by Nina Manning
I began dragging the furniture outside. It was all old stuff that probably once belonged in the main house. It was just about good enough for a charity shop. Once I had dragged the last chair outside, I collapsed into it. It was a brown velour lounger with a chrome base and looked like it had come straight out of the seventies. I imagined once it would have been fashionable, but it had seen better days. I squinted up at the spring-afternoon sun, and I allowed myself a moment to close my eyes. As I did, I felt a surge of tiredness engulf me.
I opened my eyes and gulped in a breath. I looked around and tried to establish where I was. Looking up at the sky, the clouds had enveloped the sun. I felt a chill and grasped around for my cardigan, but it was still inside the summerhouse. I stood slowly, trying to shift the fog in my head and reconnect with my surroundings. I turned back towards the summerhouse when I heard a tiny voice, saying something I couldn’t quite make out. It seemed to be coming from the other side of the fence. It was the sort of sound that would skim past the eardrums of others, but the sound of a small child’s voice was so familiar that it would never pass me by. The butter-like velvet tone carried by the slight breeze had me floored. It was as though I knew the voice. Mama, the word floated across the fence.
Suddenly I was no longer in a garden in Richmond, but miles away, in another time, in another place where I was reciting from a favourite book. The words come back at me, muddled and broken through a tiny mouth. I laughed because of the unadulterated joy as their words skipped along like a song. It was music to my ears, but a sonnet that was so painfully nostalgic I wanted to crawl into a ball.
The gut-wrenching reality hit me as I was snapped out of the daydream; that voice had gone and would never return. And the voice from across the fence, only a vivid reminder of the colossal mistake I was still repenting for.
Up until now I had not seen or heard anything come from next door, and my bedroom window looked straight into their garden, but I felt that I needed to get a look at the neighbours. I wondered if they had been away somewhere or perhaps had just moved in.
I looked towards the end of the garden and I could see the shrubbery parted as it curved to the right. Could there be a way into the neighbour’s garden from ours? I wasn’t ready to start crawling about on my hands and knees just yet, and I remembered there was a stepladder in the summerhouse. I set it up as close to the fence as I could get it, then I cautiously walked up, one step, two, three until my head was just peeping over the fence. I listened with intent and anticipation for the child to show itself, my mouth dry and my palms damp with sweat.
Why did I torture myself like this? Maybe because today, the anniversary, was so significant and the voice sounded so familiar. A voice that would forever stay that way in my mind because it never had a chance to evolve and change and grow. As I conjured up an image in my mind, the child appeared in the garden. A fleeting moment. He or she? I couldn’t quite tell.
Their hair was a shock of untameable brown curls, much like the ones I had tried to train, but to no avail. Yet there were those curls again, floating past me, as if time had rewound. The child seemed to coast past in slow motion, their feet just on the patio, heading for the patch of grass.
Then suddenly, I saw a flash of blonde hair. A hand stretched out and grabbed the child’s arm. The child threw their head back in protest. The innocent calls of, ‘Mama,’ turned to a blood-curdling yell as they were dragged backwards and out of my sight. I heard a door slam so hard it ricocheted around my chest, and all I was left with was the echo of the child’s screams.
As I stood on the stepladder, the scream continued, but became fainter as though they were falling, falling, falling…
My foot became air as I struggled to find somewhere to place it. Before I knew where I was, I was looking up at the sky with my leg twisted backwards and a sharp pain resonating from my ankle to my waist.
‘Regi, are you okay?’ I turned my head to my right and Karen, my other house mate, was standing over me inquisitively, yet without too much concern in her tone or her face. She always had such a serious aura about her from the way she dressed, always blue skinny jeans and long-sleeve T-shirts, to the way she wore her hair tied back so tightly in a neat, sleek ponytail, it seemed to pull the skin up from around her eyes.
‘I think so.’ I looked up at the stepladder. I had slipped just three steps. I could feel tenderness on my shin where I knew a large bruise would form later.
