‘I love London park life.’ Ryan split a miniature bottle of Prosecco between two plastic champagne flutes. ‘Cheers.’
We’d agreed to take turns showing each other our favourite city activities. Ryan loved picnics in the park—any excuse to be out in the sun. His tanned body looked good in the grey board shorts and white T-shirt I’d bought him.
‘So, did you tell your mate about me?’ he asked, stabbing an olive with his fork. Thanks to my white lie, he thought I’d spent the morning with an old school friend. In reality, I had an appointment in Harley Street with Dr Costello.
‘Of course,’ I said, ‘we spoke about you loads.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ He asked a few questions about my ‘friend’—what was her name, what did she do, where did she live? I pointed to my full mouth and mumbled that the food deserved our undivided attention. ‘Can’t argue with that,’ he said.
Between us we devoured the salads, following them up with a piece of sweet, sticky baklava. After I’d finished, Ryan brushed a stray flake of pastry from my chin. ‘Your shoulders are a bit pink,’ he said.
Over my navy cropped trousers, I wore a white vest top of my mother’s that I’d borrowed during my last foray into her flat. Far too baggy, it required a camisole underneath for decency’s sake, but wearing it made me feel close to her.
Ryan produced a tube of sun cream from his backpack and insisted on applying it for me. When he lifted the vest straps to reach the skin beneath, I ordered him to stop. I didn’t want him touching anything belonging to my mother.
I took her mobile and headphones from my handbag and told Ryan I needed to lie down. ‘My friend was exhausting,’ I said. ‘Always analysing everything. Never stops talking.’
‘Whatever you want, babe.’
We lay down, him on his back, me with my head on his stomach. I entered the code for my mother’s phone, one I’d watched her use many times. Clicking on her music, I scrolled through the playlist I’d made of all her most relevant songs—‘Mother’ by Tori Amos, ‘Three Babies’ by Sinead O’Connor. ‘Mother’s Ruin’ by Kirsty MacColl. I chose ‘Mama’ by the Sugarcubes. All these mother-related songs were a sign. Did my own mother realise how many she had and what they meant? Did she know she was longing for me?
Getting hold of the phone was easy. She left her bag hanging on the back of her chair in the WRVS café two days ago, and when she returned to the counter to buy another green tea, I made my move.
Ryan’s fingers wound themselves into my hair. He liked playing with my hair. A few nights ago, he’d asked about my family again. I didn’t feel ready to tell him about the adoption, so I let him believe the Harringtons were my parents. I did tell him about Isobel’s death though, and afterwards he’d held me close for a long time.
As the sun made kaleidoscopes of my eyelids and Björk wailed in my ears, I thought about Dr Costello.
‘Good for you, Cassie,’ he’d said when I walked into the room and announced my first ever relationship. I sat in one of the black leather recliners by the window and waffled on about Ryan while Costello lowered his towering, bulky body into the chair opposite me. He listened with an encouraging smile until my cheeks got hot and I went silent.
‘So you’re settling in to your new life?’ he said, unbuttoning his waistcoat. He dressed like a snooker player—grey waistcoat, grey trousers, black shirt. A dense mass of man, his own planet.
‘I suppose.’ I rearranged the straps of my vest. Flaunting my mother’s top in front of him gave me a thrill.
He asked how Quentin was getting on.
‘He’s still pretty miserable,’ I said.
Costello nodded. ‘He needs more time to come to terms with what happened.’
‘It’s nearly eight months since Isobel left.’
‘Left?’
‘What?’
‘You said Isobel left.’
‘So?’
‘Do you find it hard to say she died?’ He leaned forward, pulling me into his gravitational field. I wanted to resist, but I couldn’t.
‘She still left me,’ I said, ‘it’s the same thing.’
‘Is it?’
‘Everyone always leaves me.’
He frowned. I knew he was about to declare my statement an example of incorrect thinking and suggest we work through it together, so I derailed him by announcing my intention to get a job.
‘A job?’ He sounded wary. ‘I see.’
‘Just part-time to start with.’
‘What sort of job?’
