Fragile

by Sarah Hilary

  ‘Thank you,’ Robin said. ‘You’re very good,’ he said.

  It sounded like an apology, although the pair of us knew there was no apology large enough to excuse his wife’s cruelty. All the same, I looked back into his eyes.

  ‘There’s no need,’ I said, as softly as I could. Everything about me in contrast to her. All my hardness hidden on the inside. He could dig and dig and he would never find it, never find me.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There is.’

  ‘Then . . . I’m worried.’ I straightened. ‘About the money, these extra meals. I’ve done what I can to make the allowance stretch but there’s the roast on Sunday. I don’t want to cut corners.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll give you extra cash, after I’ve been to the bank.’

  He didn’t trust me, then. Pretending he’d no money in the house when there was a wad of notes as fat as a house brick in the bookshelf behind him. I’d found it when I was dusting and if he hadn’t wanted me to find it, he should’ve hidden it more carefully or asked me to clean less fastidiously. A week ago, I’d have been excited to find it – proof that this house was what I’d suspected, corrupt and rotten. Who keeps a wad of cash like that, unless it’s to pay for something illicit? Drugs, or sex. But my priorities had changed in the past few days. And who was I to judge him, really?

  ‘Will Mrs Wilder be here on Sunday?’ I asked. He searched my face, as if looking for a way out. ‘I need to I know how large a joint to buy.’

  ‘It’s just me.’ He flinched, as if remembering his first lie to me, a week ago.

  I stood a moment longer, letting him see my silence as well as hear it. The clock ticked behind us, measuring out the seconds while he stared and I waited. In that moment, I’d have given him anything, if only he’d had the courage to ask. Not because I loved him or wanted him but because I was afraid – of kneeling on that tiled floor forever. Afraid of his wife and what the pair of them had planned for me. He dropped his eyes, and the danger passed.

  In the bedroom, she’d cleared it all away. Canvases and paints, sketchpads and easel. You’d never know we’d been there, unless you looked closely. The carpet held the shallow imprints of my feet, a greyness in the air from his charcoals and her brushes. She could have painted me anywhere in the house but it had to be here, six feet from his bed, the mirror making a gift of me, twice.

  I climbed the stairs to my attic with my fist pressed under my ribs to keep the rage inside.

  Neon stained my lovely rug, London’s nightlife ramming through the window. I changed into dirty clothes and set to work, pulling trunks and boxes into the middle of the room. In a metal trunk, I’d found dozens of sepia theatre programmes for shows dating back decades. In the kitchen, I’d discovered a can of varnish and a Stanley knife. From the hardware store, I’d bought a pot of glue under the pretext of fixing a flap of wallpaper. Kneeling, I tore apart the theatre programmes, arranging their pages on the floor until I found a pattern I liked. The old paper took the glue well, the sepia shining through the thin layer of varnish I stroked there. At the skirting board and around the window, I used the knife, wickedly sharp. The fumes from the glue and varnish were heady, better than being drunk. I worked without stopping, losing myself in the rhythm of smoothing pages to the wall, brushing varnish back and forth.

  My attic was taking shape, in spite of all my other work and my misgivings. Each night before bed, I cleared another corner. Whenever I emptied a box, I flattened it and stored it out of the way. There was so much cardboard in the cupboard under the stairs, I feared a fire hazard. I’d spread a trunk with a strip of tapestry found wrapped in red tissue paper. Along this, I’d stood a caravan of brass camels, each polished until she shone. An old lamp had been buried in one of the boxes, its shade made of coloured glass panes. One pane was gone but I’d folded a square of tissue paper to seal the gap. The bulb was blown so I’d brought a spare from the kitchen, propping the lamp on the floor next to my mattress. From another of the attic’s boxes, I’d unearthed a collection of spoons, some with coloured beads threaded through their handles, others carved from horn. All these treasures – chipped or scuffed, stained by damp – I loved. At night, I touched my fingers to each in turn before climbing into bed, as if they might bind me more tightly to the house, its history and its truth. What other treasures had I found? Reading glasses, their lenses scarred and cloudy. Lipsticks still bearing the imprint of lips. Postcards of far-off places. Christmas baubles and a set of tree lights which I coiled inside a Kilner jar, plugging the lights into the socket shared with the lamp. A sketchpad full of line drawings, life studies and landscapes, one of a tree standing by a pool of water, its branches softened here and there with leaves. The reflection in the pool was perfect, as if another, stronger tree grew under the water. I framed the sketch in tissue paper before propping it between my camels, as if a mirage had visited the desert, a watering hole to make their journey less perilous. The phone from the kitchen drawer was plugged into the wall beside my bed, in case of a text from Joe.

