The Home

by Karen Osman

  James turned to her in surprise. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be with Eileen?’

  ‘James!’ replied Rosemary, ignoring the question. ‘What on earth are you doing up here?’

  ‘I, er, I was just trying to help.’

  ‘Help?’ replied Rosemary. ‘How?’

  ‘Well, you know, just make sure all the paperwork is sorted. I know you’ve been wanting to have a clear-out for a while.’

  She tried not to lose her patience. ‘OK, well, can you put everything back and come down?’ she asked, retreating down the stepladder. ‘It’s not safe for you to be coming up here when I’m not home. What if you fell?’

  She didn’t hear James reply, but she was pretty sure he sounded cross. Heading to the kitchen, she went to make them some lunch, the absence of a freshly prepared salad only adding to her irritation. It was a good twenty minutes before James came down and as she heard him plant his feet on the stepladder, she went to make sure he got down safely.

  ‘Rosie love, all sorted and everything is back in its place,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘How’s Eileen?’

  ‘She’s fine. She asked about you.’

  ‘Did she? That’s nice of her.’

  ‘It was. Come on, I’ve made you a salad and there’s a little bit of pie left, if you want it.’

  ‘Sounds good. I’ll just put the stepladder back in the shed and wash my hands and I’ll be through in a minute. Perhaps after lunch, I might go and see who’s in the pub and read the paper. Is that all right?’

  *

  A few days later, Rosemary was sorting through her jewellery box. Over the years, she’d gathered quite a collection. There was the black opal ring she’d inherited from her mother, passed down through the generations. She rarely put it on but occasionally she took it out and held it in the palm of her hand, imagining the women of the past who had worn it. There was a thin gold chain with a diamond pendant from James, which he’d given to her when they’d adopted Angela, and a silver cross, tarnished with age now, but still special as it had been the first piece of jewellery James had ever bought for her. It had three diamonds in it – one for each month they’d been together, he’d told her.

  Removing everything, she decided to give the box a clean and it was then that she noticed the hinge was coming loose. James had gone to meet one of his friends in the village to talk cars and business, so she would have to wait for him to come back to fix it. Rosemary looked at the collection of rings, necklaces, and earrings spread across the table in different piles. She hated to leave the job unfinished. James did pretty much all of the DIY around the house and she was happy for him to do it. She went into the shed once a week just to tidy it up a bit so she knew where all the tools were kept – it was such a small job, she really didn’t need to bother him with it. She would unlock the shed and get the screwdrivers and fix the jewellery box herself.

  The shed door swung open as the key turned in the lock and Rosemary shuddered at the sight of a large spider’s web across one corner of the doorframe. Stepping inside and looking around, she was disappointed to see that everything was a bit of a mess despite only tidying a few days ago. A workbench to her right was covered with a plastic sheet on which oil canisters, tools, nuts and bolts lay haphazardly, while a cylinder block was trapped in a vice. On the other side, a lawnmower and rake were propped up against an old chest of drawers. On the bench right in front of her, she saw the black tool box, which she knew held various screwdrivers of different sizes. On top of the box, a folded piece of paper was threaded through the handle, most likely a warranty left there by James as a reminder to file away. Breathing a sigh of relief, she picked it up and locked the shed door, safe from all the creepy-crawlies.

  Back at the house, she opened the box, checking the contents, then sat down at the table, screwdriver in hand. Rosemary felt a ridiculous sense of accomplishment, mending the broken hinge. She put the screwdriver back in the tool box and had closed the lid when she caught sight of a folded piece of paper again and decided to file it. Unfolding the paper to check the contents, she immediately saw that it wasn’t a warranty or a manual but a letter she had never seen before.

  After a few minutes, she placed the paper slowly down on the table. Calmly, she picked up her now-fixed jewellery box, examining it from every angle. Through the glass cover she could just see the silver cross, the three diamonds blinking back at her. With a strength she didn’t even know she had, she raised the jewellery box high over her head and brought it crashing down on the table in front of her, scattering its contents in an explosion of grief.

  *

  7 September 1974

  Dear Mr and Mrs Steele,

  APPROVAL FOR ADOPTION

  It is with great pleasure that I inform you that the assessment of your suitability for adoption, carried out on 16 July, has been successful. Please find enclosed a copy of the report for your reference.

  As a next step, we would like to invite you for a meeting on 18 September at 10 a.m. to finalise the arrangements for adoption. We have recently taken in a two-month-old baby boy and believe he would be an ideal addition to your family.

  I look forward to discussing this matter further on 18 September and would be grateful if you could confirm your attendance by return mail.

  Your sincerely,

  Matron Ward

  58

  Evelyn

  Evelyn felt the familiar crawl of her skin signalling her need for vodka. She’d been dry for only a few days, but she could see the slight tremor. The shock of waking up to a rearranged flat and having no recollection still traumatised her. As much as she tried to reassure herself that she’d simply overdone it on the drink, she couldn’t deny the number of strange incidences. It was becoming difficult to know what was real and what was in her imagination. The last time she’d gone out, she’d convinced herself that someone was following her. She’d broken into a run then, so petrified, she hadn’t even noticed the pain in her legs; her only thought was to get to the safety of home. But she didn’t even feel safe there any more. Evelyn resisted the temptation of the clear liquid and lit a cigarette instead, hoping she could summon up the courage to go outside.

