina, Ronnie’s cat, and then started in the kitchen, wiping down all the worktops and cupboard doors. I thought about emptying the cupboards and wiping out the shelves but I worried that might be overstepping the mark a bit. I didn’t want Ronnie to feel like I’d been intrusive while he wasn’t home.
Besides, I could see, after a cursory glance, that some of the cupboards were stuffed to the brim with all sorts of bizarre items – balls of wool, unopened packets of brand-new clothing pegs and sewing materials – they must’ve been stuck there, frozen in time since Sheila’s death five years ago.
After I’d cleaned and wiped everything down, I mopped the kitchen floor and then closed the door behind me, leaving it to dry.
In the small hallway, I pulled out the compact cylinder vacuum cleaner from the understairs cupboard and moved into the living room.
After dusting, plumping cushions and finally vacuuming the patched, threadbare carpet, I resolved that, the next day, I’d pull back the heavy velvet drapes and throw open the windows. It would feel good to get some fresh air circulating in the place.
And now, this morning, it’s time to finish the job.
I step out into my small garden and inhale the early morning dank, earthy air. It’s not altogether unpleasant; I’ve happy memories of playing here when I was younger.
I remember various family birthday gatherings out here with beef burgers and warm soda pop, the adults sitting on uncomfortable striped, metal-framed deckchairs that Dad had crammed on to our small, marshy lawn.
Those were the days when he was still working at the pit and overtime was regular and plentiful. Even when the pit closed, there was a sense that things would turn around somehow.
Like generations before him, Dad assumed his whole future was mapped out, working for the National Coal Board, the NCB, as it was called back then, and then retiring on a nice comfortable pension. Every penny of it honestly earned by tens of thousands of hours spent filthy and overheating, slogging more than three thousand feet underground, on the coalface.
Mum liked being in the garden. She kept the borders full of burgeoning colour from springtime onwards and she’d mow the lawn with her little orange Flymo. She was a creative soul, happiest planting in the garden or baking in the kitchen.
I just about manage to keep the yard tidy these days but I haven’t got Mum’s green fingers, or her creativity.
I step through the gate into Ronnie’s garden where it’s a different story altogether. His back yard is entirely concreted over. I remember him doing it himself some years back.
‘Grass is just too much trouble,’ he’d grumbled to Dad over the low fence. ‘Better to be living life than breaking your back in the garden, eh, Ray?’
They’d laughed and Dad had agreed but he’d wrinkled his nose at Mum when Ronnie had gone back inside.
‘Lazy bugger,’ Dad had complained. ‘Doesn’t take much to keep a postage stamp of grass tidy, does it?’
‘Doesn’t take you very long but it takes a good bit of my time,’ Mum had pointed out.
Now the concrete in Ronnie’s yard is dirty and deep cracks radiate out from the centre like disused roads on an expired map.
I let myself in next door and feel gratified that, after yesterday’s cleaning spree, the kitchen looks as fresh and clean as I’ve seen it in years.
After opening the small window located next to the oven, I take the stripy rug I’d set going in the washing machine last night and peg it out on the clothes line just outside the back door. The air is crisp and breezy today, so I know it won’t take long to dry.
In the living room, I pull open the curtains as far as they’ll go and open the top two windows.
It occurs to me that maybe I ought to have a word with Ronnie about exchanging these heavy velvet drapes for some short, neat curtains made from a lighter fabric.
I’d be happy to go shopping with him to buy some new soft furnishings but I have a sneaky feeling he won’t want to change… too many memories of Sheila lie preserved in the dust and folds.
I stand at the bottom of the stairs looking up, clutching my bag of cleaning products, and I spot that a thorough vacuum is also long overdue up here.
I’ve never thought about how Ronnie copes keeping this house shipshape. Like most couples of Ronnie and Sheila’s age, their roles in the home remained traditional for most of their married life, and Sheila was a formidable housewife, taking much pride in keeping her home pristine and in good order.
He must have felt completely out of his comfort zone when she died, and he let things slide while he grappled with his grief.
I begin to climb up to the first floor, deciding I’ll vacuum the stairs later. It’s only half way up that my feet stop moving and Ronnie’s words echo in my head.
‘Don’t go upstairs’ were the last words he’d whispered before they carried him off on a stretcher.
I think I know why he said that. More than likely, it’s because it’s in a bit of a state up here and he feels embarrassed that I might see it. Trust Ronnie to be worrying what people think of him when he should only be concerned with getting himself well again.
