by A J McDine
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Life’s a bitch and then you die.’
It was Eloise’s turn to laugh. ‘Oh Rose, you crack me up.’
A sense of déjà vu combined with the funereal scent of the lilies made my head spin. ‘What did you say?’
‘You crack me up. Your sense of humour is so out there.’ She watched me for a moment. ‘Why, did I say something wrong?’
I shook my head. ‘It’s what your mum used to say to me.’ And it was true. I’d simply make an observation about something or other and Juliet would fall about laughing. It wasn’t until years later that I’d realised that what Juliet saw as my deadpan, acerbic views on life, the universe and everything, were just me being literal. Case in point: life literally was a bitch. And then you died.
Eloise hugged Dinah tightly until the cat wriggled out of her arms and shot through the cat flap into the garden.
‘I couldn’t see a card,’ I said, unpacking the shopping.
‘There wasn’t one.’
‘Most strange.’ I bent over the vase, inhaled deeply, then sneezed as the pollen particles tickled my nose.
‘Maybe your boss at the charity sent them as congratulations for getting the job?’ Eloise said.
‘She hasn’t told me I’ve got it yet.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps you have a secret admirer.’
‘I don’t think so.’ I found plates and knives and rinsed the grapes I’d bought under the tap. ‘I expect they took the address down wrong,’ I said, setting bread and stilton on the table. ‘There’ll be an irate wife waiting for her anniversary bouquet at the other end of the village as we speak, you mark my words.’
Eloise snorted and reached for the butter while I chewed on a corner of bread and wondered who could have sent me such a lavish bunch of flowers.
Sleep that night was elusive. I felt jittery and restless, like the time at university I’d inadvisedly taken ten Pro Plus pills at once to help me hit an essay deadline. I’d finished the essay, but the little white pills had triggered a period of insomnia that had lasted several weeks.
As I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I pushed all thoughts of Theo to the back of my mind and instead reflected on everything I had learned about India Matthews. In the thirteen years I’d been involved with Sisterline, there’d been any number of suicides, so why did her death bother me so? She was the same age as Eloise, so perhaps it was that. Perhaps Eloise had stirred my deeply buried maternal instincts. Perhaps I had a soul after all.
What had gone so terribly wrong in India Matthews’ brief life that she’d seen suicide as her only option? I knew nothing about her, of course. She could have been abused as a child, up to her eyeballs in debt or the victim of vicious online trolling for all I knew. Had Rhona offered words of comfort to her in the moments before she died, or had she said something that had pushed India over the edge?
And then, inevitably, my musings turned to Juliet. If she’d phoned me the day she died, what would I have said? And, more importantly, could I have stopped her? The previous week, in a tearful phone call, she’d described her recent mood swings and insomnia, her feelings of hopelessness and crippling panic attacks. I’d offered to drive up to see her there and then, but she’d talked me out of it, promising she’d make an appointment with her GP. And when I’d called a few days later, she’d sounded almost like her old self. The doctor had prescribed antidepressants and had referred her for cognitive behavioural therapy. She was over the worst, she assured me. She was determined to get better, for Eloise’s sake.
More fool me for believing her.
The very next day, while Eloise was at school, Juliet had driven from her Marylebone home to Dover, parking in the National Trust car park at the top of the White Cliffs. A couple out walking their labradoodle later told police they’d seen a woman sitting close to the cliff edge looking out to sea. When they came back from their walk an hour later, the woman had gone. They hadn’t reported the incident, even though the area was a notorious spot for suicides, because she’d looked so serene, so untroubled, they assumed she was just admiring the view.
Juliet had arranged a sleepover for Eloise that night, so it wasn’t until the following afternoon when she didn’t turn up for the school run that alarm bells started ringing. A couple of days later, police located Juliet’s car in Dover and her body was found on the rocks below the cliffs.
I’d been in the garden a week later cutting back brambles when the phone started ringing. Reluctantly, I’d dropped the secateurs and stomped into the house.
