by Jessica Ryn
The minibus is bulging with bodies by the time Dawn gets in, but Cara’s saved her a seat next to her.
‘Someone’s nicked my meth,’ she whispers when Dawn sits down. ‘It’s gone from my room so now I’m gonna be rattling all day unless I can get hold of something. Don’t think I’ll be able to find much on a friggin’ nature reserve.’ Cara’s face is whiter than usual, the lines of her face look deeper and have clumps of pale-biscuit foundation trapped inside them.
Dawn lifts her index finger and rubs it in gentle circles across the tops of Cara’s cheekbones in an effort to blend it in.
‘Thanks,’ she says, and her shoulders relax downwards from her chin. Dawn wonders how long it is since someone has given her a hug. The poor girl needs mothering. Dawn hasn’t had a mother at all since her mum died during her first year at uni, and she hadn’t had much of one before that, so she knows what it feels like to need a little TLC.
Everyone on the bus has started to sing, ‘What a Feeling’, all in different keys and tempos but with equal gusto. It’s difficult to imagine any of them slipping into Cara’s room and stealing her medication.
She’d explained to Dawn why she needed it the other day when they were in the café. How it keeps her withdrawals at bay, so she’s not in agony with stomach cramps and vomiting. If she doesn’t have it, she might get desperate and go back to heroin, which might put a stop to her having the boys back – she gets tested every week by the drugs and alcohol team. Cara had told her how she’d just been allowed to start taking her methadone home from the chemist; before that she used to have to go and drink it in a special room. ‘People always know what you’re going in there for,’ she’d told Dawn. ‘And they look at me when I’m leaving as if I’m responsible for every piece of shit they’ve ever walked in.’
‘Have you told the staff?’ Dawn asks. ‘They might be able to check the cameras and see who it was. Plus, you might need medical attention.’
‘I’m not a grass.’
Dawn glances towards the front of the bus. Peter is driving and the muscles from the back of his shoulders look bunched together like stones, weighing him down and hunching him forward. Grace is sitting next to him and staring straight ahead; her mouth has folded itself into a thin, straight line. Perhaps she already knows they have a thief in their midst. She’s certainly preoccupied about something.
‘I’ll take care of you today,’ Dawn promises Cara, squeezing her skinny hands as gently as she can. They look as if they could snap in half at the slightest pressure.
Cara gives her a weak smile. She needs Dawn, that much is obvious. Good thing she arrived at St Jude’s when she did. Who knows what would happen to them all if she hadn’t come along?
Terry and Jack are sitting behind them, swapping stories about their cell mates and pretending they’re not trying to out-do each other with shocking tales. All the other residents fall silent as they emerge from the long, dusty tunnel and the glistening sea and lush green hills come into view.
The bus swings into the car park, exactly eight minutes after they’d left St Jude’s, including the time it had taken Grace to remember they’d left the drinks box and they’d had to turn back for it.
The sight of the sparkling waves causes Dawn to take a deeper breath or two, as if she could suck up the beauty that way and store it inside herself for a while. It’s the same body of sea she can see from her window in number six, but down there next to the majestic white cliffs and large navy faux lighthouse it looks more vibrant, as if a billion different torches are shining on it at once, making the water glitter like precious jewels.
‘And that was when they realised he had a bag of coke and two phone chargers stuffed up his arse.’ Terry’s voice reverberates around the bus.
The group decide to take the grassy route across the nature reserve, so they can eat in the picturesque picnic area in the middle and still look at the sea. It means they are also a little too close to the cows for Dawn’s liking. She’s never trusted them. They may have large, sad eyes, but they use them to lure you in before they teach you a lesson for every quarter-pounder-with-cheese you’ve ever enjoyed.
Everyone is tucking into cheese and pickle sandwiches and cheap bottles of Aldi lemonade when Dawn sees Shaun’s silhouette ambling down the grassy hill towards them through the blazing sunshine. She glances around at everyone as they laugh and chat. Some are gazing towards the sea, using their hands to partially shield their eyes from the brightness of the day. No one seems perturbed when Shaun parks himself next to Dawn on the bench.
‘You look out of breath. Did you run all the way here?’ she asks him as he mops up all the bubbles from his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt.
Shaun gets out his most boyish grin. ‘Told you it doesn’t take long to get here on foot.’
A few of the residents flicker their eyes towards them both but look away before Dawn can introduce him. Cara and Terry had met him two nights ago and have agreed to keep quiet about his existence at number six. Her shoulders relax, and she offers Shaun her other sandwich. It makes her smile to see the enthusiasm with which he stuffs it into his mouth.
‘My Rosie’s a good eater like you,’ she tells him. ‘Even as a child, she always ate her vegetables without me having to nag. She’s a vegan now of course, and gluten-free… most days.’
A wash of silence ripples around Dawn and she pauses, trying to decide which part of the conversation people are finding interesting enough to stop scoffing their Quavers for. Probably the vegan thing, everybody likes to have an opinion on that.
