A Life Between Us

by Louise Walters

  He was embarrassed by his wife – her strange ways, her odd ideas, the endless melodrama. He didn’t believe for one moment that she was serious about her intention to kill Lucia. She’d seemed serious when she’d mentioned it, but it was hard to tell with Tina. She was easily led, by a dead little girl. He shuddered. He checked the secret mobile phone. Nothing. Yet.

  He took four deep breaths, slipped into his most laconic smile and went downstairs and hugged his wife.

  There was desperation in his body, a tenseness that had not been there before. He was a good husband and an undemanding but giving lover, and usually in bed they were comfortable and open with each other. Any tenseness had been in her, up until now. She was embarrassed by her weight, usually. But tonight it was all in him, and she said nothing and afterwards they cuddled until he fell asleep, which didn’t take long. He was exhausted. Something must have happened at work, something he hadn’t mentioned, something important. For the first time she doubted her husband. He was a long way away from her. Perhaps he’d changed his mind at the last minute about leaving his job. His reasons were… ponderous, at least. She wondered if he had in fact been dismissed. If so, for what? He was as straight as a die and she couldn’t think of a reason for any dismissal, not one. Could it have anything to do with his assistant? No. Of course not. Still, she was glad he was leaving. He’d got stuck in a bit of a rut and his absorption in his own issues stopped him from talking too much about hers. She wasn’t in the mood to be nagged at. It was a relief not to be questioned too much.

  She supposed it might be her fault, with all this Meg stuff, all these years he had borne with her, humouring her when she spoke of Meg in the present tense, realising, she thought, from an early stage of their relationship how she felt about her lost twin. Rarely had he criticised her. Often he’d tried talking to her, wanting to understand. But she had never really allowed herself to be drawn out.

  She could not sleep. She rose from the bed and tiptoed downstairs and found Meg sitting at the kitchen table, grinning at her.

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Tina. ‘Who let you in?’

  ‘That’s a fine way to talk to your twin. All right, sis?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Is Keaton up to something or what?’

  ‘How would you know? You’ve never met him.’

  ‘Ha, clever. Something’s going on. All those glossy holiday brochures he brought back the other day. And why’s he leaving his job? I thought he was supposed to love working there? He’s sorry for something, I’m telling you.’

  ‘Nothing is going on. Only that I’ve made a decision.’

  ‘Tell me! Tell me! What decision? You’re going to chuck Keaton at long last?!’

  ‘No. Why on earth would I do that? For once and for all, Keaton is the best thing that ever happened to me. Please get that into your thick head.’

  ‘All right, keep your hair on. What is it then?’

  ‘All right. I’m going to kill Lucia. Will that do?’

  Meg cried and cried. Never had Tina witnessed such a release of relief in any living person or dead, and Meg dissolved in her own tears and Tina stood alone and shaking in the kitchen, the hum of the fridge the only noise, the only comfort.

  Thirty-seven

  March 2014

  Simone paid the driver and stepped from the taxi. The car drove off with an impatient squeal of its tyres and she turned towards Lane’s End House. It looked much the same as it always had. Perhaps the hedges were more overgrown than they once had been. Perhaps the trees were a little taller. Perhaps there was more abundant ivy coiling over and about the house. She put her hand on the gate and took a deep breath, then another. The gate was still cold and weathered to the touch. She pushed it open and closed it softly behind her. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself too soon. She had half expected to see her sweet little nieces playing hopscotch in the lane or skulking around the fruit trees at the top of the garden or running across the lawn to meet her. She had been popular with the girls. Of course those days were long gone, but for one of them, she hoped, it was not too late. She wanted to be her Tante Simone again. She hoped, for her and Edward also, it was not too late.

  She took the steps leading up to the front door in her graceful stride, and was dismayed, but not surprised, to see the old knocker still hanging there. It had always made such an awful noise throughout the house. Its shuddering whump could shake the dead. But there was no bell, no other means of summoning the inhabitants. She raised the tarnished knocker, closed her eyes, counted to three, and let it swing back.

