by Laura Powell
He had jumped from the sofa and grasped at the ceiling where she hovered but he couldn’t quite catch hold of her and he had watched powerlessly as she dissolved into the coving.
‘Say your name,’ he says, in case he is deluding himself again.
‘You remember me?’ says that voice; Betty’s voice.
It is gentle and song-like from her silky throat.
‘Say your name,’ he repeats, ashamed of his old man’s voice.
He is ashamed of his pinched lips too, and his dead eyes, and his posture, like one of those impassive marble tombs that he had once glanced at in a Tuscan crypt. That is how she must see him; redundant and cracked and lifeless.
‘I was your Betty.’
Her face disappears behind her hands. Don’t hide away, he would like to shout but he needs a moment to plan what to say next and how to explain. At the very least, he must tell her that, even now, the thought of her standing on the beach kicking up fountains of sea makes him – but what does it make him?
He had once pieced together the optimal sentence to recite if he met her again: I loved you and that’s why I came back for you, but I left again to protect you. He had decided that it would be dangerous to utter a word more but now she is here, the words sit on his lips refusing to budge.
He notices the nurse then. She has stopped drying the glasses and she stands watching them with one hip cocked forward and her mouth agape. He snaps with anger.
‘You must leave.’
The nurse doesn’t move. Instead she turns to face Betty – no, Mary. She turns to the woman standing by the door with her hands still glued to her face, the way a child might if they wanted to wish themselves away from a moment of fear or terror or perhaps unbearable elation.
‘You must leave,’ says Gallagher again, pointing at the nurse with his index finger.
She frowns and opens her mouth wider, but she closes it again and marches off. Finally, they are alone and John is relieved. But the relief is replaced with a knot of terror because she will want to know everything.
Chapter 17
October 1956
Joan elbows past the two policemen and hurries across the kitchen towards Betty, her face streaked with mascara.
‘Sweetheart,’ she weeps, wrapping her wiry arms around Betty.
‘It’s all right, I’m home now… I’m sorry if I worried you all,’ says Betty.
She tries to unbury herself from the brittle hug but Joan has her tight. She smells of lemons and something greasy.
‘What is it, what’s wrong?’
Joan lets go and collapses onto a chair beside the little foldaway kitchen table. A half-drunk glass of wine sits on it. Joan picks up the glass and presses its lipstick mark to her cheek.
‘Where’s Mother?’
‘Sit down, my love,’ says the older policeman.
‘Where’s Inspector Napier?’
‘In Plymouth. Sit down please.’
‘Am I in trouble? I was only gone for one night.’
The policeman shakes his head. Betty sits. She watches Joan roll the lipsticked glass over her cheek, as though trying to make it kiss her. Her eyes still stream. The older policeman clears his throat.
‘I’m sorry Betty, but your mother passed away.’
Everything goes grey.
Betty isn’t sitting on the kitchen chair any more. Betty is a spider. She clings onto the bit of ceiling next to the mustard lampshade and she looks down, as spiders do. Directly below her is a head of curls that belong to sobbing Joan. A slight girl with matted hair the colour of chestnuts stands beside Joan. The girl doesn’t move. She doesn’t even breathe. Two identical police helmets hover next to her. Both helmets are removed at the same time. The curls bob faster but the head of matted hair is perfectly still.
Mother’s head will join them soon. She will switch on the record player and dance around the room, her yellow hair bobbing about. She will grab the policemen and twirl them around. She will sing ‘Oranges and Lemons’.
Betty stands on the floor again. Mother still isn’t here. She will come though. And when Mother says dance, Betty will dance. She will cartwheel too, and jive, and she will pour Mother a glass of wine; a bottle of the stuff if Mother asks her to. She would pour it straight down Mother’s throat, if only she would walk in right now.
‘I don’t understand,’ she croaks.
‘In her sleep,’ says the older policeman.
‘She choked,’ chips in the younger one. ‘On her vomit. She probably wouldn’t have felt anything since she was already passed out. We found bottles of sleeping tablets and gin and wine and brandy and—’
‘I’m sorry,’ cuts in the older policeman, giving the younger one a fierce look.
