by K. L. Slater
She sniffs loudly and juts out her chin, her challenging eyes fixed on me.
‘Hello, Fiona.’ I smile as I reach her. ‘I was just walking by and I couldn’t help noticing you seem a little upset.’
She looks at me.
‘I mean, you’re obviously very upset,’ I clarify.
‘Yes,’ she says quietly, looking away. ‘But don’t worry yourself, I’ll be fine.’
I sit down on the bench, angling towards her.
‘Not very often you see it this quiet,’ I say, nodding to the desolate play area. ‘Have you come here to get a bit of peace?’
‘The kids are at school, little one is at the free crèche.’ She shrugs. ‘I just had to get out of that shitty flat for a bit, before it sends me stir crazy.’
‘I know what you mean.’ I smile. ‘I often come out for a stroll if I’m feeling—’
‘Don’t pretend we’re the same, ’cos we’re not,’ Fiona snaps, staring straight ahead over the marshy grass to the scattering of trees beyond.
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Yeah? Well, you and me, we couldn’t be more different. There’s no way you can begin to understand how I feel, trust me on that one.’
‘I wasn’t trying to say I understand exactly how you feel.’ I can hardly confide in her that I know the reason she saw Dr Fielder. ‘And I don’t mean to upset you any more than you already are. I stopped by because I just wanted to make sure you’re OK. That’s all. See if there’s anything I can do to help.’
She whips her head round, eyes sparking.
‘The answer is no, I’m not. I’m far from being fucking OK. Satisfied? So what is it exactly you’re going to do for me? You with your nice easy life and your little part-time job at the doctors’ surgery?’
‘Well, I … I meant, if there’s anything I could do to help, then I’d be happy to.’
Fiona lets out a bitter laugh.
‘You help me? That’d be hilarious if it wasn’t so fucking sad.’
A knot of heat pushes up into my throat and plugs any more platitudes I might think of wasting on her. I understand life must be very difficult for this young woman, but there’s no need for her to be so rude and hostile when I’m only trying to help. I stand up and take a step away from the bench.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you, Fiona. I certainly didn’t mean to make you angry.’
‘I know you didn’t.’ She shrugs, black eyeliner smudged beneath her eyes, giving a ghoulish look to her pale, pockmarked face. ‘But trust me, you don’t want to listen to my problems.’
‘Look,’ I say gently, ‘I know we lead very different lives. But I’m not easily shocked. I see a lot of things working at the surgery. I’m fully aware that people have to cope with some pretty awful stuff.’
She looks up at me, and I hope I haven’t gone too far, been too pushy.
‘I …’ She hesitates, like she wants to say something. ‘I’d like to tell you but I can’t.’ Her tone grows firmer. ‘I just can’t.’
‘I promise I won’t breathe a word to anyone,’ I say, suddenly hopeful that I’m on the cusp of a breakthrough. ‘I give you my word.’
‘You say that now, but you’d think differently if I told you the truth.’
‘I wouldn’t, I—’
‘Just leave it, will you?’ she snaps, and waves me away. ‘Just leave me alone.’
She turns her back on me, and I sigh and walk away. Just before I leave the park, I turn around and look at her again. A pathetically thin and woeful figure, slumped on the bench.
‘If you change your mind, you know where I am,’ I call.
But she doesn’t reply. I might as well be invisible.
21
Judi
Ben texts me from work while I’m walking home.
Hi, Mum. No need to do ironing today, Amber will sort it. x
I push the phone back into my pocket without replying and allow myself a wry smile. There’s no more ironing to do yet but how very kind of Amber to offer; she’s all heart, she really is. Worrying herself constantly that I’m doing too much.
I feel a sort of smog settle around me, spoiling the crispness of the air. I push it away and decide I’ll take some time for myself instead of going round to Ben’s. Maybe I’ll take a long bath, read a magazine or watch something on TV catch-up. I can’t remember the last time I did that. I don’t like sitting still if I can help it.
