And a minute or two later, we finish eating, and we smile happily at each other.
And she is up and away to the nookery, clutching the make-up box tight.
Her room. Her own happy little place.
Just gone six p.m., and we are back sitting in the dining room, Rosie and I, about to eat our tea. Rosie is now wearing mascara and lipstick, applied too liberally on her little childlike face, and a thick layer of make-up over her damaged cheek. Coco the Clown. Fluffy sits by Rosie’s feet. Having spent the afternoon with her in the nookery whilst I tidied my room and put things away in the loft, he now seems devoted to her. That’s fine by me.
The door is shut, and the heater is turned up, and it feels almost warm in here. The moisture runs down the windows again and, beyond that, the snow still lies heavy and has a kind of shimmering effect in the darkness. There may be a further fall later this evening or overnight. I pull the curtains together for warmth and for privacy, in case Widow Woman pays another visit.
Tea is a simple affair. A vegetable lasagne from the Tesco Premium Range with some peas and carrots that I boiled myself. Two bottles of water, one sparkling, one still. An apple crumble and custard for pudding. Packet and tinned respectively, but very nice brands. I don’t skimp on these things.
I am a competent cook if I stick to basics. I like plain fare. I am a meat eater – chicken or beef or pork, mince, too. I don’t eat hearts, livers, kidneys or offal. None of that. I am not Hannibal Lecter.
She sits there in front of her full plate, knife and fork in hand, like a small child, waiting to be told to eat – shovel, in her case. It is rather endearing.
“Still or sparkling?” I ask, gesturing towards the bottles.
She looks blankly at me.
“Ordinary water or fizzy water?” I put my hand on the top of one of the bottles and turn it round so she can read the label.
She moves her glass towards the bottle closest to her, and I lift it up to see which one it is. “Fizzy,” I say. “You like fizzy water?”
She does not answer, so I pour the water into her glass. She takes a mouthful, a big one, without thinking. Pulls a face. Wrinkles her nose like a little Disney rabbit. Kind of gasps.
I laugh. “I can put some orange squash in it if you prefer … have it as fizzy orange?”
She sort of gulps and nods as she splutters. All from a mouthful of sparkling water! Maybe some of it went up her nose.
I go to the kitchen and fetch the half-full bottle of orange squash. As I return and push the dining room door closed behind me and splash a little squash into her glass, I note she is composed again. She takes two or three big sips of the fizzy orange and chokes the words, “That’s better,” almost under her voice, as if to herself.
We sit and eat in silence, on and on, working our way through the main course. She has her head down, eating quickly with a fork in her left hand, her right hand curved around her plate as if she is protecting it. I want her to slow down, relax, to sit back and chat between mouthfuls, so we can get to know each other better. Talk about things. I reach out to put my hand lightly on her left arm and to say sweetly, “Whoa, slow down.”
She rears back instinctively, her fork falling and clattering across the table. She looks at me suddenly, an instant mix of fear and anger, then somehow seems to blank her face as she sees my own benign expression.
“Sorry,” I say, reaching for her fork and giving it back to her.
She takes it and hesitates and, after a moment or two, speaks. “I jumped.”
I nod. “I didn’t think. I’m sorry.” I’m not sure what else to say other than repeat my apology.
Realising what I was trying to do, she then sits up straight and starts eating slowly, carefully, with her knife and fork.
We move on to the pudding, me scooping big spoonfuls of crumble and still-warm custard into her bowl before taking the rest for myself. We continue eating. Slightly mannered at first, and then relaxing again, until I feel ready to speak.
“I was wondering …” I clear my throat. “If you are staying for a while, until the snow clears, maybe.” I hesitate, but she does not respond, so I go on. “If you needed anything …?”
She looks at me, and I cannot read the expression on her face. I am worried that she may be thinking I am talking about what my mother would call “women’s things”. I would not want to make a reference to tampons or sanitary matters to Rosie. It is too intimate. I need to clarify what I mean.
“A book to read?” I say, gesturing at the bookcases in the room with my spoon. I am not sure, what with my crime novels and my boys’ own adventure stories, whether my tastes will appeal to her. Packed away in the garage, I have books and magazines belonging to my wife and daughter, but I do not want to draw attention to them nor talk about my family yet, even though I am well rehearsed about what to say.
She looks at the shelves and seems embarrassed in some way. I can see she is unsure what to say about my Dan Browns and old Alistair MacLeans and all. There is a moment of awkwardness between us. I go on, and I feel that I am gushing my words as she finishes her pudding, scraping the bowl as clean as she can. She is listening, though.
“It must be boring … will be … being in … your room all day, just listening to music and … and just doing your make-up … you can come out with me in the mornings if you like … to walk Fluffy … and there’s the TV. I only have the free channels, but, you know … and board games and cards in the chest of drawers over there … please make yourself at home.”
I can see, from her face, a sudden flush of pleasure. I think it is my use of the phrases “your room” and “make yourself at home”. I eat my last mouthful of crumble as I wait for her to speak. I know she is going to. And as she puts her spoon into her empty bowl and thinks twice and removes it and puts it to the side, she does.
