‘What the blazes …?’ He pulled her with him to the worm beds.
In place of the usual mat of green, the worms squirmed on bare boards, scattered only with tiny scraps of leaves. The living worms, a roiling mass of oyster-grey, clambered over a sticky blackened mess of dead ones, from which the foul smell rose.
Fowler gave a roar of indignation. He moved quickly along the beds checking each one; in each the same pattern was repeated. He yanked Beulah by the arm and pushed her back against the wall beside the stove, jarring her shoulder blades and thumping her head. She slid to the ground and cowered there, shrinking back. Her hands travelled behind her over the flaking brick floor, fingers spread, feeling for the metallic scrape of the scissors. He stood over her, breathing heavily, his face livid, eyes narrowed in fury. As he turned the whip around to use not the rope but the butt end, Beulah opened her mouth to scream and Fowler bent and clamped his hand over it.
FIFTEEN
On Christmas Day, which fell on a Sunday, Rosie drove over to Holly Court to visit May. She had refused Tally’s invitation to join them, not wanting to impose on their family Christmas, but the morning had seemed endless and she was glad of the distraction and the chance of some company. The house had seemed horribly quiet since she’d passed the kids over to Josh and being alone only gave her the chance to brood on the bitterness of their meeting.
Ever since she’d emailed to let him know that she was going back to court to renegotiate the maintenance payment, things between them had gone from bad to worse. In his initial furious phone call he’d ranted at her about the things he and Tania would now have to give up: the skiing holiday they’d planned, the chance of moving up the property ladder. Did she know how expensive it was paying in to two households? Rosie, outraged that he should whinge about missing a trip to Chamonix when she had been saving every Tesco voucher towards Sam’s first school uniform, had shouted back, until, with comic timing, they had both rung off simultaneously. Since then they had barely managed to be civil to each other.
They’d met at the service station early on the morning of Christmas Eve and transferred kids and baggage between the two cars in a stony silence. When Rosie bent into the car and said to the children that their presents would be waiting for them at home on Boxing Day, Josh had broken in, ‘You mean Tuesday. They’re staying with us over Boxing Day.’ He stowed Sam’s bag in the front passenger seat and shut the door.
Rosie looked at him in disbelief. ‘Hang on a minute! That’s not what we discussed!’
‘Well, I don’t remember us discussing what I could afford as child support. Discussion doesn’t seem to be your strong point,’ he said.
‘Only because we never manage to do it in a civilised way. I thought it would be better doing it through solicitors. It would stop us getting steamed up,’ she said pointedly. ‘That’s what it’s there for, isn’t it – the law?’
He walked away from her and round to the driver’s side, the kids in the car between them. ‘Yeah, and possession’s nine-tenths of it. I’ll bring them back Boxing Day evening.’ She opened her mouth to remonstrate but he drowned her out. ‘It’s all arranged; the cousins will be coming round to Mum’s too and anyway I don’t want to drive on Christmas Day. I’m not missing out on having a drink.’ He opened the driver’s door.
‘But Tuesday’s too late! What about my Christmas? It’s all over by then!’ Rosie felt her voice rising. A family passing them, on the way to the services building, gave them a wide berth, the parents exchanging glances, the teenage children gawping.
Josh stared at her over the roof of the car. ‘You’re making an exhibition of yourself again,’ he said. ‘Have you got no self-control at all?’ He glowered at her. ‘Here. Nine thirty, Monday evening, and don’t forget this time.’ He got into the car, slammed the door and left Rosie fuming as he drove away.
Now, as she turned into the car park at the home, Rosie made a little calculation in her head: thirty-three hours to go until she got them back, thirty-three more hours to fill. She’d best keep busy and concentrate on cheering May up. She picked up May’s present and put a smile on her face.
There was no one in the office; everyone was probably tied up with preparations for the Christmas lunch, Rosie thought. Quite at home now as one of their ‘regulars’, she signed the visitors’ book in the tinsel-decked hall and went straight to find May in her favourite place in the sunroom. She plonked a smacking kiss on her cheek and wished her a Happy Christmas.
