by Penny Feeny
When they said she had a visitor she supposed it was the doctor. She’d been examined briefly on admittance, when she’d been in an awful state, filthy and covered in vomit. She was waiting for the promised follow-up. But the person sitting on the grey plastic chair at the grey plastic table wasn’t the doctor, the lawyer, the aide or Fabrizio. It was Jake.
‘What on earth brings you here?’ she said.
Jake, at ease in so many situations, looked uncomfortable in a jacket and tie: he kneaded his knuckles together. ‘I felt I should see how you’re doing.’
‘You needn’t have bothered.’
‘Prison diet seems to have agreed with you anyway.’
‘Actually, it goes straight through me most of the time.’
‘Oh . . . well . . .’
‘I’m not getting any exercise. That’s why I’m putting on weight. You don’t have to rub it in.’
‘Pretty rough, is it?’
‘You could say that, yes. Half the time you don’t even get any sleep.’ She’d never been anywhere so noisy, so clamorous – yet she was even more disturbed by the acquiescence in the dull, defeated eyes of the Romany woman who shared her cell. ‘How come they let you in anyway?’
‘Oh, I’m the new John.’
‘John?’
‘From the Consulate? He couldn’t make it today.’
‘I don’t think he is called John, actually. Still, it’s good that you haven’t lost your touch.’
‘Yeah, it was a classy performance. Anyway, now I’m here, is there anything I can do? Messages to the other side, that sort of thing?’
Helena bit her lip to stop it trembling. ‘I just want to get out.’
He dropped his gaze; it was rare to see him at a loss for words.
She added, ‘I shouldn’t even be in here, but you can’t get bail if you’ve no ID. Perhaps you should wring Helen Liddle’s neck for me.’
‘Too late I’m afraid. She’s already gone.’
‘Really?’
‘The Baldinis decided they could dispense with her services, no surprises there. She hung on for a while – I know she wanted to see you – but her money ran out. Anyway, she said she was going to write. Didn’t you get a letter?’
‘There was one full of gush about how she didn’t mean things to turn out the way they did, the conspiracy theory was none of her doing: blah, blah. I wasn’t planning to reply.’
‘It wasn’t all her fault, Hel. You kept her in the dark about Fabrizio. That was the trouble.’
‘I had to! Because of the kids. How was I to know she’d turn around and stitch me up? I don’t understand why she wanted me out of the way. She already had a clear field with you.’
‘I don’t suppose she was trying to get you into trouble.’
‘It’s remarkable what a person can do these days without even trying.’
He laughed. ‘Atta girl!’
A spark of pain was fizzing at Helena’s temple, the start of another headache. She knew she should appreciate this visit. Jake had made an effort to masquerade as John: kempt, scrubbed, not quite so dissolute, but within moments of leaving her he could saunter into the street, sling off the jacket, wrench off the tie. Ever the chameleon. ‘So what are your plans, now love’s young dream has gone?’
‘Actually, I’m leaving too.’
‘How nice to have freedom of movement.’ Did that sound bitter? Fuck it, she was bitter.
‘Look, you’ll be out soon, whatever happens. Flying home to the wonderful new world of Mrs Thatcher and her apparatchiks.’
‘With a blot like this on my copybook?’
‘You just have to reinvent yourself. I do it all the time.’
‘I know.’ She added, ‘So then, where are you going?’
‘First back to Rome for an audition, though they’re shooting in Spain. Hope to talk myself into some sort of role at least.’
‘If the producer fancies you enough.’
‘Or the director. Or his assistant. I’m not proud.’
‘Tosser.’
‘Hey.’ He stretched his hand across the table as if to make contact, but she kept hers folded in her lap.
‘You’ll get me into trouble; they’ll think you’re passing me another banned substance.’
‘Shit. I am sorry, you know, for leaving the dope in your drawer in the first place. Only . . .’
‘Forget it, Jake, it’s done now. You can’t change anything.’