‘One where I can give something back.’ A smile tugged at my lips, but I didn’t let it loose. ‘I want to help people in need.’
‘That’s very commendable, Cassie,’ he said.
‘I know,’ I replied.
***
After the picnic, Ryan and I caught the Tube back to Highbury and Islington. I told him I had a quick errand to do, and he followed me along the High Street to Toni & Guy.
‘I’d like an appointment with one of your colourists,’ I said to the magenta-haired receptionist.
‘What you wanting done?’ she asked.
‘I fancy something different. A permanent colour.’
Her long black nails pecked at the keyboard in front of her. ‘Just a colour?’
‘A cut as well, please.’
Ryan stroked the back of my hair. ‘You won’t take too much off, will you?’
I shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’
16
Saturday, 17 October 2015
For the first time in weeks, I enter Mum’s deserted bedroom. The brass carriage clock she has been asking for sits mute on the bedside table. I pick it up, turn it over and twist the windup mechanism until a loud ticking erupts. I set the clock to the right time—almost noon. I’m running late for today’s visit to the care home. This morning I woke again at 3 a.m., shaking in the aftermath of the fugitive dream. Only at the first hint of dawn did I drift off again, waking just before ten.
The clock has left a clean, rectangular space in the dust on the bedside table. I should be packing Mum’s stuff away, but instead I fetch a duster and polish from the kitchen and wipe the bedside table down. Then I dust the bottles of perfume on the dressing table and return them to their exact positions. I polish every surface in the room before changing the yellow linen on the bed for a crisp, white set.
My efforts exhaust me. Unable to resist the freshly made bed, I take refuge beneath the duvet and lie down, staring up at the stiff peaks and swirls of the Artex ceiling. I can’t rest for long. Have to get to Birch Grove before Emma finishes at one so I can give her the voucher and thank her in person.
Reaching my arms back, I press my palms against the smooth walnut headboard. Although my parents replaced their mattress many times over the years, the bed itself was given to them as a wedding present. As a child, I would climb into their bed each Saturday morning and snuggle between their warm bodies.
The bed has a special history. Mum spent the last ten weeks of her pregnancy confined to it. Placenta praevia. During this time, she returned to the Catholic faith she’d abandoned in her teens. She prayed in this bed, day and night, for the life of her much wanted, much tried-for child. A child conceived after years of failed attempts and two miscarriages. Convinced God’s grace had spared her child, she named it in his honour. Then she set about repaying Him with her devotion—church every Sunday her weekly instalment. Dad and I were left behind to amuse ourselves while she did so. I soon worked out Dad resented God’s intrusion into his marriage. A second child might have helped, but although I survived the birth, Mum’s womb did not.
I yawn. The skin beneath my eyes feels stretched and thin, as if I could pierce it with my finger and find nothing beyond. I remember the doll—her droopy eyelid, her plump, plastic hands. Later that night, I returned to the lift in search of her, only to find her gone.
***
It is almost one o’clock when I leave the house, a chilly breeze gathering momentum around me. I pul
l up the collar of my trench coat and tie the wide belt in a tighter knot.
A lone figure waits in the car park of the care home. Emma. She waves as I approach.
‘Hiya,’ she says, ‘where were you this morning? Your mum and me were waiting for you.’
‘I got held up.’ I’ve never seen her out of uniform before. Blue jeggings cling to her skinny legs. Her green Parka is zipped up tight, but her white plimsolls are far too flimsy for the weather. She pulls a packet of Marlboro Lights from her coat pocket, takes one out and lights it with a pink lighter. She looks too young to smoke, and I long to warn her of its dangers. Watching her inhale, a familiar craving resurfaces. I remember how soothing that first drag can feel, how the worries of the day can be exhaled along with it.
‘Could I pinch one of those?’ I say.
‘You smoke?’ Emma asks, incredulous.
‘Not normally.’
‘Sure.’ She holds out the packet. ‘Stressed are you?’
