by Cathy Glass
‘Is that for us?’ James asked, spying the pans of prepared vegetables and cooked brisket Aisha had left ready on the hob that morning.
Aisha looked at the pans and could hardly believe it was her who had put them there that morning. It was as though a different person had prepared the meal and cleaned the house before going to see the monk, and in a way, it was.
‘Yes, but I need to talk to you both first, then I’ll make you something to eat.’
Taking a hand in each of hers, she led Sarah and James through to the lounge and sat them down either side of her on the sofa, an arm around each of them. She felt their little bodies warm and yielding, trusting, leaning against her.
‘You are big children now,’ she began, the words poignantly familiar – the ones she’d used when she’d met them from school and had told them about the monk, ‘so I need to tell you something, and I know it will hurt. It will cause you lots of strange feelings, conflicts. We will need to talk a lot.’
‘Mum?’ Sarah said, her little mouth trembling. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
Aisha looked down into her daughter’s eyes, which held a mixture of childhood innocence and adult maturity. ‘Yes, darling, he is,’ she said softly, and braced herself for the blame that she knew could destroy her relationship with the children forever. For whatever Mark had done, he was their father, and he was dead.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah said slowly. ‘But not as sorry as I should be. He won’t be able to hurt you anymore will he, Mummy? And I’m not sorry for that. Is that wrong?’
Aisha squeezed her daughter’s hand and felt her eyes fill. ‘No, love. I’m sure we all feel the same. It’s very difficult – very confusing.’ She looked down at James, and he rubbed his eyes.
‘I’m the same,’ he said simply. ‘And I’m tired and hungry. Can I have something to eat and go to bed?’
She kissed the top of his head and swallowed hard. ‘Shall we talk more in the morning?’
The children nodded solemnly, and James rubbed his eyes again.
Aisha hugged them hard, and as she did, her gaze fell across the room. Everything seemed so alien and distant now Mark was gone. It was as though she was sitting on someone else’s sofa, in someone else’s lounge: the three of them in a stranger’s house, which in many ways, she supposed, they’d always been. She gave the children another hug and then released them.
‘Now, if you go and get changed and ready for bed, I’ll make you something to eat and bring it up to you,’ she said.
‘What, in bed?’ James asked, astonished.
‘Yes, would you like that?’
‘But we aren’t …’ he began and stopped. Aisha knew he was about to say, ‘We aren’t allowed to eat upstairs.’ It had been one of Mark’s many rules – no eating away from the table, not even an apple – and, like most of Mark’s rules, Aisha had enforced it, believing it was for everyone’s good.
‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘You can have supper in bed tonight, nothing will happen to you. I’m in charge now and I say it’s all right.’
Sarah and James looked at her, and she could see that they almost believed it – that their mother was in charge. So much had happened since she’d met them from school that she appeared a different person now.
Sarah and James didn’t want to go upstairs alone, and if Aisha was honest she wasn’t too keen on the first trip up either. The whole house was like a mausoleum, a monument to Mark; reminders of him and his regime were everywhere. It made her realize just how little about the house had changed since she’d moved in nearly eight years before. He hadn’t made any compromises, no alterations to accommodate her – the house and everything in it was, and always had been, his. Such poignant and overwhelming reminders of a husband, so soon after his death, would have reduced another woman to hysterical tears, but the only emotion Aisha felt was utter relief mingled with a residue of fear. For while she was at last safe from another beating, she couldn’t throw off the unsettling feeling that Mark wasn’t so very far away, and given the right circumstances could appear at any moment and continue where he’d left off.
She went with the children to the foot of the stairs and switched on the landing light from the hall. Then, putting on a brave face for the sake of the children, she led the way up the stairs. First she went into Sarah’s bedroom and switched on the light, then James’s room, and finally the bathroom. She didn’t go into the main bedroom – it was Mark’s bedroom and she hadn’t slept in it for years and certainly couldn’t face it now – she firmly closed the door. In the morning, after she’d slept and felt stronger, she might venture in, but she doubted she could sleep there ever again.
With the upstairs lit, Sarah and James were happy to be left to wash and change, while Aisha returned downstairs to the kitchen. She lifted the lids on the pans of vegetables; she wouldn’t cook them now, it was too late, and she doubted any of them could eat a full meal, they were past it. Instead, she strained the brisket, sliced it and laid thick slices between the last of the bread. There was no butter or margarine because Mark never ate sandwiches or toast. But the thick slices of meat would make this feel like a feast for the children. She opened the fridge and found a carton of juice, which was still half-full. Mark liked his freshly squeezed orange juice; it always had first call on her meagre budget. She poured the juice equally between the two glasses for the children, then filled the kettle and set it to boil for a mug of tea for her. There was no milk, but it didn’t matter because she was used to drinking black tea – Mark had never taken milk in his tea or coffee so there was never any in the house. Arranging the plates of sandwiches on a tray with the glasses of juice, she carried it upstairs.
Sarah and James were washed and changed and both propped on the pillows in Sarah’s bed, waiting for their supper.
‘Here we are,’ Aisha said, proud that at least she could give them something decent to eat. She placed the tray between them on the bed. ‘Try not to spill it on the duvet.’
