‘Jason’ll keep an eye out for him, won’t you?’ said Denise, nudging her son in the ribs.
‘Yeah, sure,’ said Jason. ‘I didn’t realise it got to you this bad, mate.’
Craig shrugged, kept his eyes on the floor.
‘Come on, lads,’ I said. ‘I’ll stop at the chippy on the way home and get us all a bag of chips.’
Jason rubbed his hands.
‘Nice one. Come on, lad.’
My son got up and followed Jason and Denise, leaving me in the bedroom alone. Its wallpaper peeled from the walls; the old fireplace with its tiny grate held ashes that must’ve been years old. There was a photograph on the windowsill and I couldn’t help but walk over. It was of a man and a woman. She was sitting on his knee, his arms wrapped around her waist and he was grinning. She wasn’t smiling. Her eyes were cheerless; a stare at the camera like she was telepathically begging for help. I knew it must be the woman who died here. I put the photograph in my pocket – couldn’t bear to leave her there, where it all happened.
I think I have that photograph stashed away somewhere. Perhaps that’s what’s brought me such bad luck. I should take it back to that old house; it still stands empty, unloved.
The confessional door slams shut. I flush slightly, which is silly, because Father Peter can’t hear my odd little thoughts. How long has he been in that box? No one must be confessing today because nobody else left from the other door. He brushes some dust from the top of one of the pews, looks down the aisle at the rest of them and shrugs.
He glances at me, and nods – unsurprised by my presence.
‘Cleaner mustn’t have been in this morning,’ he says. ‘Come to think of it – it’s been a few days since I’ve seen Mrs McNally.’ He tilts his head and looks to Jesus on the cross to my left. ‘Hmm. Must see how she is.’
I smile at him and he turns on his heels, his gown swishing at his ankles.
It must be nice for someone to care about where you are. I might come back at the same time tomorrow. If Mrs McNally doesn’t show up, Father Peter might be in need of a new cleaner. It’d be quite pleasant to have somewhere to go every morning, and no one would bother me in here.
He must be in his seventies now. I wonder if he recognises me from when I had to tag along with Mother. This was her church – the one nearest our house looked too much like a community centre. She always said she wished she’d married my father here, instead of the registry office in town. Not that it would’ve made a difference.
It’s strange, thinking about her having dreams and wishes. She always seemed content with her life, her friends.
Unlike her, the thought of marriage petrified me. I saw all these women rushing home from wherever they were so their husbands had a meal on the table when they got home from work (or the pub). Denise was one of them, too, in the end.
The night before her wedding, I’d stayed over at her parents’ house with her. It was 1975 and we were only nineteen. It was the best night of my life. We laughed so much we were in tears.
Her bedroom was big as she was an only child, and it had a single bed with a yellow and brown flowered quilt. The carpet was orangey brown as well. She still had the poster of David Cassidy above her headboard. It felt surreal that she put that up when we were in fourth year, yet here she was about to get married.
Her wedding dress hung on the front of her wardrobe. It was to the ankle, high-necked and had long flowing sleeves that cuffed at the wrists. It cost £30, but her parents had been saving for a wedding long before she’d even met Jim. They must’ve been itching to get the house to themselves.
She’d sneaked up a bottle of Cinzano, but didn’t have any mixer, so we just took little sips. We drank out of the china cups me and Mum bought for their wedding present, so Denise’s parents couldn’t see we were drinking alcohol. ‘You’ll want a clear head on the biggest day of your life,’ her mum said. Denise put her fingers in her mouth and pretended to be sick when her mum turned her back. ‘I’ll leave you girls to it,’ she said. ‘I’ll be up later with a few sandwiches.’
‘She’s so nice, your mum,’ I said to Denise. ‘My mother hovers over us … listens in on our conversations. She’s always so protective of me.’
Denise shrugged. ‘I guess none of us are pleased with what we’ve got. But she’s not bad, your mum. She’s funny. At least she let you come here tonight.’
‘Yeah, but I’ll bet you a quid she rings me at half eight before she goes to bed.’
Denise took a sip from her mug and giggled.
