by R. H. Dixon
‘It’s not what you think,’ John said.
‘Far from it,’ Natasha echoed.
‘Alright, if you say so, but I didn’t get time to think anything,’ Emily said, kicking her shoes off.
‘Did you have a good night, kidda?’ Seren came in behind Emily and John ruffled her hair.
‘Mmm hmmm.’ Seren dropped her overnight bag on the table and took an instant interest in Natasha. ‘Are you the lady I phoned?’
Natasha nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, I’m Natasha.’
‘Good. Megan says that you and Dad need to sort yourselves out. Settle your differences.’
Natasha eyed John suspiciously.
‘I’m not sure Megan would have said anything of the sort,’ John said, reproachfully; mortified that Natasha might now think this whole thing had been orchestrated for his own warped purposes.
‘She did though, Dad,’ Seren insisted. ‘She says you left home because of something you didn’t really do.’
Again Natasha looked at John for some sort of validation.
His face became even more ashen. ‘What?’
Seren shrugged. ‘I dunno, that’s all she said. I thought you’d know.’
Clutching the back of an empty dining chair, he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. He wanted to shout and scream and swear and cry, all at the same time, but he just stood there, silently.
‘Er, is everything okay?’ Emily was now refilling the kettle. She turned her head and looked at John, her expression grave. ‘Is that the stuff you told me about yesterday?’
John didn’t respond, remaining statuesque for another minute or two, his scrunched face pained. When eventually he did open his eyes again, he said, ‘Em, would you be able to watch Seren this morning for a while? Me and Natasha need to pop out.’
‘Sure. Yeah. What are you up to?’
‘We’ve got some business to sort. Some old bitch has a lot of explaining to do.’
_
38
_
Eden Vale loomed before them, a redbrick, two storey relic that packed all the emotional clout of time-weary funerals and rainy afternoons spent moping about the house, reflecting too much on misfortune. The building could be pigeonholed with everything bad that had ever happened in their lives, because it instilled uncomfortable memories and it wasn’t a nice place to be. Its stained wooden window frames were peeling and the guttering was well-worn and mossy in places. Aesthetically it didn’t look as though it had had much time or money invested in it over the past eighteen years and, perhaps because of this, it harboured a certain air of menace. John wondered if people who had no former connection to Eden Vale detected a portentous gloom at first sight, or if to them it appeared to be no more daunting than any tired-looking residential care home that promised mediocrity at best. A row of jackdaws was perched along a section of guttering on the eaves above the entrance, ominous little guards, watching, their silver eyes curious.
Natasha pulled her red Golf into a vacant space in the small car parking area and switched off the engine. ‘Right,’ she said, without taking her eyes off Eden Vale’s brooding facade, her forehead lightly creased. ‘Let’s get this over and done with.’
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ John said, fraught with concern. He could only imagine the nostalgic trauma it must be causing her to be here again. ‘I can go in on my own if you like…’
‘No, I need to do this,’ she said, popping her door open and taking the keys from the ignition. ‘I have to do it. For Megan.’
Inside the foyer navy carpet had been replaced by the sort of grey carpet squares found in corporate offices and the reception desk was different too, a beech top with white panelling down the sides made it more contemporary and business-like than the mahogany one years ago. A woman in her twenties was sitting behind it, tapping away on a keyboard. Her thick-rimmed red glasses and jaunty hairstyle denoted a chicness that far exceeded the job, and she didn’t even bother to look up at John and Natasha. She was definitely no Angie.
‘Morning,’ Natasha said, resting her elbows on the counter. ‘I wonder if you could help us?’
‘Just a sec.’ The receptionist, whose name badge read: BRIONY, finished what she was typing before looking up. ‘Is it an overview of prices and facilities you want?’
‘No actually, it’s something different altogether,’ Natasha said. ‘My mother was here back in ninety-seven and one time when we visited her we met another resident, a lady called Sissy. I was wondering if you might have any information as to whether this lady might still be here or…well, if she’s still alive.’
Briony raised her neatly stencilled eyebrows, managing to exude a certain amount of attitude. ‘And are you related to this other woman?’
