All the Little Things

by Sarah Lawton

  ‘That looks really sore, darling – there’s some arnica cream in the bathroom cabinet you can put on it—?’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll live, Mum.’ She rolled her eyes. I gritted my teeth and took a breath to smooth away the irritation. Why did Vivian always have to make her disdain so clear? I’d literally given up everything I’d ever worked for to keep her safe, and she treated me like I was just some nuisance. The lack of respect – gratitude, even – was beginning to grate more each day.

  ‘I need to go to London today, babe, so make sure you take your keys to school. I probably won’t be back ’til late so you’ll have to fend for yourself. Maybe have Molly over or something, keep you company? She can stay over if you like, I don’t mind. There’s stuff in the fridge.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll cope. Why do you have to go to London?’ She looked uncomfortable at the thought, and I understood how she felt. Bad memories. Police. Hospital smells.

  ‘I have to meet with the author of Wings.’

  ‘Sounds boring.’

  ‘Probably. We can do something this weekend, if you want? Maybe we could go to the cinema or something, go for dinner in the city?’ I felt bad that I had been seeing so little of her; I could feel her slipping away from me and it frightened me. She just shrugged.

  We finished breakfast and I dropped her off at school on my way to the station. As she went in I noticed Serena and Tilly by the door. They looked at her walking up and turned away. I couldn’t see if Vivian had noticed or not but I felt another small pang of concern, and really hoped that everything was okay in her group. Vivian didn’t cope well with changing friendship dynamics. I worried at the thought like a bone all the way to the station, and through to London. I was already suspicious about her behaviour over the weekend, how she had holed herself away brooding over something. I remembered how badly she had been bullied before, how eventually even her best friend had deserted her. Not that I had known what was happening until it was too late to do anything about it. The ever-present guilt – how badly I’d let her down – it stung.

  * * *

  The sights and smells of my abandoned home town pummelled me as soon as I got off the train at Paddington. The heat amplifies London. Emotions run higher, happy laughter outside pubs can turn to violence in a flash, temper running just beneath the surface, an undercurrent of disquiet. The stink of bins catches at you just as you breathe in, turning your stomach. How had I ever loved this place? Already I was longing for the clean scent of the fields and woods, of new-home. A rash of sweat broke out under my arms and on my back. I was going to be a complete mess by the time I turned up at the publishers.

  The meeting was near Euston, a stone’s throw away from where I had worked as a campaign manager before we left London. I’d been so happy in the huge ad agency. Every day was different, fast, clever. I’d felt important, an important cog in a top-class engine. I had worked so hard, given up so much to get to where I did. No one had even called me after I left. No one had cared. I wasn’t important at all. I spent every second on the way to the meeting praying that I wouldn’t bump into anyone I knew. Not that they would likely remember or even recognise me, after six years in the wilderness.

  Walking into the offices of the publishers I felt light-headed, almost out of my body. I was worried about the meeting, about conversing with people. I had cloistered us away from situations where new people might be. I wasn’t anxious that my work wasn’t good enough, more that I wasn’t. I didn’t feel like a fully formed human being any more, there were so many parts of me missing, gouged out of me. I could barely breathe; all the fear we’d run away from rushed back. I knew the danger was no longer here, but my body thought otherwise. I managed to present myself at the desk in reception and the trendy, bespectacled man behind the desk, whip thin, offered me a cold drink of water. It felt amazing, that first cool sip. That, and the blissful air conditioning helped me pull the fractures back together.

  I made it through the meeting, long and boring as it turned out to be, without collapse; I left the building to start my journey home on a high. I had done it. I’d come back to London and survived the experience. I almost enjoyed the walk back, weaving through the crowds, slipping through easily like the native I had been, descending into the underground. It wasn’t until I’d been on the tube for twenty minutes that I realised, pulling my head out of my book, that I’d gone the wrong way. In unthinking relief, my feet had taken an old, well-trodden path from Euston. I had got on the Victoria Line; I was heading back to Walthamstow.

