Greenwich Park

by Katherine Faulkner

  I told him I had booked us a fancy restaurant in town, one I knew he would like. But he insisted we should stay at home. Secretly, my heart sank. I wanted us to get out of the house, have a change of scene, make it feel special. But I didn’t want to fall out over it, so I agreed.

  Daniel has insisted he will cook dinner himself. He is not a natural cook, but he is methodical, rules-based. He follows recipes exactly, and his dishes usually turn out well. I saw him earlier searching for how long you should cook lamb shoulder for. He will want to ensure mine is well done enough. He is protective of me and the baby with things like that, which is sweet. And there are signs he is making an effort. He has cleaned the grime from the table, laid out place mats and lit candles. Rolled the dust sheets off the floor, so the room looks more normal.

  ‘Let me do it,’ he says, when I try to help. He pulls me away from the table, takes the cutlery from my hands, plants a kiss in my hair. ‘The meat will be a while. Why don’t you try out your new bath?’

  The new bathroom is the first thing that has made the building work seem at all worthwhile. It smells of cool tiles and fresh paint. I can hardly wait to fill the deep, roll-top bath, slip under the warm water and soak, looking out over the garden. Earlier, I arranged all my new things on the new driftwood shelves. I made them put some in at the last minute, after I saw Serena’s. Surely Daniel won’t notice a few little shelves that are the same as hers.

  I run the water, go to fetch my book from where I left it, on the chair in the bay window. And that’s when I see her.

  The first thing I wonder is why on earth is she tapping at the window? She looks even more waiflike than usual, her eyes red-rimmed. Her belly sticks out like there is something wrong with it. As if she is a starvation victim, instead of a pregnant woman. I wonder how long she has been standing there, looking into our front room at us.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Daniel shouts from the kitchen.

  ‘I think it’s Rachel.’ This is a stupid thing to say. I can see perfectly well that it is Rachel.

  ‘Rachel? What, your new friend Rachel? What’s she doing here at this hour?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  It’s only then I notice her neck. Three red welts in straight lines, like huge burns, the size and shape of fingers. Her eyes are bloodshot. She is biting at the skin around her thumbnail, twitchy and fearful.

  ‘Get rid of her, will you? It’s our anniversary.’ He is craning his neck, now, trying to see through from the kitchen, one hand on a saucepan.

  ‘I know,’ I say, waving at Rachel through the glass. ‘I’ll just see what she wants.’

  When I open the door, it looks worse. For once, she doesn’t say anything. Just stares at me.

  ‘Rachel? Oh my goodness! What happened to your neck?’

  Rachel opens her mouth to answer, then closes it again. Then she bolts into the house, pushing past me quickly, as if she is afraid of who might be following her.

  Her anxiety is infectious. I glance right and left up and down the road, wondering if she has been followed by her assailant – whoever he is. But there is no one, just a couple of people with drinks outside the pub on the corner.

  Rachel is stalking around in the front room. Her heavy footfalls on the floorboards cause the whisky glasses to jangle in the drinks cupboard, sending our cat, Monty, scampering up the stairs. She pulls out a cigarette, pats down the breast pockets of her denim jacket for a light. I open my mouth to ask that she smoke it outside. But something stops me. As I watch her struggling with the lighter, I notice her hands are trembling. Her right hand is swollen, pink and fat as a cat’s paw, with cuts all over the knuckles. As she walks up and down, I see there is a single red mark on the other side of her neck, too. The bruising is deep, angry, more like a burn. It makes me wince to look at it.

  Rachel finally succeeds in lighting the cigarette. The smoke twists up towards Mummy’s chandeliers. She appears to have forgotten I am actually here. She is swearing, over and over, in short, foggy exhales.

  ‘Fuck,’ she is saying. ‘Fuck.’

  In the kitchen, I hear that Daniel has switched off the radio and is turning down the gas on the hob. He strides into the front room, flipping a tea towel over his shoulder. I feel as if I am watching a traffic collision, one I am powerless to stop.

  Rachel gives Daniel a pained smile. ‘Hi. You must be Daniel. Heard loads about you.’ She grimaces. ‘Sorry. Sorry. Sorry I’m such a mess. I just, um … Just need a minute.’

