The Day She Came Back

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘You are Prim’s granddaughter. You are Sarah’s daughter. You are Victoria. And you are Victory. And right now, you need to be an industrious coper, the very best kind of person!’

  Sitting now on the edge of the bath, she tried to think of the best course of action. With her phone in her hand, her fingers trembling, she scrolled through her limited contacts and, with time against her, dialled the number of the person who had told her they would be there for her day or night, all she had to do was pick up the phone . . . The closest person she had to Prim, almost family.

  While she waited for his arrival she reached into the laundry basket, threw on her pyjama bottoms and donned the trainers she had abandoned before her bath only hours earlier. She went into survival mode, steeling herself to face Flynn and wishing again that Daksha were here. To think she had wanted nothing more than sex with Flynn this very night.

  ‘Okay.’ Again, she stared at her face in the mirror. ‘You are a Cutter-Rotherstone and you’ve got this!’

  Ignoring the quake in her gut, Victoria raced through the upstairs rooms, throwing belongings and clothes out of windows and screaming at the interlopers, ‘Get out! Get out now!’

  She spied Flynn and Courtney hand in hand as they fled Prim’s bedroom, giggling together and in a state of semi-undress. Her gut folded with humiliation and fury. Suddenly she heard screams, and the music came to an abrupt stop. She was glad that it had but also fearful as to why. The bodies on the stairs started to gather themselves and leave via the front door and, with their exit, came the beginnings of relief. Not that it was over quite yet.

  She watched from the half landing, the one where she liked to sit and watch the sun cast purple, blue and yellow squares on to the honey-coloured carpet.

  Flynn and Courtney reached the bottom stair, still hand in hand, he with his backpack slung over his shoulder. At the same time, her saviour came into view. The screaming in the drawing room had stopped and people were streaming from its confines and heading out of the front door in haste with barely a backward glance.

  ‘Ah, courgettes guy!’ Flynn called out.

  Gerald stood squarely in front of him. ‘My name is Mr Worthington.’

  ‘My apologies, Mr Worthington.’

  She watched as Flynn became the charming boy who had drawn her in. All part of the act, no doubt.

  ‘Get out of this house!’ Gerald was clearly not quite so easily taken in.

  Flynn stepped forward. ‘Oh, come on, don’t be like that! I’m drunk and maybe a little high.’ He snickered. ‘But it’s all cool here. It’s all cool.’

  ‘I said get out of this house!’ Gerald stood his ground.

  ‘I need to talk to Victoria . . .’ He let go of Courtney’s hand and turned, trying to locate her.

  ‘You are not going to talk to Victoria, you are going to leave this minute!’

  ‘Or what? What will you do, throw a courgette at me?’

  ‘No.’ Gerald didn’t budge. ‘I don’t need courgettes, son. I’ve got this.’ And from behind his back he pulled a revolver and, with both hands grasping the pistol grip, he aimed it at Flynn.

  Victoria gasped. This was insane! Gerald had a gun, a bloody gun! Courtney screamed, loudly, and clutched her vomitty bag to her voluptuous chest, as if this might offer the protection needed, and Flynn lost most of the colour in his face.

  ‘All right, all right!’ Flynn held up his hands. ‘Take it easy!’ he managed, his voice quavering with fear as he sidled past Gerald and out of the front door.

  Gerald lowered the gun and swept the rooms, making sure the last of the stragglers had left. Victoria felt a strange mixture of relief that Gerald had come to her rescue, or rather Rosebank’s rescue, but also a little afraid that he might be furious. He did, after all, have a gun.

  Victoria walked slowly down the stairs and into the now empty drawing room, which carried the odour of too many sweaty bodies that had been squashed into a confined space and the tang of booze, cigarettes and weed. She threw open the windows, inviting the chill night air to whip around the walls, trying not to look at the detritus that littered the parquet flooring: the empty cans trodden flat, vodka bottles, cigarette butts ground underfoot, and discarded hippy crack canisters that had been used and abandoned. Her tears flowed and she did nothing to stop them, taking great gulps of air to fuel her sobs. She shifted a flattened cushion and sank down on to the sofa.

