I liked going to school but I wasn’t sure I would like lessons from Reverend Rivers. He was strange. I would be too frightened to answer his questions. But I knew I mustn’t tell him so.
‘Yes, Father,’ I said.
‘You can’t call him that,’ Grace snapped. ‘He’s not your father.’
It wasn’t what I’d meant. I had said it because he was a priest. My father had been Pa. Father was a word for the church.
Reverend Rivers looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Where is your home?’ he asked.
‘London, Father.’ I bit my lip.
‘Yes, but which part of the city?’
‘Bethnal Green.’
‘And is your church in Bethnal Green?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘And what is its name?’
‘Our Lady of the Assumption.’
He nodded, as if I had answered something that he had been puzzling over. ‘So you are a Roman Catholic.’
I felt as if there was some sort of danger behind his questions but I didn’t know what it was. I nodded, to stop myself calling him Father again.
‘What’s Roman Catholic?’ asked Grace.
‘It’s another sort of church,’ said Reverend Rivers. ‘But Nora says she likes to learn. She’ll soon get used to it.’
After lunch I helped Mrs Rivers with the dishes. Even that was different to the way we did it at home, heating water on the fire and taking care not to burn our fingers when we first dipped the dishes into it. At the rectory hot water came straight out of the tap, splashing down into the sink. Mrs Rivers took one plate at a time, slid it into the water and rubbed it clean, then laid it on the draining board. I stood next to her, holding each piece of china very carefully as I dried it with a cloth and put it on the table. It was thin enough to make me nervous. Grace dashed about noisily, stacking pans and throwing cutlery into drawers.
I kept quiet, watching Mrs Rivers. I was close enough to smell her lemon scent. She seemed out of place at the kitchen sink, blowing away the strands of hair that fell into her eyes as she bent over it. As the pile of things to be washed grew smaller and the stack on the draining board rose, a layer of yellowish grease formed on the surface of the water. The sight of her long, fine fingers dipping into it seemed somehow wrong. I remembered how they had felt on my forehead the night before. I liked Mrs Rivers. I moved closer to her.
‘Miss,’ I said. ‘Miss, I could finish the dishes for you.’
Mrs Rivers was staring out of the window and didn’t seem to have heard me.
‘Miss,’ I said again, and tugged at her sleeve. She looked down at me and for a moment it was as if she didn’t know who I was. Then she recovered herself.
‘What did you say, dear?’
Now that I had her attention I felt foolish. I couldn’t tell her that I thought her hands were too good for the grease. I mumbled that I could finish the dishes if she liked. She smiled.
‘You’re a good girl, Nora,’ she said, taking the tea towel from me and drying her hands on it. ‘Your mother would be proud of you.’
I blushed at the idea that Mrs Rivers might think I was good. I didn’t think Ma would be proud of me, not after the way I had been with her the day before. Mrs Rivers took my hands in hers. I could feel the grease from the dishes on them like a second skin.
‘We’ll finish these together and then I shall help you write to your mother,’ she said. ‘You must tell her that you’re safe. She’ll be worried about you.’
And so, when all the pretty china had been put away in the dresser and each pan hung on its hook, Mrs Rivers took off her apron and went to find a pencil. I ran upstairs to fetch the postcard that the teacher had given me and then we sat at the kitchen table to write to Ma. Grace was full of suggestions.
‘Say you’ve found a sister,’ she said.
‘Hush, Grace,’ said Mrs Rivers. ‘Don’t be tiresome. Nora can decide what to write for herself.’
Grace put her elbows on the table, propped up her chin with her hands and rolled her eyes at me. I stared down at the small piece of card. I couldn’t have written about any of it, even if Mrs Rivers and Grace hadn’t been there. The things I wanted to tell Ma would have filled a book but I didn’t have any of the words. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry for how I’d been with her. I wanted to say that all I wanted was to lie in bed with her curled around me like always, feeling safe. I wanted her to know about the bleeding. But at the same time as wanting to tell her those things, I wanted to punish her by keeping them to myself. I put my arm around the card and bent my head close to it. I told her I was staying at a rectory and that the weather was good. It was the truth, but not all of it and I may just as well have written nothing. When I had finished, I laid down my pencil and pushed the postcard away. Mrs Rivers picked it up.
