The Woman at Number 24

by Juliet Ashton

  With hindsight – that useless, late-to-the-party false friend – Sarah saw the simple truth, Leo wasn’t hustling her out of the flat. The second Mrs Harrison had felt her crown wobble and swiped a manicured paw; Helena was better at guerrilla tactics than Sarah. There was more than one way to fight a war, however: Sarah would win back Leo fair and square with the eco-friendly power of love, not the dark arts of the boudoir and the cheap thrill of secrecy.

  An excited noise, not exactly speech, came from Una. She was crouched over a small dark shape which moved with a feeble, jagged action.

  ‘A hedgehog!’ said Tom, incredulous.

  ‘It’s tiny,’ said Sarah.

  Una, bent double, shaking with delight, tailed the creature as it stumbled away. It was as if one of her toys had come to life.

  ‘Must be a baby.’ Tom didn’t sound entranced. He sounded worried. ‘I don’t like the way it’s walking.’

  Meandering, staggering, the miniature beastie seemed drunk. Its snout rose and twirled, and it made a piping, impossibly high sound.

  ‘It’s distressed,’ said Tom under his breath. Una hovered over the hedgehog, vibrating to the noise it made, full of joy.

  ‘I’m googling it,’ said Tom, reaching for his phone.

  Una darted out a dimpled hand to the hedgehog whose paws were held so high it was frogmarching.

  ‘Careful!’ Sarah hovered, expecting tears. Those quills were like razors.

  Una was gentle, scooping up the hedgehog, bringing its snout to her nose. It was miniature, like her; she understood it.

  The animal curled inwards in Una’s hand, closing over itself and showing only its prickles. Una’s breath was hot and sweet upon it and it tentatively opened up, showing its pinky brown face, then its forelegs. Then its hind legs folded out and it lay there, legs akimbo, in its thorny onesie.

  Una blew it a kiss. Sarah wondered if it had fleas.

  ‘Why’s it making that noise?’ she asked Tom, who was reading the small screen of his phone. The hedgehog warbled on, singing silvery high notes that were surprisingly loud.

  ‘Hold on. I’m not quite an expert yet.’ Tom scrolled down.

  Pale spines fell like a quiff over the triangular face and over just the one shining dot of an eye. Sarah’s heart creased at the shallow dent where the hedgehog’s other eye should have been. ‘You’re like Mike Wazowski,’ she told it.

  ‘Who?’ Tom was lost in the internet.

  ‘Una probably knows who I mean,’ said Sarah without looking at the girl. ‘Mike Wazowski is the round one-eyed green monster in Monsters Inc. He’s funny and sweet. Like this fella.’ Sarah risked a question. ‘Una, shall we call him Mike?’

  Una seemed to fill up, her chest rising. Locking eyes with Sarah, she gave the faintest of nods.

  It was historic, that nod.

  ‘That’s decided, then.’ Sarah bent to the hedgehog’s level, burying her delight. ‘Hi there, Mikey!’ The small triumph lit her up. Inside, a small engine that had lain idle and rusty let out a small growl. We connected.

  ‘Mikey has problems.’ Tom frowned. ‘No hedgehog should be out in the open during the day, according to this website. I reckon from the look of him he’s about three weeks old. Too young, apparently, to have left his mother.’

  ‘Let’s take Mikey back to his, um, is it a nest?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the term.’ Tom let out a huff of breath and placed his hand squarely on Una’s head. The child quailed, but let it stay there. Touching Una so casually wasn’t what Sarah would advise but the little girl permitted it. Tom was special to her. ‘We can’t, sadly, take Mikey home.’ Tom angled his phone so Sarah could see the screen.

  Handling a young hedgehog will result in transference of your scent onto the animal, resulting in the mother rejecting it or even eating it.

  ‘Sounds like my mother,’ murmured Sarah. She read on: Orphans can be reared but it’s time-consuming and success is not guaranteed. Far better to let nature take its course and leave the animal to its fate.

  ‘Put Mikey down, Una,’ said Sarah gently. ‘Let him get on with his day.’ She was furious with herself for naming the animal.

  Una held Mikey curled up against her chest, her face defiant. She was clearly ready to fight for him. Mikey regarded them with his one good eye, safe and possibly a tad smug.

  ‘It’s for the best,’ said Sarah. How to explain to a six-year-old that shit happens, that cuddly animals perish, that the weak don’t always find the help they need? Sarah knew Una had already glimpsed these truths.

  The birdsong receded as Sarah and Una gazed at each other. The girl’s eyes, unclouded by late nights or house wine or money worries, were clear as spring water. Sarah was engulfed by Una’s stillness. The little girl’s silence was dense and wide, as clean and weirdly impressive as snow. The spell was only broken when Una’s face crumpled and she began to sob.

  ‘It’s OK, it’s OK.’ Sarah crouched in front of Una. Empathising so deeply made such a crisis more likely, besides robbing Sarah of her authority and making it difficult to halt the tears. ‘Una, sweetie . . .’ She tried to hold the little girl, but Una wriggled, holding poor doomed Mikey to her chest. He let out a desolate cheep.

  A basement window flew open and Lisa struggled through, throwing her leg over the sill. ‘What the hell?’ she shouted.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s a hedgehog, we—’ Sarah got no further.

  ‘You’re supposed to be helping!’ Lisa scurried across the grass. ‘Look at her! How can I go to work and leave her with Graham when she’s in this state?’

  ‘Everything’s going fine. This is just a—’

  ‘She’s crying. C’mere, baby. Oh shit, what’s that in her hand?’