‘Well, okay, then let’s get you up.’ She reached out her hand, which I ignored, pushing myself up instead. I went to put the weight on both legs and pain shot through my ankle. I sucked in my breath through my teeth.
‘Right, erm, okay. Let’s get you sat down, shall we?’ Karen said uneasily and looked impatiently around before grabbing the lounger I had been sat on when I fell asleep. I watched as she awkwardly manoeuvred it over to me, its weighty legs protesting against the overgrown grass. After painfully observing her efforts, I refrained from telling her I could have walked to it quicker.
‘I see you’ve started on the summerhouse.’ Karen took out a tissue and blew her nose. ‘Bloody hay fever.’ She wiped her nose and shoved the tissue into the back pocket of her jeans. I turned to look at the array of furniture scattered on the lawn.
‘Yes, I was, and then I kind of got distracted.’ I sat down.
‘Spying on the neighbours?’ she said as though it was the kind of thing she expected from me.
‘Just. Interested.’ I scuffed at the grass with my healthy foot.
‘Well, their gardens aren’t nearly as good as ours,’ she said.
‘Do you know much about the neighbours then?’ I tried to sound nonchalant.
Karen shook her head. ‘Not really, I’ve lived here for a year almost and I haven’t met anyone yet.’ She sucked in a breath and closed her eyes, then let out a huge sneeze. Another tissue was ripped from a packet. ‘Speaking from experience, I also think it’s quite possible to live next door to someone and never ever see them.’ Karen dabbed her nose and pushed the wet tissue into her back pocket with the other one.
‘So have you ever seen the neighbours on this side? Did you know they have a child?’
‘I’ve never seen a child. This street is mainly professionals and students, not very family friendly. I only know that information from Mini’s uncle. He rents out about six houses on this street.’
‘Right.’ I remembered them all telling me this when I came to look at the house. I scratched my neck and looked around at the furniture scattered around on the grass. ‘I’ll ring the charity shop to see if they can come and pick any of this up.’
‘Good idea. Fancy a brew?’ Karen began walking back to the house.
‘Yes, great.’
I hobbled through to the kitchen and Karen presented me with a nettle tea at the kitchen table. I had stopped drinking real, caffeinated tea and coffee years ago, believing that caffeine was the source of my insomnia. It took me many more therapy sessions before it was revealed to me that because my mind was in hyper-vigilant mode in the day, by night my brain was reminding me it wasn’t safe to sleep.
‘Shit, we’re out of milk,’ Karen said and went to head out of the kitchen door.
‘It’s okay, I’ll go.’ I stood up to test the pressure on my ankle. The pain had begun to subside.
‘No, stay, it’s for my coffee – you’ve just got your tea.’
I needed to walk; the shock and stress of the fall and the child’s voice and that image of the mother, or whoever it was, pulling them back with such force meant I could not relax. I needed to do something or I wouldn’t rest. Karen looked perturbed as she followed me into the hallway, where I pulled on my purple tie-dye scarf and slouch hat.
I looked over my shoulder. ‘It’s fine, I’ll be back in ten minutes.’
She looked on with a perplexed expression.
‘It’s fine,’ I assured her. ‘I need the walk to clear my head after the fall.’
‘You could be concuss
ed!’
‘I’m fine.’ I batted away her comments with my hand. I stood for a second as she pulled out another tissue and let out an almighty sneeze.
‘Want me to pick you up some antihistamines?’
‘No, hate them. They make me drowsy.’
‘Okay then.’ I opened the door and walked down the steps and onto the street. A slight wave of calm washed over me, but before long the nagging sensation was back. I needed to perform some sort of compulsion; I wasn’t sure just walking would suffice. As I passed next-door’s house, I looked up at it. It was the same as ours, a three-storey Victorian building. I could see no sign of life through any of the windows.
I counted each step I took until I reached a hundred, which brought me almost to the end of the street.
I turned right and headed towards the mews, carefully avoiding all the cracks.