It’s just an invitation for the past to come flooding back again.
On Friday, I decide to drive to work and I don’t mention to Maura that I saw Fiona Bonser at the park.
I’m pretty sure her curiosity will be instantly reignited if I describe how inconsolable Fiona was, and I don’t want to encourage her to delve further into her confidential patient records.
Midway through the morning, when I make us a coffee, I fish out my mobile from my handbag and turn it off. If Ben has any intention of texting to cancel my big weekly clean at the house today, then I will truthfully be able to say that I didn’t get the message.
The last two evenings, he has raced into the house to pick the boys up and raced back out again.
‘Sorry, Mum, can’t stop, loads of marking to do,’ he said the first evening; then ‘Got to dash, expecting a call on the landline.’
This is unusual behaviour from my son. He’s always had time for at least a cup of tea and a biscuit when he collects the boys, often staying for a hot meal.
So I haven’t had a chance to broach the topic of his relationship with Amber. Things like how quickly it’s progressing and, crucially, bearing in mind she referred to Ben’s house as ‘home’ the other day, whether they’ve discussed her moving in.
In my view, it’s ridiculously early to be thinking about those things, but then it seems that Amber herself just dropped on us out of the blue.
Yes, my son is in his early thirties. Yes, he’s got every right to do as he wishes with his life without consulting me.
However, there are two very innocent and vulnerable parties in all of this, in the shape of Noah and Josh.
I’m loath to admit that Ben seems totally besotted by Amber even at this early stage, and it goes without saying that when widowed men become besotted, they don’t always make the right decisions for themselves or their children. I’ve been around long enough to know that much.
And that’s why I fully intend to keep a discreet but watchful eye on the situation.
When I finish at the surgery, I drive straight over to Ben’s rather than going home first. If Amber is there for some reason, I’ve already decided I’m not going to get drawn into an awkward situation like earlier in the week, when we all but came to blows over the ironing.
If she’s ‘working from home’ again, I shall simply keep my head down and carry on doing what I’ve done for the last two years before she appeared on the scene. I’m determined to continue to help my son with domestic duties until Ben himself tells me he wants me to stop.
As far as I’m concerned, what Amber wants doesn’t really count.
Thankfully, in the event, Amber isn’t at Ben’s. The house is empty. My heartbeat slows a little.
I leave my handbag and the basket of cleaning products I’ve bought to replenish the stock I keep here in the hallway and make my way through to the kitchen.
While I’m filling the kettle, I glance around. All seems to be in fairly good order in here. As usual, the breakfast dishes are piled in the sink, and I’m gratified to see there are only three bowls, three spoons and three glasses with orange juice sediment at the bottom.
The kitchen tops are littered with crumbs and the odd smear of butter. It’s the typical scenario that greets me when three males are let loose to get their own breakfast.
While the kettle is boiling, I give in to the feeling that’s been niggling at me since I walked in here. Sliding open the deep drawer, I root around a bit and see that my ornaments are still in there but have been shoved carelessly towards th
e back, underneath the clean tea towels and numerous appliance manuals.
I take the cottages out and put them on the worktop, ready to take with me when I go. Then I wander out into the hallway and push open the living room door.
I gasp, rooted to the spot for a moment.
The chimney breast has been papered in the most awful black and ruby striped wallpaper. The numerous photographs of Ben, Louise and the boys are gone from the walls. In their place are now what can only be described as lurid monochrome canvases depicting half-naked women, and two large framed photographs of Ben and Amber. Eventually I spot last year’s school portrait of the boys lying flat on a lamp table, on top of a pile of celebrity magazines.
The black leather suite I helped Ben choose for its clean, simple lines is now swamped with gaudy mismatched blankets and shawls, many of them decorated with sequins and glittery threads. The place looks like a boudoir. And what is that smell?
