by Ali Mercer
Of course, he’s furious. He’d be furious with anyone who let Becca down. So would she, come to that.
‘It’s the snow, the A34 had completely seized up—’
‘Oh dear, were you held up?’ Mary enquires sympathetically. ‘How much of the show did you miss?’
‘A fair bit,’ Rachel mutters, looking down at the floor.
‘I had a terrible journey, too,’ Hugh says. ‘My train crawled all the way from Paddington. Absolutely maddening.’
‘But you still made it on time,’ Mitch says.
Mary takes Hugh’s arm in readiness to steer him away. ‘Lovely to see you again, Rachel. Mitch, we’ll catch up soon. Do enjoy the second half, won’t you?’
They move away, with Henry loping along behind them, and Miss Finch closes in on Rachel and Mitch, scenting a potential domestic. Her expression is artificially encouraging, as if all it takes to dispel conflict is a little robust positivity. ‘If you’d like to begin making your way to your seats, it’s about to start again.’
Mitch abruptly turns and marches off towards the auditorium, with Rachel hurrying to catch up.
Her heart is pounding as she takes up her place beside him. He doesn’t acknowledge her; he is staring fixedly at the empty stage. In one way it is a relief when the lights go down and the show begins. But it is also terrifying.
There’s one thing that is even more guaranteed to fill her with dread than facing the hostility of the only man she has ever really loved.
And this is it: waiting for her daughter to be exposed to the risk of failure. There is no way for her to help or come to the rescue, and nothing for it but to watch and pray that Becca has got what it takes to hold her own.
When Becca first walks out onto the stage Rachel’s heart sinks. Becca looks so skinny and vulnerable in the torn red dress she’s wearing as Nancy, so different from the girls all around her, with their practised smiles and evident expectation of applause. Amelia Chadstone, stomping about with aplomb as Bill Sikes, is plainly some kind of queen of them all, even more self-assured and indomitable than the rest.
Standing awkwardly with her arms folded across her chest, Becca looks as terrified as Rachel feels on her behalf. Why couldn’t they have given Becca a tiny part – something in the chorus, the role of a street urchin or a starving child in the orphanage? Then at least her nerves wouldn’t have been so obvious.
But then Becca launches into her solo – ‘As Long as He Needs Me’. Her voice falters, swells and rises. And then Rachel realises it is going to be all right. More than all right. Becca is singing her heart out, and it’s beautiful – so beautiful and powerful it catches Rachel by surprise.
That voice! How is it possible for such a girl to sing like a woman? Becca is only thirteen; she has never been in love. Where, then, does all that yearning and desperation and devotion come from? How does she know?
Rachel’s vision blurs and tears leak down her cheeks. She tries to sniff discreetly, but it is hopeless; she will have to rummage in her bag and attempt to dredge up a tissue.
A large blue-and-white handkerchief is thrust towards her, and she takes it.
Next to her, Mitch shakes his head in the gloom.
‘You never have one,’ he whispers. ‘Keep it.’
She wipes her eyes and blows her nose and tucks the handkerchief away, half wishing he hadn’t just given her reason to be grateful. In a way, it’s easier when he hates her.
After the show they stand together to wait for Becca, but don’t speak. The Chadstones are on the other side of the foyer, next to the wine table; Hugh and Mary are energetically discussing something while Henry looks on. Neither family makes any further move to join forces with the other.
Finally Becca emerges, her face wiped clean of make-up, dressed in jeans and the parka that Rachel gave her for Christmas, the one that had been delivered to Fun-to-Learn the day she opened up to Leona. A mistake, but one that, thankfully, hasn’t turned out too badly, as Leona has made no reference to it since, or to Rachel’s visit to Viv’s house.
Becca is with Amelia, who sees Rachel and bumps Becca’s forearm lightly with her fist in a little gesture of solidarity, as if Becca’s mother is understood by both of them to be an ordeal Becca has no choice but to face.
Amelia turns aside to be congratulated by her own family. Becca says to Mitch, ‘Was it all right?’
‘Not bad,’ Mitch says, beaming. ‘Not bad at all.’