  After varnishing the newly papered walls, I stood and rolled the crick from my neck, opening the window to see the neon painting the city a dozen different colours. I stayed like that a long time. When at last I turned, the room was dark and its new walls dirty, scribbled by shadow.

  That night, I dreamt of Joe, in my attic with amber varnish drying on its walls. I dreamt of the bedsit we’d promised ourselves in Brighton over a fish and chip shop on the front, our bathroom behind a beaded curtain under a skylight. We’d smell of vinegar and fish batter, all summer long. On warm nights, we’d walk down to the beach to lie in the empty pockets of shingle, looking out to sea and naming all the faraway places we’d explore one day, like Bouvet Island and Tristan da Cunha. On cold nights, we’d stay in the bedsit and I’d watch Joe shower, the water running over the peaks of his shoulders and into the hollows of his hips. Joe Peach, my forever summer, my freedom. In my dream, I sat on the bed and counted the rosary of the beaded curtain as he washed off the day. Through the skylight, the sun fell on him and his skin shone until it sang.

  When I woke, Joe’s song was gone. There was only the house holding its breath beneath me. What a fool I’d been to think I could hide here, squirrelling my shame under the eaves and into the corners when every one was taken, filled with the secrets Robin and Carolyn were keeping. The cupboard under the stairs, drawers in the kitchen, even the mean space between the back of the mirror and the bedroom wall. All of it taken up with their secrets, no room for mine, no room for me.

  The phone buzzed so suddenly I bit my tongue in surprise.

  I crouched for it, quickly.

  A text from Joe. Joe. He wanted to know where I was, so he could come and get me.

  ‘Starling Villas,’ I typed back. ‘You remember. The house you went to that night, with her. I need you to come back and help me deal with her.’

  It took a moment for the response. Then –

  ‘I remember, just not the address. Remind me?’

  18

  Joe was in the kitchen, loading a cup of tea with so much sugar it grated in the cup.

  ‘Little Nell’s been in touch,’ Meagan told him. ‘She’s invited us up to London. Starling Villas. She said you’d remember.’

  Joe shook his head, licking the spoon. ‘I’m not going back to London, it’s too far.’

  ‘We can’t leave Nell in the lurch,’ she told him. ‘That wouldn’t be right.’

  He looked at her then, and she could see he knew how it was. How long she’d been waiting for this chance, and how determined she was to take it. He hadn’t the energy for a fight, not with her. She’d worn him down long before London and his life on the streets.

  Rosie’s sandal, that’s what did it, washing up nearly two years after they’d stopped searching. A red jelly sandal, one of a pair missing from the house, Rosie’s name painted on the sole; the paint was nearly washed away, but still distinguishable. The sea sent the sandal up like an afterthought to
all the panic and pain of the investigation. The chances of that happening had been so small Meagan hadn’t even considered it, but the sea did as it pleased, a law unto itself. She’d lived close to it all her life and still the sea was a stranger, a puzzle to her.

  Everything had started up again after the sandal, the questions and rumours, only this time Meagan wasn’t in the mood. She’d covered for them long enough. Too long; she couldn’t shop them without shopping herself but she could remind them what she was owed.

  ‘Think I’ve forgotten?’ Hissing at the pair of them, the meanness taking hold of her because she could see what was coming and it scared her. ‘I’m never forgetting, and nor should you.’

  They lived in fear of her after that. Jumping to do as they were told, whatever chores she threw at them. It was like it’d been at the beginning, back before they got too big for their boots.