“Would you … do you have some paper and pencils?” she asks, then adds simply, “I like to draw.” She says nothing else, but there is a plaintive, little-girl-lost look about her that tears at my heart.
I nod and smile. After putting my cutlery onto my plate, I rise and go to the chest of drawers, rummage in it and return with a pad, a Basildon Bond notepad, and a couple of pencils. I hand them to her.
She looks overwhelmed, so much so that it is impossible not to smile. Such a wonderful gift! I resist the laughter that’s bubbling inside me as she gets to her feet, all dizzy and excited. By a pad and pencils!
As she is about to turn to leave, she stops, and I think for one glorious moment she is going to step forward and kiss me. I think that is what she intended to do, but I may have slightly swayed backwards in my surprise, and she seemed to check herself and think twice.
And she is gone.
But I am happy.
Our relationship has taken another step forward. A big one.
It’s gone eight p.m., and we’re already getting ourselves into a nice little routine.
Rosie and I.
We are playing cards, and I think we’re going to get along ever so well.
After tea at six, Rosie retired to her room for a while. To wash or shower, have a lie down, to do whatever women do when they are alone, and to draw in my Basildon Bond notepad. I imagine her drawing Disney characters. Princesses. Unicorns, maybe. Pretty things.
After I had washed up and put everything away in its place, I finished off a game of solitaire that had been sitting there on the coffee table for ever so long. That got me thinking, and I knocked gently on the connecting door at six thirty and suggested we might meet back in the dining room at eight o’clock to play cards. A moment’s silence, and I heard a clear and simple “yes”. A further pause followed by a “please.” I took the time after that to potter about, check my CCTV and what have you to see what I had recorded, and to lie down in my bedroom and relax.
Washed and with another change of clothes, and a fresh dab of make-up to her other cheek, Rosie looks and smells much nicer than when she arrived. She wears her hair
scraped back. I think it would look much better if she wore it down and fluffed out. As it is, it gives her head a slightly skull-like appearance, which is not so attractive. Her eyes are most striking, though. Deep and brown and soulful. They are, in their colour at least, identical to Fluffy’s – although, of course, I would not say that to Rosie. She may misconstrue the compliment.
Her face is nicer than her body, which, understandably, is thin and scrawny. She needs fattening up a bit, and I will make that my job over the coming days and weeks. I think, filled out a little, she will be a very attractive young lady. I have noticed, as all men would do, that she does not wear a bra; that would be something of a distraction for most men, although I will not show that I have noticed it. I am not like that. Not at all.
I suggested we played cribbage or gin rummy with my trusty pack of cards. Or solitaire, which I have always enjoyed playing on my own.
She did not know how to play any of those. The only card game she knew how to play was called “shithead”.
I had not heard of that one, so we compromised and are playing snap. Everyone knows how to play snap. Even a five-year-old.
“Snap,” she goes.
Then “snap” again, a moment or two later.
“Snap.” One more time.
She wins more than me and seems enthusiastic about it. At least, she is concentrating and saying “snap” as fast as she can. And loudly, too.
Truth is, she is quicker than me. But I hold back a little anyway and let her win. I’m like that. I am a good sport.
It will make her happy, and she will have good feelings about me. Fluffy sits by her feet. We are like a happy family.
“Snap.”
“Snap.”
“Snap!”
There comes a point, of course, when the inane and endless game becomes irritating. I do not show my feelings, though.
Instead, I see the happiness on her face – that childlike pleasure – as she leans forward.
And she beats me – snap, snap, snap, again and again. Until she sits back, as if to say, that’s enough; we’re done. I’m through.
Ten games to six.
First to ten.
Rosie won (with a little help from yours truly).
As she gathers up the cards to put them back into the box, I sit and wonder what we could do next. It’s still quite early, and I would normally read my Ludovic Kennedy book for an hour before watching the latest news on the television and going to bed. I sometimes have a hot milky drink and a custard cream (occasionally two) with the news. I’d like her to stay until then. Really, I would.
I am thinking what we could do between now and then, and it occurs to me that it might be rather fun if I read to her. It is something I used to do with my daughter when she was little. But I read Winnie The Pooh to her. I am currently finishing 10 Rillington Place, and there is nothing in there that makes nice bedtime reading. I make a mental note to see if I can find a Winnie The Pooh book in a box in the garage for the next evening.
Before I can speak my thoughts out loud, she is up and on her feet, gathering up the pad and pencils by her side, and saying goodnight. And she looks me straight in the eyes and smiles at me. A really warm and affectionate smile. She is going. Off to her warm little room. And I do not want her to. But I cannot think of any reason for her to stay. Fluffy gets up to go as well.
“The morning,” I say, and I think I sound almost desperate as she stops and turns back and looks agreeably at me. “How about making some cakes?”
She pauses and has a funny expression on her face. “Um,” she goes. “Er,” she says. It is almost as if she is teasing me, playing with me.