  ‘I’ve had enough!’ she wailed into the silence. ‘I have bloody had enough! I don’t know what’s happened to me, but everything is upside down, Gerald. Everything is broken, everything . . . I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Come on.’ Gerald put his arm around her shoulders and planted a kiss on the top of her head. She reached up and held him close, clinging on, thankful not only for his intervention but that, unlike others she had trusted in recent times, he had kept his word and had been there when she needed him.

  ‘I’m sorry I was rude to you, Gerald. All you were doing was being nice, trying to help, and I was horrible to you – all you’ve done is bring me courgettes and be kind!’ she wailed. ‘I even shouted at you down the phone – I was showing off in front of Flynn.’ She cried harder.

  ‘That is water under the bridge.’ He coughed to clear his throat.

  ‘I’m sorry!’

  ‘No need to say it again. You don’t have to worry.’ He hugged her back and straightened. ‘Right, let’s lock the place up and come back tomorrow. You need sleep; a cup of hot cocoa and sleep.’

  That sounded good.

  She watched as he gently closed the windows she had only just opened and switched off the lights.

  ‘You’ve got a gun, Gerald! A bloody gun!’

  ‘Yes, dear. Yes, I have.’

  TEN

  It took a monumental effort for Victoria to open her eyes and face the day. Her preference would have been to sink down into the mattress, let her eyelids fall and sleep for a hundred years . . . but if the last few weeks had taught her anything, it was that this life of hers was no fairy tale. It had in fact been the first peaceful night she had had since Prim had died; she had nodded off feeling safe and calm, knowing Gerald was only a shout away. She now nursed her hangover in the florally decorated spare room at Gerald’s house, still wearing the oversized shirt with its dubious stains and her pyjama bottoms from the previous night, which, frankly, all needed a good hot cycle in the washing machine. She had been bundled into the car with a tear-streaked face and brought here by her knight in shining armour with the party mess partially contained and the rooms locked up.

  An image of the state of the house, thoughts about the way the evening had ended, the horror of the party itself and the way she had caught Flynn in Prim’s bed with Courtney, was all more than she could stand. She pushed her face down into the pillow and wished, not for the first time, that she could rewind time.

  A gentle but firm knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts.

  ‘Morning, Victoria. Breakfast is on the table.’

  ‘Thank you, Gerald, I’ll be right down.’ The thought of breakfast made her feel sick.

  ‘I didn’t want to say anything last night, figuring you had enough to deal with, but I noticed the French doors to the garden room had been forced open from the outside. No damage done inside, thank goodness, I think it was just someone having a nose around, but the frame needs a bit of attention and the lock has been smashed off and needs changing – should I give Bernard a ring, or can you do that?’

  Victoria pictured Bernard sloping off down the garden path, looking hurt and a little lost. She felt like shit. It wasn’t his fault; she knew this, had always known it.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Righto. I’ll leave you to it. See you down in five.’ She liked his gentle instruction. It was how Prim used to operate – steering, gently guiding.

  Victoria sat up, reached for her phone and dialled Bernard’s number. Her mouth was dry with nerves. There was
no answer. She took a deep breath and left him a message.

  ‘Erm, Bernard . . .’ Dammit! These tears seemed to spring at the most inconvenient of moments. ‘It’s Victoria. I don’t really know what to say or how to say it; apart from I’m sorry. I am so sorry for taking my anger out on you. You didn’t deserve it. You were right: what were you supposed to do? You were doing a kind thing, a good thing for Sarah, and I can see now that to tell a little girl the truth . . .’ She shook her head at the absurdity of the suggestion. ‘Well, it was not your story to tell, was it? I am truly very sorry. Please come back to work. I need you. Rosebank needs you. I did something rather stupid . . . had a party, and the house is a wreck. Someone forced the lock on the garden room door and, well’ – she closed her eyes, aware that she was probably rambling – ‘I am sorry, Bernard.’

