by Paula Daly
When I reach the counter I punch in my PIN and the spotty cashier tells me, ‘That card’s rejected. You want to try it again or use another?’
‘What?’ I ask. Certain I’ve heard him incorrectly.
‘Declined,’ he says. ‘The card.’
‘Impossible,’ I reply. ‘There’s at least—’
I stop myself from claiming there is thirty grands’ worth of available credit on the card. Because that would sound preposterous in here.
‘Would you mind trying it again?’
‘Take your card out,’ he says in a strong Salford accent, ‘now put your PIN in.’ Someone catches his eye over my shoulder. ‘Iyor,’ he says, and there’s an incomprehensible exchange about Manchester City, points and league tables. Might as well be in Russian, because it means nothing to me.
The machine beeps. Declined.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, mortified, fumbling in my purse. ‘Could you try this one?’
We go through the entire process once again, this time with the card from my and Sean’s joint account. The other is registered to the hotel and, though this card has a lower credit limit, there’s still plenty left on it. I clear the balance each month without fail.
Declined.
‘What happens now?’ I say, quietly as I can.
‘Stand over there,’ he says, not unkindly, nodding his head towards the racks of Ginsters pies and pasties. ‘You’ll need to contact your bank.’
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I want to cry.
‘Isn’t there some way I can pay for it later?’ I ask, desperate. ‘This once happened to a friend of mine, and I’m sure she was given twenty-four hours to return to pay.’
‘This is a franchised garage,’ he replies. ‘Owner doesn’t give credit.’
‘Well, it’s not like I can put the fuel back?’
‘Your best bet is to ring your bank,’ he says, and looks past me, signalling me to move so he can deal with the next customer.
My triumphant state has now been completely eclipsed. It feels like such a petty victory over Eve. Inconsequential. I decide against calling the bank and instead call Sean. There’s no answer on his mobile, so I dial home.
Eve picks up. ‘Hello,’ she says, as if she’s always lived there.
‘Why are you answering my phone?’
‘Because you were in custody,’ she replies.
‘I’m not. I’m out. They reduced the charges against me, you . . .’
The people waiting to pay for fuel are staring. My card has been rejected and I am now hissing into my mobile the words: ‘reduced the charges’.
Not great.
‘I know you’re out,’ Eve says. ‘I was told last night. The Crown Prosecution Service will still investigate, though, so you’re not exactly home and dry.’
‘Is Sean there? Does he know why they dropped the charges? Did you tell him about the inconsistencies in your story, Eve?’
‘He’s not here.’
I’m guessing from her answer that Sean has not been informed about the new CCTV footage.
‘Where is he?’
‘Oh, you know,’ she says vaguely, as if he’s probably around there somewhere.
‘No, I don’t. That’s why I am asking you. I need to get hold of him urgently. My credit cards have been rejected and I am trying to buy diesel. I need him to call the bank and get it sorted out straight away. I can’t leave until I’ve paid . . . obviously.’
‘Those cards have been cancelled, Natty.’
I go to reply, but I have no voice. I am wordless.
‘Cancelled?’ I say to Eve, stunned. People are trying not to stare but, sensing my heightening panic, they can’t drag their eyes away.
‘The joint ones, yes,’ she answers, matter-of-fact. ‘Sean’s cancelled your credit cards and moved half the money from your joint current account into your personal one.’
‘Why? Why has he done that?’
‘Why wouldn’t he? He’s not done anything wrong, Natty. You’ll get a new card and you’ve got the same money as you had last week, it’s simply not in the joint account any longer. Since you haven’t been running the hotel, it’s hardly fair for you to have access to the funds. Just use your debit card to pay for the petrol . . . it’s no big deal.’
‘But I haven’t got my debit card on me,’ I say, the panic escalating. ‘It’s in the pot on the kitchen windowsill. Alice took it with her to Costa last week and I forgot to replace it in my purse.’
