Saving April

by Sarah A. Denzil

  Great, that’s exactly what we don’t need, a gossipy old woman up in our business. “Ignore her, honey. Some people don’t have much of a life of their own so they spy on others’. So, are you excited about starting a new school in September?”

  At this question, I see her physically tense. A flush of heat spreads up to my face, she heard us arguing.

  She pokes at a blueberry and stares down at the bowl in front of her. “I don’t mind where I go to school.”

  “I know, sweetheart.” There’s a catch in my throat. I never meant for her to get mixed up in mine and Matt’s problems. I should learn by now how to hide it better, how to stop Matt from… from his rages.

  Chapter Five

  Hannah

  Sometimes I make deals with myself. I bribe myself. If I can get through the next ten minutes, the following ten minutes won’t be half as hard. Sometimes I reward myself by hiding in my bed until the fist seizing my chest lets up. Ten minutes at a time. Sometimes ten seconds. That’s how I live my life, surviving ten minutes at a time.

  The story is done and sent to the author. I’ll never make that mistake again. I’ll never accept a story that sets my mind spinning with images of blood and guts. Metal scraping against metal and the crunch of broken bones. Never again. I must be more careful when I choose my work. I know how those kinds of stories upset me.

  I had to shut the curtains and block out the street to force myself to work. Too often I find my attention shifting to the Masons’ house. I saw him come back a few hours after he stormed out. He had the same duffel bag, but his hair appeared damp, as though he’d showered at a gym or pool. There wasn’t any more shouting after he came back to the house, so I figured that they’d made up. Whatever they were arguing about, it sounded intense. I was actually surprised to see him return, I thought he’d gone for good. I was already wondering what would happen to the child. It’s always the children who suffer in a divorce. I should know.

  But no, the Mason husband came back, and I finished a difficult piece of work. For once, the Universe is throwing us a few bones on Cavendish Street. I find myself experiencing an emotion I’ve not felt for a while. Could it be hope? A smidgen of happiness? Whatever it is, I want to grasp it and clutch it tight in my fist, never letting go no matter how much it squirms around like a trapped bug. It’s a warm day, and for once I feel the need for fresh air, so I put on a short sleeve top and leave the house for the co-op, with heady visions of the chocolate aisle playing on my mind.

  I walk into the garden, lock the door, and make my way down the ginnel next to my house. All of these terraced streets have little alleyways that provide access to the back gardens. They are dark and grimy, but it’s better than tramping the street into your living room carpet. I faff around with my shoulder bag while I’m walking, checking I have my keys and phone for the fiftieth time.

  “Hello.”

  My head snaps up. It’s her, Laura Mason, standing and waving to me from across the street. Her husband has his back to me, locking the front door. Their child, April, leans against the front of their house, fingering the string from her hoody.

  “Hi,” I reply, feeling my face warm with embarrassment. All I can think about is how I stood next to the window listening to their row. April had waved to me from across the street. She knows. She’s a witness to my nosiness.

  “I’m Laura,” she says, offering me her hand to shake.

  How I loathe our British customs. Why do we need to touch at all? Why do friends and family insist on a kiss on the cheek? Why hugs? I like my personal space, thank you very much. But I take her hand and limply shake. “Hannah.”

  “You’re 73, right?” she says. “We moved in yesterday, so things are still a bit hectic. This is my husband, Matt, and our daughter, April.”

  I shake Matt’s hand. It’s huge, like a plumber’s hands. More like a bear paw. He smiles with a lopsided grin, but all I can think about is how I can imagine his face growing red with rage, and using those hands as weapons. I try to block out the thoughts. I know nothing about this man. It’s my imagination taking over again. It likes to do that. I glance back at Laura, who has on a yellow summer dress covered in large white polka dots, and her hair pulled back into a stylish bun. There are sunglasses pushed into her hair, expensive ones. She comes across like someone in complete control of everything.

  “April, say hello to Hannah,” Laura prompts.