‘Yes?’
‘Is that Auntie Rose?’ a wobbly voice asked.
Auntie Rose? I pulled a face. An only child, I wasn’t anyone’s auntie. ‘Who is this?’
‘It’s me, Eloise.’
‘Eloise?’
‘J-Juliet’s daughter.’
‘I know who you are,’ I said, rather abruptly. It was the shock. ‘What’s the matter?’
A sniff. ‘They’ve been talking. The social services people. They say I can’t stay with Holly and her mum any more. They say I’ve got to have a foster mum and dad.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’
She made a strangled noise, then said, ‘No, it’s not. What if they’re horrible?’
‘Why would they pick horrible people to be foster parents? They’ll be perfectly nice, I’m sure.’
‘But I don’t want to live with strangers!’ Another sniff. ‘I want my mum. I want things to go back to normal.’
‘You’re twelve, aren’t you, Eloise?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Well, eleven’s old enough to understand that things can never go back to normal. You just have to make the best of it. We all do.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Was there anything else?’
‘Yes, actually. They, the social services people, asked if I had anyone I could live with. You know, like family and stuff.’
‘Right,’ I said, realising where this was heading.
‘I told them I could come and live with you.’
My grip on the handset tightened. ‘And what did they say?’
‘I gave them your number. They’re going to phone you to have a chat about it.’
‘A chat?’
‘That’s what they said. That’ll be all right, won’t it? I’ve always wanted to live in the middle of the woods.’
‘But what about your school? You wouldn’t want to leave, would you?’
‘I wouldn’t mind. I’ll be going to secondary school soon, anyway. Is that all right, then? Can I come and live with you?’
I licked my lips. ‘Of course. But I don’t think we should get our hopes up. Social services might not think I’m a suitable guardian. I’m not family, after all.’
Eloise sniffed again. ‘You’re all I have left.’
I put the conversation out of my mind until the week before Juliet’s funeral, when the phone rang again. This time a woman announced cheerfully that she was Kirsty Meadows, Eloise Cavendish’s social worker.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ she began.
I swallowed the mass of tears that was permanently wedged in my throat like gauze packing in a wound.
‘As you’ve probably guessed,’ she continued, ‘I’m phoning about Eloise.’
‘She said you might call.’
‘So, you know why I’m ringing? That Eloise has stated a preference to come and live with you, her godmother, rather than go into foster care?’
‘That’s what she said, yes.’
‘Unfortunately, Miss Cavendish didn’t name a guardian for Eloise in her will. In these situations, an application is made to the court for a guardian to be appointed. Usually that’s a willing family member or friend, which is why I wanted to speak to you.’
‘Oh.’
‘I understand from Eloise you don’t have children yourself?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘And you live alone?’
‘That’s right. Spinster of this pari
sh.’
Kirsty Meadows didn’t laugh. ‘If it were possible, how would you feel about becoming Eloise’s legal guardian? Do you think you could take on an eleven-year-old girl?’
Here was the rub. I didn’t think I could. I couldn’t see how a grieving, hormonal almost-teenager would ever slot into my ordered, solitary life. What would I do with her? I wouldn’t know where to start.
‘I am very busy…’ I began.
‘Eloise didn’t mention you had a job.’
‘It’s not a job as such. I’m involved with several charities on a voluntary basis. Heavily involved,’ I added. ‘The thing is, I’m not sure I have the bandwidth to give Eloise a home.’ I instantly regretted my choice of words. It sounded as though I was being asked to re-home a dog. ‘What I’m trying to say is that I don’t think it would be in her best interests to come and live with me.’
‘Her best interests, or yours?’ Kirsty Meadows’ cheery demeanour had disappeared and there was a steely tone to her voice.
‘Hers and mine,’ I said. ‘I’m just not cut out to be a parent.’