‘Well done,’ Rachel says. ‘You were amazing.’
‘Yeah, what you saw of it,’ Becca says.
‘Come on,’ Mitch says to Becca, ‘let’s get out of here. There’s a fair bit of snow about. You might have to jump out and help me clear it away when we get to Rose Lane.’
‘Sure,’ Becca says.
The two of them head out, with Rachel following.
Mary Chadstone falls silent as they pass, and then starts talking again with emphatic, almost hysterical relief.
Fifteen
Outside the air is still and very cold. The car park has emptied out, but there are still engines revving and headlights picking out distended shadows in congealed lumps of snow.
Mitch and Becca stop on the paving in front of the entrance, and Becca pulls up the hood of her parka.
‘Night, Mum,’ she says.
The sight of her anxious little face, framed by the furry lining of the hood, makes Rachel’s heart ache as if someone has reached inside her to squeeze it. Becca isn’t flushed with success as you might expect, as Amelia had been. Instead she’s pale with the strain of trying to do the right thing by both her parents, and with the painful awkwardness of it all. And she looks that way because Rachel has failed her. Becca is a child whose father is more of a mother to her than her actual mother will ever be.
‘Goodnight, love,’ Rachel says. ‘Break a leg for the rest of the run. You were great.’
Mitch says to Rachel, ‘See you Saturday.’ And then he turns, his hands deep in his pockets, and trudges off. Becca hurries off to catch up and threads her arm through his so that they’re walking along like a couple of pals, two against the world.
Becca doesn’t look back. Rachel watches them go and makes her way to her own car.
The frozen snow is granular and crunchy underfoot, and all her windows are laced with frost, long, delicate, tapering branches spread out like vines reaching for something to cling onto. She sets about scraping it off. No rush; there’s nothing much to go home for. By the time she joins the queue waiting for the exit it has already dwindled, and Mitch and Becca have gone.
The traffic has cleared and she makes it back to Digby Street by half-past ten. There’s no doubt that a layer of snow improves the place, and helps to disguise its shabbiness. So far only the road has gone slushy; elsewhere, the coating of white has yet to turn dirty.
Rachel negotiates her way into her usual parking spot. She pictures Becca and Mitch at the kitchen table in Rose Cottage with steaming mugs of hot chocolate in front of them, and one of the snacks that Mitch is so good at knocking up. Tuna melt, maybe, or poached eggs on special bread. Nowhere like home when it’s cold outside.
But who is she to feel wounded that Mitch has stepped into the role of being Becca’s main guide, protector and cheerleader? Under the circumstances, she’s lucky that Becca still wants to see her at all. She hasn’t exactly been a positive role model as a parent. She has been an example of what not to do.
As she lets herself into the hallway that leads to the bedsit she hears a yowl of satisfaction from Miss Spank upstairs, and this is the final straw. She can’t face spending the rest of the evening trying to block out the sound of somebody else’s masochistic pleasure.
She turns and lets herself out of the house, and walks rapidly away.
She isn’t planning to get drunk. Anyway, it will be closing time before too long. Still, five minutes later, she finds herself in the pub round the corner, which she has often driven past but has never felt in the least inclined to che
ck out. Until now.
The Dog and Duck has headache-inducing red carpet and fake beams, and the slightly draughty, waiting-room feel of a place in which people are always coming and going. It’s surprisingly busy, which is a good thing, because nobody pays her any attention. Anyway, she’s not the only one in office clothes; it’s so close to the station it must be a draw for commuters, especially ones who have had particularly bad days and need something to take the edge off before doing it all over again.
She orders a gin and tonic and settles on a stool at the end of the bar, next to the double doors that lead to the ladies. Not ideal, because whenever someone comes through a cold draught hits the back of her neck, but this is no time to be fussy. She tries to occupy herself by fiddling with her phone – the 21st-century substitute for smoking when alone – but doesn’t really take in anything she looks at. All she can see is Becca’s expression. Long-suffering, but not rejecting her.
That awful capacity a child has to forgive a parent, to keep on loving them whatever happens… It’s so familiar. She knows it from the inside. She never would have imagined that she’d give Becca cause to look at her like that.
