The Day She Came Back

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘That’s another thing I really like about you,’ Flynn observed.

  ‘What?’ She spoke with her mouth full, suddenly ravenous and ridiculously flattered that he had said ‘another thing’, suggesting there were many others . . .

  ‘Most girls I know – Courtney and her lot – they never eat. Like, never.’

  ‘Well, maybe they have never had your breakfast experience?’ She tried to sound coy and yet knowing, and wondered if she had pulled it off.

  ‘They definitely have not,’ he confirmed as he took the seat opposite her. This new, flirtatious exchange was enough to wipe out the memory and associated guilt of Gerald’s visit, and in its place sat something that felt a lot like happiness.

  Her phone buzzed.

  ‘What?’ she answered, yelling, showing off, purely to make Flynn laugh, which it did.

  ‘Victoria, it’s Gerald.’

  ‘Oh, I thought it was someone else.’ She snickered as Flynn put a square of kitchen roll in each ear and crossed his eyes.

  ‘I wanted to call because I am not in the habit of leaving things unsaid.’

  ‘Right.’ She rolled her eyes theatrically.

  ‘I know we are not actually related and that I am not in a position to advise or otherwise, but I wanted to say that Prim and I were very good friends and we spoke about you often, and only ever in the most glowing of terms; you really were the apple of her eye. She adored you. The Prim I knew was a good woman and, whatever she did or said, I am certain she did it with the very best of intentions.’

  Victoria cursed the lump in her throat. ‘Is that right?’ She felt as if she might choke on the woman’s betrayal.

  ‘And I know she would not forgive me if I did not speak my mind and say that the young man you have at the house . . . well, his timing is a red flag to me.’

  ‘Oh God, Gerald, I’m not stupid!’ She thought of the vicar, who had had similar concerns. Did everyone think she was useless?

  ‘It’s not that you are stupid, Victoria, far from it, but more that others are wily and you are still young and you are, like it or not, vulnerable.’

  ‘I like it not,’ she spat.

  ‘I can imagine.’ There was an awkward and uncomfortable silence on the line. She watched Flynn, who was eating quickly now, shovelling food into his mouth with his head down. Gerald took a sharp breath. ‘I know I am not family, dear’ – he swallowed – ‘but as I have said before, if you ever need anything, anything at all, day or night, just pick up the phone. I am mere minutes away by car. If I can remember where I have put the car keys.’ He chuckled at his own joke. She said nothing and heard him swallow again. ‘Well, there we have it. I’d better get on, Victoria, but I mean it. Day or night.’

  ‘Goodbye, Gerald.’ She ended the call and picked up her cutlery.

  It was the first time that Victoria had ever called in sick to work when she had not actually been sick. She avoided looking at the portrait of Granny Cutter, directly in her eyeline, whose expression, she was sure, had changed to one of extreme disapproval. Victoria felt her face flush scarlet, and her mouth was dry as she made the call, explaining to Stanislaw, her boss, that she was not feeling too well, was sick, in fact.

  ‘Erm . . . I was thinking that’s it’s best . . . erm . . . if I . . . erm . . . don’t come in.’

  ‘I hope you feel better soon, Victoria.’

  The whole exercise had been excruciating, the man’s kindly comments the very worst part, and she was absolutely certain that he knew she was lying. Nothing about it felt good. The moment, however, she ended the call, unburdened not only by the thought of having to make the call but the fact that she now didn’t have to go to work, her spirits soared.

  ‘I can’t believe you looked so scared over a phone call!’ Flynn lay on the rug in the hallway, laughing.

  ‘That’s because I was really scared!’

  ‘It’s only like bunking off school.’ He sat up.

  ‘I never bunked off school.’ She grimaced. ‘I never understood why people did. I mean, how hard is it to give a lesson an hour of your time?’

  Flynn laughed again. ‘I said you were smart, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did. Anyway, you make out to be a rebel, Flynn McNamara, but I know you worked hard, and now you’re off to Newcastle to do Business Studies!’ The thought of him going took the edge off her happy. Ridiculous, she knew, to be feeling this way about a boy who had spent the day at her house, cooked her breakfast and kissed her twelve times yet was still a stranger. He leaned up and pulled her face to meet his.