  *

  Evelyn looked furtively about as she walked Charlie around the estate. It was all quiet. Still, she slipped her hand in her pocket, her fingers wrapping themselves around the handle of the small kitchen knife although she didn’t believe her tormentor was someone on the estate any more. She took the knife with her everywhere she went now, always making sure it was concealed but easily accessible in her pocket. She knew Brenda would think she was being ridiculous, but she felt safer with it. She just couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. It started with a prickle on her neck, working its way across her scalp like a spider. She hated it. It only really went away when she was at home. But even then, she had to go through an elaborate checking process before she felt truly secure. She’d taped up the letter box, much to the annoyance of the postman, who had pushed the post through anyway, easily tearing the flap away from the Sellotape. After that, she’d used superglue and packing tape and that had seemed to do the job. The postman couldn’t get the mail in and she could hear him muttering as he knocked on her door. She’d shouted through to him to leave it on the mat and when she heard the tread of his steps fading, she’d looked through the peephole before opening the door and picking up the post.

  She was also vigilant – probably excessively so – about making sure the front door was locked all the time, and every night she checked all the windows were secure. She had been sleeping with a chair against her bedroom door but recently she’d taken to moving the dresser, its heavy presence a reassuring barricade against any intruder, as an extra precaution. The only problem was moving the damn thing when she needed to use the bathroom.

  Evelyn felt the insistent tug of Charlie on his lead. They had already been out a good half an hour and the cold temperature wasn’t agreeing with Evelyn.

  ‘Co
me on, boy, let’s go,’ she said now, eager to get back home to her morning TV shows. But Charlie was resolute, foraging amongst the bushes, barking and dancing. He was a lazy dog so what on earth had caught his attention to get him so excited?

  Unable to pull him away, Evelyn went to have a look. She’d expected a dead bird or a squirrel but instead several pieces of cooked meat on the bone lay in a heap. Charlie was already at it, using both front paws to hold it steady while he got his jaws around it. Who would dump so much cooked meat? thought Evelyn. There must be something wrong with it. Pulling a disappointed Charlie away with promises of dog treats when he got home, she thought nothing more of it, her only desire being to get home.

  *

  Evelyn inspected the bottom of her burgundy velvet slipper curiously. A thick substance covered the sole, its cloying texture emitting a foul smell. Recoiling, it was only when she saw Charlie lying on his side that she realised he’d been sick. Leaning over him, Evelyn stroked his matted fur, his eyes looking up at her beseechingly. His breathing was rapid, coming in short bursts. Scooping him up in one arm, she didn’t hesitate. Pausing just long enough to slip on her boots and jacket, she raced out of the door, slamming and locking it behind her, before flagging a taxi to take him to the vet. She would clean up the mess later.

  *

  ‘My best guess would be poisoning,’ announced Mr Mills, who had been treating Charlie since she had found him abandoned on the construction site. As usual, his white jacket sleeves were rolled up to reveal his hairy forearms as he gently examined Charlie’s limp body.

  ‘Poison! From what?’

  ‘Some kind of chemical, I suspect – rat poison, or something similar – but we’ll have to run a blood test to be sure. In the meantime, it’s a good sign that he’s been sick already, so we’ll start an antidote and keep an eye on him.’

  Rat poison? Where on earth would he find that? She deliberately took him for walks in the green areas and normally the council would inform them of any pest control. She recounted their walk earlier that morning and remembered the cooked meat.

  ‘Charlie found some cooked meat in the bushes earlier today. He only managed to get a few licks before I pulled him away, but could the meat have been rotten and caused this?’

  ‘Possibly, but I would say his symptoms are more indicative of a chemical rather than food poisoning. Unless the meat had been sprayed with weedkiller or something similar. You say it was found in the bushes?’

  Evelyn’s thoughts came at her rapidly like bullets. The council never put weedkiller down in winter – they always did it in spring. Her heart started pounding and she slipped her hand in her pocket, feeling the reassurance of the sharp knife.

  59

  Rosemary

  Rosemary lay in bed staring at the ceiling not wanting to be awake but unable to sleep. She could hear the Macmillan nurse in the kitchen, putting the kettle on and preparing breakfast; James’s greeting as he was met with coffee and boiled eggs.

  After a few moments, she sat up and looked around the guest room. When they’d first moved in, all those years ago, Rosemary knew the space would be perfect as a nursery. As they’d unpacked, she’d designed it in her mind: the white crib placed on the far side, an armchair in the corner by the window overlooking the garden, and a chest of drawers filled with tiny clothes, clean and pressed, ready to slip on. But as the years passed, the room remained empty and, reluctantly, Rosemary turned it into a guest room. She’d bought a double bed with matching side tables and a mirrored dresser. In the corner, there were two chairs with a small coffee table, and she remembered being pleased that she’d been able to match the wallpaper, bedspread, and tablecloth so that hundreds of tiny little flowers covered the room. Looking around now, Rosemary wondered if she would ever feel like decorating again.