‘Right.’ I heard papers being shuffled. ‘Perhaps I can be blunt with you, Miss Barton,’ the social worker said. ‘Eloise’s father is dead, as are both sets of grandparents. Neither parent had any siblings. With her mother gone, Eloise has no living relatives. If you don’t take her in, her case will go to the family court and the most likely scenario is she’ll go into foster care. Is that what you want for your goddaughter?’
‘Of course it’s not what I want,’ I said, my voice rising. ‘What I want is for her to live with her mother, for Juliet not to have died. But as that’s not possible, I think Eloise is better off with foster parents. People who know how to look after children. Because, believe me, I struggle to keep houseplants alive.’
There was silence on the other end of the phone and for a moment I thought the social worker had hung up on me, but finally she said, ‘It’s a great shame. Eloise could do with some stability in her life. But I can’t force her on you.’
‘I think it’s for the best,’ I said.
‘Yes, well, I won’t make a start on the paperwork until the end of the week, so if you do change your mind…’
I repeated her phone number obediently, even though I wasn’t writing it down. There was no point. I wouldn’t be calling her.
We both started speaking at once.
‘Please, go ahead,’ Kirsty Meadows said.
‘I was just going to say, will you tell Eloise I couldn’t have her? Will she know?’
The social worker sighed. ‘I don’t see there’s any point. She’s just lost her mother. She doesn’t need to know you won’t take her in.’
Below the belt, but I probably deserved it.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I appreciate that.’
A week later, Eloise slipped her hand in mine as we stood shoulder to shoulder beside Juliet’s grave. ‘It’s not fair,’ she whispered. ‘The court won’t let me come and live with you.’
Kirsty Matthews had been as good as her word. Eloise would never know I’d rejected her. The relief made me lightheaded.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered back. ‘I’m as disappointed as you.’ As the vicar glided towards us, I squeezed her hand. ‘But if there’s ever anything I can do for you, and I mean anything, you only have to ask. Will you remember that?’
She nodded solemnly and squeezed my hand back. Her palm felt sticky in mine and I fought the urge to pull my hand away and wipe it on my trousers.
‘Don’t worry, Auntie Rose,’ she said. ‘I’ll remember.’
Chapter Twenty-One
JULY 1991
* * *
Things were better after Danny’s asthma attack. Once Juliet realised we weren’t sleeping together behind her back, she calmed down, and when she heard how I’d saved her boyfriend’s life, the chilly atmosphere between us melted away.
It didn’t take long for Danny’s swagger to return, but at least he tolerated my presence and he, Juliet, John and I made an unlikely foursome throughout the summer term.
Before I knew it, the other three were handing in their dissertations and cramming for their finals. And suddenly we were drinking shots in the student union bar to mark the end of their degrees.
Danny and Juliet had already booked flights to Ibiza, where they were planning to spend the summer, and John had found a job as a computer programmer for an investment company in the City. The three of them were in high spirits, clinking glasses and downing shots like vodka was going out of fashion.
I drank to drown my sorrows, because this was the summer Juliet and I should have gone on our Thelma and Louise road trip, and instead I had nothing to look forward to but week after suffocating week back in Kent. And that wasn’t all. My tutor had summoned me to her office that afternoon to tell me I’d failed my end-of-year exams and had two choices: leave or repeat the year.
I was restless and on edge. I’d existed for the last month on a diet of coffee and Pro Plus while I’d revised for my exams, but far from helping me focus, the caffeine had made me irritable and unable to concentrate. I’d developed a twitch in my right eye. Even the vodka couldn’t shift my sense of impending doom.
What the hell was I going to do? Even if I repeated the year, I’d still have another two to do after that, then the two-year post-grad foundation course. Five more years of struggling to keep my head above water. It sounded like a jail sentence. Panic gripped me, squeezing my chest so hard I felt as if all the air had been sucked out of my lungs. I clutched the edge of the bar stool to stop myself from toppling over. The floor swam in and out of focus, and a wave of nausea gripped me. I clamped a trembling hand to my mouth and looked around in desperation. John was at the bar getting the next round in. Opposite me, Juliet and Danny had their tongues down each other’s throats, completely oblivious.
