The Missing Pieces of Us

by Eva Glyn

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I wondered why someone was tapping a nail into the fairy tree but, as I came to, I realised they were knocking on my bedroom door.

  “Robin, are you all right?” It was Izzie.

  I struggled to open my eyes. “It’s OK, you can come in.”

  She peered around the door. “I was just a bit worried, that’s all.”

  “No, I’m fine, just overstretched myself today I think.”

  “You’ve been into town – shopping, by the look of it.” She folded her arms.

  “I wanted to say thank you to you and Claire.”

  “You shouldn’t have. You’ve worn yourself out and spent far too much money. It’s not necessary.”

  The inflection in her voice put me on my guard. I asked her what was wrong.

  “Nothing. It was just odd, that’s all, coming home to a dark house with… with flowers and wine and chocolates in the kitchen and not you.”

  “Well I’m here.”

  “I didn’t know that,” she burst out. “Your coat wasn’t on the hook and I thought… I thought… you’d gone away… especially when I saw that stuff. It was a horrid trick to play.”

  “Izzie, it wasn’t a trick. I was just so exhausted I—”

  But she was gone, running along the landing and slamming her bedroom door behind her.

  I looked at my bedside clock: half past seven. I wondered where Claire was, then remembered that she was at the cinema with her friends. I stood and stretched, picked up my anorak from the bedroom floor, and hung it in the hall on my way to the kitchen. If Izzie hadn’t eaten then my very simple plan was to cook a meal to entice her back downstairs.

  She may not have eaten but she had certainly had a drink. Although the bottle of wine I’d bought was untouched, a tumbler was abandoned on the draining board next to a bottle of tonic water. I picked it up and sniffed it. Gin.

  In the fridge were a couple of peppers and some eggs. I found an onion in the vegetable rack and started to fry the vegetables. Once they were ready I turned off the gas and went to find Izzie.

  To my surprise she was sitting in the darkened living room.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked “I’m making an omelette as a peace offering.”

  “It’s me who should say sorry.” The only light came from the kitchen and it was impossible to read her expression.

  “No, I should have left a note. I should have realised you’d come in and wonder, and that you’d be tired too after your first week back at work.”

  “It was fun to be back at work,” she replied, tilting her chin. “But it was knackering all the same.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “Come and have something to eat.”

  She nodded and followed me into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine.

  While I finished the omelette she put the tulips in a vase. “They’re lovely, Robin. I can’t remember the last time anyone bought me flowers, but you really shouldn’t have spent the money.”

  “It’s OK. I have some money now – just a bit, but enough for me to buy some thank yous and to pay my way.”

  Izzie’s eyebrows furrowed. “But if you had money, why were you on the streets?”

  “I have some money now – I didn’t then. Well, not enough.” I forced a laugh. “I had all of sixty quid in my pocket and that wasn’t going to get me very far.”

  “But what happened today? How come you’ve got money now?”

  I somehow managed to overcome my embarrassment. “I finally plucked up the courage to go back to Jennifer’s and pick up my bank card.”

  “You mean you actually lived on the streets rather than go back there? Why the hell would you do that?”

  I focused my attention on the omelette, taking it off the gas and halving it, sprinkling some grated cheese and putting it on our plates.

  “Why, Robin?”

  “I just didn’t feel I could.” It was only half the story, but it was the best I could manage. To deflect her attention I asked her about her day.

  “You don’t want to tell me, do you?”

  I put down my knife and fork. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” I lied, “I just don’t want to talk at all at the moment.”

  “When it was bad, you never did.”

  I didn’t understand what she meant but I guessed she was still spoiling for a fight. “Izzie, please, let’s not argue. We’re both tired and it isn’t worth it. Ask me again when I’ve got a bit more mental energy and I’ll tell you exactly what happened, I promise.”

  She drained the last of her wine and stood up. “You have changed, Robin, but for the better. I’m off to bed now. Goodnight.”

  I was left staring at a half-eaten omelette, listening to her footsteps on the stairs, and puzzling over her words.

  I was still there when Claire came home. Immediately her eyes fell on the almost empty bottle of wine.

  She was characteristically direct. “If you don’t mind me asking, how much of that did you drink?”

  “None of it.”

  “Do you not drink for a reason?”

  “You mean, am I a recovering alcoholic? No. I’ve just got out of the habit really – although I have to admit I was toying with the idea of polishing that one off.” I picked up Izzie’s plate and started to scrape congealed omelette into the bin.

  “Where’s Mum?”

  “She’s gone to bed.”

  “Was she very drunk?”

  I straightened up. “I think she was just very tired.”

  “You can tell me if she was drunk, you know. I’ve seen it all before.”

  “It worries you, doesn’t it?”

  Claire sat down at the table. “Yes, because she’s using it as a crutch and I know that’s not a good thing. Do you think that between us we can get her to stop?”

  “That rather depends on whether she wants to.”

  “Well of course she doesn’t want to or she wouldn’t do it.”

  I returned to my seat. “Sometimes it’s not that simple. We don’t know her reasons for drinking and perhaps neither does she. Maybe she doesn’t even know you think it’s a problem.”