‘A little.’ I take a cigarette and welcome it between my lips. It tastes harsh and synthetic; alien and familiar. Emma sparks up her lighter and I lean in, my chin brushing the hand she holds cupped around the flame. I suck in the bitter smoke and wait to cough or get dizzy but, after seven years, it’s as if I’ve never given up. Deep inhale and exhale. Jaunty flick of the ash. ‘Thanks.’
‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ Emma says, her expression serious.
I feel lightheaded. A delayed nicotine rush? ‘Go ahead.’ I feel oddly nervous of what she might want.
She tells me she’s decided to apply for the Foundation in Health and Social Care course at Brentham College but is having trouble with the forms. ‘They want me to do a personal statement thing, but I’m crap at that sort of stuff. If I write something down would you have a read of it and help me?’
‘I’d be happy to.’
‘Cool.’ She blows a series of immaculate smoke rings that take me by surprise. The trick seems out of place on her; too sophisticated. Then she chucks her cigarette butt to the ground and crushes it with her plimsoll.
‘Cheers,’ she says, ‘better get going.’ She smiles before scurrying away. It is only when she turns left at the end of the street and disappears that I realise I forgot to give her the voucher.
‘Emma,’ I call, setting off after her. The breeze has upgraded to a blustery wind, whipping the ash from the tip of my cigarette. I put it out and drop it in a bin, appalled at the rancid taste in my mouth.
Turning onto Layer Road, I spot Emma walking ahead of me. I call out again but she is too far away to hear. The fish hook dances in my guts and an invisible line spools out between us, drawing me on.
I should return to Birch Grove, but instead I trail a safe distance behind Emma, letting her lead me to the centre of town and along the High Street. Fascinating, to see her out of the care home environment. To glimpse another side of her. She walks with an unexpected confidence, hips swaying, head held high. The walk of someone used to being looked at.
I bargain with myself—if Emma goes into a shop, I’ll stop this and leave her alone. She doesn’t. Instead she takes us away from the town centre towards the Chelmsford roundabout. Upon reaching it, she descends into the underpass. Only when she emerges from the other side do I follow.
***
With the underpass behind us, we walk up Priory Road, past the entrance to the bus station and into one of Brentham’s rougher areas. Despite our proximity to the town centre, the narrow, terraced houses here are rundown and in need of repair.
Emma darts across the road and enters a street with a sex shop on one corner and a pub called The Fat Cat on the other. She waves at a bald hulk of a man swigging a pint at the pub’s lone outside table. By the time I cross over, she is turning left down the side of a building and is soon out of sight.
I hesitate. What am I doing here? I should leave now.
My legs have their own agenda. Edging forward to the spot where Emma disappeared, I find a narrow passageway between a tall, three-storey house and a high wall. The passageway is dim and dank and empty. My heart picks up pace as I enter it. Set into the side wall of the house is a white door. The panel of buzzers next to it shows the building is divided into flats. None of the buzzers have names beside them.
Litter all over the passageway. Crushed cans of beer, cigarette butts, torn magazines. Stepping away from the door, I kick an empty wine bottle. It spins and clinks. My heart races round my chest looking for the emergency exit. My throat constricts. Where has all the air gone? I feel like I’m breathing through a straw. I turn back but the entrance to the passageway recedes before me. So far away, how will I ever reach it? My heart beats faster still until I’m certain it will burst through my ribs. Am I having a heart attack?
With one hand on the side of the house and the other on the wall, I grope my way towards the distant exit. My whole body shakes as I inch forwards. Upon reaching the street, I glance up at the building and see a light in the top-floor window and the silhouette of Emma, standing with her back to the glass.
Biology takes over, a fast walk first and then, at the end of the road, I run.
PART TWO
17
Sunday, 25 October 2015
Emma was kind and selfless. Emma was caring, compassionate and full of empathy. Emma was nothing like me. Sometimes I hated her for that, as well as for her terrible clothes, her lack of intelligence and that truly dreadful accent.
I hated how much I needed her.