‘Is it?’ May said incredulously.
‘Yep, and I’ve brought you a present.’ She put the flat, rectangular package down gently on May’s thin knees.
May just sat and looked at it. ‘What is it?’
‘You have to open it and see.’
‘Is it chocolates?’
‘No,’ Rosie said, ‘but there are Maltesers in my bag and you can have them after you’ve had dinner, OK?’
May picked ineffectually at the sellotape until Rosie, seeing that she’d never get it undone, ran her nail underneath it so that she could unfold the paper. Inside was a beautiful white leather photo album. May passed her hand across the cover, feeling its padded smoothness.
‘You can open it up,’ Rosie said.
May turned to the first page. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘It’s me!’ A child in a hand-knitted cardi, and with her hair in pigtails, smiled up at the camera with the gappy teeth of a seven-year-old.
Rosie nodded, smiling, and turned the next page. ‘And Helena,’ she said as they looked at a picture of May sitting in a fireside chair with her baby sister held awkwardly on her lap. They carried on turning the pages that told the life story Rosie had carefully constructed, year by year, from photos found in her mother’s albums or loose in drawers at May’s house.
May pored over them, every now and then commenting about where a picture was taken. Her responsiveness and recaptured memories made Rosie feel glad; the gift was a success. ‘I thought next time I come we could put some more pictures in,’ Rosie said, ‘maybe the ones in your bedside table here?’
May nodded.
‘And maybe the ones in the frames? Then you could put the album in your bag and have all your pictures together in one place and it would save them getting smudged or the glass getting broken and hurting your fingers.’
May turned another page. ‘Well I never, my graduation!’ She moved on through pictures of the family at Helena’s wedding and holiday shots with friends in France and then paused at a photo that had been casually snapped, rather than posed: May laughing, kneeling on a hearthrug, holding out a toy to a baby who reached for it, behind them a sofa and the legs of another woman sitting on it. ‘Look – it’s you!’ May pointed with her claw-like hand.
Rosie leant over, suddenly excited. Her baby self was dressed in a blue flower-printed dress, with smocking across the chest and a Peter Pan collar. One sock was off, revealing toes spread, like her fingers, in delight. She had chubby cheeks and arms and a cowlick of blond hair. The toy was a puppet on a wooden stick: Punch. She remembered playing with it as an older child: you pulled the stick down and Punch’s hook-nosed face and outstretched hands disappeared into a cup; pushed it up and the grinning clown popped out again.
She peered closer. On the rug beside May’s knees lay another puppet: Judy with her mobcap and red cheeks. Two toys, a matching pair. Her heart began to beat faster. ‘Do you remember when that was taken?’ she asked May gently.
May smiled. ‘It was on your first birthday. You loved that puppet. I got it for you,’ she said proudly.
‘And the other one? Was Judy for Lily?’
May nodded. ‘You had a cake too. You two sucked the icing and Helena and I ate the cake.’
Rosie touched the edge of the photo, where, on her mother’s lap, just out of reach of the camera, Lily must have been sitting.
May went on, ‘Helena saved a piece from each cake for Michael and kept the candles for you to see him blow them out again. That was before they moved
away, of course …’ Her face fell and Rosie broke in quickly before there could be tears.
‘Let’s see what came next.’
‘Was that my car?’ May asked, looking at a picture of herself leaning against a green VW Beetle.
‘I think it must have been,’ Rosie said absently, still thinking of Lily – of the two of them together – with sticky mouths and fingers grasping their stick puppets, entranced by the game of peep-bo as their mum and aunty popped Punch and Judy up and down. Here was something she could shape into a memory. ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure it was,’ she said, seeing May’s expression, still uncertain, writing May’s memories for her too.
‘It’s nice,’ May said.
A gong sounded and May stuffed the album into her bag. ‘Supper time,’ she said.
‘Christmas lunch.’
‘Really?’ May looked pleased all over again.