  I couldn’t stop myself in the end. I got off the tube at Walthamstow Central, stepped out onto the road opposite the bus station, my heart fluttering. I wanted to see. I wanted to see again where I had lived, all those years of my life after my father died and my mother was broken, and after Vivian was born. I wanted to see my old house. I slowly walked up St Mary Road, cutting through on East Avenue to Orford Road. So slowly. Would anyone recognise me now, out of my sharp suits, my straightened hair and those pretentious horn-rimmed glasses that I hadn’t even needed? I was such a fool. Pretending everything was perfect.

  There was the old deli on the corner. The Queen’s Arms had been renovated, gastro-pubbed. People were seated outside the tapas restaurant enjoying the evening sun with large glasses of wine and bottles of beer. I watched a couple sitting together: she was tracing pictures on the condensation that misted her glass, and he was looking at her with a vague expression of amazement that someone as pretty as her was sitting there, with him. They both looked so happy. I wondered how their story would play out, where they were in it: the beginning? The middle? I didn’t know where I was in my story; if it was even my own any more, or if I was just a bit part in my daughter’s. I wanted a drink, badly, but I was too afraid to stop anywhere. I couldn’t risk being recognised. I couldn’t bear the looks I might get. I put on a pair of oversized sunglasses that I had bought for Vivian and then adopted because she refused to wear them. They suited me well enough. The glasses and wild curls, I hoped they would make an adequate disguise.

  I made my way down Beulah Road looking at all the little cottages as I always had, so cosy and safe looking; imagining the happy, normal families inside the old brick and whitewash walls. Most of the houses on Maynard Road were bigger, except the one we had lived in, squeezed in like an afterthought between two existing ones. I stopped outside, on the opposite side of the road. I didn’t want to get any closer. The roses in the front garden were blooming as well as they had ever done, the lavender spraying out through the fence. My mum had loved those flowers and I was glad they were still being cared for. My heart ached for her, as always. You don’t realise the enormity of someone’s presence in your life until they are gone, and all you are left with is a hole. And my mother’s death had been such a shock – she’d been young, really, still fit and healthy. I miss her every day. I miss her love, the scent of her embrace.

  A tatty red car had pulled up a few spaces away from me. I was vaguely aware of a dark-haired man in the driver seat, but it was the slim blonde woman whose appearance punched me, stole the air out of my lungs. It was Lucy. Her face had aged, it was hollow and worn. She looked awful – why did she still look so awful, after all this time? Surely things would be better by now? What had happened?

  I didn’t stay. I turned and I ran. I always run.

  Vivian

  ‘Why has your mum gone to London?’

  Molly is lying on my bed, kicking her legs off the side, making a mess. She makes a mess everywhere she goes. They follow her around, messes.

  ‘She’s got a meeting with an author. She’s doing the pictures for their book.’

  ‘A kid’s book?’

  ‘No, it’s for our age.’

  ‘Oh. Aren’t we a bit old for pictures in books? I thought she just did the covers?’

  ‘That’s what I said. I think they are trying to make it a thing again for older books, too. I wish I could draw like she does.’

  Molly loo
ks at me, pinning me with her eyes. I don’t like it when she looks at me like that. I can never figure out what she is thinking.

  ‘You’ve got other talents, though.’

  I think this is where you are supposed to be self-deprecating. I know I have talents.

  ‘Hardly.’

  Molly spins on the bed and hangs her head over the side, looking up at me upside down. Her hair spools onto the floor and I can’t help thinking it will get everywhere. I’m always finding long, golden hairs all over me, like she’s marking me with them. Little golden chains.

  ‘You have plenty of talents. You’re an amazing actress, aren’t you, Vivvy?’

  ‘You’re the one doing drama, Molly. I hate drama.’

  ‘No, you hate dramas, not drama. But you’re acting every day, aren’t you? Pretending you’re like us.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pretending. You pretend to like the boys we like, the clothes, the shows, and try and fit in, but you’re not like us at all, are you?’

  ‘I am like you! I’m completely normal, stop being a dick, Molly!’ Worry is bubbling inside me, where has this come from?

  ‘Don’t worry, I still like you, Vivian. I don’t think you’re dangerous. You make me laugh. And you’d never hurt me, would you?’