She’s about to launch into some interesting facts about surprising things that aren’t vegan-friendly such as several types of wine and how you can even buy vegan-friendly tattoo ink. That should spark some lively conversation; people love to go on and on about other people’s life choices, even if they have no effect on their own lives whatsoever.
‘When’s your daughter back from Afghanistan?’ asks Jack. ‘Someone said she’s in the forces?’
Oh. It was the bit about Rosie they were interested in, not the vegan thing. Never mind.
‘I thought she was in Ibiza?’ someone says.
They’re all looking up at her now, sitting crossed-legged on the floor in front of her bench, like school children waiting for story time on the classroom carpet. Dawn has many tales she could tell them, but her mind is whirling around too fast to catch hold of one.
‘She travels a lot, does a lot of things.’ She waves her arm around with some vigour, trying to illustrate the vastness of Rosie’s life experiences, but as she does so, she sends an economy jam tart through the air that lands inches away from the nearest cow. The cow looks right back at her as if she can see into her soul and through every fib she’s ever told.
‘You know what; I think I’ll walk home. It’s not far and it’s a lovely day.’ Dawn uses her happiest voice as she collects up her rubbish and puts it in the bin. It’s only as she’s walking away towards the tunnel that leads back to the road that she remembers her promise to help Cara through the day. It will look odd if she turns back now, but her tear-stained face is lodged right at the front of Dawn’s mind.
Shaun’s long strides match Dawn’s own. She’d known he’d follow her and keep her company on the walk home.
‘Would you mind doing me a favour?’ she asks. ‘Could you go back and join the others for a while and stick close to Cara? She needs a friend today.’
He agrees and turns around immediately. Lovely boy, that Shaun. Dawn would like to think he gets his helpfulness from her. She’s obviously a good influence on him. Rosie’s probably the same. Wherever she is today.
Chapter 14
Dawn
IT’S COLD IN THE tunnel and it’s longer than Dawn had realised. Dusty square bulbs give off just enough brightness to see about a metre in front. People always go on about light at the end of tunnels but the end of this one looks rather dim and is still miles away even though she’s been walking through it for
ages.
She gets out her phone and sends out a little message to Rosie, wherever she is, telling her she’s thinking of her and she hopes she’s having a good day. Maybe she’ll get an answer back from her once she reaches the light; the reception is sure to be better out there. People always say that girls in their early twenties are terrible at keeping in touch once they get wrapped up in their own lives. Dawn never stops thinking about her though, not since the second she’d discovered Rosie existed.
‘Are you sure it’s positive?’ Rob had said, snatching the stick out of Dawn’s hand, presumably forgetting that she’d peed all over the end of it. Time had slowed, the sounds around her slurring like music on a Walkman that’s running out of battery. Rob’s face made the beginnings of several different faces before breaking into a smile that Dawn had tried to copy.
‘Shit. We’ve got a lot of stuff to sort out. Where we’re going to put him for a start,’ Rob had laughed.
‘Or her. And we’ll manage.’ Dawn clutched at her flat belly and stared out of the kitchen window of their shared student house, imagining rows of baby clothes pegged to the washing line.
How had her own mum felt when she found out about Dawn growing inside her like an acorn?
The first time she’d wondered what her mum had been like when Dawn was a baby had been on a Christmas Eve, many years before.
She’d been sitting on Daddy’s knee, wondering if eight was too old an age to be doing so. All the other children’s heads were lined up along the pew in front, whispering secrets to each other about Santa.
Don’t call him Santa. We’re not American. Call him Father Christmas, Dawn’s mum would have said if she had been there. She wasn’t though; she was at home in bed propped up with her flowery pillow and empty bottle of grown-up drink. Well, it probably would be empty by then, Dawn reckoned as she smeared her finger across the watch face on Daddy’s hairy arm.
‘You okay there, Dawn-light?’ Daddy untangled the curl that Dawn had wrapped tightly around her thumb before sticking it in her mouth. Her hand smelled of oranges from the Christingle she’d been squishing in her hand.
‘Mmm. Just worried about Rudolph. Mum said she didn’t buy carrots. What are we supposed to leave out for him?’
Daddy had snuggled his soft, woollen arms tighter around her. Eight couldn’t be too old after all. Dawn leaned back, resting her cheek against his snowman jumper that smelled of soap and cigarettes.
As the man in the black dress told them about the real story of Christmas, Dawn watched the display in the corner of the stage. The crib holding the Tiny Tears baby Jesus was stacked high on milk crates in front of Mary and the Angel Gabriel.
If Dawn was Mary, she wouldn’t have wanted to leave her baby stuck in a draughty milk crate; she’d have held him close in the crook of her elbow, away from the grubby hands of shepherds and wise men. Had Mummy ever held her like that when she’d been that small? She wished she could remember.
‘An angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, Joseph, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife…’ The man behind the wooden box stopped reading and looked up from his big leather book.
Why would Joseph have been afraid to take Mary home? Perhaps she was a scary wife, like Mummy sometimes was. The angel seemed to think Mary would be up to the job though. Perhaps if Mummy had an angel looking out for her, she might find things easier.