She’d just learned about face masks from an American magazine and made me apply one with her, so we both looked a fright in our frilly nighties and muddy faces.
‘I’m getting married in the morning,’ she sang, a little too loud after refilling her Cinzano. ‘Ding Dong, his willy will be mine!’
‘That’s disgusting, Denise,’ I said, giggling.
She scrunched up a piece of tissue and threw it at me.
‘Stop being such a prude. Don’t tell me you haven’t daydreamed about it?’
‘The chance of me meeting anyone is naught.’
‘But you’ve got such a pretty face. You should grow your hair out – that’s Twiggy’s hairstyle from about ten years ago.’
‘I don’t like to faff about with it in the mornings,’ I said. ‘Anyway, my mother would scare anyone who came to our house. She’d question them about everything.’
Denise pulled a face, but it was hard to tell what it was, it being covered in mud.
‘What about that lad from school … what was his name?’
‘Billy. He’s at university now … I heard he got into Cambridge.’
‘He never did! Well, imagine that … someone from this town and our school, getting into Cambridge.’ She sighed and leant back heavily on the legs of her white stool; it was feeble, and she nearly fell on her back, but it stopped against her matching vanity unit and she didn’t notice her close shave. Always the way: Denise never suffered from a crash landing. ‘What a different life that would be, eh?’ she said. ‘Not too far from London. Maybe you could write to him?’
‘I doubt he’ll want to hear from me – not after meeting all those glamorous posh southern girls.’
I felt my face flush, though Denise couldn’t tell. The mud was beginning to crack; there was so much satisfaction in stretching my mouth to feel it break.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ said Denise.
‘It feels so nice when it splits.’
‘You definitely need a man,’ she said. ‘Someone like my Jim.’
I blushed again. ‘He’s very handsome.’
‘One of those silent, brooding types,’ she said with a wink. ‘Though he’s got a bit of a temper on him. I’ll have to keep that in check.’
‘Yes.’ I put on an accent, mimicking how I thought the Queen might speak. ‘And make sure you’re never late with his sausage and chips.’
‘Ooh, Matron!’
I dipped a tissue in the bowl of warm water and started to rub the mask off my forehead.
‘I’ll hardly see you once you’re married,’ I said.
‘Course you will. I’m not going to be chained to the house … though ours won’t be ready for another fortnight. Can you imagine Jim and me, crammed in my single bed?’
‘I’d rather not.’
It was one of the best nights of my life, that Friday night.
And she was true to her word – she did make time to see me, even though it was only once a week when Jim went to the pub. It was better than nothing.
And Denise was right in a way: I did meet someone.
It wasn’t exactly a lie when I told Craig that his father didn’t tell me his real name. I saw him at Christmas in 1978 when it was the supermarket’s do. We had a three-course meal down at the Berni Inn (fruit juice to start, turkey with the trimmings, and cheese and biscuits – I’m not a dessert person). The drinks were included in the four pounds fifty we had to contribute. I di
dn’t go out all that often – certainly never to a restaurant – and I didn’t have many outgoings then, so I didn’t mind spending that much on a night out. I even bought a red V-neck dress with a black belt from Denise’s catalogue.
They went straight to my head, the drinks. Needless to say, Mother wasn’t a drinker, so we never partook at home (not many people did, then). It was my first taste of sherry, champagne (probably sparkling wine), and port. I was walking to the ladies’ and he was standing at the bar on his own. He held my gaze as I walked past, and my face burned. He was the classically tall, dark and handsome man that I’d read about, but he had blue eyes. His hair was longer at the front, so it half covered one of his eyes. He stopped me on my way back to the table, touching my shoulder.
‘I’ve not seen you around here before,’ he said. ‘What’s your name? I’m John.’
I thought he was joking at first, about his name, because I certainly knew him. I was almost going to give a fake one myself, but I couldn’t think of anything but Agnetha Fältskog, and that would’ve been silly, especially as I didn’t know how to pronounce it.
‘Erica,’ I said.
‘I’ve never met an Erica before,’ he said.
‘Well, you have now,’ I said, emboldened by all the drink.