  Nell’s hands shook as she laid the table, but she was plotting even then. Figuring a way to get them out from under Meagan’s heel. She should’ve guessed as much. When that first stone came whistling through the window it might as well’ve had a note tied round it written in the girl’s neat hand. Less than a month after the sandal washed up, they were gone, headed for London’s bright lights. Well, that adventure had lasted less than five months and here was Joe, right back where he’d started.

  ‘We can’t leave Nell in the lurch,’ Meagan said again. ‘That wouldn’t be right.’

  Joe dropped the spoon into the sink.

  At the train station, she bought him a bag of jellied sweets. It was freezing, the way stations always were. She could see the haziness coming over him, like mist pushing in from the sea.

  ‘I need you awake, sunshine.’

  Gulls lined up on the station roof, searching the crowd for sandwich crusts and chip wrappers. One had ketchup splashed up its beak. The same gulls that grew fat in the summer, invading the beaches, swooping for ice cream cones. Bloody Wales. It’d be the death of her.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asked Joe. But she knew what was wrong. He didn’t like her plans for Little Nell. He wanted to leave the girl alone in her new house with whatever security she’d found there. As if Meagan didn’t deserve security of her own.

  ‘Maybe she’s found someone,’ Joe said. ‘Maybe she’s happy.’

  As if Meagan didn’t deserve happiness.

  ‘So? You’ve found someone. Haven’t I looked after you?’

  ‘Yes, but we’ve got a place—’

  She lost her patience then, leaning to hiss in his face, ‘It’s falling down! What d’you want to do, paper the cracks with bills? You’ll be back on the streets for Christmas, where you won’t last a day without her to prop you up. And she’s hardly likely to do that, is she? Since you ran out on her.’

  She’d been digging the story of Starling Villas out of him, a piece at a time. She patted the pocket where he’d put the joints from Darrell’s friends on the estate.

  ‘We’re not going to mess this up for her, that’d be daft, and, anyway, Nell’s not stupid. She won’t want to lose this new job, whatever it is, but she’ll want to help. When she hears how hard things are for us. Hasn’t she always looked out for you? Haven’t we both?’ He nodded, thirst in his face, wanting a fix. ‘In any case, she asked for your help, didn’t she? She’s expecting you.’ Just not with Meagan in tow, with her own ideas about who was helping who. ‘Eat some sweets. I need you sober for tonight.’ She handed him the bag of jellies. ‘Stay off it, until tonight. Understood?’

  He nodded, putting a sweet between his teeth to suck. His teeth weren’t rotting yet, but the window was closing on Joe Peach’s summer. Each day he was a little less tanned, less glossy.

  ‘And watch her. Nell. She’s smarter than you, always was, always will be. We’re up against the wall, you and I. But Nell won’t want you homeless. She’s a good girl, she’s a good heart.’

  Lies, as far as Meagan was concerned, but it was what Joe needed to hear. He sucked the sweet, his cheek hollowing. He was scared, but he trusted Meagan to make it right. He was right to trust her, too. Hadn’t she kept his secrets, all this time? The shoplifting and the rest of it. The worst of it.

  When the train came, it was packed.

  She took the last seat, instructing Joe to sit on the floor. He didn’t mind, falling asleep soon enough. When they reached Euston, she had to nudge him awake, his bottom lip crusted with sugar.

  She spat on a hankie and wiped his face.

  ‘Right, sunshine. Let’s see what our Nellie’s up to, shall we?’

  19

  ‘There you are.’ Carolyn arched her eyebrows at the attic. My attic. She hadn’t knocked, opening the door and walking in while my head was full of last night’s dream of Joe. I might’ve been getting dressed, or naked. She didn’t care. As far as she was concerned, this was her room and I was the intruder. ‘Oh, Robin, do look!’ She laughed. ‘She’s papered the walls.’

  Robin put his head around the door, having the decency to look ashamed. She’d dragged him up here and he’d come, but he knew it wasn’t right. This was my room, he’d said so. All the rooms on this floor belonged to me. Carolyn swayed her way to my window, ducking under the eaves to exaggerate the lack of space. She drew a finger down the pane of glass and inspected it, turning like a wind-up doll to stand with her back to the light.