Eve doesn’t respond. I hear her footsteps across the kitchen tiles. She’s wearing heels. ‘Oh, yes, you’re right,’ she says. ‘Here it is. I suppose you’ll have to leave your car there and get a taxi . . . hang on, your car’s being repaired, isn’t it? What are you driving, Natty?’
‘My dad’s van.’
She laughs. ‘Hang on, I’ll see if Sean’s got time to come and bail you out. Where are you?’
I don’t answer.
‘Natty?’ she prompts, as if she hasn’t got all day.
‘In Manchester.’
‘Manchester? What are you doing down there? You’ve only just got out of custody. Strikes me as a very odd thing to do when—’
She stops.
Carefully, she asks, ‘What are you up to, Natty?’
And I try to hold back, but the words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.
28
‘I WASN’T ASKED TO leave,’ Eve says. As if she’s totally bored speaking to me, ‘I left of my own accord. Whatever evidence you have, Natty’ – and she stresses the word ‘evidence’ as if using air quotes – ‘whatever you have is unreliable.’
She is completely unruffled by my accusation. And I can’t decide if that’s a good thing – as in, it shows just how capable she is at lying under pressure – or if it’s totally scary, because it shows just how capable she is at lying under pressure.
‘We’ll see,’ I say to her, defiant.
‘I could have saved you the trouble of your little investigative exercise. If you’d only asked, I would have told you I left Manchester and continued my studies at Salford. I had a short affair with a lecturer and we both decided it best if I transferred before it became public knowledge.’ She scoffs at the memory. ‘I’m not the first person to do it. It’s not as if it’s illegal. The only reason I never mentioned it was because I promised the guy I’d keep it hush-hush. He was married.’
I try to swallow my disappointment.
‘Come back to Windermere, Natty,’ she says. ‘You’re wasting your time down there.’
In a rush of anger and desperation, determined she won’t have this victory, I cry, ‘Yes, well, it wasn’t the only thing I found out about you!’ and I hang up, panting and shaking like a madwoman.
I look up.
The spotty cashier is watching me. ‘Get through to the bank, did you?’ he asks.
‘Not yet,’ I snap.
He raises his eyebrows in response, and I remember I am not in the position to be snippy here. I cannot pay.
‘Just popping back to the van,’ I say, ‘to see if there’s any cash in the glove compartment. I’ll move it over to the car wash so the pump can be used. I won’t drive off.’
He gestures to a plethora of CCTV cameras positioned outside and shrugs as if to say it’s no skin off his nose. I’d be picked up by the police in less than a minute if I were to make a run for it.
After furiously searching every nook and cranny of the Transit, I scrape together £2.47. Add to that what I have in my purse, and I have a grand total of £17.80.
I am short by fifty pounds. In one last desperate attempt I rifle through my handbag, hoping desperately to find a source of cash.
And that’s when I spot them.
Tucked between my diary and a slim catalogue for staff uniforms, I find the girls’ National Savings bank cards. Joint accounts between both me and the girls, and each has around four thousand pounds in it. Money deposited from relatives for birthday
s, money that Sean and I deposited each time they achieved good grades at school. Halle-fucking-lujah.
I stride confidently over towards a slim young woman replacing her petrol cap. ‘Hi,’ I say, smiling, ‘I’m in a bit of a fix. Would you be able to drop me at the nearest Post Office? I need to withdraw money to pay for my fuel.’
‘No,’ she says, and walks off.
As I look after her, the guy on the other side of the pump is laughing, shaking his head. ‘Very accommodating,’ he says. ‘What’s happened, have you lost your purse?’
He’s wearing a high-vis jacket with ‘United Utilities’ printed on the breast pocket.
‘Kind of,’ I tell him. ‘My husband’s cancelled my credit cards. And he didn’t think to tell me.’
The guy screws up his face. ‘That’s a cunt’s trick,’ he says, matter-of-fact. ‘Bad divorce?’
‘Separated.’
‘The worst part,’ he says. ‘By the time the divorce comes around, you can barely remember being married.’