  Rachel places her palm over her face, the cigarette still balanced between her index and middle finger. She lowers herself down to the ground until she is crouching, balanced on the chunky heels of her boots, and stares at the wall. Over her head, Daniel blinks at me. I shrug hopelessly. The smell of cigarette smoke starts to overwhelm the aroma of our anniversary meal browning on the stove. Behind Daniel, the candles on the table drip wax down the sides.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ Daniel asks eventually, peering down at Rachel. He is staring at her neck. ‘A cup of tea, maybe, or a glass of –’

  ‘Yeah, a glass of water would be amazing. With ice and lemon, please. If you’ve got it.’

  Silenced, Daniel returns to the kitchen.

  ‘Rachel?’

  I feel awkward addressing Rachel when she is crouched on the floor. There’s nothing for it but to crouch down too. She won’t meet my eye, so I find myself addressing the bottom bookshelves next to where she is crouching.

  ‘Rachel,’ I plead. ‘What happened?’

  Rachel winces, as if I’ve touched an open wound.

  ‘I had an argument with somebody,’ she croaks.

  I hesitate. ‘Was it … the father? Is this because you told him?’

  Rachel shakes her head. I don’t know if she means no, or that she just doesn’t want to talk about it. I look again at her neck and find myself involuntarily touching my own. Someone did that to her. I can barely comprehend it. A young, pregnant girl. In my world, such a thing feels unthinkable. But elsewhere, apparently, things are different.

  I open my mouth, but before I can think of another question, Daniel reappears, holding a glass of water. He hands it over awkwardly, glancing down at Rachel’s bump.

  Rachel stands, somewhat shakily, and takes the glass in her left hand, allowing the swollen hand to fall to her side. She mutters her thanks, then looks past Daniel at the laid table, the dimmed light.

  ‘Am I interrupting?’ she asks. ‘Say if I am.’

  ‘No, no,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Of course you’re not.’ Daniel glares at me.

  Rachel buries her head in both hands and seems to sob, her shoulders convulsing, her breathing coming out in heaves. She rocks back and forth on her heels, ash dropping onto the floorboards.

  I shuffle closer, place an arm tentatively around her shoulder. Without looking up, she grips my hand.

  ‘Helen,’ she says, ‘can I stay here tonight? A couple of nights, maybe?’

  I find myself answering even before I have computed what the words will be.

  ‘Of course. Of course you can.’

  Her face is so full of gratitude that I am forced to turn away. I dare not look at Daniel.

  ‘Rachel, why don’t you sit here for a second? We can all have something to eat.’ I glance at Daniel. ‘Maybe Daniel could find you a bag of peas or something for your … the swelling.’

  Wordlessly, Daniel returns to the kitchen. I persuade Rachel onto the sofa. She lights another cigarette, her hands shaking less this time. I fetch a side plate from the laid table, and slide it under the ash dripping from her cigarette.

  When I return to the kitchen, Daniel spins round, hands outstretched, the sinews in his neck visible, as if he is struggling to keep his head fastened to his body.

  ‘What is going on, Helen?’

  I shush him. ‘She’ll hear you.’

  ‘I don’t care! What is she doing here? Can’t you just tell her it’s our anniversary? Asking for fucking ice and lemon!’


  I stare at him, stunned. ‘Are you serious? She’s upset! Someone has assaulted her. Can’t you see what’s happened to her neck?’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you had to say she could stay here! For fuck’s sake, Helen!’

  ‘Daniel! Stop swearing! Can you just try and find something cold in the freezer, please? I can’t bend down that far.’

  Daniel kneels, pulls a freezer drawer out too forcefully. It falls onto the kitchen floor in a smash of ice and plastic. I can’t understand why he is quite so angry.

  ‘Jesus, Helen. Are there even any peas in here? Do we even buy peas? Why are these drawers so full? What is all this stuff?’

  He holds up a handful of freezer bags, shakes them like pompoms.

  ‘It’s chicken casserole,’ I say weakly. ‘The book says to batch-cook a selection of healthy meals. You know, for when the baby comes.’