He fidgeted on his chair, sat on his hands as if to keep them under control. ‘Nobody took over your room yet, did they?’
‘What, you think the Verduccis would bus in another nanny after this?’
‘No, I meant the room in Rome, in the apartment.’
‘Why?’
He flashed his most charming smile. ‘Thought maybe I could take care of it for you. Freshen up the bed linen, dust the furniture.’
‘Is that why you’ve come to see me? Because you need a place to doss? Because you think I’m-all right-Jack here in my comfortable spacious cell!’
‘No!’ He appeared hurt. ‘It’s just that, while I’m still around, I’d like to help. Make things easier. Couldn’t I be of any use?’
‘To me?’
‘Yeah.’
She considered. ‘I doubt it. You’re as much of a liability as I am.’
‘Oh . . . right. Well then, I guess I’d better be off.’ They were surrounded by hard, echoing surfaces and his words reverberated. Helena didn’t respond. Jake looked rueful.
When their time was up and they were escorted in opposite directions, she didn’t give him a backwards glance. She struggled to put one foot in front of another, overcome by an onslaught of tiredness that made her want to sleep for a century – though she couldn’t fathom why. It had not yet occurred to her that she might be pregnant.
PART TWO
2003 LIVERPOOL
1O
Even at a distance, Allie recognized the dog. There was something about the way he blundered through the grass, trying to do three things at once: cock his leg, sniff out a rabbit, chase a ball; something about the agony of indecision tearing him from one objective to the next that made her empathize. In a world full of choices how did you stop yourself zigzagging from game to game, goal to goal? How did you pick up a steady trail, make progress? He was a handsome dog, too: his glossy coat brindled with chestnut and ebony, his ears like silk pouches. She couldn’t remember his name or she’d have called out to him. Coffee? Toffee? Or a word ending in o: Cosmo, Jojo, Rudolfo?
‘Rolo! Here, boy! Rolo!’ His owner was a struggling figure, too far off to identify, but probably the same woman who’d given Allie such an odd look when they first met (so odd that she’d quickly hidden her left arm behind her back). It had been one of those mildly embarrassing encounters that human beings don’t handle as well as animals. The dog had licked Allie’s thigh with unabashed enjoyment. The woman had started to jabber about the view from the house as if she’d stood on the balcony for hours, watching the tides ebb and flow – as if it wasn’t blindingly obvious she’d talk about anything other than her randy pet. Allie assumed she was a neighbour and would have introduced herself, but the moment passed when the dog sped off in pursuit of a Jack Russell.
Allie was a few yards from home, from what had been her grandmother’s house. She had memories of childhood stays, of the piano with the brass candle-holders that had since been sold, of the piano stool that was big enough to hide in, but it was years since she’d visited. She was still finding her bearings. She had walked over the railway bridge and along the front carrying the shoebox with care. Everything else – wallet, keys, phone – bounced between her shoulders in her drawstring backpack. Her pace was slower than usual because of the box and because the wind was gusty too, eddying across the Mersey, surging through the grass on the foreshore, billowing through the public gardens, scattering petals. It was early evening in early summer, a time of year that offered freshness and promise, when possibilities are li
mitless, when Allie, like Rolo, might pick and sample and chase her tail until she’d found what she really wanted to do.
Rolo bounded forwards and raised his paw to her leg in greeting. In return she ruffled his head and scratched between his ears. ‘Good to see you again, boyo,’ she said, and proceeded to her gate. He followed. ‘Hey, there, you can’t come with me. Your owner wants you back.’
The woman was now close enough for Allie to see her concern. ‘Don’t worry,’ she called. ‘He’s not doing any harm; he’s such a friendly dog.’ At which, Rolo, responding to the praise, threw himself at Allie in an exuberant display of affection, knocking the shoebox from her clasp. It rose in an ungainly arc and somersaulted into the fuchsia hedge. The fuchsia branches bent and unburdened themselves; the box crashed to the pavement. Rolo’s plumed tail swept from side to side.