He turns his eyes towards the pump, squeezes gently a few times to make sure he gets the exact amount. Sean does this, even though he pays for fuel by credit card. I can never understand why it’s necessary to land on, say, a round sixty pounds, if you’re not paying cash. He always does it, though, seems to gain satisfaction from it. Must be a man thing. The guy rattles the pump excessively to prevent any drips and turns his attention back to me.
‘Give me a minute,’ he says, pulling out his wallet, ‘and I’ll take you.’
Two hours later, the rain has stopped and I’m parked outside number 7 Wilkinson Street, Bolton. The street is crowded with cars, and this is the only available spot. It’s been a bit of a wild-goose chase to get here. Somehow I managed to travel too far along the M61, coming off at completely the wrong side of town, and, instead of doing the sensible thing – doubling back – I decided heading across the centre of town would be quicker.
It wasn’t.
Anyway, I’m here now, and parked opposite a primary school. It’s an austere building with a small concrete playground and high smoked-glass windows. Must feel like a prison if you’re five years old.
Leading off from Wilkinson Street are countless other identical streets; all lined with two-up two-down red-bricked terraced houses. The whole area is swamped in the shadows of a huge, abandoned mill. I assume it’s been decommissioned, as its windows are smashed. It’s an ugly, monstrous thing, dominating the landscape; a remnant of the industrialized north. Sixteen-hour shifts. Heavens. Hard to imagine now, as it’s not clogs and flat caps on the cobbles around here but saris and burqas, people-carriers.
I slap on some lipstick and climb out, head across the street to find number 32. Each house abuts the pavement, no front garden or path, and each window I pass is meticulously clean, as if the window cleaner stops by daily. This is the kind of street where people still sweep their steps, clean the pavements and gutters in front of their houses.
I stop outside number 32, hesitate before pressing the doorbell. The windows are the original single glazing, the wooden frames freshly painted in thick white gloss and the sills in black. The front door is stained an ugly shade of red mahogany, but without a trace of dirt, and there are two giant plastic butterflies adorning the exterior brickwork. Sounds crass, but they do look kind of cheery.
I press the bell and wait.
After an age, and I mean close to four minutes, the door is thrown open and behind it is an elderly woman on a Zimmer frame. She’s panting hard and her face is blood red. Immediately I feel terrible for disturbing her, making her suffer what is clearly a marathon of effort.
‘Mrs Boydell?’ I try, knowing this woman is in no way linked to Eve, but with no other plan available it’s the best I can do.
‘Who?’
She’s deaf.
I enunciate slowly. ‘I am looking for Mrs Boydell. Do you know her?’
‘Who?’
‘Boydell.’
‘Shut the door,’ she tells me, and begins negotiating her walking frame into a one-eighty. ‘I need me ears in,’ she says and sets off along the narrow corridor, assuming I’m following her.
Do people not view Crimewatch? Don’t they know you’re not supposed to let strangers into your house?
She takes a left into the front room. The tiny space is practically taken up with a heavy ebony sideboard and two wingback chairs, the type my dad is using at the moment on account of his knees. An old gas fire is lit and alongside lies a weary black dog, breed indiscriminate, greying around the muzzle. It raises its head as I enter; its eyes are cloudy, the pupils turning amber as they catch the light. It’s blind, but knowing someone is here its back end begins to rock as it tries to wag its tail.
‘Sit down, love,’ says the woman. She has a deep, throaty, broad Lancastrian accent. Like Thora Hird.
Automatically, I say, ‘You shouldn’t let people into your home, you know,’ but she doesn’t hear me. She’s fixing her hearing aid inside her ear and there’s a piercing screech like a tea kettle boiling on the stove.
I recoil as she fiddles with it, the pitch rising and falling. ‘Am I whistlin’?’ she asks, her head cocked to one side.
‘A bit,’ I say.
‘It’s stopped?’ she asks.
I nod at her to let her know that we’re good.
‘Righto then,’ and before I have a chance to say anything more, she’s leaning forward and peeling down her pop sock, fingering the edge of a grubby dressing midway down her shin. ‘This is still oozing,’ she tells me, grimacing. ‘I think it might be better if it gets a bit of air at it.’