Their eyes lit up. ‘Are you having some?’ Sarah asked.
Aisha nodded. ‘Later. When you’ve eaten,’ she said from habit; she always made sure the children were fed before she ate.
She kissed the tops of their heads and then sat on the end of the bed as they ravenously ate the sandwiches. The last twenty-four hours were now catching up and Aisha suddenly felt absolutely exhausted. She waited until the children had finished eating and had emptied their glasses of juice, then she lifted the tray off the bed.
‘Can I sleep here?’ James said snuggling down.
She didn’t see why not. ‘If Sarah doesn’t mind.’
Sarah shook her head, and yawning put her arm around her brother. Tucking them in Aisha kissed them both goodnight. ‘Sleep tight,’ she said. ‘Call me if you need me.’ She kissed them again and, leaving the bedroom door open so she would hear them if they called for her, she came out and went downstairs.
In the lounge she suddenly realized how cold the house was and felt the radiator – it was stone cold. Of course the heating would be off, she thought, Mark had it set for an hour in the morning, while he washed and dressed, and two hours in the late evening for when he returned home. The rest of the time the house was freezing; in winter she and the children had often worn their coats to keep warm. Not anymore, she thought, here’s something I can change now, and without any fear of a beating!
She went into the kitchen and to the boiler mounted on the wall at the far end, and peered at the programmer. It was a digital display, with the time showing on a small Perspex screen, and three buttons on the right. It wasn’t immediately obvious how to alter the settings, she’d never been allowed to touch it and she had no idea where the instruction sheet was. Then she spotted an additional little button on the left of the box, marked ‘Constant’. That’s it, she thought, constant. Constant heat, constant hot water, and even constant peace might all be possible now. She pressed it, the boiler fired, and she heard the radiators creak as the pump sprung into acti
on and the hot water began to circulate. At the same time a familiar angry voice came from behind and made her jump: ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Switch it off. Now!’
She nearly did. Aisha found her finger poised, ready to push the button to switch the boiler off again, before she realized. ‘No,’ she said out loud, spinning round and confronting the empty space. ‘I won’t and you can’t make me.’
Leaving the programmer on constant and ignoring the boiled kettle and last slice of brisket, Aisha hurried out of the kitchen and into the lounge. What she needed now was sleep more than anything else; she was physically and mentally exhausted. In the lounge she dragged the armchair away from the centre of the room and to one side, where she backed it flat against the wall so that nothing could get behind it. She flopped down. She would sleep now and then tomorrow after she’d slept she’d be able to think what to do. All the lights were on, the children’s bedroom door was open so she’d hear them if they woke, and the house was warming up. Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow … when I’ve slept. She rested her head back and stared at the ceiling as it swam in and out of focus before her eyes closed and she drifted into a fitful sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘You haven’t got his will?’ Aisha asked shocked. ‘But you’re his bank.’
‘Yes, but it hasn’t been deposited here, I can assure you, Mrs Williams. I have looked personally.’
‘Well, can you at least tell me what’s in his account, so I’ve got some idea? I’m desperate.’
‘I’m sorry,’ the girl on the other end of the phone said. ‘Until we’ve had sight of Probate or Letters of Administration, I can’t release any details. Our hands are tied.’
‘What am I supposed to do? I’ve got two children and no money!’ Aisha pleaded.
‘I’m sorry,’ the girl said again. ‘If you had an account with us then we could perhaps have arranged a loan. All I can suggest is that you contact the Citizen’s Advice or the DHSS. There really is nothing we can do at present.’
‘All right,’ Aisha said defeated and put down the phone. Of course Mark’s bank would want Probate or Letters of Administration before discussing his account with her. She would have known that from all her years in banking had she stopped to think about it. So where on earth was his will then? If he’d even bothered to make one, that is. It was typical of Mark to leave his wife so ill-provided for, she thought. Her mother knew exactly where her father’s will was, together with all the paperwork, and £100 emergency money, should he meet an untimely end. Now here she was with no money, and no hope of getting any in the foreseeable future. What was she supposed to do?
Aisha looked at the phone on the hall table as if it was to blame and then turned to her coat on the hall stand. Rummaging first in one pocket and then the other, she pulled out the monk’s crumpled five-pound note, plus two twenty-pence pieces which was the change from her bus fare. ‘Five pounds and forty pence,’ she said out loud.
She knew it took months to process a will, even longer if there wasn’t one, and Letters of Administration had to be applied for. How were she and the children supposed to live in the meantime? There was nothing in the house apart from half a packet of cornflakes and the uncooked vegetables on the stove. Worried sick and with a pounding headache Aisha stuffed the money back into her coat pocket and went through to the lounge. Sarah and James were spread on the floor in front of the television where they’d been all morning. Much to the children’s amazement – for their father had forbade it – Aisha had switched on the television for them when they’d got up, and here they were still watching two hours later, mesmerized by the colourful cartoons. ‘Could you please turn the volume down a little,’ she said, ‘I’m not feeling so good.’
‘Sorry Mum,’ Sarah said and took the remote from James.
‘Thank you. Keep it low, please. I haven’t finished on the phone yet.’