My question is answered when I walk over to the windowsill. Piles of ash and the burned-out ends of incense sticks are littered there. It’s the same story over at the mantelpiece.
This is not the sort of decoration I can imagine Ben finding attractive or restful to come home to at the end of a busy day. Gone are the practical furnishings and the marks of a loving family home.
It’s when I see that the box of toys and games in the corner behind the sofa has disappeared that the slightly irritated feeling gives way to a tightness in my chest.
How dare she walk into my family’s lives and stamp such brutal assertiveness on it? More to the point, how could Ben let her do such a thing?
The boys should have been eased into this new situation, their daddy meeting someone new. Any big change in their circumstances needs to be properly managed, not just dropped on them with little or no notice. Noah’s recent snappiness with his brother and the way Josh clung to his daddy’s leg cross my mind. It’s probably no coincidence that their behaviour is changing.
They might not have said anything, but their actions speak volumes, if you know what to look for.
I leave the sitting room, and before I make my way upstairs, I make sure to double-lock the front door from the inside. My breathing is becoming shallow and rather rapid but I reassure myself that I’m not doing anything too awful in taking a look around. I’d normally go into all the rooms, making sure things are tidy.
It’s just that now, for some reason, it feels like I’m intruding.
22
Judi
I stand in the doorway of my grandsons’ bedroom.
Gone are the tangled piles of discarded clothes, the Lego structures, the ominous-looking robots, some of which they’ve hand-built over many hours with Ben. There are Blu Tack marks on the walls where the posters of their favourite footballers and Transformer films and drawings they’d done themselves were displayed. It has now all been removed.
I can actually see the carpet, which is usually swamped with toys and clothes and left like that until I come to tidy up. It is also a great deal dimmer in here, and I realise that a blackout blind has been fitted to the window and hasn’t been fully opened. I find the effect unsettling, as I do the thought that the boys are being conditioned to stay in bed longer, probably at weekends.
The corner of something white grabs my attention. I reach down under the bottom bunk and pull out the large plastic box. It contains the toys and games that have been relocated from the sitting room.
The beds are made and the quilts tucked in too tightly, under both mattresses. I reach up to the top bunk and lay my hand on Noah’s pillow. Impulsively I pick it up and pull it towards me, burying my face in it to inhale the scent of my grandson.
I close my eyes against the sting of the tears that gather there. I can’t let them out; if I do, I fear I’ll never stop crying. I don’t even know why I’m feeling so vulnerable, but I need to get a grip.
Pulling my face away, I turn to replace the pillow. My eyes widen and I swallow hard when I see what has been hidden underneath it. A silver-framed photograph of Louise, the one that used to have pride of place on the coffee table. I pick it up and turn it to the light.
I remember Ben taking this photograph in our garden. It was a beautiful sunny day in mid July. Ben, Louise and the boys had come over for lunch, and instead of suffering a stifling hot kitchen, I suggested we have an impromptu barbecue.
Henry had dashed to the supermarket to grab meat and salad and I’d made coleslaw and fresh bread rolls.
The boys loved it, helping Henry fetch and carry the meat, prodding at the burgers and kebabs with the impressive new steel implements he had picked up that day.
Louise and I sat drinking white wine spritzers while the men drank beer around the sizzling barbecue. We were watching the boys chasing each other with water guns when Ben suddenly appeared in front of us.
‘You look beautiful,’ he told his lovely young wife, holding up a phone. ‘Smile.’
‘Oh Ben, no,’ she objected, always genuinely modest. ‘I hate having my photograph taken.’
But when he insisted, she acquiesced and smiled, and when Ben showed me the shot later, I saw he’d captured her natural beauty and her calm, gentle nature. Like the sunlight that highlighted her hair against the deep green leafy trees behind us, somehow the essence of her shone through in that photo.
And now she is gone. Gone. Her essence is lost forever, and we have somehow reached a stage where my eight-year-old grandson feels the need to rescue and then hide his mother’s photograph under his pillow.