  Finally, having tied her hair up and washed her face in the tidy bathroom, removing the last remnants of her make-up, she made her way down the narrow stairs of the three-bedroom semi. The little square kitchen was bright, with a table on a supporting leg jutting out from the kitchen wall and a stool placed either side. She sat down. Gerald, she noted, was already immaculately turned out in pressed slacks and a white shirt beneath a cherry-red V-necked jersey as he warmed a teapot over the sink. She did her best to look favourably at the slices of toast in the kind of stainless-steel toast rack she imagined you might get at a seaside bed and breakfast. There was a selection of jams and a jar of Marmite and two small glasses of orange juice. Her appetite was zero, but his actions were dear and his effort so reminiscent of Prim and how she liked to serve breakfast in a particular way. It brought a lump to her throat.

  ‘This looks lovely.’

  ‘Good. Now, I am sure you just want to get back to the house, but you need a good breakfast to set you up for the day and you need to take a moment to make a plan.’

  She took a deep breath, knowing he was probably right.

  ‘Did you call Bernard about the door?’ he asked casually.

  ‘I did. And I told him how sorry I was. I took my hurt out on him and that wasn’t fair. It didn’t feel good, not when I thought about it, but I was so mad!’

  ‘Yes, he might have called me.’ Gerald turned and smiled at her.

  ‘Thank you for what you did last night, Gerald. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do and you had said to call, day or night, if ever . . .’ Victoria knew she would forever be grateful to this kindly man who had stepped in when she’d needed him the most and had simply bundled her up and driven her to a safe, warm place without anger and, seemingly, without judgement, and she thanked God he was still in her life.

  ‘And I meant it. I must say, I hadn’t banked on quite such an emergency and so soon, but there we go.’ He poured hot water on to the tea leaves in the pot and set it aside to steep while he took his place at the table and tucked a napkin into his shirt collar before reaching for a slice of toast. ‘Tuck in!’ He waved a butter knife in her direction.

  She began buttering a triangle of toast, which was cool to the touch. ‘I can’t believe you turned up with a gun.’ She smiled at him and reached for the jam.

  ‘Not just any gun, a standard issue Webley and Scott no less – my father’s from the Second World War. An ornament, no more.’ He winked at her.

  ‘Does it not work?’ she asked with no small measure of relief.

  ‘Oh, it did at one point, and of course my father had many, many tales of derring-do, most, I suspect, fabricated for my benefit, and nearly all involving his faithful sidearm, but it was decommissioned over fifty years ago, doesn’t work at all. My mother couldn’t bear to part with it.’

  ‘But Flynn didn’t know that.’

  ‘No.’ Gerald made a disapproving tsk sound. ‘Flynn did not know that. The little turd.’

  She could not contain the bubble of laughter that escaped her lips. ‘Did you just call him a little turd?’ She had heard perfectly but relished the joy of repeating the unexpected insult. It made her feel a little better.

  ‘I did. I disliked the chap on sight – with good reason, it seems.’

  ‘I trusted him. I liked him. I still do a bit; I can’t help it. He made my life feel slightly better, but last night it felt a whole lot worse.’ She thought of the things Flynn had said to her: ‘I wouldn’t ever want to be the reason you cried.’ The little turd. She felt angry at herself, not only for how she had fallen for his shtick, but also how she had let him into Prim’s home, into her bed . . . I’m sorry, Prim. She bit her toast and licked the strawberry jam from her top lip.

  ‘Then you, my dear, are not half as smart as I thought you were.’

  His words caused the crumbs to stick in her throat. ‘I think you might be right.’ She pictured Courtney’s long hair shivering down her back.

  ‘Well, the important thing is that you learn from this. It’s one thing to be naïve and trust someone like Flynn, but quite another to be downright stupid and agree to have a party at Rosebank and to let a stranger invite more strangers into Prim’s home.’

  She hated the shameful self-consciousness that cloaked her. He was right, of course. Not that his words could make her feel any worse than she already did.

  ‘I know, Gerald. I know you’re right and I am so mad at myself and sorry to Prim; she’d be horrified, and I know we’ve been joking, but you’re not young and you had to come out in the middle of the night and sort it all out, and you could have got into real trouble for having a gun.’ She felt the tears slip down the back of her throat and any appetite she might have had for breakfast faded.

  ‘I’m glad you’re sorry. I also know you won’t do it again, even though, of course, you are an adult and at liberty to do exactly as you see fit, but to take that route’ – he sipped his orange juice – ‘to take that route would, I think, be the biggest waste of all your wonderful potential.’ He reached across and patted her hand.