‘That’s enough,’ shouts Joan at the same time, standing up. ‘Get him out! Get that nasty little scrote out of Dolores’s kitchen.’
He scarpers into the big room and the older policeman’s face turns very pink.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he says again. ‘He’s new. He shouldn’t have said that. But it was an accident, like he said.’ He tucks his hat under his arm. ‘You should also know that we found something. We think it’s intended for you.’
He holds out a sheet of crumpled paper to Betty. She looks at his eyes instead.
‘What is it?’ she says.
‘It was in the bedroom. By the bin.’
His hand is extended. There is a long pause. Betty fishes for courage and takes the paper from him. The page is thin and has translucent patches, as if water or tears or some other liquid has splashed it. The handwriting is careless and the angle skewed.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
She looks at it for a long time and hands it back to the policeman.
‘I’d better put the potatoes on to boil. Mother’ll be home soon.’
‘Betty, you should keep it,’ says Joan gently.
‘We’re out of flour,’ continues Betty. ‘She must have gone to buy flour. She’ll be hungry if she’s walked all the way to Spoole for it.’
‘If we can do anything to help…’ says the policeman.
He sort of bows out of the kitchen. Betty can hear him whispering something in the other room. He sounds cross. It will be all right though. Mother will come home soon and send them all packing. She will bake bread with the new flour and light the coal fire. They will spear the bread onto pokers and toast it with cinnamon and sugar sprinkled on top.
Someone is shaking Betty’s shoulders. She lets her ragdoll body flop about and keeps her eyes closed.
‘Were you listening?’ says Joan, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Did you hear them?’
Betty opens her eyes and looks at Joan but she can’t focus.
‘I need toast,’ she says.
Joan shakes her harder.
‘Dolores is dead. Your mother is dead. Didn’t you hear them?’
‘Toast with cinnamon.’
‘Betty, don’t make this harder for me. I’m upset too.’
She shrugs off Joan and walks to the larder for cinnamon. It is already powdered. Mother isn’t patient enough for cinnamon sticks. ‘Life’s too short to grate cinnamon,’ she always says, even though Betty tries to tell her that cinnamon sticks aren’t supposed to be grated.
Betty draws the cinnamon tub to her nose and sniffs. It smells of winter; of the nights that Mother threw back her head and said, ‘I know Betty boo boo, we’ll have a treat.’ Betty can’t wait for the fire to light, for the cinnamon to melt into the bread. She needs it now. She tips back her head and lets the sweet earthy powder coat her throat. It makes her cough. She can’t quite catch her breath. Someone slaps her back.
‘Richard, get in here,’ shouts Joan.
‘Life’s too short to grate cinnamon,’ coughs Betty.
Joan hits her back harder. Betty licks the cinnamon from her lips but her legs stop working and she falls to the kitchen floor. Her chin grazes the oilcloth.
‘Richard,’ shrieks Joan.
Betty lies face down on the floor that Tuesday, only Tuesday, she scrubbed until her hands were raw, while Mother lay upstairs in bed breathing.
‘Life’s too short to grate cinnamon.’
Joan cries louder. Someone wearing workman’s boots stomps into the kitchen.
‘Life’s too short to grate cinnamon!’
She can almost laugh about it – how right Mother is. Life is too short for cinnamon grating. Miss Hollinghurst’s life was especially short. She must tell Mother that she was right.
Betty wriggles away from Joan’s grip and runs into the big room where the two policemen and two ambulancemen are gathered in a circle. A blue light flashes through the nets. In the middle of the big room, drawing the men around it like a Guy Fawkes, is a shape. She looks again. It is Mother’s shape. Even through the white sheet, Betty can make out the tilt of Mother’s feet and forehead and nose.
‘Mother,’ she calls, lunging forward.
She needs to rip the sheet off Mother’s face; Mother hates being too hot and clammy. The younger policeman grabs Betty’s waist. He scoops her up and holds her horizontal.
‘Mother,’ she shouts, kicking to get away.
Two ambulancemen carry out the white sheet with Mother still beneath it.
‘MOTHER.’