  “Well I’ve told her often enough.”

  I smiled at her. “I expect you have. But I also suspect she wasn’t listening.”

  “She’d listen to you; you’re not a child.”

  “No. I’m a homeless man who up until today was entirely dependent on her charity.”

  Claire sounded cautious. “What happened today? You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

  “Today I finally managed to get access to my bank account. I bought your mum some flowers and a bottle of wine – which on reflection might have been a bad move – and I bought you some Maltesers.” I pushed them towards her. “I hope you like them.”

  “That doesn’t mean you’re leaving, does it?”

  I leant back. “I haven’t had that conversation with your mother yet.”

  “Please don’t go, Robin. I… I’m not sure I can cope with Mum on my own anymore.”

  Her voice was breaking and I reached across the table, her hand vanishing under my own. It hadn’t occurred to me what a responsibility it had been for a sixteen-year-old to be living with a mother with depression – especially when she was still struggling to come to terms with her own loss.

  “Claire, I don’t want to go, but I can’t live on charity either. I need to get back on track – get working, earning some money. And I’m pretty much well now. She mightn’t want me to stay.”

  “She will, I know she will,” she sniffed.

  “Well let’s see what she says.”

  “Will you talk to her tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know, Claire.” I wasn’t sure I would be ready to have the whole conversation Izzie would want just yet.

  “Oh please, Robin, promise me.” She looked so young, so vulnerable, her big grey eyes swimming with tears, that the only thing I could say was ‘yes’.

  Chapter Tw
enty-Eight

  Saturday dawned crisp and cold, and Claire lost no time in suggesting that Izzie and I should make the most of the weather by going for a walk while she got on with her homework. It sounded like a most obvious ruse to get us out of the house together and I thought Izzie would be suspicious, but instead she said it was an excellent idea, provided I was up to it. With Claire looking daggers at me from under her fringe I had no option but to agree.

  We went to Swanwick. It was only a few miles down the Hamble from the fairy tree but it was over a year since I’d been there. Towards the end of her life, Jennifer had been reluctant to leave the house, imagining burglars – or worse – would descend the moment we did, so my world had shrunk to the size of hers.

  We parked the car at the top of the creek. The tide was up and two swans glided down the river as we walked along the path to the marina. So we talked about birds, and the boats moored on the opposite bank, and how Izzie had given up rowing when she was expecting Claire – anything to avoid the conversation I knew would have to come. I didn’t even know how I was going to start it.

  I shouldn’t have worried; the moment we decided to go into the coffee shop, money reared its ugly head.

  “I’ll get these,” I told Izzie and immediately she started to argue, right in front of the counter.

  “For God’s sake, woman, let me have some pride,” I hissed and she retreated to a table in the far corner.

  I apologised even before I put the tray down in front of her.

  “I have some pride too,” she told me. “Don’t ever speak to me like that again.”

  “I’m sorry, Izzie,” I said. “but I’m getting too uptight about this. We need to sort the money side of things now I’m in a position to do so.”

  “So how much money do you have in your bank account?” I could see where Claire got her directness from.

  “I don’t know. A few hundred pounds, I think. I need to get earning again but to do that I need a proper base.”

  “So you’re going to move on?” She started to take our cups off the tray.

  “I can’t live on your charity, Izzie. You’ve been amazing already, taking me into your home and letting me get well. And I’ve loved being with you and Claire, but—”

  She cut across me. “You don’t have to go.”

  “Then we need to come to some proper financial arrangement.”

  “It’s really not necessary. Connor’s life insurance paid off the mortgage and I’m on a good salary. I don’t need a contribution from you.”

  “But I need to make one. Can you understand that?”

  She was stirring her cappuccino, her spoon scraping the edges of the cup, mixing the froth into the coffee. She looked up at me. “Tell me why you had to leave Jennifer’s house in the first place.” It wasn’t a question, it was a command. But I wasn’t ready to share those awful moments yet.

  “You know when… when something hurts so much…” And then I thought of Claire.

  “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Izzie filled my pause.

  I shook my head. “I am. You’ll just have to bear with me if I struggle.”

  In truth it was hard to know how to start. I knew when, of course. It was the moment I found Jennifer dead on her bedroom floor, buttocks and stick-thin legs protruding from under her faded pink nightie. There in the café I could see her; I could hear the hiss of the coffee machine but all I could see was that awful indignity.

  “What did you do?” Izzie prompted.

  “I picked her up and put her on the bed. Just to be sure… I mean, I knew, somehow, but all the same… It sounds silly, but I tucked her in, and then I went downstairs to phone Stephen, and then the doctor.

  “He seemed to come almost at once but I think that was because I’d lost all sense of time. I know that because Stephen and his partner, Gareth, arrived just afterwards and they’d driven all the way from Brighton. I was still in my dressing gown. Stephen was in tears. Gareth kind of took over with the GP but before he left he asked me all sorts of questions. I told him I’d found her in her bed.