‘Well, no, but…’
‘Then I’m sorry but I can’t give out that type of information.’
‘Why not? Surely there’s no harm…’
‘It’d be a breach of client confidentiality to discuss any such matters with non-relatives.’
‘So she is here?’
‘I didn’t say that. I wouldn’t know from the information you gave me.’
‘Look, I appreciate what you’re saying,’ John said, clenching his hands together, ‘but we don’t actually want to discuss anything confidential about this woman, we just want to see her. She gave something to us, something we’ve only just rediscovered, and it looks like it might be quite valuable. We were very young at the time, we…’
‘That might well be the case,’ Briony interrupted, adopting a fiercer glare that was surely meant to intimidate him. She tapped her manicured, square nails on the desk, a rick-tick-tick that emphasised her impatience on the matter. ‘But it seems you’re just going to have to hold onto whatever it was she gave you, because there’s nothing I can do for you.’
‘But surely you could just…’
‘No, I couldn’t. I couldn’t just anything. Now, if that’s all, I’m busy.’
Such was his bad mood, when John pulled open the swing door to leave Eden Vale, he failed to see the middle-aged woman who was entering at the same time. He barged straight into her, knocking her backwards.
‘Christ, I’m so sorry,’ he said, lurching forward and grabbing hold of the woman’s arm to set her straight before she could fall onto the pavement.
‘Bloody hell, lad,’ she said, her voice a cigarette-hardened bark. ‘You’re on a mission, aren’t you?’
Natasha rushed outside to help ensure the woman was steady on her feet. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, yeah, no harm done. That’s usually how I leave the place if I’m honest, like a blinking bat out of hell.’ The woman was wearing a blue polyester uniform and her predominantly grey hair, streaked with dark brown, was a neat short bob, swept to the side at the very front and fixed in place with a bobby pin. As she looked at Natasha a flash of recognition sparked in her eyes. ‘Do I know you?’
Natasha’s eyes narrowed as she tried to place the woman’s face. Then it came to her. ‘Norma?’
‘Natasha!’
John looked back and forth between the two women.
‘This is Norma Fennel,’ Natasha explained. ‘She was one of the care assistants that looked after my mam.’
‘Oh right. Hi,’ he said. ‘Sorry again for walking into you like that, I wasn’t paying attention.’
‘Obviously,’ Norma said, smiling. The apples of her cheeks were thread-veined and rosy, somehow affirming John’s impression that she was a good-natured, good-humoured person. ‘And, of course, I remember you as well. Can’t for the life of me remember your name, but yours are a set of eyes I wouldn’t likely forget.’ She stood back a little and regarded John and Natasha. ‘Lovely couple. Always were.’
‘Oh no,’ Natasha said, shaking her head. ‘We aren’t together.’
Norma frowned, as though genuinely saddened by this fact. ‘Ah, now there’s a shame.’
‘Hmmm.’ Natasha cocked an eyebrow, but then looked suddenly ho
peful. ‘Actually, Norma, you might be able to help us. You must still work here?’
Norma laughed. ‘Well I’m certainly not wearing this outfit for the fun of it, lass.’ She pulled at the hem of the blue shapeless top she was wearing. ‘What do you need help with?’
‘Remember when my mam was here? There was another woman called Sissy…’
‘Oh yes.’ Norma was already nodding. ‘Sissy Dawson. I know her.’
‘You do? Is she still here?’
‘Well, yeah, but what the heck do you want with her?’
‘She gave us a brooch and we hoped we might be able to return it.’
‘Oh I see.’ Norma shrugged. ‘Well, if you like, I can give it to her?’
‘The thing is,’ Natasha said, ‘we sort of hoped to be able to see her ourselves. We’d like to ask her a little bit about it.’
‘Hmmm.’ Norma bit her lip and pondered this for a moment. But then she nodded. ‘Okay. Why don’t you pop back in about an hour or so? I’ll get my morning rounds done then take you up to see her. In fact, gimme an hour and a half, that’ll be even better, I’ll check with Kevin to make sure she’s alright for receiving visitors.’
‘What about Briony?’ Natasha asked, ‘I’m not sure she’d let us get past reception.’