The woman stopped, stricken. ‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. What has he done now?’ She was wearing light-coloured, expensive-looking trousers but she knelt at once to assess the damage.
‘Just as well we taped the lid shut,’ said Allie as she exposed a jumble of broken china. ‘If any tiny fragments or shavings go missing it can make all the difference when you’re trying to put something back together.’
The woman opened her handbag. It was more like a briefcase, Allie noted, with its divisions and pockets distinguishing the requirements of a well-ordered life. She was able to claim her purse immediately. ‘Look, wouldn’t it be easier if I paid for a new one? I’d be more than happy to.’
‘No . . . no, you can’t.’ They were both squatting awkwardly on their haunches, face to face.
‘It’s the least I can do. I mean, it wasn’t horrendously expensive, was it?’ She replaced the purse in its section of her bag and took a chequebook from another. ‘Not . . . hundreds?’
‘A few,’ nodded Allie, picking up the box and rising to her feet. Could it really be this easy to get people to write cheques? Why wasn’t everybody walking around with broken pottery?
‘Oh . . .’ Allie waited to see how she’d go about withdrawing her offer. She was flapping her chequebook with a worried air. Her pale linen knees wore patches of dust. ‘Look, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Rolo’s a delightful dog, but I have such problems controlling him. I would have taken him back to the Rescue Centre, only I’d feel such a failure. I’ve trained other dogs successfully, just not this one.’
‘He’s sound,’ said Allie, who was beginning to wonder how many times a person could apologize before the words stopped meaning anything. ‘I need to clean up a bit. How about you?’ She didn’t expect her to say yes. She assumed that if she lived nearby she’d head for her own bathroom, but when her invitation was accepted she was obliged to lead the way up the overgrown path. The previous tenants hadn’t shown much interest in gardening. Sprawling shrub roses intertwined with brambles; peonies flaunted their frilly heads amid clumps of thistles and ragwort. A small-scale wilderness; Rolo was enchanted with it.
‘I don’t think he should come into your house. I’ll tie him up in the porch.’
Allie swung her backpack from her shoulders and fished out a door key. ‘Sure. He can’t do any damage out here. Actually, there’s not much harm he can do inside. The place is hardly furnished.’ She couldn’t make the visitor out: she looked mature and confident, yet as soon as she walked into the hall her eyes were spinning in their sockets and she was flushing like a schoolgirl. ‘There’s a basin in the loo on the right. I’m taking this into the kitchen.’ She put the shoebox on the table and tossed last night’s takeaway containers into the bin. She rinsed the dirt from her hands and switched the kettle on.
The woman was surveying the cooker and the outdated cupboards and the sink unit overlooking the backyard as if she were calculating their value, as if someone who lived in such a shabby, unreconstructed old house couldn’t possibly be in possession of a porcelain figurine worth hundreds of pounds.
‘It needs gutting really,’ said Allie. ‘I’m making tea. D’you want some?’
‘Thank you, yes. You’re in such a good location here.’
‘I haven’t really got to know it yet. The house was my grandmother’s, but she was in a nursing home and rented it out. She died earlier this year.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay, she’d been ill for ages. Where do you live?’
‘A bit further up the coast in Blundellsands. Rolo brought me on a long walk this afternoon.’
‘I always wanted a dog of my own,’ said Allie. ‘I used to adopt strays sometimes.’ She had wistful memories of a rough-coated Irish wolfhound nuzzling her palm, of a litter of chocolatey Labrador puppies in a hay barn, of a mongrel collie she taught to perform handstands – none of which she was allowed to keep.
Her visitor took a decisive step into the room and sat down at the table. She opened her bag and pulled out her chequebook again. She laid it flat on the oilcloth, which was patterned with bunches of red cherries. The blind at the window had the same pattern, but Allie never rolled it down.