  Daniel just stares at me, at the bags, and then at me again. I might as well have just told him they contain human body parts. I kneel down next to him, holding on to the kitchen sideboard to lower myself.

  ‘Come on. There are definitely some peas in here somewhere. Let me look.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Helen. I don’t care about peas or fucking … casseroles!’ He slams the freezer door shut.

  ‘Daniel, she’s a friend of mine. She’s young and pregnant and alone and … vulnerable.’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Just calm down for a moment. She needs a bit of help. I can’t just turn her away, can I?’

  ‘Why not? You said yourself you thought she was a nutcase.’

  Suddenly, both our heads jerk to the side. Rachel is in the doorway.

  ‘I didn’t say that, Rachel,’ I say quietly. ‘I promise I didn’t say that.’ I glance at Daniel. He is scowling, but I can see he has been shamed into silence.

  ‘I’m the one who should apologise,’ Rachel says, looking at Daniel. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go. I was just after those peas. Or whatever. Anything. Anything cold.’ She presses a palm to her forehead, one eyelid flickering slightly. She looks like she might be about to faint.

  I open the freezer drawer and dig out the peas. Daniel snatches them up, gets to his feet, closes the freezer door and hands her the bag. On the hob, the onions that Daniel had been frying lie still in the pan, oily and grey. Pools of ice are melting on the floor. I’m worried the casseroles will start defrosting if I don’t replace them, but it feels inappropriate somehow to start putting them back.

  The smoke alarm beeps and there is a smell of burning. Daniel rushes to the oven door, whips the tea towel off his shoulder and opens it, but it is too late. A cloud of black smoke fills the kitchen. Rachel screws up her eyes and coughs, loudly.

  ‘I was doing sweet potato chips,’ Daniel mutters, slamming the door shut.

  ‘It doesn’t matter about the dinner.’ I mean it kindly, but when I hear how it sounds, I instantly regret it. Daniel glares at me.

  Rachel exhales, a serious expression on her face. She picks up an apron that is hanging off the back of a chair, ties it around her waist. ‘Let me help,’ she says in a resolute voice, as if we are first responders at a terror attack.

  ‘There is no need, really,’ Daniel tells her. His teeth are clamped together, his jaw tense. He touches his glasses where they sit on the bridge of his nose.

  ‘I insist.’

  Rachel bends down, deftly, mops up the pools of water, slides the freezer doors shut. It is clear that Daniel and I are equally stumped as to what we should say.

  When the mess is cleared up, Rachel turns to me.

  ‘Do you want me to go?’ she whispers, glancing at Daniel, who now has his back to us.

  I look at Rachel, then to Daniel, then at Rachel again, at the marks on her neck. I look out of the window. It has started to rain. Drops flick at the window like glass shards.

  ‘You should report him, Rachel,’ I say. ‘Whoever did this to you.’ I turn to Daniel. ‘Daniel, don’t you think she should go to the police?’

  Daniel stares at me, then at Rachel.

  ‘Of course,’ he says.

  Rachel meets his gaze, then looks back at me.

  ‘I’ll … I’ll think about it,’ she says. ‘But, Helen, please can I stay?’ She bites her lip, looks down at the floor. ‘Just one night. Please? I’ll be gone after that. I swear.’

  Later, Rachel is comfortably installed on a fold-out bed in the spare room – the room that is soon to be our nursery. I wish we didn’t have to put her in there, but all the others are crammed full of furniture that has been moved from downstairs because of the building work. I lie awake, listening to the rain against the window. Daniel falls asleep, but I can’t seem to settle.

  Unable to drop off, I turn the bedside light back on and look for my book, where I have been keeping the note I found in Rory and Serena’s bathroom, and the torn-up photograph I found in Daniel’s old box. But my book is not on the table, or in the drawer, or down the side of my bed.

  A day or two later, I find the book on our kitchen table. I can’t work out how it would have got there. I’m sure I hadn’t taken it downstairs. And when I open it, I find that both the note and the photograph have gone.

  35 WEEKS

  HELEN

  A week on from her arrival, there has been no mention of what Rachel plans to do next. We come home to find her damp towels coating the bathroom floor, circles on the woodwork from her coffee mugs. At breakfast, she saws wonky chunks of sourdough and squeezes them into the toaster, then forgets about them until the kitchen is filling with smoke.