He extended his hand, so I held mine out, too. His large hand covered mine, and its dry warmth felt reassuring.
‘I bet you’ve never had a Harvey Wallbanger,’ he said.
‘What makes you say that?’ I said, not knowing what he was talking about.
He shrugged. ‘You look innocent. You’re probably the only one in here not caked in make-up.’
‘You hide it well,’ I said.
It took a while for him to get my awful joke. He didn’t laugh (the barmaid didn’t laugh either). He ordered me a Harvey Wallbanger and I was about to tell him that we hadn’t pulled our crackers yet so I should be getting back, but when I looked over at my supermarket table they were getting up to go to the bar, all wearing the paper hats. I tried to hide my disappointment, feeling silly.
‘Are you with that lot?’ he said, frowning as he peered over my head.
I nodded. He swiped the two drinks from the bar and said, ‘Let’s take these somewhere a bit more private.’ And I followed him.
Denise helped me get ready for my first date with him.
‘So it’s John what?’ she said, her face inches from mine as she applied blue eyeliner under my bottom lashes. ‘I can’t believe you don’t know his surname – why didn’t you ask?’
It felt wrong, really, not telling her who I was going to meet, as though I was betraying her.
‘I didn’t tell him mine,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t want him to think I was being nosy. Men hate women who pry too much, don’t they? They like to be all mysterious.’
I think she rolled her eyes, but it was hard to tell from that close.
‘Maybe in your books, Erica. Not in real life. Men love talking about themselves. Jim only stops to let me speak so I can ask a question about him and his day.’
She leant back, her eyebrows furrowed as she examined her work. She went over to her wardrobe, opening it while rubbing her back. Her belly was huge now; it was like she’d stuck a pillow up her dress.
‘I’ve been bored, stuck inside most of the week,’ she said, ‘so I’ve been going through a few of my outfits for you.’
She pulled out two hangers, both with complete outfits on them, and hung them on the handles.
‘This,’ she said, stroking the black top and matching narrow trousers, ‘is a bit Olivia Newton-John, but I think you’d look great in it.’
My mouth dropped open a little.
‘I can’t wear that, Denise. He’ll think I’m a … you know … a bit of a goer.’
‘Hmm. Do you reckon? Maybe you’re right. Don’t want you looking like you’re going to a fancy-dress party. The other one it is then. I’ll just visit the lav … for the hundredth time this evening.’
I took the dress off the hanger. I’d always loved it, and she knew that, and I felt teary that she let me borrow it. It looked exactly how I’d imagined it would on me. It was dark blue denim, with pale pink spaghetti straps that tied on each shoulder. It had a matching drawstring waist in a bow around the middle.
‘Oh, Erica,’ she said, as she waddled back into the room. ‘That looks lovely on you.’ She walked up to me and played around with my hair (not that there was much to play with). It was all blonde, then, and cut short, barely covering the top of my ears. It was so thick, it just went back in its place, even after Denise had covered it in hairspray. She shrugged. ‘Oh well, I tried. So when’s he picking you up?’
‘At eight. I’m meeting him outside the library.’
‘What on earth … ? Why isn’t he picking you up from home? Your mother must want to meet him.’
‘I told her I was round here tonight. You don’t mind, do you? Only … I think she’ll worry too much about me and—’
‘It’s fine, it’s fine. I wondered how she’d let you out so easily.’ She kissed me on the cheek. ‘Now go and have a good time.’ She flopped onto the bed and lay on her back. All I could see was belly. ‘Tell me all about it tomorrow because I can’t remember what it’s like to have fun. I’m going to be miserable for years, I can tell,’ she said dramatically.
‘You’re going to be such a good mum, Denise.’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
I did have a good time. He drove me to Blackpool and bought me a cone of chips. He didn’t even try to kiss me, which was good because I’d never kissed a lad before, even though I’d practised on my hand.
It was the first of many dates. He told me not to tell anyone we were courting. He said his mother wanted him to concentrate on the family business and didn’t want him out gallivanting. I knew that was rubbish, but I didn’t pry.