She has a leg ulcer. It’s a rancid, gaping thing. As though her flesh has been scooped out with a spoon. ‘Jesus,’ I say, simultaneously transfixed and repulsed. ‘Is that bone?’
‘Aye. It’s not healing good at all. Where’s your bag o’ tricks?’
‘Bag of tricks?’ And it dawns on me that she thinks I’m some kind of community nurse. ‘No, no,’ I say, conscious now that the faint fishy odour I noticed on entering the property is actually the smell of rotting human flesh. ‘I’m not your nurse,’ I say quickly. Perhaps too quickly, because she’s mildly affronted.
‘Who are you then?’ she asks.
‘Natty Wainwright.’
She frowns. ‘Who?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ and I shake my head.
I move in closer and look at her straight so she can see my lips moving. ‘I need to find Mr Boydell,’ I say clearly, almost shouting. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Dead.’
‘Oh,’ I reply. ‘Oh, that’s terrible, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. When did he die?’
‘Nineteen sixty-seven.’
‘Really?’
‘Asbestos,’ she says, and nods grimly. ‘But that were back before they knew it were bad for you, so we got no compensation. Now, Kathleen Moss, her at number 48, she gets an extra fourteen pound a week in her pension. That’s ’cause her husband died later on.’
A moment passes where she contemplates this injustice and it seems best to keep silent.
Then I clear my throat. ‘Would you happen to know where Mrs Boydell is?’ I ask, and she does a double take. Checks to see if I’m pulling her leg.
‘I’m Mrs Boydell!’ she exclaims.
‘Of course, of course,’ I reply apologetically, thinking that this makes no sense whatsoever. There is no way this is the Mrs Boydell I am looking for. For one, she’s too old. And it seems almost impossible she could be related to Eve, let alone be her mother. The mother that Eve claimed was long dead. The name must be a coincidence.
Still, I have to ask.
‘Mrs Boydell, do you have a daughter named Eve?’
‘Eve?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘No.’
‘I see.’
‘I’ve a granddaughter, though,’ she says. ‘Nasty piece o’ work is Eve. Ran off and never calls her mother. Still, it’s probably for the best.�
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‘So, your son is married to . . .’ I pause, working through the lineage to make sure I get this right, ‘Your son is married to Eve’s mother? Is that correct?’
‘What?’ she scoffs. ‘Our Sharon never married.’
‘No?’
‘She’d never say who the father was. Some low-life Walter Mitty, she called him. I can’t help you if it’s ’im you’re looking for. She gave the child our name, Boydell, ’cause she didn’t want folk knowing who he was.’
‘So what you’re telling me is your daughter, Sharon, brought Eve up on her own? Around here?’
‘In this very house,’ she says proudly.
I lean in, excited by what she’s saying, anxious about what I’m going to ask next, in case this all amounts to nothing.
‘Mrs Boydell,’ I say, trying to keep my tone neutral, ‘where is Sharon right now? Does she live nearby?’
‘Oh aye,’ she says. ‘She’s got a bungalow towards the hospital . . . she moved out when all the Pakis moved in.’ Dropping her voice, she taps the side of her nose conspiratorially. ‘Now, she won’t say owt about it to you,’ she whispers, ‘and don’t you go lettin’ on you heard this from me, but our Sharon . . . well, she can be a bit of a racialist.’
29
EVE SQUIRTS UHT cream from a can. She places the tall cups on saucers, carefully unwraps the Cadbury’s Flakes – sprinkling any leftover shavings on top of the cream – then lays each Flake alongside the hot chocolate. Lastly, she adds a long-handled spoon.
She’s not a natural when it comes to this kind of thing, but, standing back, surveying her efforts, she’s actually quite pleased.
Alice sits at the table, school tie pulled loose. She has a stark-white Biore blackhead-removal strip across her nose – which would be fine if she actually had any blackheads. Alice uses the strips daily, Eve’s noticed. Something Eve finds rather irritating but is prepared to ignore for now. She’s going along with it, indulging Alice in her quest to attain perfect skin.