  She waited, calm and measured. So long in the planning, this moment no longer held any terror for her. The nerves were spent. She felt nothing but determination and righteousness.

  Wednesday 12th January 1977

  Dear Elizabeth

  I hope you had a good Christmas. Mine was all right. I had a set of Secret Seven books from Lucia which I don’t really like. Meg likes them best so I’m letting her read them. On Christmas Day I was hoping my mum would visit and bring me a present but she didn’t. Dad gave me a card with some money in it. He gave me £5. He also gave me some felt tips and a colouring book but I’m too old for colouring books. Mum sent me a card too and it was exactly the same one that my dad gave me! Isn’t that funny? It says Merry Christmas to a Dear Daughter on it. Mum also sent me a letter and a £5 note. In her letter she told me she has a new job and is looking for a flat. Then she wants me to go and live with her but I don’t know about that. I haven’t told anybody all the things she wrote. I’ve put the letter on the fire because I know Aunty Lucia reads other people’s letters and I don’t want her to read what my mum said to me. Granny gave me a doll she cries real tears. I don’t really like it. I don’t like dolls that much any more. Uncle Edward gave me book tokens for £3 which I am looking forward to spending and he gave me a selection box with some of my favourite sweets in. It had a packet of Spangles! They are just as nice as Tooty Frooties. Before we broke up from school for the Christmas holidays we had a party and we played games and watched cartoons in the hall we watched Tom and Jerry on a projector it was really good fun and we had crisps and nuts and cheese and sausages and jelly. Father Christmas came with a sack with presents for every kid. I had a book called The Secret Garden which I haven’t read yet but will soon. I am back at school now after the holidays and so we haven’t had a chance to go shopping yet with my book tokens. School is better this term because Sharon Kite has been expelled. Three days before we broke up for Christmas she dunked my nice friend Karen’s head in one of the outdoor toilets and she flushed it and Karen is nice she brought me the sweets I told you about and it was really mean of Sharon and Karen’s mum and dad complaned to the school and Sharon has gone. She missed the Christmas party which serves her right. Do you remember the American girl I told you about, Kimberly? She was Sharon’s friend for a while but now she is my friend again and I am going to her house for tacos tomorrow night. They were very tasty last time. She told me she didn’t like Sharon after all and I’m a much better friend. I didn’t want to go back to school after Christmas but on my first day back Uncle Edward told me to be brave and to try to acept that there is something to live for. It is a new year he said and we both have to look forwords. He was sad and so was I but he smiled at me and cuddled me and I felt a bit better. Meg wispered I should cuddle him back so I did.

  We haven’t had any snow this year but it is cold. I hope we have snow next Christmas.

  Love from Tina x

  Thirty-eight

  March 2014

  ‘Tina? It’s Kath. I wanted to ring you before our next meet-up. We can’t really talk at reading group. We missed you at the last one again by the way.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just… you know. Didn’t fancy it.’ She hadn’t read Fahrenheit 451 and had been chided by an irritable Keaton about it. Too bad. It was only a book. A jolly
good one, Keaton told her. But still, just a book.

  ‘What the hell, nobody minds,’ said Kath. ‘I told you that before. It was an entertaining meeting though. Angry Man got really angry and Tess told him off so he walked out, but not before he told Tess to fuck off! She ended up in tears, the poor thing… She calmed down though, and he’s banned from the group. It was the chap who smells of pickles. By the way, have you read the bloody April book yet?’

  ‘No. I haven’t had the time.’ She had in fact had plenty of time. The week between Keaton finishing his old job and starting his new one had been quiet, uneventful. They had done little in that time and talked little. Keaton had been distracted, wanting time alone. He’d been tired and listless. They’d had one day out, to a safari park. An odd choice as neither of them liked safari parks, and they had both been bored and cold.

  ‘Don’t bother with it, it’s no good. Someone’s idea of an April Fool, I’d say! I got halfway through and gave up on it. Anyway, I was wondering, how are you fixed for a drink tonight? Would you like to go back to the diner? Shall we have some nosh?’

  ‘That sounds good.’