“Yes,” she answers finally. “Okay.” And I look at her and swallow and agree. And she is gone and on her way to bed. There will be sweet dreams tonight. For both of us, hopefully.
I am in the canal.
Cold and wet and struggling.
I have to find something to hold on to to survive.
I keep trying to reach for the sides.
And falling back.
Again.
And falling back.
I have my arms around something.
I have been searching for it in the dark.
And I turn it about in the water towards me.
The face is close to mine.
This bloated mush of rotting flesh.
I wake and scream.
9
Sunday, 24 November, 7.35 Am
The moment comes, as I knew it would soon enough, as we finish what has been a quiet and reflective breakfast. Eating and drinking steadily, quite happily, as we listened to Radio 1. Rosie’s choice, this morning.
Rosie smiled to herself once or twice at the presenter’s comments and jigged ever so slightly in time to a couple of the livelier songs. I sat there, mostly baffled by it all.
And she speaks, right at the end of the meal, as if she has been preparing for this all the way through. “What’s your daughter called?” she asks, politely enough.
“Lucy,” I answer without hesitation, for I have had this conversation before. Many times. I would not state that everything I will now say is rehearsed. But I have said it all so often that I know what to say. More importantly, I know what not to say.
Rosie nods. Sips her orange juice. Asks the next, inevitable question.
“Where is she?” Still an innocent and trusting question with an upward inflection at the end of the sentence. The unspoken assumption that she is alive and happy and out there somewhere living a fulfilling life. That she would not mind Rosie borrowing her clothes whilst she is away.
I know not to say, She is dead. That is too blunt. Too dismissive. Too uncaring. People give you a strange look when you say something like that about anyone. Let alone a daughter.
But I do not like phrases such as she’s passed away or passed over. I do not believe in an afterlife. It is errant nonsense. And I dislike the word passed, as if it were a simple and effortless thing. It was not.
“She’s not here … any more,” I reply, a little crack in my voice halfway through. A touch of emotion.
She stops and glances across at me, then away, when she sees my anguished face.
I drop my head down. My body tenses with emotion.
“Do you mean … she’s …”
I nod my head. Bring my head up as I gasp out a single word. “Yes.”
Dip my head down again. This is a difficult moment.
She moves her glass and bowl a fraction to one side and back again. A touch of nerves. Some uncertainty. What to say. But I know what the next question will be and what I will say. I just have to wait. It comes, finally.
“What happened?” Of course. What else could she ask? It had to be that or a variant of it.
“Lucy went to university up north. She wanted to be an engineer. But … when she got there … she … struggled with her mental health … anxiety and depression. We never knew. We just assumed she was happy and well and getting on with things.”
I stop and draw my breath in loudly. I think maybe Rosie will reach out and rest her hand on my arm. But she does not. And after a moment or two, I continue talking, now more composed. But still vulnerable.
“That, the depression, eventually rolled into anorexia. And from there … looking back now, I think … the end was inevitable …” I stop. I do not need to say any more. Rosie can join up the dots and draw her own conclusions. She will feel sorry for me.
There is more I can say. So much more. A different story. But this is what I present to the world. To anyone who asks. And who did ask, when I was locked away. I keep to it precisely.
Rosie makes a strange, whooshing noise with her mouth. I do not look up. I do not want her to see my face. A moment or two passes. And I feel her hand resting lightly on my arm. Just as I had hoped.
“I am sorry for your loss,” she says simply. As if she has been taught to say this at such moments. She does not add to it. She does not need to.
W
e sit there, my head down, her hand on my arm, for something close to a minute. I then get up, sobbing quietly, and start gathering together the plates and bowls and everything else. Rosie takes her hand away; I am aware that she is watching me sympathetically. She then gets up too and helps me take everything over to the sink.
I start washing up the breakfast things, rinsing each one under the running tap before handing them to Rosie to dry with a tea towel and put away in the cupboard. We do this in comfortable silence. I sniff noisily once or twice, and on both occasions, she reaches out and pats me gently on the back.
As we finish, I say quietly that I’m going to spend a little time on my own. That she should maybe do some drawing in her room. And we will meet up again mid-morning to make cakes? She agrees.
As she turns to go, I think for a moment, as she is closest to me, that she may reach out and kiss me on my cheek. I would then embrace her. But she hesitates and pats my arm in a reassuring manner instead. I hold back, my face ever so slightly contorting in pain as she glances at me. I struggle to say, “Th … Thank you.”
And we smile at each other. And look into each other’s eyes.
She is encouraging. I am being as brave as I can.
And then we turn and go. I think our relationship has taken a leap forward. A really huge one.
Mid-morning, after Rosie has been in her room drawing and listening to music, and I have been resting quietly and doing the household chores, I knock on the connecting door.
“Ready?” I ask, smiling, as she opens the door, encouraging her out.
“Something for us to do. It will be fun,” I add.
Rosie follows me into the kitchen. Ta-dah! (I think this, but do not say it out loud.)
The Girl Downstairs Page 9