‘I’m Liddy Rawlings and my cheque won’t bounce, I promise. I’ll write my address on the back. Now, if you’d just let me know how much to make it out for and who to . . .’
‘No really,’ said Allie. ‘It’s too awkward. You mustn’t.’
‘Indeed I must.’
‘But I don’t know what it’s worth. It would only be a guess. It’s not mine, you see.’
Liddy Rawlings laid down her pen. ‘It’s not yours?’
‘No, I was collecting it for my mother.’
‘And your mother is?’ She took up the pen again and Allie noticed a slight tremor in her fingers.
The kettle was taking ages to boil, perhaps she’d over-filled it. She hitched herself on to the counter top, dangling her legs; she was enjoying herself. ‘Helena Ashbourne. But it’s not hers either.’
Liddy’s tone was flat as if she were trying to keep it neutral, to stifle any emotion. ‘So why did you pretend it was worth so much?’
‘Oh but it is! I wasn’t pretending. It actually belongs to someone who lives near the station. It was on my way home – I’d been into town – so I’d agreed to pick it up. But what I never had a chance to say was that it’s been broken already.’
‘Broken already? I don’t understand.’
‘And it is valuable. It wouldn’t be worth Mum’s time mending it otherwise. And for the owner it has sentimental value and stuff, so she’s doing it as a favour too.’
‘You let me believe Rolo had destroyed something precious.’
‘No I didn’t. The important thing was not to lose any bits. I think we managed that.’ She jumped back down to the floor and flung a couple of tea bags into a pair of chunky mugs. ‘D’you reckon he’d want a bowl of water?’
‘Yes.’ She balked momentarily at the size of the mug she was offered. ‘I expect he’ll be thirsty.’
Allie ran the tap into a deep enamel bowl and carried it out to the porch in the crook of her right elbow. Water slopped over the sides. When she came back, Liddy was gazing through the grimy kitchen window with a dreamy expression on her face. She turned to Allie and said, ‘I should have taken it to him myself. Are you all right? Have you done something to your arm?’
‘It was a birth injury.’
‘Oh my goodness.’ For some reason, Liddy looked more disturbed than most people did when she told them. ‘I’m so sorry.’ There she was, apologizing again. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. I thought maybe you had some sort of sprain . . .’
‘It’s okay. I’m used to it. Explaining myself.’
‘It’s none of my business. I really shouldn’t have asked –’
‘Erbs palsy,’ said Allie. ‘It’s when your shoulder gets stuck during delivery and the nerve endings are damaged. Mine wasn’t too bad as they go, the nerves were stretched, not torn and I’ve had loads of physio and stuff. It’s more common than cerebral palsy actually, but no one’s ever heard of it. Anyway,
I don’t class myself as disabled. I’ve got restricted movement but I’d rather be seen as normal.’ With her left hand she picked up a teaspoon and rattled a rhythm against her cup.
Liddy Rawlings was impressed. ‘That’s amazing. I’m sure I couldn’t manage it.’
‘I ought to be good,’ said Allie. ‘I’m a percussionist. If you can have deaf musicians you can have musicians with defective arms.’
‘Really?’
‘Like Paul Wittgenstein. Ludwig’s brother. He was a famous one-armed pianist.’
‘Really? Do you play in an orchestra?’
‘A band. I started on drums when I was really young because the exercise was good for me and it developed from there.’ She stopped. ‘I mean, I was in a band.’ She had to remember to use the past tense. Two months on, it was still raw, the break-up. She could explain her injury to strangers but wasn’t yet ready to talk about her relationship. People said it was like losing a family when a band fell apart. They hadn’t become enemies, she and Sam, but after a slow and painful deterioration they’d opted to go in different directions. She wouldn’t dwell on the fact that his direction involved a new team, another ready-made family of guitar, keyboard and drums. While he continued to surf the high of performance, she was drifting. Unleashed.