When Emma met my mother for the first time, she was so nervous she almost blew it. She stood for ages in the doorway of my grandmother’s room with an idiotic look on her face. I wanted to say, hello, Mum, it’s me, Cassie, but instead Emma said, hiya, Mrs Walker, in that common voice of hers. I’d imagined my first conversation with my mother so many times but never thought we would talk about tea. Emma handled that quite well, I must admit. She talked about tea as if it mattered, as if she really wanted to make Polly Walker the perfect cuppa. She said things like ‘sweetheart’ and ‘my love’ and ‘bless your heart’—phrases she’d heard the other care workers using.
She couldn’t help offering my mother a drink. I enjoyed that. A small kindness, one a daughter might do for her mother on a daily basis. The offer almost had my mother in tears, but Emma came to the rescue with a tissue. When my mother made excuses about not visiting, I was furious. Trust you to avoid your responsibilities, I wanted to say, but instead Emma dished out chirpy reassurances. Good old Emma. Bless her heart.
When Polly asked Emma to call her Grandma, I didn’t know what to do. Surely she couldn’t have recognised me from the hospital, not with my hair cut short and dyed? Not with brown contact lenses in? It seemed I’d underestimated the bond between us. She would have recognised me in any disguise.
Perhaps that’s why her attack on me came as such a shock. Kegs had warned Emma during her induction that some of the residents could be violent, but still. When my grandmother punched me in the chest, I felt spurned. For a moment, I forgot how ill she was and wanted to hit her back.
Luckily I fell, and what a landing. Right into my mother’s arms. She was there, waiting to catch me. I couldn’t let her go, even after she put me back on my feet. My hand on her arm, her eyes staring into mine. Did she recognise me? Up close I could see the faint creases at the corners of her eyes and the tiny grooves at the sides of her mouth that marked her smile’s parameters.
Then Grandma started weeping, and Emma had to go and fuss over her and be all patient and understanding. Good old Emma. Bless her heart.
***
Good old Emma was tired. She’d covered an early Sunday shift to help out a desperate Kegs. She’d hummed her way through seven hours of arse wiping, bed changing and tea making, still high from the conversation with her mother the previous week. Would you help me with my application? Yes, of course I will.
Emma had found a way in.
I had found a way in. Emma and I were so
close now; it was easy to merge into her. Especially when living in her cold, damp bedsit, surrounded by her things.
I switched on the two halogen fires, filling the poky room with a bright tangerine glow. The bedsit had no central heating, so after moving in I went to Argos for the first time ever and bought the heaters. Argos was fun—flicking through the catalogue, marking up the slip of paper with the cheap biro. Sort of how I imagined Bingo might be.
With one room to live and sleep in and a tiny bathroom, my new second home was a big step down from the Harringtons’ French holiday villa. After Kegs had rung to offer me the part-time job at Birch Grove, I’d considered commuting to Brentham for my three shifts a week but the 7 a.m. starts made that impossible. Besides, I intended to do the role of Emma justice. I trawled through Gumtree until I found a place that sounded fitting for her and offered the landlord six months’ rent up front. Two days later, I had the keys in my hand.
‘I’ll get something done about the door,’ the landlord had promised before legging it down the stairs and roaring off in his white transit van, but he still hadn’t repaired the splintered door frame or replaced the flimsy chain. Every night I jammed a chair under the door handle. Just in case.
After turning both fires to maximum, I climbed into the made-up sofa bed. I’d given up folding it back into a sofa in the mornings. Emma wouldn’t bother. My duvet, also from Argos, had a cerise cover decorated with a white slogan instructing me to keep calm and go to sleep. The bedsit had basic furniture, but I’d bought all the extras myself—pink and blue plastic tumblers, cheap cheery plates covered in red polka dots with mugs and bowls to match. Thanks again Argos. Bingo!
Shopping as Emma was fun but time-consuming. Having to get into character, to think about what Emma would like, what Emma would buy. Her limited budget horrified me, but I managed. Sure I had to get taxis back and forth from Argos to the bedsit and yes, I paid the taxi driver extra to help me carry everything up the three flights of stairs, but apart from that my portrayal radiated authenticity.
She Chose Me Page 7