Her drink seems to have disappeared remarkably quickly. Should she have another? Oh, why not? She shouldn’t really spend the money… but she can always just eat cereal for the rest of the week.
It’s then that she meets the gaze of some bloke sitting at a table on the other side of the pub.
He smiles. Nice smile, both sheepish and a bit hopeful, as if to say: I can’t quite believe you’ve caught me looking at you, but since you have… pleased to meet you.
He isn’t bad, actually. Young – or younger than her, anyway – and Clark Kent handsome in glasses and a check shirt, with shoulders that suggest regular gym attendance. And he appears to be on his own.
If she glares at him, he’ll back off. But she doesn’t. Instead she tries a small smile back.
He lifts his glass and tilts it towards her, then drinks. She can feel herself blushing. This is probably a really bad idea – what is she thinking? Like she’s going to take some random guy back to the bedsit and try to out-yell Miss Spank.
Somebody comes through the double doors behind her and says, ‘Fancy meeting you here.’
Rachel turns to see a woman with long, fine blonde hair, loose earth-coloured clothes and a conspicuous tattoo on one wrist.
Leona.
‘You’re just about the last person I expected to find making eyes at Mark when I came back from the ladies’,’ she says.
‘I wasn’t making eyes,’ Rachel says, embarrassed.
‘Well, you were barking up the wrong tree if you were. He’s got a crush on the barman.’
Sure enough, the Clark Kent-a-like is now gazing attentively in the direction of the bar, and looks very much as if he is hoping his devotion will be noticed.
‘He’ll flirt with anybody,’ Leona says, rather crushingly. ‘I probably would, too, if I was as gorgeous as he is. It’s like having a superpower. Can I get you another?’
‘Probably shouldn’t. Work tomorrow. Anyway, what are you doing here? I thought you didn’t drink.’
‘I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I can’t go to the pub. I like pubs. I don’t have a problem with drink, or with other people drinking, at least as long as they behave themselves. I just got to a point where I didn’t like the way it made me feel. And I’m not your boss, remember? I’m not about to remind you it’s a school night. Anyway, you can have a health-giving fruit juice if you want.’
Rachel settles for another gin and tonic. The barman serves Leona rather more quickly than he served Rachel; obviously being a friend of Mark’s is an advantage. Leona gets an orange juice for herself and a couple of packets of peanuts, which she puts on the bar between them and splits open for them to share.
‘You should eat something,’ she says. ‘You look like you’re about to keel over.’
‘I don’t feel great,’ Rachel admits. She scoops up a handful of nuts and gobbles them down.
‘I feel like Ford Prefect in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, persuading you to line your stomach before the earth gets blasted out of existence,’ Leona tells her.
‘Oh. Do we survive?’
‘Kind of. We get to hitch a lift on an alien spaceship. So what are you doing here, anyway?’
‘I live round the corner. Just thought I’d pop in.’
Leona looks Rachel over as if surveying an exhibit. ‘Do you often just pop in?’
‘Never, actually. Is it a regular haunt of yours?’
‘Are you kidding? We’re here because it’s out of the way. I didn’t particularly want to bump into anybody.’ She holds up her wrist, exposing the tattoo, and flexes her hand. ‘It’s Bluebell’s birthday. She’s seven today.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah, it’s hard to know what to say, isn’t it? Usually I get a letter from her adoptive parents and a new photo. And it hasn’t arrived. Not that I’m really in a position to complain. I mean, it’s good of them to send anything at all.’
‘I saw my daughter this evening,’ Rachel says. ‘I was late for her school show. I missed the whole first half.’
‘At least you saw her,’ Leona says.
How many hours has Rachel spent sitting in an office with this woman? Suddenly the boundaries of the workplace dissolve completely, and give way to recognition. Rachel is sitting beside her mirror image.
She reaches for her gin and tonic and realises the glass is empty. She feels faintly dizzy, and the bar looks as if it might begin to spin at any minute. She says, ‘Same again?’
But Leona gets to her feet. ‘I think I should see you home. You really don’t look too good.’