‘Oh don’t worry about that little madam, she wouldn’t dare challenge me.’ Norma shook her head and rolled her eyes. ‘I’m friendly with Rob, the manager, known him since he was a kid. So long as Mrs Dawson is well enough this morning, I can take you up to see her no problem. It’ll be fine. Old dear probably hasn’t had visitors in donkey’s years, would probably do her good.’ Checking her watch, she reaffirmed, ‘See you back here in about ninety minutes then.’
John and Natasha went back to the car.
‘Where to? Your mam’s?’ Natasha turned the key in the ignition and the Golf purred to life.
Although still feeling unwell for the most part, John had perked up a little since leaving his mother’s house. He had no inclination to rush back. ‘Why don’t we pop into town for a coffee?’
‘What about Seren? Shouldn’t you get back to her?’
‘Nah, Emily’s got it covered.’
They ended up in a cafe in Peterlee's shopping centre, an independently run greasy spoon that held no pretensions about where or what it was. They chose a formica table by the window and John told Natasha to sit down while he placed their order. A few minutes later he returned with a pot of tea, a mug of latte and two large wedges of flapjack.
‘Sorry, I didn’t make us any breakfast this morning,’ he said, sitting down opposite her and pushing the plate of flapjack towards her. ‘You must be starving.’
‘Funnily enough, I’m not. All this business has got me on edge.’ Still, she broke a corner from one of the oaty squares and put it in her mouth.
‘Same here,’ he said, sipping at the latte.
Natasha regarded him. ‘I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but you look like you should try eating more than this.’ She pushed the plate so that it was in the centre of the table where they could both reach it. ‘You don’t look well at all. Are you looking after yourself properly?’
He licked froth from his top lip and shrugged. ‘I guess not.’
Pouring tea from the small stainless steel teapot into her mug, Natasha frowned when it leaked from the spout and dribbled onto the table. ‘So,’ she said, reaching for a serviette, ‘what do you do for a living these days?’
‘IT consultant.’ John’s expression wasn’t in the least bit enthusiastic. ‘I won’t bore you with the details.’
‘Fair enough. Is Leeds nice?’
‘Not bad. What about you? Where do you call home?’
‘Well, as you know, I run a boutique in Whitby. Live there too, about ten minutes’ walk from the shop. I set up the business with some of my inheritance money, after my dad passed away.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that, about your dad.’
‘Hmmm.’
They sat for a moment, contemplating all they’d just said. John reached for a square of flapjack and took a large bite; he chewed slowly before asking, ‘What about your boyfriend? Sorry, fiancé. What does he do?’
Natasha looked down and began fidgeting with an empty sugar sachet. ‘Lee’s a software technician.’
‘Another IT bod.’ John smiled, a forced gesture that didn’t feel right, but he wasn’t sure what else to do. He wasn’t even sure why he’d asked the question. What business was it of his who her partner was or what he did for a living?
Natasha returned his smile, nonetheless, and nodded. ‘So, what about you? Anyone special back in Leeds?’
‘No. My head’s not in the right place if I’m honest.’
Her mouth pulled to the side in what looked like sympathy. ‘At least you’ve got Seren though, eh?’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
Natasha drank from her mug, her eyes fixing on his. ‘Must be amazing.’
‘What?’
‘Having a daughter.’ There was no hint of scorn in her voice to suggest she begrudged him this, only subdued regret, which her eyes also projected.
John set the remainder of his flapjack down on the plate, too discomfited to finish it. ‘Did you, er, decide you didn’t want children in the end?’
‘Far from it, I always wanted kids. I was too scared though, after what happened. Near enough destroyed me.’ She looked away and feigned interest in a woman outside the cafe who was fiddling with the straps of her sandals, the conversation becoming too personal, too emotional. He could see that her eyes had glazed over.
John frowned. ‘God, Tash, I’m really sorry.’
‘Me too.’