  The day she discovered the letter seemed like a lifetime ago. She didn’t remember how long she’d sat on the floor sobbing, amongst the strewn jewellery and broken glass. Eventually, she’d stood up, put the letter back exactly where she found it, and went to the shed. As she stood there amongst the oily smell of machinery, James was all around her but she felt removed from his presence, shock making her numb. She opened the drawer and put the tool box back where she’d found it. She’d then gone back inside, telephoned Macmillan Cancer Support, and retreated to the guest room, telling James she was ill and couldn’t risk passing anything on to him when his immune system was so weak.

  This was her third day in bed and she knew that she wouldn’t be able to hide for ever. She had slept most of the time, unable to face the inevitable breakdown of her marriage. It all made sense now; she had never been involved in anything to do with the adoption process, leaving it all to James to handle, and when he’d told her the home had called to say they were too old to adopt a baby, she’d never questioned it. They’d been married for over two decades and not even her wild imagination could have predicted such a betrayal. He had prevented her from having the one thing in life she truly wanted: the silky satin of a baby’s cheek pressed up to her own, the warm curl of a grasp on her finger, the contented sigh from a rosebud mouth. Rosemary clawed at the bedcovers, doubled over in physical pain at the thought of the baby she could have had. What she had lost. What had been denied to her by a man who had put his own needs above her own.

  *

  Rosemary could hear James calling her, his words soft and mellow. She heard the gentle tap of a cup placed on the bedside table and felt his kiss on her forehead. When she didn’t stir, he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. As she heard his footsteps recede, she rolled over, letting the pillow soak up her tears.

  *

  When James said he was going to call the doctor if she didn’t improve soon, Rosemary knew she had to get out of bed. Despite the irony of the room’s original intended use, she’d found, if not comfort, then at least a place for her grief amongst the flowery pillows and sheets. It was Friday and as she washed and dressed, she wondered what she would say to James, where they could possibly go from here. But as she walked into the kitchen, she was surprised to see James at the table, a couple of documents laid out before him. She couldn’t see the contents of the papers but the yellowing of them told her they were old. As he spotted her, he rose, coming over to wrap his arms around her. Rosemary forced her arms to reciprocate.

  ‘Rosie, love, you’re up! How are you feeling?’

  She heard the kettle being switched on and was disconcerted to see the Macmillan nurse making tea. She’d almost forgotten about her – what was her name again? Sarah? Sam?

  ‘Good morning, would you like a cup?’ the nurse asked now.

  ‘No problem, I can make it,’ Rosemary replied, glad of the excuse to extract herself from James. ‘Thank you so much for your help this week,’ she continued. ‘I’m feeling much better now so I can probably manage from here. I shall definitely be in touch again, though.’

  The nurse quickly picked up the hint. ‘It’s been no problem at all. A pleasure, in fact.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ added James, with exaggerated politeness as it trying to make up for the abruptness of his wife.

  Rosemary saw the nurse out before returning to the kitchen.

  James looked at her in concern. ‘Are you sure you’re well enough to be up, Rosie?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she replied, making herself busy in the kitchen. Anticipating he would pry further, she was surprised when, instead, he sat back down and started looking at the documents again. He seemed preoccupied. With a start, she realised he was going to tell her about the letter himself. Is this what a potential life-threatening illness did – enticed you to right wrongs? And even if it did, would it make a difference to the way she felt about him and what he’d done? Could there be hope for their marriage after all?

  *

  That afternoon, Rosemary was sitting in the living room with a pot of tea. She felt lethargic and couldn’t even drum up the energy to pick up a magazine. James came
through and sat next to her. She’d left him to his own devices that morning, struggling even to look at him.

  ‘Rosie love, there’s something we need to discuss. Do you think you’re up to it today? I’d rather do it sooner than later, to be honest.’

  Rosemary looked at him closely, sensing his apprehension and… was that fear?

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, relieved that the moment of truth had come so quickly. ‘Let me just put some fresh water in this pot and then we can talk.’ She needed a few moments.

  Returning, she saw the documents in James’s hand and braced herself. She imagined him tentatively showing her the letter, the apologies tumbling like a waterfall. Since the morning, she had tried to plan her response, hoping that her rage wouldn’t get the better of her. Would she tell him she already knew? Would they cry together? In the end, like the hope she’d felt earlier, Rosemary decided to let her instincts take over.

  60

  Angela

  Angela slowly opened her eyes and it took her several moments to realise she was in a hospital. As consciousness took over, she remembered. The frantic phone call from her mum late Friday afternoon saying her dad had been rushed to hospital, the race to leave the office, and the endless train journey. She had been planning to go home for Christmas for a few days that afternoon anyway, now her promotion had been made official, so she already had her weekend case with her. With a quick explanation to Mr Mooring, she had left the office.

  She moved her neck, which was now stiff from sleeping in a chair, and looked over at her dad. He was sleeping and looked peaceful, but the tubes and beeps and the foreign noises alarmed Angela. How could this be happening? Angela closed her eyes again, eager to block it all out. She had told her mum to go home on Friday evening and rest for a few hours in her own bed. She looked more than exhausted – she looked ill.