Day of the Accident

by Nuala Ellwood

  The damp hits me as I enter and I start to cough. I grab my inhaler and take a good few puffs. When I’ve composed myself I look around and am met with a sight so startling I’m almost knocked off my feet.

  It’s like I’ve stepped inside a time capsule. The whole room is exactly as it was in 1988. The walls are covered in posters of the Smiths and the Waterboys – Ben’s favourite bands. Used joss sticks are dotted around the stone fireplace and the sofas are draped in the Aztec throws that Ben brought back from his volunteering trip to Mexico. I can still hear the sounds of the party that night, the high-pitched laughter and smash of glass when Ben dropped the tray of munchies on to the stone floor, the way the music seemed to warp as the evening wore on though only later would I find out why. As I stand in the middle of the room it seems like the last thirty years have never happened; that the world stopped in 1988.

  I step over the piles of vinyl records that are scattered across the floor. The air is thick with dust and I put my hand over my mouth. Then I see it, a small wooden door almost hidden in a little alcove on the far side of the room. Don’t do it, Maggie, I tell myself, but my feet are leading the way.

  Slowly, slowly, I push open the door. I’d forgotten how tiny this room was. In my memories it had taken on epic proportions, become a monster of a thing. The reality is a small, round bedroom with a curved window looking out on to the farmland and the Downs beyond. I stand at the door, not daring to enter. The single bed still has the red and black quilt cover on it. The walls are bare now though I remember there being a huge black-and-white print of Marilyn Monroe leaning over a balcony. I remember because I had fixed my eyes on her all the time it was happening.

  I step inside the room, keeping my hands clasped to my mouth. I don’t want to breathe this air because I know what it contains. I step towards the bed and place my hand on the pillow, checking to see if it’s real. When I bring my hand back it is sticky with cobweb.

  I turn from the bed and slowly walk across the room. The bulky oak wardrobe stands by the window. I remember that. When we were kids and this was simply a playhouse, Ben used to make us stand in there with our eyes closed. ‘When you open them, we’ll be in Narnia,’ he’d tell me.

  But we never were.

  I open the door of the wardrobe and a waft of dust and mothballs hits me. It’s empty save for some wire coat hangers and a sticker on the inside door showing a smiley face and the name Benjamin spelled out in stars.

  I close the wardrobe and turn to the chest of drawers wedged against the wall on the other side of the window. I pull out the top drawer. It’s stuffed with papers. I pick one out. It’s a cardboard certificate. I read the words across the top of it: ‘Awarded to Benjamin Cosgrove for excellence in spelling 13/09/1980’. Why the hell have they kept all this junk, I think to myself as I put the certificate back and close the drawer.

  I pull out the middle one, expecting to see more rubbish, but this drawer is full of photograph albums. The top one has a Union Jack cover. I lift it out and open the first page. It’s full of baby photos of Ben. The first shows him, chubby-cheeked and grinning, on a rocking horse in the drawing room of Ketton House. The next one is a photograph of Ben’s father, Harry, sitting on a horse.

  As I look at his kind face I remember him coming to see me in the psychiatric unit. Nobody else had bothered to visit. My parents had said it was best if they left me alone; Barbara was still furious. And Ben, well, he’d returned to university and cut me out of his life completely. As time went on it felt like what had happened between us was some strange dream, so much so that I began to doubt that Ben Cosgrove had even existed. The only person who had any concern for me was Harry. I remember how I sobbed when I saw him standing in the waiting room. He had worn a suit. For a countryman who spent most of his days in a waxed jacket and wellies, this was a poignant touch. He stayed with me the whole afternoon. We made small talk mostly. I told him how bad the food was and he said if he’d known he’d have packed a couple of Cornish pasties for me. He knew how much I used to like them. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I wasn’t really eating anything. Talking to Harry, I felt like a child again. I was still only fourteen, a baby, and yet I’d been forced to become an adult overnight. When the time came for Harry to leave I gripped hold of him, terrified of being left alone in that place. But Harry was so kind. He told me that everything was going to be fine, that I just had to be there for a few more months to get myself better and then life could begin again. But it was his parting words that stayed with me, that helped me get through those next few months without losing my mind. As we stood at the door of the visitors’ room he took my hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘You’re a good person, Maggie Carrington,’ he said as tears cascaded down my face. ‘Don’t ever forget that.’