‘There,’ she said. ‘Your mother will be pleased to know you’re safe. Grace will take you to the village to post it.’
On our way to the village we went through a garden behind the rectory that was filled with plants set out neatly in rows. The straight lines reminded me of the streets at home. Butterflies flitted about them, little wisps of colour dancing in the still air of the afternoon. I couldn’t see what it was about the plants that attracted them. They weren’t bright like the ones in the front gardens I’d seen the day before, but solid and practical looking, creeping close to the ground.
‘What are they?’ I asked Grace.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What sort of plants are they? Why are there so many of them? Why haven’t they got any flowers?’
Grace stared at me like she had when I sniffed at the roses, as if she couldn’t believe I didn’t know.
‘They’re vegetables,’ she said. ‘You know, things like carrots. Or potatoes. We had some of the carrots for lunch.’
I hadn’t ever thought of where vegetables came from. Ma and I bought them from the barrow on the corner of our street. My mouth began to water at the memory of lunch and although I was still full from it, my stomach rumbled.
‘Will you show me?’ I said.
She giggled. ‘If you like.’
She led me into a long tunnel of plants that wound themselves up canes towards the sky. Sunlight rippled through the leaves, throwing shadows on her face. She felt amongst the foliage.
‘They’re almost finished,’ she said. ‘It’s the end of the season.’
She felt a little further. ‘Here you are!’
She held out something green, the size and shape of a finger.
‘What is it?’
She drew her thumbnail down its side, then flattened it out.
‘There you are. Peas.’
I took one and put it in my mouth. It tasted of sunshine and sweetness. I was amazed.
‘Wait until October,’ she said. ‘We’ll go bramble picking so Mummy can make a pie.’
She set off again, making her way to the end of the tunnel, and then we climbed over a fence into a field. It was like being transported into the view that I had seen from the train. Fields were all about us, spreading for miles, like a quilt made out of patchwork, crisscrossed with hedges. A flock of sheep grazed on a hill in the distance, moving slowly about it like clouds. The sun was still high in the sky and I felt it on my face as we walked along, the grass tickling my feet through my sandals. Birds twittered like they had done that morning, little bursts of happy song.
‘It’s beautiful!’ I said.
‘I’ll show you all of it,’ said Grace. ‘We’re going to have fun.’
By the time we had been to the village to post the card in the letterbox, the weather had changed. Clouds gathered in the sky as we came back along the track and by the time we reached the churchyard, it had started to rain. My uniform became sodden and heavy with water. As we stood dripping in the kitchen I heard the sound of a piano. I had never heard a piano being played without someone singing next to it but now there was no voice, just notes, hundreds of them, coming so quickly that I almo
st expected them to trip up over one another. I was too shy to ask where the music was coming from. I had asked too many questions that day. But as if she knew what I was thinking, Grace said, ‘It’s Mummy. She does it every day. She plays for hours and hours, the same things over and over.’
I found it hard to believe that music like this came from Mrs Rivers’ calm, cool hands.
‘Can we see her?’ I asked.
‘We’ll have to be quiet. She doesn’t like to be disturbed.’
I followed Grace to another new door and waited as she turned the doorknob and put her finger to her lips. We stood in the doorway watching Mrs Rivers. Her eyes were closed and she swayed as her hands moved like scurrying animals over the keys. That was where they belonged, I thought, not in a sink filled with greasy water. On the piano they were quick and alive. Mrs Rivers looked as if she were somewhere else, somewhere she would much rather be.
‘That’s why I wanted to stay at school,’ Grace whispered. ‘Mummy and Father don’t talk much. She’s either digging in the garden or playing the piano, like now. He’s in church or his study. It’s as if they don’t even notice I’m here.’