  Thirteen . . .

  The plan had been to watch movies, but after the mammoth breakfast came another snooze. And after an hour or so of sitting in sleeping bags in chairs by the lake, a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches, which they dipped in ketchup, and an episode of Pointless, they were now in the garden room, where Victoria had done her best to water any plants that looked a little limp.

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ Flynn asked suddenly.

  ‘Sure.’ She smiled, burying the thought of how much she hated smoking, not wanting anything to upset Flynn or her time with him.

  ‘I don’t do it all the time.’ He gave her that lopsided smile.

  ‘I’ll open the French doors.’ She stood up and did just that, pulling up the ancient metal bar and pushing the glass to allow the early-evening air to rush in. Gerald had indulged in the odd cigar after dinner a couple times, and this was where Prim had made him come and sit. She turned back to see Flynn grab a hard-backed book on bonsai trees from a side table and place it on his crossed legs before reaching into the front pocket of his backpack and pulling out a little green packet of cigarette papers, a carton of cigarettes and a small tin, which he flipped open.

  Victoria cursed her stupidity. She had thought he meant smoke a cigarette, but he had of course meant weed. She knew Prim would disapprove – heck, Daksha would disapprove – but what about her? She used to readily agree with her gran and her mate that drugs were for idiots, but right now? She felt nothing but a frisson of excitement, a little intrigued by the whole sordid business. She quite liked the fact that she, straitlaced, potato-faced Victoria, who had never bunked off school and who thought wine was a suitable alternative to vodka, was here in the garden room with a very handsome boy who was about to roll and smoke a joint. It felt illicit. She stared at the boy, who she knew her gran would deem unsuitable, and the words of Prim’s letter to Sarah came to her.

  You say this man loves you – but I am unable to imagine a kind of love where you give the person you love a drug so foul it robs them of everything that made them wonderful . . . how is that love, Sarah, how?

  Think about it!

  Think about everything.

  Oh, I’m thinking, Prim, I can’t stop thinking . . . She spoke to her gran in her mind. Sitting back in the chair, she watched, rapt, as Flynn took his time, his concentration absolute, as he went through the steps that were clearly familiar to him. His movements were precise and considered, his fingers nimble as he joined two of the cigarette papers together, having licked along the gluey edge. He then tore a corner of cardboard from the packet of cigarette papers, rolled it into a tiny curl and set it to one side. From a little plastic bag pulled from his tin, he sprinkled the green, dried-herb-like, grassy drug on the laid-out papers, picking out and discarding a couple of minute specks and smiling up at her as if he were making a cup of tea.

  Flynn placed the fat paper cone in his mouth, holding it between his teeth. He struck a match and held the flame to the twisted nub on the end. Sitting on the floor next to him with her back resting on the chair, she watched, fascinated and drawn, as the sweet-scented smoke from his mouth spiralled up in delicate, ethereal wisps to curl over his head.

  ‘I’ve never smoked cigarettes or drugs, but I guess that won’t surprise you.’ She ran her fingertip over his bare arm, enjoying the moment and liking the Victoria that was emerging from the chrysalis fashioned of lies and betrayal. Flynn took a
deep drag and closed his eyes before reaching across to hand the joint to her.

  Victoria took her time, her hesitancy not brought about by fear or indecision but a wariness of doing it wrong. She didn’t want to show herself up, having had enough humiliation over the last week or so to last her a lifetime.

  How could you be the only one not to know?

  ‘You want to try it?’ he asked, waggling the offending article in her direction with only a hint of teasing.

  My mum smoked weed, she took pills, she did worse and it nearly killed her. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, it did kill her, and so I feel a bit scared, really scared. Suppose I’m like her and can’t stop? I guess there’s only one way to find out . . .

  ‘Sure.’