  Robin nodded at the walls. ‘You’ve done a wonderful job.’

  ‘Yes,’ Carolyn said, ‘lovely,’ as if she were mispronouncing ghastly.

  But Robin wasn’t paying any attention to her. He’d straightened, standing in the tallest part of the attic. ‘You’ve transformed it.’ He smiled at me, a real smile, straight from his storm-grey eyes. And I smiled back, fully aware of Carolyn over by the window, watching.

  Let her watch, I thought. Let her get the measure of what was happening. She’d brought him up here to humiliate me, or else to punish me in some way for some small thing, perhaps nothing at all. Eight rooms weren’t enough for her bullying; she’d wanted to expand, hoping to recruit Robin to her cause. But he was smiling because of the spell I’d cast, transforming the attic into a home. Why else would he smile like that, as if I’d unlocked a secret seam of happiness inside him?

  ‘This rug! I’d forgotten all about it.’ He crouched to touch the floor beneath his feet. ‘I used to play bear hunts on this when I was a child.’

  My beautiful rug a magic carpet, transporting him to his childhood.

  Straightening, he reached to smooth his thumb along the wall. ‘Is this varnish? It’s very clever. Découpage, is that what you’d call it?’ He kept his hand on the wall, as if to reorient himself.

  The house let out its breath. I lifted my head and looked at Carolyn, standing with her back to the light, the mocking smile dying on her lips. I met her eyes, and I did not look away.

  The cheese shop was cold and gleaming. Bradley looked pleased to see me. Thanks to Carolyn, I was in here every other day, for eggs to bake a cake she’d declare too dry to eat, or for extravagant cold cuts – capicola, mortadella, bresaola – naming the meats as if they were body parts. Despite our conversation about money, Robin had made no additional allowance for her demands on his budget. I was afraid I’d have to break into the money she’d given me for the modelling, a curling fifty-pound note offered on the hot palm of her hand. I’d been ashamed to take it.

  ‘How are you this morning, Nell?’ Bradley lifted the cheese onto the cutting board, manoeuvring the wire above it with a delicacy that had me holding my breath.

  ‘It’s a beautiful morning,’ I said.

  Autumn was here. The leaves were coming down, lying crisp along the pavements, my attic window furred by condensation. The scent of glue and varnish lingered at the top of the house; I could no longer smell Carolyn in Starling Villas. In the cheese shop, I was the first customer of the day. The steady thrum of the cooling system was comforting. I liked to watch Bradley work.

  ‘We have a very nice Fleurie ju
st in.’

  ‘I don’t know what that is.’ I smiled at him. ‘Is it wine?’

  He reached for the waxed paper. I saw him running through a list of possible responses before he said simply, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hedgerow fruits, brambles, a hint of granite and earth?’ I quoted from a book I’d flicked through, in Robin’s library.

  ‘Exactly so.’ He returned my smile, placing the wrapped wedge of cheese on the counter.

  ‘I’m afraid Dr Wilder hasn’t given me enough money for impulse purchases.’ I wanted to see if my indiscretion would surprise him.

  He busied himself with the rearrangement of the cold cabinet. When he looked up, I saw the thread of a frown on his forehead. ‘You’re staying safe, I hope?’

  ‘In London?’

  ‘In Starling Villas.’ His stare was direct. He didn’t drop the volume of his voice.

  Both of us now, being indiscreet.

  ‘Of course.’ But his question raised the hairs on the back of my neck. ‘Did you know her? His last – housekeeper?’ He nodded and I struggled to make sense of the look on his face, searching beneath its surface circumspection for a sinister meaning, a salve to my nagging sense of unease. ‘Why did she leave, do you know?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’ Bradley peeled off his plastic gloves, one finger at a time. His eyes didn’t leave my face. ‘I wasn’t aware she had left.’

  The way he said it scared me, as if she were still inside the house, buried at the back of the wardrobe or hiding behind the heavy curtains in the library: I wasn’t aware she had left.