Of course, I wouldn’t want to glaringly defy Ronnie’s explicit instructions but I really do need to freshen up the bathroom for his return. The dreadful smell yesterday had been testament to the fact that Ronnie had obviously been ill in here, prior to me finding him. As much as the thought of it turns my stomach, I need to bleach the loo and mop the floor at the very least.
Fortunately, t
he tiny bathroom window has been left wedged open overnight so the air isn’t as bad as I expected in here.
I whisk a good dose of bleach around the toilet bowl and leave it to do its work, and then I clean both the sink and the bath.
My heart squeezes in on itself when I spot a cluster of dated, feminine toiletries crowded into one corner of the bathtub.
It’s another legacy of Sheila from which it seems poor Ronnie just can’t bear to move on.
17
ROSE
PRESENT DAY
I leave the bathroom, intending to pop downstairs to the kitchen to fetch the mop and bucket to give the lino a good dousing, when I notice that Ronnie’s bedroom door is ajar.
Just like my own house, the main bedroom overlooks the road while the smaller second bedroom is tucked away at the back.
Curiosity gets the better of me and I decide to take a little peek in Ronnie’s bedroom. I know he’d be embarrassed if he were here now but I so want the whole house to be nice for his return. Changing the bed and airing the room will make a difference, especially if he needs to rest up for a while after he’s discharged.
I push open the door slightly and peer around. Good old Ronnie, he’s made his bed and it’s quite tidy, considering. I can vacuum in here when I do the rest of the upstairs but for now I just crack open a window to get the air circulating.
Back on the landing, I see that the second bedroom door is firmly closed.
If Ronnie is anything like me, his spare room is probably a bit of a dumping ground, used for storing stuff. More clutter that should have been thrown away years ago, I suppose.
I might as well take a quick look and then I’ll have seen the whole house and know exactly what needs to be done.
I head across the landing, open the door a little and stick my head in.
I can’t help smiling. I was right; Ronnie is definitely using his spare room as a bit of a dumping ground. In fact, I think it might even be in a worse state than mine, which is saying something.
Boxes upon boxes of stuff. It all looks undisturbed and I wonder when the last time was that Ronnie looked in here or actually needed anything.
I jump slightly as I hear a shuffle and a thump behind me.
‘Oh! It’s just you, Tina,’ I say to the cat and she stares back at me accusingly. ‘Yes, I know. Ronnie told me not to come upstairs and here I am. Well, this is just between us, OK? Come on, let’s go downstairs and get you some food.’
I reach for the door handle to pull the door closed again and Tina bolts past me, swiftly disappearing amongst the stacked boxes.
I huff and head downstairs, leaving the door open. I reckon she’ll come out when she’s ready.
Thirty minutes later, I’ve vacuumed the stairs and the landing and Tina is still ensconced in there. I wind up the cable of the vacuum and stand in the doorway, hands on my hips.
‘Time to come out now, Tina,’ I say to her, beyond the boxes.
A shuffle, a scratch and then silence. I begin to wonder if she’s got a mouse back there. There’s a bit of a funny smell but that could just be the fact the room remains closed up most of the time.
The window is over on the far side, a barrier of boxes and stuffed bin bags blocking its access. If Ronnie hardly comes in here, then it’s hardly worth breaking my neck to let some air in.
‘Tina?’
Silence.
I imagine her crouching there, taking a perverse enjoyment from my impatience, in the way that cats so often do. Such mutiny calls for desperate measures. I head downstairs and return with a cat treat from a bag I spotted on the kitchen worktop.
I whistle and click my tongue, waft the treat in the air a bit to tempt Tina but she’s staying put.
‘OK, have it your way.’ I sigh, turning to leave.
I can leave the spare room door open and let her come out when she’s ready. But then it occurs to me that I don’t actually know what’s in all those boxes. Perhaps Ronnie leaves this particular door closed for a reason.
I don’t want him unexpectedly arriving home when I’m at work and finding Tina has ruined fabrics or scratched his sentimental keepsakes.
But if I leave the door open, Ronnie will know I’ve been in here snooping – which I haven’t been really, but it could easily look that way.
I step inside and pull out a few boxes to carve a channel further into the room towards the centre, where I heard Tina scuffling. If I can only spot the little pest, I can grab her and whisk her out of here. Then Ronnie won’t be any the wiser.
Most of the boxes are the sort you pick up free from under the supermarket counter. They’re not proper packing boxes with interlocking upper flaps, so I’m able to see the contents of most of them as I pull them out.