It seems to me to be a desperate act as all traces of her are systematically removed from their home.
Surely it can’t be right. It’s all too much, too soon. Someone has to make Ben see sense.
I chew the inside of my cheek as I inwardly fume. It feels as if my heartbeat has relocated itself in my head. I close the boys’ bedroom door behind me and stand at the top of the stairs, listening for a moment. The road outside is quiet; the house is utterly silent and seems to echo my troubled thoughts right back at me.
What is she up to?
I walk towards Ben’s bedroom, hesitating at the door. I visit this room regularly and never think anything of it. My task is usually to gather any laundry or put away my son’s newly ironed work shirts and trousers. It isn’t unknown for there to be a dirty mug or a crumbed plate to take back downstairs, either.
Today, though, it feels sneaky to be up here, yet as soon as I think the words, I immediately rail against them. Why am I questioning my own motives? I silently remind myself that I don’t care what Amber might say or think; I only care about Ben and the boys.
My hand hovers over the door handle and I stand for a moment watching as the dust motes dance to my left, caught in the slender shaft of sunlight that streams through from the small window on the landing.
Every week, I stand in this same place just for a split second, the centre of a universe that previously consisted of only me, my husband, my son and two grandsons. Now there is a new, powerful addition that has forced itself into the very centre of that universe, and it seems that I am the only person who has a problem with her.
I slowly press down on the cool beaded handle and push until the door swings open. I don’t step inside the room; I just stand for a moment and look at the new bedding.
A black satin quilt cover is neatly edged by a shimmering silver throw studded with tiny diamanté stones. The new tasselled bedside lamps are the exact same shade as the throw, and the black and silver cushions, placed strategically on the pillows, are in assorted shapes and styles, with more glittery embellishments.
Ben’s balled-up dirty socks and used crockery are glaring by their omission. I’ve never walked into this room before, even when Louise was here, and seen it looking so pristine.
Everything is in its place. Not only that, it looks like someone else entirely new lives here. There’s no evidence of Ben’s disordered pile of cycling magazines by the side of his bed. Nor the rare Matchbox car col
lection he’s displayed on various windowsills since he was a boy.
I open a wardrobe door. As expected, I find Ben’s work shirts, formal jackets and trousers. I close that door and open the next one. Here hangs his casual clothing: T-shirts and jeans mostly, with his Lycra cycling gear folded on the shelf above. It’s behind the third door that I find three dresses, two pairs of jeans and a fluffy onesie with bunny ears.
I did expect to find something; after all, Amber has already exerted an enormous influence over the house. But I am relieved that, judging by the meagre collection of clothing here in Ben’s wardrobe, she hasn’t yet moved in completely.
Perhaps I’m worrying needlessly that it will happen overnight.
I close the wardrobe, ensuring that all three doors are shut properly and there is nothing to give away the fact that I’ve been … well, snooping, I suppose.
Next I move to the mirrored chest of drawers. I pull open the top drawer, careful not to leave fingerprint smudges on the glass.
Ben’s clean socks and undies are in here, just like I would expect. No surprises in his second and third drawers, either. These contain his pyjamas and other miscellaneous items, including a dozen or so magazines that are obviously now barred from his bedside.
But when I crouch down and open the bottom drawer, I wish I hadn’t. It contains lingerie. Not your regular, everyday bras and pants, but flimsy dressing-up-type outfits that look no more substantial than bits of coloured lace. I don’t touch this stuff, but I can see what looks like a maid’s tiny frilly apron, a nurse’s blue and white uniform and a set of cheerleading pom-poms.
A buried memory surfaces, threads slowly through my mind like a silky ribbon. Not long after Henry and I were married, I went to one of those silly sexy undies parties that a friend was throwing in her home. I bought a pale pink lacy confection to wear to bed, the least naughty thing I could find. When I wore it, it drove Henry wild.