  And he said it so sincerely that I believed it.

  I turn the page and flick through image after image of Ben at various ages and then suddenly there I am. I must be about four years old and I’m sitting on the front step of Ketton House. I beam up at the camera with a gappy-toothed smile. I stare at the photo for a few moments wondering what it is about it that is making me feel strange. And then I realize it’s because I look so much like Elspeth. When the bad thing happened, my mother, in a fit of rage, had thrown away all her photos of me so I never quite remembered what I looked like. I always thought Elspeth was more like Sean, but looking at this photo the likeness is startling.

  I don’t want to see any more, I think to myself, as I close the album and shove it back in the drawer. And yet, I can’t resist opening the bottom drawer. This one is lined with flowery scented paper. Drawer liners. My mother always used them. On top of the liners are piles of notebooks. I pick one up and flick through pages of notes on Macbeth. They must be Ben’s notebooks from Oxford. I rummage through the pile and then I see something that makes my blood go cold. There, at the bottom of the drawer, is a yellowing newspaper cutting with the words DRAMA AT THE RIVERBANK emblazoned across the top. It’s dated 15th January 1989. I pick it up and see, below the headline, a black-and-white photograph of me.

  ‘No,’ I gasp, dropping the cutting on the floor and running out of the room. ‘No, no, no.’

  43

  Dear Mummy,

  What does it take to be your daughter?

  Do I have to be pretty?

  Do I have to be smart?

  Do I have to be popular?

  I’m trying so hard to be all these things, so that when you see me you won’t be disappointed. But I just can’t understand why you wouldn’t reply to my letters. You can see in them how sad and scared I’ve been and then there was all the stuff about Zoe. It’s like you have no heart, like you’ve just thrown me away and washed your hands of it all.

  I’ve never had a sister before though Zoe was the closest thing. She was the only person who cared for me these last few months, the only one who listened to me, who stuck up for me when those boys were bullying me. Every night when I go to sleep I hear that song in my head, the one we listened to the night before she died, and now I know the words off by heart I can see what they meant to her. She wanted to go home, back to that kitchen where she was dancing with her mum. But she never got there, she just ended up on that railway track.

  Zoe and I were more alike than I realized. We both wanted our mums to come and get us. We both just wanted to go home. Zoe wasn’t the cleverest or the prettiest but she had a kind heart and she looked after me. I wish I’d been able to do the same for her; wish I could have stopped her doing what she did.

  I don’t know what you want from me Mummy but I’ll keep on trying my best to be good. I don’t know why I was sent away but I can’t let myself believe that it was because you didn’t want me any more. Freya says you just need to get better and maybe that’s what it’s all about. I hope so.

  Please write back Mummy.

  Please don’t give up on me.

  I need you.

  Your lovely daughter xxx

  44

>   I’m still trembling when I get back to the flat an hour later. The smell inside the playhouse lingers around me. How could Barbara have left it undisturbed all these years? And the old newspaper cutting in the bottom of the drawer: why would Ben have kept that? Why would he need a reminder of that terrible day? I take my keys out of my pocket and fumble with the lock. Why won’t it work? Then I turn the handle and it yields. Did I forget to lock it?

  I step inside, my heart thudding inside my chest. I close the door behind me, then as I go towards the living room I hear a noise. There’s someone in the kitchen. Just turn round and get help, I say to myself, but I’m so scared I can’t move. Then I hear footsteps. They are coming this way. Please don’t let them hurt me.

  ‘Maggie?’

  Relief floods through me as I hear a familiar voice.