  ‘Thank you, Gerald, for caring about me,’ she offered sincerely. It felt nice to know that she was not alone, that there was someone like Gerald looking out for her. And someone like Daksha . . . Oh Daks, I miss you, my lovely friend! I need you to forgive me . . .

  ‘I do care about you. And I cared about Prim and I know she would have wanted me to say something. Plus,’ he said as he went to retrieve the teapot, ‘don’t tell a soul, but it was one of the best evenings I have had in an age! One minute I am in my pyjamas with an Agatha Christie in my palms, and the next I am toting a pistol at a rave! How many members of the bowls club can say the same thing?’

  ‘Not many, Gerald.’ She smiled at the man. ‘Not many.’

  He brushed his hands over his plate and wiped his mouth with the napkin. Victoria liked the neatness of his house, the calm predictability of his routine; she figured being old wasn’t so bad.

  ‘Now, how about you have a soak in the bath while I clear the breakfast things away and then we go tackle whatever awaits us at Rosebank?’

  Victoria nodded; that sounded like a plan.

  As she watched the bubbles foam and grow under the gurgling hot tap, Victoria picked up her phone and composed a text to Daksha.

  Daks, I don’t expect a reply and I have no right to ask for one. I just wanted to say that I am truly sorry. I am so very sorry. I lost my head. I lost control (and my virginity – but that’s a whole other story!) but the very worst part of it all is that I may have lost you and that is something I can’t bear to think about. I literally can’t bear it. V Xx

  By the time she stepped out of the bath, there was a reply, and it gladdened her heart.

  How was the party?

  Victoria wrapped herself in the big towel from the towel rail and wrote:

  Horrific. Every aspect completely horrific. One of the worst nights of my life and considering recent events – hope this conveys just how bad. I am such an idiot. An idiot now knee-deep in carnage – and yes, I know, it’s my own stupid fault. X

  Daksha didn’t reply and Victoria understood. She had blown it. It w
as no more than she deserved. And no matter how much it hurt, this was, after all, just another loss to thicken the shell encasing her already broken heart.

  As Gerald pulled on to the gravel driveway, Victoria was delighted to see Bernard’s van already in situ. She could hear the steady rhythm of a hammer and knew he was at work.

  ‘Bernard!’ She smiled.

  ‘Yep, Bernard.’ Gerald killed the engine and they climbed out.

  The two looked at the grass of the front lawns and flowerbeds, where fast-food wrappers ranging from cardboard chicken buckets to brown-paper burger bags nestled among the rosebushes and behind the ornamental shrubs.

  ‘Oh God.’ She felt sick.

  ‘Come on. Chin up! Moping about it isn’t going to help with the clear-up. We get tea when we have progress!’ Gerald’s words motivated her as he handed her a black bin bag.

  She put her key in the front door and gingerly pushed it open. The house smelled like a grubby pub. Pulling the front door wide, she wedged it open with a concrete rabbit that had long ago lost an ear and had lived by the porch for as many years as she could remember. Next she marched through to the garden room, where Bernard, who had gained access via the broken French doors, had thrown them open to allow a breeze in from the east side of the property. She was glad; it had been her plan to literally blow away the stench and memory of the previous night.

  ‘Thank you, Bernard, for coming over.’ She spoke quietly.

  The man stopped hammering and looked at her, clearly wary about his reception.

  ‘I got your message.’ He nodded.

  ‘I meant every word. I am sorry, for . . . for everything.’ She swallowed.

  ‘You know, there have been countless times over the years that I’ve wanted to write you a note.’ He tapped the hammer gently into his palm, as if this helped him concentrate. ‘I was in a very difficult position. I’d always got on well with Sarah and her request sounded reasonable, asking me to let her know occasionally how you were doing, nothing more. And I told the wife, who said, “Don’t get involved”, but I was already involved. And Sarah said something that made me think. She said, “If you couldn’t see your little one grow up, what would you give just to know she was doing okay?”’ He blinked and looked out towards the garden. ‘And I thought about that a lot and I knew that I’d give anything, anything at all, and so to drop her a line once in a while felt like a small thing.’