‘He’s probably married,’ Denise said when I wouldn’t answer her questions a few months later. Where does he work? Does my Jim know him? Does he have any brothers or sisters?
‘Do you really think I can get away with this pink lipstick?’ I said instead. Because I didn’t want to answer. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but it was exciting – a chance to escape my life – even if only for a few hours a week.
I told Mother that when I went out at night, I was working a late shift at the supermarket. She never thought to check, never thought I would lie to her face. She had no reason to doubt me – I’d always been a good girl in that sense.
The church door opens now, making me jump slightly on the hard seat. There’s a draught on the back of my neck. A woman in her eighties shuffles in.
I’d better be going anyway. Sitting in silence is bad for the soul sometimes – I don’t want to be dredging up the past. The devil finds work, and all that. I shift to the end of the pew and genuflect; some habits never leave.
‘Oh, Mrs McNally,’ says the priest, appearing from nowhere.
‘Sorry I’ve not been in for a few weeks, Father,’ she says. ‘My hip’s been playing up … and what with my cataracts … it’s been difficult to get around.’
‘Oh, we did miss you,’ says Father Peter. ‘I hope you’re feeling better now?’
What a jolly old liar he is – he thought she’d been absent for a couple of days. If God’s own servant can tell a porkie and not be struck down, then there’s hope for the rest of us.
It’s three o’clock by the time I turn on to my street. Mrs Eckersall from next door is outside cleaning her windows. So she’s not dead after all. I haven’t seen her in months. I’ve not seen anyone do their own in years. I can smell the vinegar she’s using on the newspaper and I’m a good thirty feet away.
I always think that avoiding someone’s eye will make me invisible, but it doesn’t today.
‘Good morning, Erica,’ she says, neither cheerfully nor unkindly.
I hold the key up to my front door, scanning it quickly. The sun has been on the door all morning, and I can smell the
dog muck that must’ve worked deep into the cracks.
‘Morning,’ I say.
‘Nice to have a bit of sunshine.’
She’s stopped buffing her windows. I turn my head to face her.
‘Everything all right with you?’ she says.
‘Yes. Why? What have you heard?’
I drop my hand from the lock.
‘Nothing, dear,’ she says. ‘Nothing at all. I just worry about you sometimes. All the comings and goings from your house in the past few days. That girl I saw, the blonde one … I’m not used to hearing commotion from your side. It’ll be making you anxious, I expect. And I saw your Craig at the end of the street before.’
‘You don’t have to worry about me. Everything’s fine. We’re all fine.’
I rush into the house, leaning against the closed front door. I wish people would just mind their own business.
That conversation will replay in my head and I will think of a thousand sentences to improve the outcome. The trouble is, everyone around here knows my business and I don’t know theirs.
The house is silent.
‘Hello? Craig? Are you in?’
I look in the living room, in the dining room. Nothing.
Upstairs, the bathroom door is open, as is Craig’s bedroom door.
His bed hasn’t been slept in – the towel I put on there two days ago is lying at the same angle, untouched. The black bag remains under the radiator. The letters might still be in there.
Yes, they’re in the same place. I sit on his bed and take one from the middle.
1 January 2017
Hi Craig,
HNY!
Sorry about my late reply. You sent me that letter ages ago, but it’s been manic here and I haven’t been round to my dad’s in a while (you can guess why). Can’t wait till we can talk proper. Instead, I’ll just write about what’s happening round here.
Robyn in the bedroom next to mine sneaked a guy into her room last night. She put her chest of drawers against the door, but the guy must’ve been smoking pot or something because Franny McPhee said she could smell it from outside and almost broke the door down getting in. I don’t think they got up to much because Robyn was still in her high-waist jeans and corset top (must’ve been too much of a job for her bloke to get off. Esp. after the weed). Fran said she knew what Netflix and Chill means (whatever, that’s so 2015) and she should rethink her choice of outfits (and blokes) and said she’s not allowed to leave the premises for at least a week, but I can’t see that happening (‘premises’ lol). Banned her from Snapchat for a week, though. Harsh.
Only a Mother Page 11