‘Hark the herald, angels sing,’ the girls and boys in red and white had sung from the front.
When Dawn became a grown-up, she’d look out for people like that angel had. She’d keep her baby wrapped up in her arms and kiss her every day, so she’d know she was loved by both her mummy and her daddy. She’d try not to be a scary wife.
‘Glory to the newborn king,’ the choir trilled to a close.
And she’d remember to always buy carrots for Rudolph.
Dawn had occasionally wondered during the years that followed about what sort of grandmother her mum might be. At least her baby would have a wonderful grandfather.
She hadn’t considered that by the time she would see two lines on a clear-blue stick, neither of them would be around to tell.
Dawn emerges from the other side of the Samphire Hoe tunnel and feels disappointed that there’s still no answer from Rosie. The air is no warmer than it had been inside. The Dover skies have clouded over, leaving the blistering heat of the St Jude’s Samphire Hoe picnic firmly behind. It’s like someone has turned off the light. Goosebumps pop up across her lightly sunburned arms and she shivers as she crosses towards the ring road.
Frank Sinatra’s ‘My Way’ blares out from St Mary’s Church as she passes. The doors are still open and she takes a step backwards to have a peep inside. There’s a coffin at the front and only two people are sitting in the audience. Perhaps audience isn’t the right word. She’s still trying to work out what would be, when she realises she’s entered the church and is already halfway down the aisle.
‘Is this seat taken?’ she asks the two mourners. They both look back at her and then around the room at the empty pews. The younger-looking of the two – the man with a huge hole in one of his earlobes that looks as if it’s been plugged up with a saucer – gives Dawn the slightest of nods and she lowers herself down next to them. The woman next to the man with the ear-thingy is slightly older, probably in her thirties and is dressed a little more like you’d expect for a funeral, but also not like someone who really cares very much. The vicar is standing in the pulpit looking at his notes while Frank continues to sing from the music system.
‘Did you know Brian very well?’ Dawn whispers to the two beside her, after glancing at the name plaque beside the large photograph on top of the coffin.
‘We knew him from Lakeside – his care home,’ says the woman. ‘Well, I’ve met him a couple of times. I’m on nights, you see, so he was normally asleep by the time I got there, and he always insisted on laying in until half past eight after I’d gone. The day staff didn’t like that at all; messed with their morning hygiene routines. Max here hasn’t actually met him, he only started there yesterday, but none of the other staff could make it.’
Max is staring at the programme in front of him as if he expects to be tested on the content of the hymns afterwards.
‘Are no family coming?’ Dawn asks, and they both just shrug.
The vicar begins to speak about Brian’s life. Except it can’t be about Brian’s life, not really. He’s only giving out information about the day he moved into Lakeside, the music he liked to listen to in the dayroom and how Battenburg was his favourite cake. Dawn tries to picture her own funeral and wonders what Rosie would say about her. Would they be able to reach her, and would she make it back in time to even say anything? Otherwise Dawn supposes it would be down to Shaun, Cara and maybe Grace. There’s no one else. ‘She made good muffins in the café,’ they’d say. Or, ‘Once she stole a drug dealer’s bike by accident.’
Dawn looks again at Brian in front of her and studies his face. She likes the fact that he’d refused to get out of bed at the time the staff had wanted him to. The ‘I did it my way’ lyrics from his opening song seem as if they suited him. His wrinkled face looks back at her and she can see the pride in his eyes as well as the strength, born out of a lifetime of being Brian.
‘I’d like to say a few words.’ Dawn stands to her feet and walks onto the stage. She stands beside the pulpit and holds her hand out towards the vicar for the microphone, although why they’re using a microphone when there are only four of them in the room, five including Brian, is beyond her.
‘Of course,’ the vicar’s head jolts backwards a few centimetres. ‘Are you a relative or?’
‘His niece,’ Dawn says loudly into the microphone, smiling at the front row. She takes a step forward and another one immediately back again when the music system makes a screeching feedback sound. ‘My Uncle Brian was an inspirational man; one that I wish I’d taken more notice of when I was growing up.’
The Lakeside staff are now looking at the floor, but the reverend is smiling at her, encouraging her to carry on.
‘He was a strong man who lived his life on his own terms. He travelled to many different amazing places, collected stories that would be fascinating, if only people had bothered to listen. He worked hard all his life so that he could buy himself a lovely home. Well, I suppose he must have had to sell it if he’d had to pay the extortionate fees for residential care,’ she chuckles.
No one else does, but in Dawn’s mind’s eye, Brian is roaring with laughter and clutching his stomach. ‘To sum up, his life really mattered, and I just want him to know that. Oh,’ she adds, ‘and actually, he bloody well hated Battenburg. He only used to eat it because that’s all there ever was apart from the stale custard creams.’
One look at night-staff lady and earlobe-Max tells Dawn she’s got it spot on and she winks at Uncle Brian as she walks back past his photograph.
She can’t be certain, but she’s pretty sure he winks right back at her.
Chapter 15