  April barely pulls her gaze from her hoody strings. “Hello.” My eyes are drawn to her pale complexion and the dark eyes beneath her almost black hair. It could be my imagination, but I think I see red beneath her eyes. Perhaps the girl has been crying.

  “She’s shy,” Laura says with a tight, apologetic smile.

  “Nothing wrong with that,” I say a little too brightly, the pity for the girl urging me to defend her. “I was shy too. Still am, really. All the best people are.” I trail off, feeling my anxious urge to ramble taking over.

  “Well, we’re hoping the move might help her come out of her shell a little. Especially when she starts a new school.” Laura looks across at Matt and the two of them maintain a tense eye contact for a moment. Laura is the first to break it. There’s tightness in the way she holds herself that makes me wonder if their row this morning is really over.

  “Know anything about the schools round here?” Matt asks. “We’re trying to make some decisions at the moment.” He shoots Laura another hard glare and I begin to feel a little uncomfortable being around them both.

  “No,” I reply. “Sorry.” My muscles clench as I wait for the inevitable question: do you have children of your own. But of course, it doesn’t come. They’ve already seen that I live alone.

  “I’m sorry, Hannah, we’re holding you up. Are you on your way out somewhere? A spot of lunch, or a dinner date?”

  I laugh. “No, nothing like that. I’m on my way up to the co-op.” I cringe. “Not very glamorous, really.” I know they must have seen that I rarely go out. They must think I’m so small and boring.

  “Oh, that’s where we’re heading. Maybe we can walk with you?” Laura says, oblivious to my discomfort. “I’d love to know more about the area. How long have you lived here?”

  We start to make our way up the hill and I feel the pull on my weak leg muscles. A little sweat breaks out on my forehead, but it’s more like a cold sweat. I fold my arms around my chest as I consider their question. It’s not something I want to think about. I never want to be reminded why I moved to Cavendish Street in the first place.

  “Five years,” I say. I rub the back of my hand across my face. “I hadn’t realised it had been so long.” Five years of this life. Five long years of only ever talking to Edith, of taking short trips to the co-op, of shopping online rather than in the city centre.

  But has it been five years of that? Didn’t I have more of a life to begin with? Even with everything that happened. Five years ago has been lost to me in a haze of another life. It’s not tangible to me anymore. It’d may as well have happened to someone else.

  “Oh well, you must know all the best places.” Laura smiles, brightly. I’m envious of her ability to maintain that smile. Unlike my awkward self, she smooths over any bumps in conversation. But there are times when her smile is a bit frozen, or false. I shiver just thinking about what it’s like in the Mason household when that smile is gone completely. “Are there any nice restaurants?”

  I open and shut my mouth, trying to stall as I think as hard as I can. It’s a normal question that any normal person could answer about the area they’ve lived in for five years, but I’ve never eaten out while living in Cavendish Street. Not even at a café for tea and a muffin. As I struggle to answer, the anxiety begins to build up again. What if they realise I’m not normal? What if they see through me to what I really am?

  “I don’t go out very often I’m afraid. I’m not the best person to ask.”

  “I saw a nice Italian down the road from the co-op,” Matt says. “Al Forno, I thi
nk it was called. We’ll have to check it out, babe.” Matt reaches for Laura’s waist, but she pulls away. She tries to cover it up with a girlish giggle but Matt’s eyes become hard for a moment, and red flushes through his cheeks. He shakes his head and looks away.

  “Oh,” I say, trying to fill the awkward silence. “I forgot about that one. Yes, I think it’s probably very nice.”

  Laura manoeuvres herself closer to me and further away from Matt. “I work such long hours that I never get chance to go out anyway.” She laughs, but there’s little humour in it. “Poor Matt has to put up with me coming home at all hours.”

  “What do you do?” I ask.

  “I work in finance,” she replies, and there’s a glimmer in her eye that tells me she doesn’t really like working in finance and longs for a different life.

  Knowing nothing about the financial sector, I decide not to probe further.