  “A while later, Gareth suggested I get dressed. Jennifer’s bedroom door was closed and I went in one last time and sat beside her. There was peace, Izzie, peace in that room. She had gone and it was right. It made me feel better so I had a shower and wrapped up warm ready to go and feed the chickens.

  “When I went back into the kitchen, Stephen had stopped crying and Gareth was explaining that they would be coming to take Jennifer’s body away shortly, and asking if he wanted to see her first. I tried to reassure him, telling him she looked very peaceful, but he was unsure, asking Gareth what would happen next. The answer was a post-mortem.”

  I coughed a few times then cleared my throat.

  “You couldn’t get me another coffee, could you?” I asked Izzie.

  The word post-mortem had not so much stopped me in my tracks as sent me hurtling back twenty years. Uncertainty. Suspicion. But Jennifer was old, wasn’t she? She’d had Alzheimer’s. I asked Gareth why and he said it was routine under the circumstances. What circumstances? But I didn’t ask. I put on my anorak and went outside.

  The crack as the ice broke on the water troughs in the coop took me back to my first morning at Jennifer’s. I almost heard her voice, but when I looked up, of course she wasn’t there. Instead an insidious thought took root: I’d found her on the floor, not in her bed. I’d lied. Suspicion. Questions. I couldn’t go through it again.

  I jumped when Izzie put the mug down in front of me.

  “You did look miles away.”

  “Not miles, years.” I sighed. “The long and short of it is that I lost it. I went out to feed the chickens then I decided to go for a walk by the river. When I got back there was a dark-green ambulance in front of the house so I just kept going. I suppose I cracked up again. I never went back.”

  “But why not? You could have waited until they’d gone out and…”

  I smiled at her. “That assumes I was acting even half rationally. And I wasn’t. I guess now I’ve told you, you’ll want to think again about asking me to stay.”

  “Not at all. You mustn’t be so hard on yourself, and anyway, you’ve pulled yourself out of it much quicker than you did after your mum.”

  “I’m older and wiser. And this time I’ve found a very good friend.”

  Izzie looked at the table, her finger tracing a delicate figure of eight. “Last time… I could have supported you better… I…”

  “I never gave you the chance.”

  We sat in silence for a while, lost in our own thoughts, but more than anything I knew I didn’t want to lose her again.

  In the end she said, “So will you stay with Claire and me?”

  “I’d like to, yes. But you must let me pay my way as far as I’m able.”

  She gazed out of the window towards the river. “Friends don’t have to pay.”

  “Friends share burdens. Friends need to feel like equals. Look at me, Izzie; this is important.”

  “Did Jennifer always take twenty-five percent of what you earned?”

  “Yes.”

  Finally she turned her head. “Then I’ll do the same.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Izzie

  As Robin holds open Jennifer’s kitchen door, it seems only a fraction less damp inside than out. Although the scrubbed pine table dominating the room is empty, there are papers and magazines piled to one side of the Aga. On the other is a vase of wilting snowdrops.

  Robin looks around and sniffs the air. “Best get that lighted if Stephen’s planning to stay.” He drops to his knees and starts fiddling with switches and dials. There is a click and he sits back on his haunches.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I ask.

  “Run the cold water? I’m going to find a fan heater.”

  It has taken me most of the week to persuade him to come back to collect his possessions but he finally saw sense because if he is to restart his business then h
e needs his tools. And then, when I came home on Thursday, he told me it was all arranged, and he would meet Stephen at the house on Saturday. Stephen had been pleased to hear from him, he said, and he sounded surprised that that might have been the case. Personally, I suspect Stephen has been very worried about Robin.

  As we wait, I wander around the house. In the dining room the table is pushed back against the wall and there are two easy chairs in front of the French windows. I sit down in one and look out at the unkempt garden. Robin follows me, but remains standing.

  “I need to get this place straight,” he mutters.

  “It might make it easier to sell.”

  “Stephen may not want to sell.”

  Oh dear. It’s not that he’s spoiling for a fight, exactly, but he isn’t going out of his way to avoid one either. I stretch out to take his hand but he pulls it away and thrusts it into his pocket.

  “Don’t be like that. I was only trying to… to reach you.”

  He shakes his head as though he is trying to clear it. “God, I’m sorry Izzie. I’m a nightmare this morning. I’ll be OK once Stephen arrives but until then I feel like I’m trespassing.”

  “I don’t see why. It was your home, not his.”

  He shrugs and turns away.

  Luckily, it’s not long before we hear a car in the drive. Robin was right when he told me that Stephen hasn’t changed since he was eight years old: the same round freckled face with a ready smile, the same sandy hair. He is not a tall man and this adds to the impression of a slightly overgrown schoolboy. He embraces Robin like the long-lost brother he probably feels he is and like me, he only comes up to his chin. If he recognises me as the girl in the yellow dress whose hand he held coming out of the river, he doesn’t let on.

  Stephen’s partner, Gareth, is quite short too, but stocky and dark and reminds me of a pit pony. His strong Welsh accent only re-enforces the image, as does the solid way he pitches in with everything he’s asked to do. I like Gareth. And, of course, I like Stephen – especially as his respect and affection for Robin are tangible.