  ‘Sonia,’ I gasp. ‘What are you doing? You almost gave me a heart attack.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, as she comes towards me, her face flushed. ‘I was already on my way over here when I got your text saying you were popping out. I thought I may as well let myself in and get on with some cleaning. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I say, still feeling shaken. ‘What … what did you say?’

  ‘I said I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in,’ she says, looking embarrassed. ‘I mean, I had the key and, well, it’s not like I’m breaking in or anything.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I say, composing myself. ‘You just gave me a bit of a fright, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, her eyes widening. ‘I really didn’t mean to …’

  ‘It’s fine, Sonia. Honestly,’ I say, as I follow her into the kitchen.

  ‘Well, I’ve done the bathroom,’ she says, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘And I was just about to make a start on the vacuuming when I got it into my head to make some bread. I thought it would go nicely with the soup.’

  She lifts a tea towel from the freshly baked loaf and brings it over to me.

  ‘What do you think? It’s a bit burnt on the bottom but it should be okay.’

  ‘It’s wonderful, Sonia,’ I say, my eyes twitching with exhaustion. ‘Just wonderful.’

  I feel faint suddenly and put my hands out on to the counter to steady myself.

  ‘Are you okay, Maggie?’ says Sonia, placing the bread on the table. ‘God, I’m so stupid. Here I am wittering on about bread and I haven’t even asked you how it went today. You said you were going to see an old friend?’

  I exhale slowly and as the dizziness subsides I raise my head. Sonia puts her hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she says gently.

  ‘I’m very, very tired,’ I say. ‘I think I might just go and have a lie-down.’

  ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Can I get you anything? A glass of water? A warm drink?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m fine. I just … I just want to go to sleep.’

  When I reach the privacy of my room I slump down on the bed and let the shock of the last few hours sink in. Being back in that playhouse felt like walking through a nightmare. Every little detail of that night came back to me magnified. The dizziness, the blood. It just won’t end, will it, I tell myself as I close my eyes and drift off to sleep. It will never end.

  All is quiet now. Sonia has just put her head round the door to tell me that she is going home and that there’s some soup and bread in the kitchen if I feel hungry. I thanked her but the last thing I can face right now is food.

  I feel very peculiar, as though I’m floating above myself. Perhaps it’s the shock of everything. I turn on my side and try to go back to sleep but as I close my eyes the doorbell rings.

  I take my phone from the bedside table and look at the time. It’s 8.30 p.m. Who could be at the door at this hour? Maybe if I ignore them whoever it is will go away. But then it rings again and I hear a voice calling through the letter box.

  ‘Maggie. Are you in there? It’s Julia.’

  Julia? I think to myself as I make my way down the corridor. What does she want?

  I take a quick look in the living-room mirror as I pass. I look dreadful. It’s been days since I last washed my hair and my face is pale and blotchy. I run my fingers through my hair so I look a little more presentable then I take the chain off the door and open it.

  ‘Hi, Maggie,’ says Julia. ‘I just wanted to pop round and see how you were getting on with the new medication. May I come in?’

  As always, she looks a vision of elegance. Today’s trouser suit is deep purple velvet with a pretty lilac lace camisole underneath.

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Come through.’

  ‘Something smells nice,’ she says as she steps inside. ‘Have you been cooking?’

  ‘No, that was Sonia,’ I say as I lead her into the living room. ‘She’s been baking bread.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’ve been eating it,’ says Julia. ‘Good nutrition is vital when you’re healing, mentally as well as physically.’

  ‘I’ve been trying,’ I say. ‘Though I’ve never had much of an appetite.’

  ‘Listen, Maggie, I was hoping we could have a little chat,’ she says, her voice softening. ‘Would that be okay?’

  ‘A chat? What about?’

  ‘Don’t look so alarmed,’ she says, smiling. ‘Listen, why don’t you sit down and I’ll put the kettle on. What would you like?’

  ‘Er, I don’t mind really,’ I say. ‘There’s some camomile tea in the cupboard.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says as she disappears into the kitchen. ‘I won’t be a sec.’