  ‘Dangerous? What? What the fuck are you on about today? You’re being really weird. Why would I hurt you?’ Panic beats its drum in my throat. What does she know? Has she been speaking to my mother about me? I remember how cosy they had looked out there in the studio, together, without me. But she wouldn’t say anything, I’m sure of it.

  Molly just hangs upside down like a bat, looking at me. Why would she think I was dangerous? Deep down I can feel a secret part of myself coming apart, trying to escape, and I have to breathe in very slowly to keep it together. I pretend to write something in my book. We were just reading passages from Macbeth to each other before she started on this. I stare at the page, watch the words swim.

  Fill me from the crown to the toe top-full

  Of direst cruelty.

  I’m gripping my pen so tightly it’s hurting my fingers. It would be so easy. It would be so easy. But then I would be right back where I started, before we left London. I don’t ever want to go back there.

  ‘Do you like Alex? He’s up to something, you know. He was talking to me about you.’

  Mercurial as always, Molly switches topics as quickly as changing a TV channel. She always does this to me, tries to shake me up. I’m much too clever for that trick. This is what she really wants to talk about. I can ignore the rest – it was the wind-up, she was just making it up to try and catch me out, no one knows anything. Breathe. Relax. Alex is the trigger here, and that I can deal with. Relief makes me light-headed and colourful spots dance behind my eyelids like sprites.

  ‘I’m not interested in him, so he can be up to whatever he wants.’ Breathe out, feign boredom.

  ‘Why not? It’s not like you don’t get asked. Tommy asked you out last year, and he’s quite fit.’

  ‘I just don’t want to do any of that stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘You know!’

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘Molly!’

  ‘Vivian!’

  I swear to god, one of these days…

  ‘Haven’t you even thought about it, though? You must think about what it’s like. Everyone does. It’s perfectly normal, you know.’

  Maybe I should think about it. It all looks so disgusting and dirty, though. I just can’t see how it would be nice in any way. I haven’t figured out yet what I’d get out of it; it always looks like the men are doing all the enjoying. I’m not doing it unless I get something out of it, too.

  ‘And if you went out with Alex everyone would die of jealousy.’

  ‘I suppose.’ I change the subject. ‘Do you think Serena threw that ball at me on purpose in PE? I’ve got a massive bruise.’ I slip down the side of my shorts for her to see, and she purses her lips and frowns.

  ‘Ouchie. That looks sore. No, I don’t think she wanted it to hit you. She was just being a dick, trying to make you jump out the way. I don’t know. Don’t worry about her, she’ll get over herself.’

  ‘I hope so. I don’t like it when things are all messed up.’ I look down at her. ‘Your head is going to pop if you hang there for much longer, Molly.’

  ‘Blood flow is good for the complexion, Viv! You should try it.’ She laughs.

  Molly finally hauls her now very pink face up from where it was hanging and flops back down on the bed. I can see a sheen of sweat on her skin and it’s getting on my sheets. I’m going to have to change them now; I won’t be able to sleep in them, otherwise. I feel itchy already. If it’s not her revolting hairs, it’s her sticky skin.

  We both get back to our books, but something she said is distracting me. Would people look at me differently if I was with Alex? Would I be the most popular one? We scribble for a while longer before Molly starts to get antsy again.

  ‘Let’s have a drink.’

  ‘What? A drink drink? It’s Wednesday, Molly, we’ve got school tomorrow.’

  ‘So? A couple won’t hurt. I’m bored. Go on, Viv, you’re no fun any more. I only brought a couple, and I’m staying over, and your mum’s out…’

  I am not boring! I don’t really want to but I guess a few won’t hurt.

  ‘Okay, but I don’t want to stay up late!’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ says Molly, as she runs out of the room and down to the kitchen, taking her bag – which I now realise is clinking – with her. She comes back with pint glasses full of bright pink fizzy cider and ice. Passing one to me, she holds the other out, too.

  ‘Cheers!’ she demands, pushing her glass against mine. We drink. It tastes a bit funny; I tell her I don’t like it and she rolls her eyes, so I just drink it, and I drink the other two she makes as well.