The older policeman blocks the door. The ambulancemen are outside now. One of them slams shut the ambulance door. The blue light slides away with Mother.
Betty is coiled up on Mother’s dimpled armchair beside the globe-shaped drinks cabinet. Someone wraps a shawl around her shoulders.
‘It’s cold,’ whispers a man.
‘Has he sent you here to hurt me?’
‘Betty, you know me.’
‘Because I won’t fight, if he has.’
‘It’s Richard. Joan’s husband.’
‘Oh… Yes… Don’t tell Mr Paxon where I am.’
The yellow streetlamps flicker to life. A phone rings once, twice, then dies. Silence for hours, maybe years.
When Betty looks up again, it is night time. There is a rush of tap water in the kitchen. A glass clanks down on the worktop. Betty uncurls herself and jumps to her feet.
‘Mother?’
She rushes into the kitchen. Someone is pouring wine into a glass in the dark.
‘Sweetie,’ says a voice.
The figure has curly hair and she holds the wine glass near her lips. It must be Mother. Betty is ready to cry out with relief. Then she blinks. Only Joan.
‘Did I wake you?’ says Joan.
‘It’s late, you should go home,’ whispers Betty.
Joan swigs the wine.
‘You’ll be all right. You have us.’
‘Go home, Joan.’
‘Richard’s bringing my things here. He thinks I should stay with you for a while.’
Her words are slurred, the way Mother’s often are. Betty steps forward and takes the glass from Joan. She pours the wine down the sink and slowly washes the glass. It is as though she isn’t in control of her own body; someone else could be acting this out for her.
‘You need to go home, Joan.’
‘What?’
‘To Richard.’
‘It’s OK, I’m here.’
Joan reaches forward and touches Betty’s shoulder awkwardly. Betty pulls back.
‘I’d like to be alone.’
‘I’ll sleep here. Dolores would want me to.’
‘Please.’
‘I shouldn’t leave you,’ says Joan uncertainly.
‘I’d just like to be alone,’ she repeats.
Joan looks her up and down. Betty looks down at herself too and realises that Joan’s big hand-me-down coat is still swamping her. Her feet are bare and streaked with mud. She probably has time to clean herself up before Mother comes home; before the Dansette kicks in and dancer’s heels tap on the hall tiles. Maybe Mother will sing along too.
‘I’ll come back tomorrow then,’ says Joan, gathering up her fur coat. ‘First thing. Me and Richard. We’ll all talk properly then… you look awful. You poor, poor girl.’
Betty stands very still and doesn’t meet Joan’s eye. Joan drags herself out into the hallway. She stops, lets out a single strangled sob and then she is gone.
In the kitchen, Betty scrubs her hands, pulls off her coat and washes her legs. Blood has dried on her thighs. There isn’t a cloth so she cups water in her hands and throws it over herself.
By the time she is wet all over, the floor is waterlogged but she still feels dirty. An ache still wraps around her. She changes into a clean skirt, blouse and knickers from the unpressed laundry pile on the kitchen table, then rolls up her dirty clothes and pushes them to the bottom of the kitchen bin where Mother won’t find them. Mother can never know; what would she think of her, a mother at fifteen?
When she has bolted the front and back doors, Betty stands at the foot of the stairs. The hotel is still. It seems to sleep under a sheet of heavy silence. She steps onto the first stair and changes her mind. She can’t go into the bedroom; not until Mother is home and safe. She can’t sit in the big room either when Mother lay on the floor in there under that white sheet. Instead, Betty walks into the kitchen and picks up the glass that Joan had been rolling against her cheek, the one with a slash of Mother’s red lipstick on the rim. She sniffs it. A whiff of Mother’s sugary lipstick, that’s all she wants, but instead it smells of Mother’s breath on her black snowman days.
Betty opens her hand and watches the glass drop onto the floor. She enjoys the smash; it cracks the silence and, for a fraction of a second, the kitchen is full. Then the silence returns and the hotel is empty again. She drops another glass, then a third, and when there are no more glasses in arm’s reach, she lies on the puddled floor and listens to the crunch of the glass shards beneath her. Cold water fills her ear and an ache sets deep in her eardrum. Something prickles her calves and her back and her ankles. Good. She lets herself sting with pain: she deserves it all.