Yellowing newspapers, no doubt containing articles that were once of interest to Ronnie or Sheila, lots of old, fusty-smelling clothes and boxes full of photographs in yellow and red Kodak envelopes and a couple of boxes full of old cables that now look positively antiquated.
It’s fairly safe to assume, I think, that Ronnie hasn’t thrown anything out for the past decade at least.
I see a flash of tawny fur as Tina burrows deeper into the room, behind yet another stacked box. I pull it out and swipe down quickly, grasping Tina as gently as I can, while she emits an indignant yowl.
‘You didn’t really think you’d get the better of me, did you, madam?’
I try my best to dodge her extended claws and hold her in front of me as I turn to wade back out of the room but I’m not quite quick enough and she catches my forearm with a hooked talon, leaving a nasty red welt.
‘Oww!’ As I stumble, I kick against a small box that has actually got closed cardboard flaps. It tips and the contents scatter on to the floor.
Keeping a grip on Tina, I step over the mess, resolving to come back in here and tidy up once I’ve got her downstairs again.
A small triangle of red fabric catches my eye.
There’s something about the texture of it… the colour…
The world stands still for a second and my heartbeat relocates in my head.
My brain makes an instant match. It looks just like—
‘Billy’s blankie,’ I whisper so faintly I wonder if I said the words out loud.
I’m vaguely aware of Tina hissing and jumping from my arms and I realise I’ve been holding her too tightly.
I bend down and touch the exposed edge of the fabric with my fingertip. Brushed fleece. So soft.
I sway slightly. As my centre of gravity deserts me, I sink to my knees next to the box.
Taking hold of the edge of the small triangle with my finger and thumb, I gently tug at the fabric. The body of the small, red blanket rises up from underneath the other stuff in there and then I’m holding it in my hands.
I stare at it. There are pale patches where the colour has faded.
I lift it to my face and inhale.
There are a lot of red blankets out there, says the voice in my head. This could be another blanket that just looks like Billy’s.
It’s possible, I think, as I tighten my grip.
And then I see it, right there in the corner. The little gold ‘B’ embroidered by Mum. Purposely designed to be discreet enough not to embarrass him but to aid identification of the blanket, if ever it were lost.
Mum’s efforts did the job she intended. There is no doubt about it; this is my brother’s blanket.
The one he took out with him for our little picnic at the abbey.
The one the police never found.
The one Billy had with him the day he died.
18
ROSE
PRESENT DAY
Concealed for years below the packets of tissues and folded pillowcases, my brother’s blanket lies now in my lap.
I don’t know exactly how long I’ve been sitting here on the floor, in Ronnie’s spare room. The light looks a bit different and it feels harder to breathe in the thickened air.
I ha
ven’t got my watch on but it must’ve been hours. Work briefly enters my mind and drifts back out again.
I’m trapped in a parallel universe where nothing makes any sense. Where, if I don’t shake myself out of it, day might merge into night, as real life is suspended.
I am in a space where the impossible happens.
I look down at Billy’s blanket.
We searched for weeks. The villagers, the police and people from surrounding areas. Even after they found Billy’s body, we were told it was vital to the investigation to find his blanket.
And that’s when I think maybe I shouldn’t have touched it. This is no longer my brother’s comfort piece; it is evidence. Crucial evidence that may contain traces of a killer.
Ronnie’s face flashes into my mind.
I think back just a few months ago when he accompanied me to Billy’s grave, as he’s done every single year since Mum and Dad passed on.
It used to be me, Sheila and Ronnie but when she died, Ronnie and I continued to visit Billy every year at the cemetery.
Sometimes it’s not on the day he was found, it might be on the day we had his funeral. It doesn’t matter, so long as we remember.
Years ago, when we first lost him, I had to force myself to cut down the number of visits. The therapist said it was for the best, that I was in danger of seriously delaying my recovery. But it had been Ronnie’s own words that really struck home.
‘You can’t live life constantly visiting the dead, Rose,’ he’d said gently when he came round to visit me in the darkened room I barely left for over a year after my parents died. ‘Billy was full of life. He would never have wanted this.’
And through the smog of grief that had suffocated me for so long, the truth in Ronnie’s words broke through like a shining beacon of light and I instinctively knew he was right.
Ronnie Turner didn’t destroy life; on the contrary, he saved it.
He had helped me to live. He’d helped us all through, as we struggled to survive after Billy… there’s no way he could have had anything to do with my brother’s death.