She grinned at me suddenly, and it was as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud.
‘But now you’re here. If I’ve got you none of it matters.’
Five
AS I GOT READY FOR ROSE’S ARRIVAL, I FELT BETTER THAN I had done in months, full of hope and purpose. It would be a new start. I hummed as I cleaned the house, starting at the top as my mother had taught me. I could almost hear her giving me instructions.
Don’t take the dirt up with you, Nora; always bring it down.
There was plenty of dirt to collect. I hadn’t cleaned since my illness had begun. Dust had settled like a layer of grey snow on the skirting boards, blunting the edges of furniture and gathering in balls under beds. Spiders hung shrivelled in corners. I’d always liked cleaning, putting things in order. I went into rooms that had been closed up for months, where the air was warm and still as if the last of the summer heat was hiding there, avoiding the autumn. I threw open the windows, letting in the breeze.
I had missed being busy. In the top floor bedroom, I took a rag and wiped away the dust, watching it curl across the cloth in thick crests. I wrestled open the tin of beeswax and spread it over the chest of drawers and the little rosewood bookshelf, working it into the grain. I brought up a bottle of vinegar and cleaned the window with a newspaper, then put sheets and blankets on the bed and smoothed them down neatly. I swept the floor and shook the rug out of the window.
When I had finished, I stood for a while, looking out over the rooftops and down into gardens, little summer spaces where families cooked food on barbecues at weekends, drinking bottles of beer and sunbathing on plastic chairs, listening to music on the radio. Children splashed in colourful paddling pools, shrieking and laughing as they flicked water at each other.
My own garden was tangled and overgrown. Like the house, it had had no-one but me in it for a very long time. We could clear it out, I thought. The baby could play in it. I could plant flowers again to brighten it up. I wondered if there were any left that I could pick to put in Rose’s room.
I walked about, peering into tangled bushes and borders. The consequences of my neglect were evident. The garden was wild and the grass had gone to seed. Convolvulus had spread everywhere, choking whatever dared stand in its way. The only things of beauty were the statues, the Three Graces, bought at a house clearance in Suffolk on a whim. Ivy wound around their alabaster ankles as if it were trying to pull them down into the underworld and algae rose up their thighs like a rash, but they were tougher than they looked. They had withstood the weather for decades and rejected the many advances of vandals. They had heard my confessions, their blank faces never passing judgement. I had wept at their feet, their stone skin soaking up my tears.
‘We’re going to have company,’ I told them. ‘Another Grace.’
The beauties went on staring silently into the distance as I made my way around the garden, trying to find something suitable. No flowers seemed to have survived the summer, so I turned back towards the house. But as I picked my way along what was left of the path, a bird began to sing and I looked up to see it. Peering towards the trees, I noticed a rambling rose growing up a trellis. There was one red flower left and it was within reach.
A rose for a Rose, I thought, and smiled.
I reached up, fitted my fingers between the thorns and snapped it off. I carried it back to the house in triumph, holding it up in front of me like a bridal bouquet.
Next, I put together afternoon tea. I’d gone shopping that morning, walking the extra distance to the Casablanca Convenience Stores. I discovered it many years ago, attracted by the name. The film was the closest I ever got to Africa, but stepping inside was enough to spark my imagination. The music on the battered radio was from another world and the mix of smells, of coffee and spices, tomatoes and meat, made my senses quiver. The vegetables arranged in boxes on the pavement outside were an education.
The supermarket close to the house had long queues and bored assistants. In the Casablanca Convenience Stores I was often the only customer. There was no need for name badges when the staff never changed. The same man had been running it for more than twenty years. He smiled when I came through the door and I smiled back, pleased to be shopping for an occasion.
I wandered around the shop, picking up a loaf of soft white bread, a slab of butter and a box of Darjeeling teabags. I went outside to get some tomatoes. They were juicy and plump, still linked together on the vine and smelling of summer. As I was looking at them, the shopkeeper came up behind me.