‘But what about your friend?’
‘I think he’ll cope, don’t you? I’ll probably come back to find he’s made yet another new friend. Shall we make a move?’
‘Look, I appreciate the concern, I really do. But I’m fine. I really don’t need you to walk me home.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m coming whether you like it or not. I want to see you bright and early at work tomorrow, not find out you ended the evening passed out in a ditch.’
‘I thought you said you weren’t my boss. Anyway, there aren’t any ditches round here.’
‘Well, passing out anywhere would be less than ideal. You might as well humour me. Otherwise I’m just going to stalk you and follow you home anyway.’
If Rachel is honest with herself, it is an unexpected luxury to have someone making a fuss about her.
‘OK,’ she says, and Leona smiles in relief, as if Rachel has just done her a favour.
On the way out they pause at Mark’s table so Leona can put on her astrakhan coat, which is hanging over the back of a chair. Mark looks up at them questioningly but without surprise, as if random occurrences are par for the course where nights out with Leona are concerned.
‘I won’t be long,’ Leona says. ‘Just seeing Rachel home. Try not to break any hearts while I’m gone.’
Mark shrugs and grins. ‘That’s not me, and you know it. I’m the one who’s there for people after their hearts have been broken.’
‘I suppose there’s some truth in that,’ Leona says. She turns to Rachel. ‘Come on, let’s get you home.’
Now it comes down to it, Rachel is embarrassed at the thought of Leona seeing where she lives. It’s not me. It’s where I ended up; it’s not where I belong.
‘I don’t really think of it as home. It’s just the place where I sleep,’ she says.
‘Then it’s home, whether you like it or not,’ Leona tells her.
Outside the streets are quiet, and most of the houses are dark. The only sign of life is the occasional passing car. The temperature has dropped, and their breath makes clouds in the icy air.
‘Viv was asking after you the other day,’ Leona says.
‘Viv?’
‘Yes, the lady whose house you came to. For the inaugural meeting of our group.’
Leona pulls a face. ‘Some group.’
‘Oh… I did think it was a lovely idea. It’s just not for me, not right now. But you’re going to keep on with it, aren’t you?’
‘You mean, are we going to try again even though we don’t have any other members, and the only one we managed to attract fled after the first five minutes? Well, we are, actually. Being gluttons for punishment. We’re meeting at my house next week and then we’re going to aim to get together once a month.’
‘Good,’ Rachel says. ‘That’s good.’
The smell and taste of Viv’s barm brack returns unbidden. Cinnamon and fruit. It is no exaggeration to say that it had kept her going through Christmas. A little bit of solid comfort to indulge in once in a while. It had seemed festive, somehow, even though it wasn’t a Christmas cake. Just because it had been a gift.
All that baking, that generosity, shouldn’t be in vain.
They arrive at the bedsit just in time to hear an unearthly squeal from Miss Spank.
‘Wow,’ Leona says as Rachel fumbles for her keys. ‘Someone’s having a good night.’
‘Tell me about it. He’ll be gone by morning and she’ll be miserable.’ Rachel manages to get the door open. ‘You know, hardly anybody I know has ever been here before. Only my daughter, and that was just the once, and that was because I’d run out of money and needed to give her lunch. And my counsellor used to come here sometimes, but I don’t see her any more.’
‘I’ve seen worse,’ Leona says. She grimaces as Miss Spank squeals again. ‘Better than sobbing, I suppose.’
‘Oh, that comes later. I suppose that’s true romance for you.’
Leona hesitates, looks Rachel up and down. She says, ‘He really hurt you, didn’t he?’
‘Actually,’ Rachel says, ‘I was the one who hurt him. Goodnight, Leona. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for walking me home.’
She withdraws into the house and shuts the door, and makes her way round the bike in the corridor to the door of her bedsit. As she lets herself in a faint urge to cry comes over her – she had thought she was done with that but Leona’s sympathy seems to have brought it back to the surface, like something exposed by a thaw. And Mitch’s handkerchief is in her coat pocket, evidence that he, too, is capable of being kind to her, even now.