Breathe, Rose. Breathe.
Although every atom in my body screamed at me to gulp in air, I went against my instincts and slowed my breathing until the floor stopped pitching and my racing heartbeat eased.
After an age, John came back from the bar, a tray of drinks in his hands. He put a shot glass on the table in front of me and when I didn’t pick it up, he peered at my face.
‘Are you all right? You look a bit pasty.’
I was about to brush his concerns away when something stopped me. I liked John. He was a good egg. I could trust him.
‘Think I’ve just had a panic attack,’ I muttered.
His eyes widened. ‘What’s brought that on?’
‘I’ve been burning the midnight oil revising for my end of years. Which I found out today that I’ve failed. I now have to decide whether I repeat the year or go home with my tail between my legs.’
‘Shit,’ he said, picking up his own glass and downing it. ‘What are you going to do?’
A tear leaked out of the corner of my eye and trickled down my chin. ‘I don’t know.’
I glanced at Juliet as if she held all the answers, but she and Danny were still entwined. Danny’s hand had disappeared up her skirt, and she was groaning softly. I rubbed my face and turned back to John.
‘I can’t cope any more. With any of it.’
He gave a knowing nod. ‘You should see my GP. He’s a good guy. He’ll sort you out.’ He pulled a pen out of his pocket and scribbled down a name and number on a beer mat.
I shook my head. ‘I don’t need to see anyone. I’ll be fine.’
But John ignored my protestations and pushed the beer mat into my hand. ‘He can’t mend a broken heart, but he can help with your anxiety. Just phone him. And that’s an order.’
Three days later, I picked up a prescription for amitriptyline from the local chemist. Two weeks after that, the little orange pills started working their magic, wrapping everything in a layer of cotton wool, helping me sleep and keeping my anxiety levels in check.
‘Amitriptyline can cause side effects, such as a dry mouth, constipation and nausea,’ t
he doctor had warned as I waited patiently for him to write out the prescription. ‘And you’ll need to come off them gradually as the withdrawal effects can include a fast or irregular heartbeat, flu-like symptoms and, in extreme cases, sensory disturbance, insomnia, mood swings and even mania.’
But I wasn’t listening. I just wanted to put a stop to the anxiety that had plagued me for as long as I could remember.
Even so, a little part of me was ashamed I’d had to resort to medication to help me cope with life. So, I called them my vitamins, and I took them every day without fail.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I must have eventually drifted off because my alarm wrenched me from a deep sleep just before seven the next morning. I felt at once tired and restless, exhausted yet agitated, and I was regretting my promise to spend the morning helping Eddie with the charity’s annual report when I could have slept in. I shuffled along the landing and down the stairs, almost tripping over Dinah, who was sprawled on the last but one step.
‘What are you doing there, you silly cat?’ I scolded, but I’d been out of favour the moment Eloise arrived and Dinah barely registered my presence.
Out of habit, I listened to the Radio Kent news while I made a pot of tea, relieved there was no mention of French chefs, missing or otherwise. While the tea brewed, I ran a cloth under the tap and wiped away the dusting of orange pollen the lilies had shed all over the kitchen table, then swore when I stepped in a pile of watery cat vomit by the fridge.
I mopped it up with a square of kitchen roll, decanted milk into a jug, and made my way into the hallway.
‘Do you have to park yourself right there?’ I asked Dinah, but she couldn’t even be bothered to open an eye. ‘Little madam,’ I tutted as I stepped over her.
In her room, Eloise was already awake.
‘Are you at work today?’ she asked without preamble.
‘Only for a couple of hours. Then we can do something together, if you like?’ I said, setting her mug on the chest of drawers.