Inside the grocery shop, I rearranged three jars of pickled onions and two cans of tomato soup on the shelf, picked up two pints of semi-skimmed milk and headed to the counter. It was the same guy who had been serving me earlier, and he eyed me with some sort of recognition or curiosity. I barely managed a smile as by now the day’s events had caught up with me. The woman with the medicine this morning, the child next door and then my fall. I could feel my body slowing down for the day, and I was already thinking about my bed and how sleep came a little more easily now. In the beginning, when I was walking through each day like a zombie, sleep was a form of torture. I would exhaust myself in the day, only to nod off for twenty minutes at a time, waking in a blind panic. This would go on all night and for weeks at a time.
I thanked the shopkeeper and stepped outside into the mews. The light was starting to fade as the afternoon came to an end. I was just comforting myself with the knowledge that I had my bedtime routine to complete – put on clean bedsheets, shower, brush my teeth for thirty-four seconds – when I saw a glimpse of a figure out of the corner of my eye.
I recognised the frame immediately.
I began walking hurriedly towards home. I touched my wrist, where there was now a burning sensation, as though someone had been holding it tightly just a moment before. Flashes of a face to accompany the figure were suddenly in my mind’s eye and I became riddled with compulsive thoughts, all firing at me like bullets one after another. I hurried away from the mews, stopped and caught my breath. I took a moment to lean on a wall, and as I did, a man came out of his house and bent down to get a look at me.
‘You okay, love?’
I looked down the street, towards the mews where I had just come from. There was no one there. I touched my wrists. I could still feel a slight sensation, but it was fading.
‘Yes, yes, just a bit tired.’ I stood up. The man stood back and watched me warily for a moment before going back into his house.
I snatched a look down the street behind me again and the figure appeared on the corner. A tall man, wearing dark clothes. A black cap was pulled down over his face, his head slightly tilted so only he could see me.
Although I couldn’t see his eyes, I recognised everything else about him. I pulled my cardigan around me and began walking away from him at speed, I tripped on a crack in the pavement and stumbled forward. I righted myself, then stole a look down the street to the corner, only to see it was empty.
The man was gone. I looked around to see if he had made it across to the other side of the road when I had been racing along, but that was empty too. I suddenly doubted myself. Had I imagined it?
I wanted to believe I could come here and stay hidden and anonymous. But I knew on this occasion my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me.
I was no longer hidden.
He had found me.
4
Now
The weekend began, and I found myself drawn to the sanctuary of the summerhouse again, my notebook and pencil in hand, ready to prep ideas for textiles projects. Mini’s uncle had given the all clear for the old furniture to go to the charity shop, so a van had been round and took the lot early that morning. I looked around at the blank canvas, feeling a sense of anticipation of what it could become and, for a moment, a slight butterfly sensation in my stomach. I was so unused to the subtlety of those kinds of butterflies compared to the fierceness of the anxiety that could take my gut hostage on a daily basis. But as I had been told many times before by countless therapists and counsellors: receive any amount of positivity you can and hold on to it.
But my brain had a funny way of tricking me into thinking I still did not deserve happiness, and no sooner had the light relief arrived, than the darker feelings chased it away.
Mini popped her head around the summerhouse door at lunchtime, assessing the room from the safety of the threshold, not wanting to dirty the brand-new duck-egg-blue brogues she was sporting.
‘How’s it going? Thought I’d remind you to eat!’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Oh, and to show off these babies.’ She wiggled her foot through the door.
‘They’re beautiful,’ I said sincerely. I remembered the pleasure gained from a brand-new pair of shoes and how they made everything you wore look great again.
I stood up and wiped my forehead just below my Alice band. I had been wiping the floor with a cloth, and dust coated my jeans.
‘Wow, you should have done a tap-to-tidy on this place.’
I furrowed my brow.
‘What’s a tap-to-tidy?’ I stood up and felt my muscles ache where I had been crouched.
‘Oh, it’s all over Instagram. These “cleanstagrammers”, they post a photo of their disorganised kitchen counter then ask you to tap the screen, which takes you to the next picture, where – voilà! – the kitchen counter is tidy. Like a before-and-after photo.’ Mini looked longingly round the space. ‘This would have made an awesome tap-to-tidy post.’