Aisha returned to the hall and slowly picked up the handset. There was nothing else for it, she was going to have to phone her parents and ask them for a loan. She daren’t waste her last £5.40 on bus fares to and from the DHSS, apart from which she wasn’t feeling at all well. Her head throbbed and she ached all over, probably from the restless night spent in the chair. Despite the heating being on constant, she’d been so very cold. Perhaps she was sickening for something, she thought, that’s all I need!
With the phone in her hand, she went to key in her parents’ number and then realized with a stab of guilt that she’d forgotten the area code; it was so long since she’d phoned them – so long since they’d spoken. Heaving out the telephone directory from under the phone she flicked through the pages to the list of area codes. She ran her finger down until she found her parents’ code and then stopped. What on earth was she going to say to them, suddenly phoning after all this time? What would they say? What would they think? She knew she needed to apologize, but after that, what?
Taking a deep breath she braced herself and carefully keyed in the code followed by her parents’ telephone number. She could hear the children’s cartoon on the television coming from the lounge. Her heart raced and her stomach churned as the phone rang and rang but no one answered. Perhaps they’re out? she thought. Or perhaps they’ve even moved house? Would they have told her? She thought they would.
Cutting the line she tried again, pressing in the numbers slowly to make sure there was no mistake. This time it was answered immediately. ‘Hello, 5644.’ It was her mother’s voice, hesitant and out of breath. Her mother’s voice. Tears sprung to Aisha’s eyes. She had almost forgotten she had a mother, let alone one she could phone. She tried to speak but nothing came out. ‘Hello?’ her mother said again.
‘Mum,’ Aisha finally said. ‘It’s me, Aisha.’
‘Aisha?’ her mother repeated, unsure.
‘Yes Mum. It’s me. I’m sorry it’s been so long but I need your help. Mark’s dead and I haven’t any money. Do you think you and Dad could lend me some?’ She knew it was coming out all wrong but she hadn’t the presence of mind to put it differently – more politely. It went quiet on the other end of the phone. ‘Mum? Are you still there?’
There was another silence and then her mother’s small, uncertain voice again. ‘Aisha? Is that really you?’
‘Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry it’s been so long, but Mark was killed in an accident yesterday and I haven’t any money. I’m desperate. Can you help?’
‘Killed? In an accident?’ she repeated in the same faltering voice. ‘Yesterday? Are the children safe?’
‘Yes. They are. They’re all right.’
‘And Mark is dead, you say?’
‘Yes.’
It went quiet again. Aisha heard the phone clunk as it was set down and then again as it was picked up. There was a short silence followed by her father’s voice, authoritative and demanding. ‘Aisha, is that you? What’s going on? Your mother is in tears. You say Mark is dead?’
‘Yes, Father, he was killed in an road accident yesterday. The children and I are unhurt, but I haven’t any money to buy food, can I borrow some? Please.’ She could have simply thrown herself on her parents and asked for help, but having spent so many years obsessed and worrying about money to feed and clothe the children, this single thought still dominated.
There was a long pause during which Aisha could hear her mother crying quietly, then their muffled voices, before her father came on the line again, formal and direct. ‘Aisha, if as you say, you have been widowed, we have a duty to help. We will give you what you ask for. But our grandchildren, Aisha? Why did you reject us and not let us see them for all these years?’
Her heart clenched. ‘I don’t know,’ she said lamely. ‘I really don’t know now. I think it had something to do with Mark. I can’t think straight at present.’ She stared into space and searched for the answers, but now Mark had gone so too had his threats, intimidation, and the reason she’d behaved as she had.
She heard her father’s sharp intake o
f breath as he used to do when she had displeased him as a child. ‘We will help you. How much do you need?’
‘I’d be grateful for anything. You don’t have to see me if you don’t want to. You could put the money in the post.’
‘Aisha,’ he said firmly, ‘we will come to your house. I will give you some money and we will see our grandchildren at the same time. I appreciate you have been bereaved and are not yourself, but I expect you to show us the same civility as you would any visitor. Is that clear?’
Visitor? she was about to say, we’re not allowed visitors, didn’t you know? But she realized that was no longer true. ‘Yes, Father, thank you so much. When?’
‘We’ll be there in an hour. Goodbye Aisha.’
‘Goodbye,’ she said, and put the phone down.
She stood still for a moment, trying to take in the conversation she’d just had with her parents after all this time, and then went into the lounge where the children were as she’d left them, on the floor in front of the television. ‘Sarah, James,’ she said, ‘your grandparents are coming to see us; they are on their way. You’d better get dressed quickly.’
The children looked up at her from the floor with a mixture of surprise and delight. ‘Grandma and Granddad?’ they said together. ‘Coming here?’
‘Yes, you know – my parents,’ she clarified, unsure if they remembered who they were.
‘Have I met them?’ James asked.
‘Yes, but it was so long ago, you probably don’t remember. You were only little.’
‘I can remember them, just,’ Sarah said. ‘I liked them, they were kind.’
‘Yes, they are very kind people.’ She swallowed the lump rising in her throat. ‘Now go and get dressed, please, and make sure you have a wash.’