  ‘Shall we say seven-ish?’

  ‘Yes. Keaton won’t mind. He started his new job today.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Developments,’ said Tina.

  ‘I’m all for those. I’ll see you later. Don’t be late.’

  Keaton arrived home from work at six to find his wife getting ready to go out. She was wearing the orange top with the floaty sleeves. Their bedroom smelled of body spray. She asked him about his day, his new job. It was all right, he said. Nothing special but he’d get into it, he’d do his best. If it didn’t work out he’d find another. He was glad she was spending time with Kath again. She was a good sort. She was somebody to be trusted. You should believe in her, Tina, you should listen to the things she says. She knows what she’s talking about. He would make his own tea. It was no problem. She should go and enjoy herself.

  Sharanne had sent Keaton a grand total of twenty-seven texts in the ten days that she’d had the secret mobile phone number. I feel sick, she texted at first. This swiftly became: I feel beyond sick. Soon it was: I want to die. Then it was: What shall I do, I can’t do this. This is horrible. Why do I feel so bad? I can’t eat. I’m too old for this. This should not have happened! I haven’t gone to work for the last four days. I can’t get out of the house. The front door has a nasty smell. It’s vile. Only in sleep do I get relief and it’s getting worse. Help me. Please. I need help. It’s so unfair.

  He found her texts strangely poetic, which was most unlike Sharanne. Until: I’m in hospital.

  Keaton sent back consoling messages that he knew didn’t help at all. He knew he ought to go and see her, but the intimacy of visiting her in hospital felt wrong. They weren’t a couple. They weren’t lovers. They weren’t even friends, for God’s sake. She would no doubt look dreadful and be wearing night attire and it would be wrong to see her like that, in her intimate clothes. He looked up morning sickness and progressed to Hyperemesis Gravidarum and was horrified by what he learned. Some women, he read, were drawn to terminating their pregnancy because the nausea was so unbearable. He shuddered. Poor Charlotte Brontë had possibly died of it, he discovered. He started to feel sick himself, but decided he must go. He must visit this woman who was bearing his child, and offer his presence, if nothing else. It was only right.

  Thirty-nine

  March 2014

  Lucia came to the door. Simone heard her grappling with the lock. She heard her mutter. Simone had expected nothing else although she had hoped Edward would get to the door first, open it and dissolve into delight at the sight of her. It was a dream, a fantasy; she couldn’t wait to see his face. But now the door was about to be opened, she was momentarily terrified. She hadn’t expected to feel terror. Yet she was determined not to show her feelings, and set her lips into what she hoped was a determined line, tilting her head back a few degrees. The door opened.

  Lucia was as prim as ever: buttoned up, and still far too thin. Her hair was grey. Her face was as pinched up as it ever had been. It was a cruel face, Simone decided, and it was on the right person. For a second or two Lucia showed no sign of recognition. Then her face crumpled into dismay.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she said, staring down at Simone. Lucia’s eyes were full of fear and that gave Simone strength. This time Lucia would not win.

  ‘Hello, Lucia. How are you? Don’t worry, I’m not here to see you. I’d like to see my husband, if you please.’

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You most certainly cannot.’

  ‘Lucia, I don’t have time to dilly-dally here on the doorstep with you. Edward?!’

  ‘Shh! He’s asleep.’

  ‘Then I shall wake him.’

  Simone stepped up onto the threshold. She reached Lucia’s level and the two women attempted to stare each other down, the hostility rising from them like tropical steam, their breath coming quick and shallow. Simone felt sick. She felt hot. She had known she would have to get past Lucia first. She understood that she would have to deal with her during the encounter; the reunion, as she hoped it would be. She needed every last wisp of her courage. Lucia might do anything, say anything. She was a dangerous person.

  ‘I’m not asleep,’ said Edward quietly and both women turned to him as he stood, frail but firm, at the foot of the steep narrow staircase.

  ‘Edward? Oh, Edward!’ Simone took two steps towards him, and shrugged off Lucia, who tried to bar her way, tried to pull her back.

  ‘Get your hands off me!’ cried Simone.