  I sit on the sofa and close my eyes. As I listen to Julia preparing the tea in the kitchen I suddenly feel very calm. I like that she’s here.

  ‘Here we go.’

  I look up as she comes in with the tea. She places a cup in front of me.

  ‘Are you not having one?’ I say, picking up the cup.

  ‘No,’ she says, sitting down on the armchair opposite me. ‘Water’s fine for me.’

  She reaches into her bag and pulls out a bottle of mineral water, an expensive brand. She unscrews the top, takes a sip then puts it back in the bag.

  ‘So, Maggie,’ she says, sitting up straight. ‘It’s been a few days since I prescribed the new medication. How are you managing with the tablets?’

  I roll the question over and over but my mind is blank.

  ‘Maggie?’

  ‘Oh, they’re fine,’ I say. ‘I’ve been feeling a little floaty today but I’m not sure whether that’s the tablets or just me.’

  ‘When did you last take one?’

  ‘About an hour ago.’

  Julia narrows her eyes.

  ‘And are you still feeling floaty?’

  ‘I’m just very tired,’ I say, leaning back into the sofa. ‘But I don’t know if it’s the tablets or the shock.’

  ‘Shock?’ says Julia, frowning.

  ‘I went to see someone I used to know,’ I tell her, my voice slow and laboured. ‘And it just brought back some painful memories, that’s all.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Julia, her features softening.

  ‘There’s something else that’s been troubling me,’ I say. ‘Something I found.’

  ‘Oh? What was it?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  I put my tea down on the table next to me then stand up and go to the bedroom. The letter is where I left it, on the radiator. It got so wet the other night I was worried it was ruined but the heat has dried it and the writing can still be made out. I carefully lift it off and bring it back into the living room.

  ‘Sean, or someone close to him, had put all of my things in a storage unit,’ I say to Julia. ‘When I went there the other day I found this.’

  I hand her the letter.

  ‘It was underneath one of the boxes.’

  ‘What is it?’ she says, holding the paper tentatively.

  ‘Read it,’ I say, returning to the sofa.

  I watch as she u
nfolds the paper. As she reads she lets out a little gasp, then drops the letter on to her lap. When she looks up her eyes are watery. Tiredness or tears? I can’t be sure.

  ‘It’s from Elspeth,’ I say. ‘Though I have no idea when she wrote it.’

  ‘Elspeth,’ she repeats, nodding her head.

  ‘Yes. She must have written it before she … My little girl wrote me a beautiful poem and I didn’t even know.’

  ‘What do you mean, you didn’t know?’

  ‘Well, she was always writing things and coming to show me but more often than not I’d be so engrossed in my own stuff I didn’t notice. I can’t remember ever reading this poem. Or else I did and then forgot all about it.’

  Julia reads the poem again then looks up at me with a strange expression on her face. She’s judging me. I know she is. She’s thinking, what kind of mother forgets something like that?

  ‘And it was on the floor of the storage unit?’ says Julia, folding the note.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I was just about to leave when I saw it. It was wedged between two boxes.’

  ‘How strange,’ she says, wiping her eyes with the tip of her manicured finger. ‘That you don’t remember it.’

  ‘Like I said, Elspeth would always be flitting about when I was working in my study but half the time I was so preoccupied with my work I didn’t pay any attention.’

  Julia looks at me and nods.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ I say. ‘You’re thinking I neglected her; that I’m a bad mother.’

  ‘I’m not thinking that at all, Maggie,’ says Julia. ‘On the contrary, it sounds like you loved her very much.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And I should have loved her more. I should have read this poem when she gave it to me and I should have told her it was beautiful and that I loved her with all my heart, but I didn’t and now it’s too late.’

  ‘At least you had that time together,’ says Julia. ‘It might have been short but some mothers and daughters don’t even have that.’

  I remember then that Julia’s mother died when she was a baby and I realize how insensitive I’ve been.