  The afternoon had been an intriguing one, an education for sure. Once she had got over the unpleasant burning sensation in her throat and lungs, she and Flynn had laughed at just about everything, because everything seemed so funny! And time seemed to pass much, much more slowly . . . Then, with locust-like appetites, they polished off the remainder of Mrs Joshi’s chicken, along with the rest of a loaf of bread and three packets of biscuits.

  It was early evening and, with Flynn in the bathroom, Victoria stood in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, desperate for tea to slake her thirst. It was in that instant that she heard Prim’s voice in her ear, as surely as if she were standing behind her.

  What’s going on, Victoria, darling?

  ‘I like him. And I like having someone here. Not that it’s anything to do with you, not any more,’ she whispered. There was no answer forthcoming and she closed her eyes tightly, wishing she could communicate with her gran right now. Not only did she want to discuss the boy in the garden room, but also, she had a list of ever-growing topics she wanted to scream at her. She was desperate for answers.

  You looked at me and lied!

  You put your arm across my back and told me my mummy was in heaven!

  You let me plant a little tree for her and buy cards for her that we put on the fire, hoping the words might fly up and reach her ears!

  You held me tight when I sobbed with longing for her!

  You told me lying was the worst thing, the very worst thing!

  You didn’t let me see her and you didn’t let her see me!

  And then, all of a sudden, it was again one of those moments when everything felt a little overwhelming. Her tears came in a rush, upsetting the natural rhythm of her breathing and making her nose run.

  ‘Hey, hey . . .’ Flynn rushed over to where she stood and put his arm around her shoulders. Her nose wrinkled a little at the scent of weed, body odour and the residue of the food he had fried for breakfast. Were it not for the warmth and comfort she took from the feel of his body next to hers, she would undoubtedly have pushed him away.

  ‘I don’t know what’s happening to me.’ She slumped down on to the old linoleum floor and sat with her back against the cupboard, raising her knees, on which she rested her head. Flynn sank with her. Her body shook with the fear that every solid foundation of her life was turning to dust. ‘I am on my own, Flynn.’

  ‘You are going to be fine. Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. You are strong; strong and smart, remember?’

  She shook her head. ‘I was strong because I was on solid ground. I had Prim’s backing and support: she was always here. And now she’s not and it’s like my safety net has disappeared. A safety net that I now know was full of bloody big holes. And I don’t feel strong at all. I feel really lonely, and I’m mad, Flynn, angry! So much has happened. I don’t know who I am.’

  ‘It’s okay, Victoria. Don’t cry.’

  He placed his head against hers and, in that instant, she felt a little confined. Gently, she eased herself from his grip to stand, making her way back to the garden room, where evidence of their drug use littered the floor and a cool breeze from the open French doors washed over her. She laid her hands on one of the worn potting tables, the surface of which had been scrubbed over the years, so the wood was bare and pale. Dirt, however, still lurked in the deep crevices and cracks, which, if the table could talk, would no doubt have revealed decades of chatter over its knotty surface, as Prim and Granny Cutter strived to better their green-fingered credentials. This particular tabletop was crowded with seedlings in compostable paper cups and plants in various stages of legginess. There was also a small, sharp pair of secateurs resting on a single floral gardening glove, the suede finger panels stained green, their worn shape bent to accommodate the hand of the person they fitted so perfectly. To see Prim’s tools and her handiwork close up was the final jolt Victoria’s sadness needed to flood her being.

  ‘I just need a minute, Flynn.’

  She spoke as she rushed from the room, up the stairs and into Prim’s bedroom. She lay face down on the soft selection of vintage pillows, all faintly tinged with the scent of Chanel No5, and sobbed. It was both distressing and cathartic to give in to the desolation that consumed her. She whispered to her gran with her eyes closed.

  ‘How could you do it to me? How could you? You must have known I would find out, and you robbed me of the chance to hear you explain! And to know your reasons . . . it would have helped, but right now you are just a liar. A liar, Prim! You have spoiled the way I love you because each time I think of you I see Sarah at the side of the lake, saying, “This will be hard for you to hear . . .” And when she spoke I thought my heart might explode! It’s not fair, Prim. Didn’t you think I had enough to deal with?’