I still was not entirely sure what she was talking about. Technology hadn’t been a part of my life for so long. I had only recently opened an Instagram account with the intention of using it to showcase my artwork, and so far I had posted precisely three photos. One of an autumn sunset that had inspired me to create something similar in textile-form, and the other two were some preliminary sketches of a piece I wanted to create with recycled rubbish.
Mini stepped aside to let me out of the summerhouse.
‘Look.’ Mini was at my side, precariously close. I felt my body clench up. She brought up her Instagram account on her phone then held it close to my face; I could smell strawberry hand cream and mint chewing gum as she began scrolling.
‘This woman is a cleanstagrammer. I follow a few of them – some of these women aren’t just cleaners, they are accidental interior designers.’ Mini shook her head. ‘I mean, it’s great and all, but I do get a tad jealous that these women are getting paid thousands a year in sponsorship and given endless free products when I have to fork out to pay to learn how to be an interior designer. Sometimes I just think I should do this instead.’
I looked on in amazement as Mini scrolled through wall after wall of little tiny squares, all showcasing perfect symmetrical images with impeccably clean surfaces and immaculately made beds. I looked on at the incredible neatness in each photo, and a sublime sense of calm washed over me.
‘I mean look at this woman, Clean and Bright, seven hundred and fifty thousand followers, and now she’s launching her own home fragrance.’ Mini carried on relentlessly scrolling. ‘And this woman, Heather Duster. I mean, that’s clever, right? Well, she has almost a million followers. A million people, Regi – it’s insane, isn’t it?’
‘Wow, it’s a whole other world I had no idea about,’ I said, itching to see more of the symmetry and orderliness.
‘It’s a clever little app. But then all clever things come in small packages.’ She giggled, looking down at herself. ‘I mean, look at some of these accounts – they all must have massive OCD to keep their houses that spotless…’ Mini trailed off and looked at me with slight panic in her eyes. Her phone fell to her side and she took a step backw
ards. I felt relief to get my personal space back. ‘I mean, that’s not a bad thing – if it gets their houses looking that clean, I wouldn’t complain.’
I gave Mini a reassuring smile. ‘It’s fine, Mini, like all people with OCD, I don’t consider myself to have a problem. We’re all absolutely fine.’ I made my eyes go a bit funny and Mini laughed. The tension between us washed away. I had told all the girls when I came to view the house that I had what had been classified by a doctor as OCD, and that it manifested itself in the daily behaviours I had to do. Sophia was the only one who really took an avid interest; she had sat up with me on the first night, long after the other two had gone to bed, and asked me all about it. She was always careful not to tread too close to the crux of the problem, where my behaviour originated from; that part was never going to be open for discussion.
‘Anyway, enjoy the cleanstagrammers, but don’t overdo it. Studies have been done into the overall mental health of Instagram users and found that it can actually trigger depression and anxiety.’ Mini pointed over at the summerhouse. ‘It’s looking good in there already.’ And she sashayed away in that dreamy way of hers, her mind already on something else.
I looked over at the summerhouse. Yes, it had potential, but it needed a good clean-up and a sort-out. I found myself drawn to my phone, to my Instagram account, and before I knew it, I had begun searching for cleanstagrammers and interior design accounts. I clicked and clicked furiously until I found an account that really caught my eye. Heeding Mini’s words, if I limited the amount of accounts I followed, I wouldn’t be doing any more damage to my mental health.
As I looked through, I took the notebook and pen I brought in with me, in case I had any brainwaves for my textile designs, and I started noting down ideas, ways to hang photos and how to position plant pots, things I initially thought I would use for the summerhouse but before I knew it I was discovering tips and techniques that I could take into the house with me: where to get labels from to label jars, ways to clean a sink without harsh chemicals and which products to use on the floor. Some of the cleanstagrammers even had links to printable worksheets that you could work to on a weekly basis and I thought about the satisfaction I could gain from the organisation and how soothing that could be.