‘They’re good today,’ he said.
He ran expert fingers over the tomatoes, squeezing them and putting them to his nose to sniff. He picked a couple out.
‘These are the best.’
I was eager to tell him about Rose. ‘I’ll need a few more than usual,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a visitor. I’m making afternoon tea.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Then you should take some cakes as well.’
He took me to the bakery counter. Little pastries were laid out neatly in rows.
‘Taste this,’ he said, handing me one, dusted with sugar and topped with nuts.
It wasn’t like the cake I remembered at afternoon tea, solid and often rather heavy. This was light, almost dissolving on my tongue. There was no rule about what sort of cake to serve, I decided. It didn’t have to be traditional.
He put the cakes into a little box that he tied up with string and put with the rest of my things into a plastic bag.
When I got home, I put the box of teabags next to the stove and filled the kettle, ready for when she arrived. I poured milk into a jug and arranged the cakes on a plate. I buttered the end of the loaf and sliced it as thinly as I could without tearing it, six times. I cut off the crusts and put pieces of tomato between the slices, sprinkling salt and pepper over them.
This is real life, I thought. This is what people do.
It was a long time since I’d had a visitor. I hoped I’d get it right. I put the tea-things on a tray. The crockery was chipped and stained and my old bone-handled cake forks, unearthed especially for the occasion, were covered with smears. I began to polish them with a soft cloth, rubbing them clean.
Be careful, I told myself. Don’t let your guard down. Don’t give anything away.
When the doorbell rang, I made my way along the passage, smoothing my hair with my hands. I stood very still for a moment, gathering my nerves, then took a deep breath and opened the door. Rose stood on the step, a bulging holdall hanging from her shoulder and two shopping bags at her feet. She was wearing a cheap-looking pair of trousers and her usual black vest. The trousers were too short for her and flapped about her ankles. Her feet were bare, slipped into plastic sandals. She was clutching the baby, who was asleep, wrapped up in what looked like an old sweater.
I smiled. ‘Hello again.�
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‘Hello,’ she said shyly. ‘Are you sure about this?’
I wasn’t, but she didn’t need to know it. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Come in.’
Although she had only come from across the street, it was as if she were from another world. Surrounded by my old furniture, she looked younger than ever. She perched on the edge of her seat like a restless bird, ready to fly off at the slightest suggestion of danger. I watched her look about the room, taking in her surroundings, forming an impression.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ I said. ‘A cup of tea, perhaps?’
She answered quickly. ‘Okay.’
I hurried to the kitchen and lit the gas. While the water was coming to the boil, I kept myself busy, taking napkins from the drawer and folding them neatly, adding them to the tray. When the water was ready, I poured some into the teapot, swirling it about to warm it up. The little ritual calmed me. I dropped in the teabags and filled the teapot to the top, then picked up the tray and carried it through to the sitting room.
Rose was feeding the baby, looking down at her with soft eyes. The teaspoons clattered in their saucers as I came through the door and she flinched.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sounding flustered. ‘She was crying. I think she was hungry.’
‘That’s all right. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’ll pour the tea. You can drink it when you’re ready.’
I listened to the sound of the baby snuffling as she suckled. When she had finished feeding, Rose reached awkwardly for her tea. I watched her try not to spill it as she lifted the cup over Grace’s head. Her nervousness made me warm to her.
‘Would you like me to hold her so you can eat?’ I said. ‘You must be hungry.’
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘I’d like it very much.’
I held out my arms and she lowered the baby down into them. She fitted easily into the crook of my arm, light enough for me to hold without effort as she nestled against me. I laid my hand on her head, feeling her wispy hair and the perfect shape of her skull, marvelling at how small it was. But the next minute I felt a stab of pain so sharp that it made me want to fling her to the floor. I was suddenly revolted by the little mass of flesh in my arms, jealous of how much time she had left to live. For a moment, I wanted to destroy her.
Days of Grace Page 5