  “What about you, Hannah?” Laura asks. It strikes me that she’s a person who needs to know what everyone does for a living. I imagine that it’s how she labels all the people she meets—important to unimportant, depending on their wage packet or status.

  “I’m a freelance editor,” I say, hearing the squeak of uncertainty in my voice. “So I work from home and get to read stories for a living. It’s not so bad.”

  “Do you work with a publisher?” Laura asks, probably hoping for me to say, “why yes, I’m on the books with Harper Collins and Random Penguin, don’t you know?”. I could tell her about my Fiverr account, or my People-Per-Hour profile, but somehow it’s not quite as impressive.

  “No, I work mainly with independent publishers and authors,” I reply.

  She nods, and a small, wry smile passes over her lips, as though I’ve just confirmed an opinion for her. A bristle works its way through my body as I realise I’m being judged. I know that my life is lame, but that doesn’t mean I want someone judging me about it.

  “How exciting,” she says.

  “Oh, not really.” I know she’s humouring me, and she knows she’s humouring me. Maybe she’s one of those people who grew up with really interesting parents that hung around with the London creative scene. Her accent sounds Southern. I bet she went to fondue parties as a kid and shook hands with Nobel prize winners. I shake the thought away. There goes my imagination again.

  “Well, Hannah, I think we’re the only women around our age on the street. Everyone else is at least twenty years older.” She tips her head back to laugh.

  “You’ve met Edith then?” I say, trying to sound funny and normal.

  She rolls her eyes. “Yes. She told us all about Derek.”

  All thought of humour dissipates. I’m left with a cold, clammy feeling over my skin. “She did?”

  “Yes, what a tragedy,” Laura says.

  “What’s this?” Matt interrupts.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Laura replies. She moves her head towards April in a fast motion as though trying to convey to Matt “not in front of the kid”.

  But Matt either ignores or fails to notice Laura’s signal. “Tell me now.” His back straightens and his bulging arms fold across his wide chest, making him appear even larger than before.

  “Matt.” Laura’s voice is stern and between gritted teeth. I look away, embarrassed. “Not in front of April.” She lowers her voice. “An old man died. In our house.”

  I’m uncomfortable, and it makes the anxiety spread through me. Gone is that feeling of accomplishment that I managed to get out of the house, that I’m having a good day. Now waves of sickness and panic are taking me over, and I’m forced to use all my willpower on keeping a straight face. Get through the next ten seconds. Seem like you’re normal. Don’t grimace. Now the next ten seconds. You won’t be sick. You won’t faint. It’s in your head.

  “What?” Matt is louder than his wife. “Why didn’t you tell me? Where?”

  “Where what, Matt?” Laura says, her eyes flashing furiously. “Let’s not talk about this now. Hannah, seeing as we’re pretty much the only two women on the street younger than fifty, do you fancy meeting for a glass of wine every now and then? I could pop round to yours with a bottle if you like.”

  Matt’s lips pull into a thin line, making me think that he doesn’t approve of this idea one little bit. But I feel too cornered to do anything but smile, nod, and say that it sounds like a lovely idea. I’m digging deep for more to say when a strange sense of silence washes over the street. And in that moment, April whips around and stops dead on the pavement. Her eyes are wide and ringed with red. For the first time, I realise how extraordinarily pale her skin is, and how paper-thin delicate the texture appears. There are fine hairs over her cheeks that catch the afternoon sun, making her glow. Looking at her delivers a punch to my gut, so hard that I could double over, but I force myself not to. She’s so young, and so beautiful, and everything I could have had.

  Then she opens her mouth, and she screams.

  Chapter Six

  Laura

  It happened on the street and everyone turned to stare. It took us at least five minutes to calm her down, during which Hannah made her excuses and scuttled home without even going to the shops. Now Matt isn’t talking to me, because he says I was too hard on her. I didn’t do anything, I just told her to pull herself together. There were people staring at us for God’s sake. One old woman—who looked a lot like one of Edith’s friends—came over and started asking if she was all right.