  When her grief came at her like this, with daggers drawn, a dark thing lurking, took control of her whole being and did so on its terms, she was powerless to resist the charge. Coiled now in the place she felt closest to her gran, she lay in a tight ball with the damp fabric beneath her face stuck to her cheek and her chest heaving. Her tears were hot, drawn fresh from her well of despair. To cry like this was exhausting.

  As the storm passed, she sat up against the headboard and wiped her face with a tissue from Prim’s box on the nightstand, her breath coming in restorative gulps. Reaching for her phone, she saw she had a message from Sarah.

  Thinking about you today – every day. You know where I am when you want to talk.

  X

  She felt torn, wondering if hearing Sarah’s voice might help or if it might make her feel worse. Her mother was, after all, as much part of the problem as Prim, and Victoria was unwavering in the thought that it had been a conspiracy of the very worst kind.

  As she went to close the message her thumb skirted the contact details and a little green phone receiver flashed up on the screen. She had dialled Sarah’s number!

  ‘Shit! No!’

  She spoke aloud as she ended the call as quickly as she was able, hoping the woman might not notice the missed call and would not have heard it ring. She was, she decided, not ready to talk to Sarah, no matter how strong the pull. She was still wrestling with the thought that she had hidden away for all those years, and furious at the part the woman had played in the cruellest of all pranks.

  Victoria’s next actions were almost instinctive; she did what came naturally, something she had done hundreds of times before: she fired off a text to Daksha, her beloved best friend.

  Daks – what’s going on? I miss you. I’m sorry. Please call me. Xx

  Daksha’s reply was almost instant.

  I’m sorry too, should not have run out on you like that. Our first ever fight – what do you think, couples counselling or a night in watching GOT? I’ll bring popcorn. Xx

  Victoria replied, beaming with an overwhelming sense of relief.

  Yes! Daks! Yes please, bring popcorn and we can do just that. I love you so, so much. Xxxxx

  I know. I am very lovable.

  Victoria laughed loudly at her friend’s reply and felt the last of her tears evaporate. How she had missed her best friend; it might only have been one day and one night, but it was one day and one night too long. Plus, she had so much to tell her
. She wondered how Daksha would react to the news of her and Flynn and the fact that she had smoked weed. Even the thought of sharing the information made her smile; it was still unbelievable to her. Plain old Victoria was quite unable to believe this new version of herself. Daksha’s next message took the edge from her joy a little.

  Popcorn visit will have to wait, won’t be until the weekend. Mum has taken (kidnapped) Ananya and me to visit Auntie Khushi in Solihull – never heard of her? Me either! Should be a fun visit!! See you soon and I love you tooooooooooooooo Xxx

  ‘There you are!’

  The sound of Flynn’s voice at the door made her catch her breath – she had almost forgotten he was still here, and she slammed the phone face down on the counterpane, as if caught out.

  ‘Are you feeling less sad?’ He spoke slowly, and again his eyes had that off-centre look going on.

  ‘Yes, a bit, thanks.’

  Flynn crawled on all fours on to Prim’s bed and laid his head on her chest. It felt nice and, again, desire tumbled in her stomach, albeit tinged with the unease that this boy was on Prim’s bed.

  ‘I don’t want you to be sad,’ he cooed, reaching up his face to kiss the space below her throat. It made her pulse race.

  ‘Trust me, I don’t want to be. But it feels a bit like my default state at the moment.’ She sighed at this truth.

  ‘Life’s not easy when it goes wrong.’

  ‘True.’ She thought of Mr and Mrs McNamara, who still cried all these years later for Michael junior, their baby son, and her heart flexed for them. It was her belief – it had to be her belief – that her grief would ebb and there would be light at the end of the tunnel. It was how she got through, the thought that somehow this whole horrible mess would unknot itself.

  ‘Do you not need to go home, Flynn? Won’t your parents be worried about where you are?’ The thought of staying away from Rosebank and not contacting Prim would not have occurred to her. Strange how it was still a concern, even though there was no one to care whether she was home or not, whether she washed her hair, changed her clothes, gathered the laundry from the floor, smoked a joint . . .