Rosie walked May into the dining room. One of the male staff, dressed as Santa, sat at a keyboard playing ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’ while a plump carer, wearing furry reindeer antlers on a hairband, handed out thimble-sized glasses of sherry. As Nurse Todd came bustling down the long table, seeing everyone to their seats, she spotted Rosie and noticed that the kids weren’t with her. She made her way over. ‘Are you able to join us?’ she said. ‘It’s so nice if relatives can stay. The more the merrier.’
Rosie hesitated, not wanting to be in the way.
‘To be honest, we could do with as many pairs of hands as we can get. You’d be doing us a favour if you could just keep an eye?’
‘Thanks, I’d love to,’ Rosie said. She was directed to sit between May and an old gentleman called Anthony, who tried to rise and pull out a chair for her but, overcome by his shakiness, subsided.
‘Very nice to see a young face about the place,’ he said. ‘Are you married?’
‘Um, not any more,’ Rosie said.
May nudged her sharply in the ribs. ‘He’ll propose if you don’t watch out. He asks everyone.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He’s asked me twice this week already.’
A carer came round with a box of Christmas crackers and Rosie helped May and Anthony to pull one. Soon there was a barrage of reports as others did the same and a hubbub of chat as plastic trinkets were examined, jokes puzzled over and paper hats worn at crazy angles. Anthony’s blue paper crown slipped down over one eye and Rosie straightened it up for him. A disagreement broke out between two ladies over who should have the key ring that had fallen from a cracker; Rosie settled it by offering one of them the string of beads that had been in her own. Feeling that the event had something of the Mad Hatter’s tea party about it, Rosie began to enjoy herself a little.
The carers were finding it hard to be everywhere at once: taking plastic covers off the meals, escorting people to and from the loo and replacing dropped knives and forks. Rosie despatched her turkey breast slices, tough roasties and Bisto quickly and went to help. She served some dinners, managed to defuse an argument over who had more stuffing by finding second helpings and, when pudding came, got a conversation going at her end of the table about the thruppenny bit that always used to be hidden in it: reminiscence and a good old moan about health and safety seeming equally enjoyable.
Once lunch was over, everyone retired to the sunroom where the chairs had been arranged in a wide circle and all the tables had been removed. The keyboard was brought in and the player gave them a medley of carols and then moved into old dance numbers. Couples shuffled around the room to the music, some of the elderly ladies dancing together, which Rosie found touching. It brought home to her the sad disparity in numbers between the men and women and also reminded her somehow of childhood, primary school dancing lessons where the girls took it in turns to lead, the boys all having melted away to play football. She danced to ‘A String of Pearls’ with Anthony; he clasped her hand tight, his head nodding to a rhythm of its own as they made a jerky circuit of the room. ‘Will you marry me?’ he said as the melody ended.
‘I think it would disappoint too many other ladies,’ Rosie said as she gave him an arm so that he could lower himself into his chair.
After the dancing, they played pass-the-parcel, Rosie and the others dodging quickly around to help strip away the layers of paper, tubes of sweets rolling into laps and on to the floor and crossword books fished out and compared with competitive fervour. Then a raffle was drawn. Rosie joined in to help those without their glasses check their tickets. When May’s ticket was called, Rosie took her up to the table to choose between bath salts, a flower vase and a box of Milk Tray. ‘Well, I can’t think what you’ll choose, May,’ she said and everybody laughed as May gleefully picked up the chocolates and stowed them in her bag.
The residents were served a cup of tea from the trolley and Nurse Todd produced a bottle of sherry for the staff. As she thrust a large glass into Rosie’s hand, she said, ‘Thanks for all your help.’
Rosie, pleased, murmured, ‘Not at all.’
Nurse Todd raised her glass. ‘Another party managed without major mishap. Cheers!’ They all touched glasses and drank.
Rosie, enjoying the feeling of bonhomie, stayed on to help wash up. When she went to say goodbye to May she found her asleep with the album beside her on the table. She tiptoed away feeling that the whole visit had been worthwhile.