  “The more attention you give her, the more she’ll do it,” I hiss, as I grab hold of a trolley and dump my bag in it. April is lagging behind us, dragging her feet along, still sniffling. “You know that’s why she does it.”

  Matt moves closer to me, invading my space with his bulk. He leans towards me and I cringe away. “Do I? Or maybe, just maybe, she needs some help, Laura. This is why I want to send her to private school.”

  I make a disgusted sound. “Don’t try to emotionally blackmail me. Comprehensive schools can be just as good at dealing with behavioural problems—”

  “Oh really?” he raises his voice.

  There are people in the co-op gawking at us now. We’ve barely even made it inside before we stop to argue with each other in hushed tones that aren’t really fooling anyone.

  “You can’t think for even a second that she would be better off somewhere that specialises in helping kids like her?” Matt says, getting gradually louder. “You are so fucking selfish sometimes.”

  “I’m selfish? You only want her to go to private school because you’re a snob.” I start pushing the trolley away. “Have you forgotten where you came from—”

  “That’s exactly why I want a different life for her. Don’t you see that?”

  “You want the status, that’s what you want. And you want a life we can’t afford, that you can’t even pay for. I’m the one paying for everything, because you can’t be arsed to go out and get a job.”

  Matt’s eyes rage, but he shuts his mouth with an audible snap of his teeth. I’ve gone too far, I can feel it. My daughter walks along with her hands over her ears and tears prick at my eyes. I cover my mouth to smother a sob, and realise that my hands are shaking. What have I done?

  “April, would you like some chocolate, sweetheart? You can have whatever you like,” I say.

  She shakes her head, still covering her ears. Matt has his back to me, but the rest of the shop has turned to watch us, even the cashier women.

  “Matt, get her some of those chocolate stars she likes.” I place a hand on his shoulder, but it’s as hard as a rock, and as unyielding, too. I’m dangerously close to bursting into tears inside the co-op. “I’m sorry.”

  But Matt shrugs me away and walks off. I take hold of April’s hand, and follow him, pulling my daughter along behind me. What has happened to my family?

  Chapter Seven

  Hannah

  “She stood there screaming in the street.” Edith attacks an unruly dandelion weed with her trowel. “Then they had a right
old barney in the co-op. Alice saw it all. She said it was really strange. That girl just stood there, pale and skinny, screeching like a banshee. She said she’d never seen owt like it.” The dandelion comes up, but the root snaps in half, so Edith bends lower, scraping at the remainder of the weed. Her voice becomes strained with the effort, and I hear the phlegm building up in her chest. “Kids these days don’t know they’re born. My older sister saw all sorts during the war, and do you know what she did?” She looks up, waiting for me to respond. I shake my head. “She put up and shut up. Never talked about it, she didn’t. She was just a kid. Me dad, well, he never spoke about it. Mum said he didn’t come back right, but he never spoke about it.”

  I stare hard at the wine glass in my hand. “People still go through things they don’t talk about.”

  “Aye, but nowt like that.”

  I feel like pointing out that there are still wars around the world, but decide it’s best not to even bother. Despite being born a year or two before WW2 ended, Edith has a habit of telling everyone she meets that because they didn’t live through the war, they “don’t know they’re born” without even recognising the irony.

  “But then we don’t know what goes on, do we?” she continues. The last of the root is emerging from the soil, now. “I mean, the fella seems a bit of a wild one. He had another car outside the house yesterday. Spent all day revving it, he did. I wish he’d put his shirt on, for crying out loud.” She chucks the last of the root onto her weeding pile and straightens her back. “Pass us that glass of water would you, love.” She pulls off her gardening gloves and wipes a slick of sweat from her forehead. I pick up the water from the small outdoor table set up close to the house, and travel the few steps across to the flower bed. “You know, it’s good exercise this. You should try it sometime.” Her old blue eyes flicker with a combination of mischief and dislike. Edith likes to gossip, so she’ll talk to anyone, but I don’t think she actually likes me.