  With Rachel around, Daniel is here less and less. When he is here, his every movement betrays his irritation. He slams doors, makes loud banging noises while he empties the bins. Daniel keeps telling me I need to talk to her, ask her how much longer it’s going to be. I have told him that it won’t be more than a few days. That she is vulnerable, that I can’t just tell her to get out, when someone has so obviously tried to hurt her. But I’m now starting to wonder myself whether she is actually planning to leave.

  For a woman fleeing a violent attacker, Rachel seems remarkably cheerful. I’ve tried to ask her gently once or twice about what happened. About who has been hurting her. But she just changes the subject, refuses to meet my eye, starts chewing on her cuffs, or her fingernails. She promises she will go, just as soon as she has found somewhere new to live – somewhere safe, she says, with a look that forces Daniel and me into guilty silence.

  She claims she is flat hunting. But as far as I can see she spends most of the day on the sofa, playing pop music on her phone. She has a habit of skipping each track before it’s finished, which sets my teeth on edge. When we are trying to get to sleep at night, I hear the squeaking sound of her opening the old sash window in the spare bedroom to smoke. She doesn’t seem to feel the cold. With the window open, I can hear every footfall on the street below, shouts from the park, sirens on the Trafalgar Road. In the morning, you can feel the draught from under her bedroom door.

  I’ve been at the hospital all afternoon for antenatal blood screening. They make you fast for it, to see if the baby has given you diabetes. Now I’m exhausted, and ravenous, the baby low in my belly, pressing painfully down on my bladder as I trudge home. The air is getting colder now, pinching at my cheeks as I step off the Tube. The whole way home, I think about the last bagel from the bakery that I saw this morning in the bread bin. I am going to smother it with butter, Cheddar cheese and chutney, and grill it, then devour it with a huge cup of hot, sweet tea and the remains of the Sunday Times. Please let Rachel be out, I think. Please.

  At first it seems my prayers have been answered. No Rachel, and no builders either. For once, the house is blissfully silent. When I lift the lid off the bread bin, though, there is nothing but crumbs, a crumpled paper bag. Daniel never eats breakfast. It must have been Rachel. I flick the kettle on so forcefully I nearly knock it off the base.

  As the kettle boils, the phone rings. I snatch it up.
/>   ‘Mrs Thorpe, this is Monique calling regarding your remortgage. We have been trying to –’

  ‘Listen,’ I say, ‘there’s no remortgage on this property.’

  ‘OK, can I just ask you a couple of security questions and then we can discuss –’

  I sigh, slam the phone down. Isn’t there some kind of law against this sort of cold calling nowadays? I think about searching online for what you can do, how you can stop them. But the thought evaporates as the kettle flicks off and my stomach groans. I pull the fridge open, reach for the milk. But the carton is empty. Rachel. I toss the carton into the recycling. Where is she, anyway?

  I find the door to the spare room slightly ajar. Through the crack, I can see plates piled up against each other on her bedside table, still bearing crumbs and smears of food. I push the door open to get a better look. It’s even worse than I suspected. Mugs of unfinished black coffee congregate on the chest of drawers, the one that is meant to double as a changing table for the baby. There is a pile of unfinished takeaway boxes there, too – slimy noodles, rice stained orange by the strange Chinese food she buys at places near the station. I glance left and right, though I know there is no one else here, then I step inside.

  I wrinkle my nose. A stale duvet, unwashed clothes all over the floor. I step over a gold sequinned skirt, some black tights all twisted up with a pair of dirty red knickers. I unscrew the sash window, throw it up, breathe in the cold fresh air. The sky is white and overcast, flat as a bedsheet. I can see Monty skulking along the garden fence like a tightrope walker, stalking a wood pigeon.

  I collect the mugs from the chest of drawers, pinching one between each of my fingers, and balance the plates on my arm. As I lean over for the final mug, my bump almost throwing me off balance, I see her battered suitcase. I had only noticed that later, the fact she’d brought a suitcase. After I’d said she could stay, I spotted it, sitting there in the hallway. She’d had it the whole time.