She continued to gaze out of the window while biting the edge of her thumb, so John sat back in his chair and took the opportunity to look at her properly without feeling too self-conscious about doing so. Her mouth was serious and she had two frown lines between her brows, like the number eleven. Her large brown eyes were still appealing, but now lacked some of their former optimism. He suspected he’d robbed them of some of that. Her hair, now several shades lighter, was shiny and complemented her complexion, and she wore it in a style similar to the one she’d had all those years ago, only longer. Before it had skimmed her shoulders, now it reached down past her shoulder blades. John was finding it surreal that she was sitting here, directly in front of him. She was a significant part of his life, one that had been suppressed but, over the years, never truly got over or forgotten about, and although they weren’t on the best of terms they were conversing with such civility that he never would have imagined. He would even go as far as to say that he was enjoying her company. And moreover, quite worryingly, was still attracted to her.
‘What’s that look for?’ she said, turning to face him, perhaps having caught him staring at her in some reflection in the window.
‘What look?’ he said, becoming visibly flustered and looking down at the frothy dregs of his latte.
‘Never mind.’ She stood up abruptly, chair legs scraping across the floor so that two women nearby turned and looked. Lifting her handbag, she swung it over her shoulder and said, ‘Come on, Gimmerick, the quicker we get this sorted the quicker I can go home.’
John eased to his feet. ‘Yeah. Sounds good.’
At Eden Vale Norma was waiting for them outside the main entrance, the last bit of a cigarette held between her fingers. ‘Ready to go up?’
Natasha nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘Mrs Dawson’s not faring too well, mind.’ Norma took one last draw before flicking the cigarette butt to the floor and grinding it out under her foot. ‘Had an accident this week, broke a wrist and hip while trying to get out of bed. Kevin reckons she’s been a bit flighty lately, but if you keep your visit brief I don’t see any harm in me taking you up to see her.’ She pushed through the entrance door and held it open for them.
All three of them breezed past reception. Briony didn’t look up, but John could feel her eyes
burning into the back of them as they began their ascent up the main staircase.
‘What’s Sissy Dawson’s story?’ Natasha asked Norma as they reached the first floor landing.
‘I don’t know much about the old dear to be honest,’ Norma replied. ‘By all accounts she used to be a midwife back in the day. No living husband or kids. That’s about the extent of what I know.’
‘A midwife?’ A shiver ran down John’s spine as Megan’s words came back to him: It’s Her link to you. Her link to the children.
‘Yeah, at Thorpe Hospital.’
‘That’s where I was born,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ Natasha chimed in.
‘Not on Mrs Dawson’s watch you weren’t.’ Norma looked at John, her eyes smiling. ‘Sissy will have worked there in the fifties or sixties, way before your time.’ She motioned for them to follow her to the left, down a corridor that looked much the same as the one to the right and the one straight ahead. Beige carpet bore a grey runway strip of wear and tear and ingrained outside dirt from countless visiting feet. The skimmed walls were pastel blue, cold and uninspiring, and chrome wall lights flickered and dimmed as they walked past, making Natasha look to John nervously. At the same time John could feel his heartbeat thumping in his head, a stabbing sensation accompanying it. He was woozy and tired again, his fever reactivating so that his skin felt chilled despite his veins melting beneath the surface.
Norma came to a stop and pointed to a door on the right. ‘In here.’ She proceeded to open the door without knocking and called inside, ‘Morning, Mrs Dawson, you’ve got some visitors.’ She stood to the side and motioned for John and Natasha to enter.
John waited for Natasha to go first, then followed her into the dreary bedroom of Sissy Dawson. A stale smell of stagnancy pervaded the room, coating his airways with an unpleasantness that wouldn’t shift till he was back outside breathing fresh air. A quick sweep of the room and its contents revealed it as an impersonal space with nothing of the old woman’s on display; no photographs, trinkets, books, jewellery or items of clothing. A television mount was affixed to the magnolia wall opposite the bed but it held no television. Instead, a small portable sat on top of a set of drawers. A cheap wall clock, like those found in waiting rooms, hung on the wall above the bed and beneath it, in the bed, was a skeletal woman with thinning hair that was just as white as the plaster cast on her arm. Her eyes were barely open, gluey in the corners, one of them blackened, and her mouth was a sunken pit. It was hard to tell if it was the same woman they’d met pacing around the communal room all those years back.