Hours ebb away. Red morning light creeps through the kitchen nets. Betty doesn’t move. She hasn’t moved for six hours, she counted them. Mother will be lying on a cold slab of bed in a hospital somewhere. Her giblet is at the bottom of the pond. Then there is Mr Gallagher and Miss Hollinghurst and Mr Forbes and Mr Paxon to think about, and too many other faces to fit inside her head.
She rolls over and glass pricks her thigh. She has stopped feeling pain. Maybe she bleeds, but it is difficult to tell because she is already damp. She will sit up and check soon. For now, she is too heavy.
Another hour seeps away, or maybe just a fraction, or perhaps a whole day. She doesn’t know time or hunger any more. She is aware that she lies in a foetal shape in a cold puddle. Stupid cow. Don’t lie like that; you’re not one of those. You had one. You’re disgusting. She straightens out, lying in a soldier shape instead. It makes her laugh aloud. A soldier. That’s right. You’re not a foetus any more. You’re a weak little soldier woman. No wonder he tired of you.
‘Mr Gallagher,’ she says in a small voice. ‘Mother. Mr Gallagher. Mother. Miss Hollinghurst.’
She says their names again, again, a thousand times more, to keep them all close.
A girl’s voice fills the letterbox. So many tongues and throats have caught in that letterbox this morning, Betty would like to nail it shut. Some of them post cards or scraps of paper with words of condolence or white flowers. Betty tears off their petals.
‘It’s me,’ calls Mary shrilly.
Betty covers her ears with her palms.
‘Don’t be like this. Mr Cripps gave me a day off especially… I want to help you.’
‘Help me? You can’t even help yourself.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘You should’ve listened. The Paxons are dangerous.’
‘Why are you saying this? Are you still jealous?’
‘I can’t protect everyone.’
‘Betty!’
&nbs
p; ‘I don’t care if you end up dead too. You probably will but you should have listened.’
She isn’t certain whether the words came out, but they must have for Mary gasps and disappears.
Hotel Eden has been empty of Mother for five whole days. Betty must have stood up and let Joan inside because she is loitering in the big room, and the windows aren’t smashed and the front door isn’t broken. Perhaps she unlocked it in her sleep.
A dead pot plant sits on the window sill. Mother put it there. Betty walks over and rubs a leaf between her fingertips, just as someone taps the window. Why won’t they leave her alone with the last of Mother? Even Mother’s smell is ghosting off. Betty wants it back.
Joan and Richard have been and gone. Mr and Mrs Eden live in the hotel now. Mother’s perfume smell is replaced with Mrs Eden’s lavender drawer liners. There is no bumble of guests, just visitors sweeping in and out by day. At night, the only sounds come from room six where Mr and Mrs Eden sleep.
When they are shut up in bed, Betty walks around the hotel with Mother’s glass bottle of liquid amber. The bottle label says Chanel No.5. She sprays every chair and every mat and every fork in the dining-room drawer to make sure that Mrs Eden’s lavender goes away, that Mother is still in charge.
The liquid amber has almost run out when Mrs Eden tiptoes downstairs wearing her hair rollers. Betty carries on spraying the forks and teaspoons and doesn’t look up.
‘Betty, stop it. Stop that now! Tancred, come quickly,’ Mrs Eden shouts up the stairs.
Betty smiles at her and sprays another teaspoon.
‘Tancred,’ Mrs Eden calls again, as Betty turns the perfume bottle on herself and douses her hair with Mother, eyeballing Mrs Eden as she does.
Mr Eden still doesn’t come. Then the bottle is empty and Betty realises that she is still staring at Mrs Eden. These last few days, it has taken a long time to focus on people. Sometimes she can’t tell whether they are themselves or not because they morph into Mother or Mr Gallagher. Just yesterday, Mrs Eden turned into a bit of giblet making Betty scream. Even when the faces look like themselves, Betty finds herself staring. Mother never stared. Mother was perfect.