  ‘My Simone?’ said Edward. Lucia made an odd noise in her throat, like she was going to vomit, but the two people at the foot of the stairs ignored her and when Lucia burst into bitter tears, they took no notice and as she pushed between them and attempted to pound up the stairs as though she was seventeen years old again, they ignored her still. They ignored too the slam of her bedroom door. They gazed into each other’s eyes, not wanting to break the spell and when Simone whispered, ‘I’m sorry,’ he shook his head. Then he led her into the dining room; he insisted she take his seat alongside the fire. He left her only to go into the kitchen to make tea. Two cups. One pot. Lucia was forgotten, she had no part to play, and it is going to be all right, thought Simone as she heard the kettle boiling, the clattering of cups and saucers.

  He fussed around her, took her green coat and marvelled anew at how on earth she kept her clothes so nice, so clean. He remembered, of course, that she took a tiny spoon of sugar in her tea, and only a little milk. Her hair was grey, but styled so nicely, and it looked beautiful on her. She was growing old gracefully as he had known she would. He had thought for many years that he would never see her again. And now she was here, in his house, in his chair, sipping serenely at the tea he had made for her. It was a dream. He wondered if it was truly a dream; perhaps he was on the way out and hallucinating. Perhaps these moments were nothing but mind-trickery, his glorious death throes. But they weren’t, because in truth he had never felt so alive. His hand shook as he held his cup to drink from it. He could not take his eyes from his wife and at first he didn’t want to talk. It was enough just to look at her. She had not changed; in essence she was the same person, this lovely French woman, his wife. His wife. She was still sexy, and he was surprised that thought even came to him, but it did, and he wanted to sleep with her, and that was a surprise too, because that side of his life had vanished with her all those years ago. They sipped their tea and said little, smiling at each other, shy and happy. Talking would come later, they had both tacitly agreed. For now, looking was enough.

  Lucia sat on her bed, stiff, upright, shocked. This arrival she had not foreseen, and she knew for certain that Simone had come back to tell Edward why she had left. At the very l
east, it would be mentioned. How could it not? She could hear no voices, but she knew they were drinking tea because she’d heard the kettle boil. How dare this silly French woman just flounce back into their home, hers and her brother’s, as though she had every right to be there? She had no rights! She had, after all, chosen to leave Edward and break his heart. Lucia would not take responsibility for any of it. She had been younger then, a bit naïve. Perhaps she hadn’t truly realised what she was saying or doing, the consequences of her actions not fully revealed to her until they had happened and by then it had been too late to put things right. She had felt the stirrings of guilt among her triumph when Edward had come home in tears that hot August day, many years ago. But she had pushed these feelings down deep inside herself and had ignored them.

  It was over. Their life in this dark, cold house, their home nonetheless – it was finished. He would know and he would not forgive her. How could he? He would not see her point of view. She may have gone further than she had wanted or anticipated. She’d wanted to stir up their marriage, create a problem, but not actually end it. Or had she? They had been happy together, she and Edward, her dear brother Edward, all these intervening years. She had cooked for him, cleaned for him, nursed him through illnesses, helped him to pay bills, to open and close bank accounts. She’d made sure he’d claimed his pension when the time came, had shopped for him, made phone calls for him, made excuses for him. She had made herself indispensable, just like she had for Mum. She and Edward had lived together almost as a married couple since Mum had died, taking care of Tina between them, and it had been good and right, with little to upset them or interfere. They had been a family, of sorts, for all those years. They had been happy in their quiet and lonesome household. Any residual shame had been swept under the clippy mat. There had been an air of complaisant satisfaction all these years. The teenaged Tina had been such a quiet girl – no rebellion, no silliness. An easy girl to bring up, in the end. And in her deepest, wildest moments, Lucia had allowed herself to imagine that Tina was her daughter – their daughter. And she even believed it sometimes; was able to convince herself that it was true, and that all was well and all was right, as it should be. The household had reached a level of seething contentment that Lucia had grown to believe could never be destroyed. She sat motionless on her bed, not daring to move.