It was dark by the time she got home. As she stepped into the hall, she had the strange impression that someone left it: a movement, as of someone slipping quickly through the kitchen door. Heart thumping, she hesitated at the open front door, keeping her path clear for retreat. A shaft of light from a passing car travelled along the wall in the hallway and was gone. Of course, she told herself, that’s all it was, a car passing as I opened the door. Nonetheless, she stood, listening, a moment longer, the cold wind from the street rushing in around her.
She busied about putting all the lights on downstairs and then turned on the radio in the kitchen and the TV in the living room, filling the house with human voices. She changed out of her good wool dress into jeans, cosy navy sweatshirt and grey canvas deck shoes, worn soft as slippers. Having made a coffee, she settled down to watch Dancing on Ice but it didn’t hold her attention. She wondered what the children were doing now. It was probably bath time. She hoped it was Josh’s mum, Sandra, who was bathing them and not Tania, who Sam said always got shampoo in Cara’s eyes. Or maybe they were in their pyjamas already, curled up on the sofa, surrounded by the presents they’d probably opened at some ungodly hour. There would be a fantastic tree; Sandra had always been good at all that stuff, greenery festooning the mantelpiece above the wood burner and long red candles everywhere. She looked around at her own meagre efforts. She hadn’t been able to run to a tree; the holly she’d tucked around the picture frames seemed scant and half-hearted and the kids’ presents still sat in their plastic carrier bags, waiting to be wrapped. Above the fireplace filled with fir cones, only four cards stood on the mantelpiece: from Corinne and Luc, Tally and Rob, one that Sam had made at playschool – red card and a blobby snowman made of cotton wool – and one from Tom Marriott. That had been a surprise.
She had been in to the office a couple of times while the maintenance case was being prepared. The first time he had been just as when they’d met initially: very professional, distant even, when in his office, and then pleasant and friendly as he saw her out, asking after the children and how she was, telling her not to worry and that the practice had a watertight case. He had walked with her all the way to the car park and she’d had the distinct impression that he wanted to say something to her out of earshot of the receptionist, but when they’d reached the car he’d hesitated as she unlocked it, opened his mouth and then closed it again and finally shaken hands with her, returning to his formal manner.
The second time, they had gone through all the points of the case and then he’d dropped a bombshell. He was not going to be able to represent her after all but would leave her in the very capable hands of Mr Douglas. He had said that Mr Dou
glas was more experienced in family law, whereas his speciality was conveyancing, but he had blushed when he said it and Rosie felt somehow that it was personal, wondered what on earth she’d done, and was duly offended. She didn’t want to have to get to know somebody new or have to go through the story of her break-up with Josh all over again. It had been Tom Marriott who had persuaded her to go back to the court in the first place and now he was bailing on her! She had maintained her own formal tone beyond the bounds of the office door and when he’d moved to walk her out, she had quickly said that she had shopping to do and left him looking rather nonplussed.
Now, here was this card. Another puzzle. It was a nice card, not a business one for clients with a boring picture of bells or robins and a pre-printed message. Instead it read: To Rosie and family. Hope you and the children have a wonderful Christmas and that the New Year brings good things, Tom Marriott. Nice of him – thoughtful – but why sign it only with his name? What happened to his ‘and family’? Was he making overtures again or was the card by way of an apology after letting her down? The man was a puzzle. Well, now that he wasn’t taking the maintenance case, she probably wouldn’t see him again until she came to sell the house: that was, assuming he felt like taking her back on. She felt irritated all over again.
Rosie got up to close the curtains against the winter evening. Outside, the street had become quiet, everyone home with their families. A thin coating of gritty snow lay on the ground and gleamed on the cars parked under the orange light of the streetlamps. Opposite, a few houses down, one window still had the curtains open, revealing the flickering chemical-blue glow of a TV screen in an otherwise darkened room. All the other windows were sealed off, curtains closed to keep in the warmth, showing just the tiniest chinks of light. Rosie pulled the drapes across, closing herself in.
The Silk Factory Page 25