  After the third one, I try and stand up to go to the bathroom and I stumble against the doorframe on the way out, feeling dizzy suddenly. I don’t like it. I feel a bit sick.

  ‘Are you all right, Viv?’ asks Molly, when I come back. I can feel a slick of sweat on my top lip gathering in the dip beneath my nose, matching ones at my ears, on my neck. Everything is a bit fuzzy. Am I drunk? How can I be drunk? I don’t usually feel like this after three – I never have more than three for precisely that reason.

  ‘Vivian,’ says Molly, her voice sounding a bit like it’s in a bubble, ‘why did you and your mum move here? Why did you leave London?’

  ‘She didn’t like her job,’ I lie, not liking the conversations tonight. I hate talking about London. She knows this. Why is she being so weird and nosy all of a sudden?

  ‘Alex was asking me why you’d come here. I don’t think I like Alex,’ she says. Back to this again. The constant change of subjects is making me nauseous.

  ‘What? Why not? I thought you thought he was sex on legs.’

  ‘No, he’s fit but I don’t like him. I don’t trust him, I don’t think you should trust him, either. He’s shady.’ Her voice trails off as she shifts closer to me on the bed. I hope she’s not going to get all touchy-feely with me. ‘Do you like him?’

  ‘I… I don’t know, I haven’t really thought about it…’

  ‘What?’ Molly sways towards me, crawling up the bed to where I’ve had to sit down, my head nodding, flopping. I jerk it back up. ‘He’s interested in you, in some weird way, how can you not be interested, too? Vivian, do you think you might be gay? I don’t mind, you know I love you, right?’ I can feel her breath on my cheek, and I lean away, almost falling off the edge of the mattress.

  ‘I’m not. I don’t fancy anyone. I just don’t think about it.’ My head is pounding now, and I can feel my eyeballs, the pressure of them, the size of them pulsing like rotten grapes in my skull. ‘Moll, I think that cider is off, I feel really weird.’

  ‘You should think about it,’ she says, reaching out a hand. I jump up, and stumble.

/>   ‘Get away from me,’ I say, just before I have to run to the bathroom to be sick. ‘Get away.’

  London

  The hot steam from the oven fogged Carol’s glasses as she pulled out the tray with the fishfingers on. ‘Argh!’ she said, as she turned to the table. ‘I’m blind!’ As the lenses cleared she saw Vivian’s friend Lexie was giggling, and, watching her, Vivian began giggling, too.

  ‘Are you both really hungry?’ she asked.

  ‘Starving!’ said Lexie.

  ‘Yes, starving!’ said Vivian.

  ‘Can you eat three fishfingers each? Three whole fishfingers, and chippies, and peas?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Yes!’ came the little voices.

  Lexie was in Vivian’s class, and she’d surprised Carol a few days earlier by asking if the smiley blonde girl could come for tea one day. ‘She’s my best friend,’ Vivian had claimed.

  ‘Is she? How lovely!’ Carol hadn’t said as such but she was very relieved to know Vivian had a friend. She’d been more worried than she’d admitted to herself or Rachel, who didn’t seem to be worried at all, about Vivian starting school. Nursery hadn’t been the greatest hit, and she’d wondered if school would be any better.

  Now, Carol enjoyed the fact Vivian was chattier than usual because of her guest. She slid the crumbed fishfingers off the tray and onto the plates and cut them into mouthfuls, adding the chips and peas. ‘Make sure you blow on it,’ she warned. ‘Who wants ketchup?’

  ‘Me, please!’ said Lexie. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I want ketchup too, Nana,’ said Vivian.

  ‘Really?’ asked Carol, looking at her as she pulled the bottle from the cupboard. ‘You don’t like ketchup.’

  ‘Yes, I do!’ she insisted.

  ‘It’s my favourite,’ said Lexie. ‘I love ketchup. Mummy says I would put ketchup in my cereal if she let me.’

  ‘It’s my favourite, too,’ said Vivian, though Carol noticed later that she hadn’t actually eaten any of the sauce she’d insisted on squeezing onto her plate.