  ‘I’m trying to tell you; it’s a hedgehog. Lisa, we’re in this for the long term. It won’t all be plain sailing.’

  ‘Urgh! A hedgehog?’ Lisa backed away, her face contorted. ‘I was looking forward to an hour of peace and quiet, not . . .’ Lisa was lost for words. ‘Not this!’

  ‘I’m not a childminder, Lisa.’ Sarah’s professionalism dropped over her shoulders like a cape. ‘The aim isn’t to give you a lie-down. The aim is to help Una.’

  ‘Yeah, well . . .’ Lisa’s anger petered out. ‘I don’t like seeing her upset.’

  ‘I know what’ll cheer Una up,’ said Tom. ‘I’m going to look after Mikey and help him grow up strong and healthy. Una can help me if she likes. He’ll soon be right as rain.’

  Emerging from the house, Jane was twirling her car keys. With a wink at Sarah, she draped her arm around Lisa’s shoulder with a casual informality that Sarah wouldn’t have dared attempt. ‘Lisa, love, you sound like you need some of Doctor Wine’s special medicine. Up to mine for half an hour, yeah? We’ll kick back while this lot get to know their hedgehog.’

  Lisa looked so grateful it made Sarah want to cry. ‘I’d love that,’ she said meekly.

  ‘Let’s get started,’ said Tom, leading Una to the shed. ‘First we need a box for Mikey to sleep in.’

  Her arm still comfortably over Lisa, Jane said, ‘He’ll make a wonderful father one day.’

  ‘You hero-worship that man,’ laughed Sarah, loving Jane’s easy, inclusive pride in Tom.

  ‘Sometimes. Other times I’d happily kill him with the nearest blunt object.’

  When Jane spirited Lisa away, Tom went inside too, to source the various kit they’d need to keep Mikey alive. The animal himself was still in Una’s cupped hands, where he fitted nicely. His new guardian couldn’t tear her eyes away from him.

  As Sarah knelt beside Una on the grass, savouring the shared moment, aware of the battering heat of the day, Mavis appeared.

  First her head, then her dreadful dress, as she climbed the steps with a tray of clinking glasses. ‘Cold lemonade!’ she said, cheerfully; her good humour had a wary edge, as if she was acting a part at gunpoint.

  ‘You lifesaver!’ Sarah stood and Una scrambled to her feet, wobbling a little because both
her hands were still around Mikey.

  ‘Is that a hedgehog?’ Mavis bent to see, then straightened up with visible effort as Una stepped deliberately behind Sarah.

  ‘She’s feeling shy today,’ said Sarah, as Una pressed into the back of her legs, her face buried in the denim of her dungarees.

  ‘It’s come to this,’ said Mavis in a low, desperate voice. ‘A child is frightened of accepting lemonade from me.’

  ‘Those bridges you burned,’ said Sarah, calmly, gravely, ‘can all be rebuilt, remember?’ She was taken aback by the level of Una’s agitation, and by the level of Mavis’s regret. It would be unhelpful to point out that Mavis had gone to great lengths to alienate everybody in number twenty-four, but it would be true. ‘Here’s what you do. You leave the tray with me, and you go and sit in that plastic chair over there, in the shade. Una will stop noticing you, start taking you for granted, and that’s the first step to making friends with her.’

  Doing as she was told, Mavis settled beneath the cherry tree in the corner, whose blossom had dropped and rotted some time ago. The speckled shadows turned drab little Mavis into an artwork.

  Crediting Mavis for the lemonade that Una wolfed down – ‘She’s a kind lady, isn’t she?’ – Sarah had a one-sided conversation with the top of the child’s head. ‘I’ve got a story for you and Mikey. Once upon a time. No, hang on, that’s lame.’

  A snuffly giggle encouraged Sarah. ‘This story’s all true, by the way. There was once a little girl. She’s all grown up now, but this happened when she was a bit older than you. About nine.’ That was, Sarah knew, an impossibly sophisticated age to a six-year-old. ‘Like you, she was an only child, which was fab when everybody got along, but when her mum and dad argued, it was less fun. In fact, it was no fun at all. When her parents yelled, the little girl watched and listened and felt very afraid and a bit lonely.’

  Una sat very still, listening politely. No, thought Sarah, more than that. Una, with her close-up focus on the little things, knew that this ordinary story was important.

  ‘One day,’ said Sarah, ‘the little girl’s worst fears came true. Her dad went to live somewhere else. She begged him to stay, but he went anyway. The little girl knew her dad still loved her, but it was horrible seeing her mum so sad. Sometimes it all got a bit much for mum and she shouted at the little girl. When you love somebody you try to understand them, and the little girl did her best, but she felt weird when her mum was mean to her.’

  Una’s straw found the last of the lemonade and gurgled like a drain.

  ‘The little girl made a discovery. The thing that upset her mum the most was when the little girl talked about the fun she had at her dad’s house. Her mum reacted as if the girl had done something naughty, but she was a good girl. Like you. Like me. In fact, she secretly believed that if she was as good as she could possibly be, then her parents might get back together. If I could, I’d tell that little girl a very important fact; it’s never your fault if your mum and dad break up. You are not to blame. Perhaps one day, Una, you’ll tell her for me.’

  Una was listening so hard she trembled; Mikey, now quiet and comfortable in her lap, was an anchor.

  ‘The little girl had a plan. If talking made her mum unhappy, the best thing to do was zip up her mouth and keep all the dangerous words inside her.’

  Words can be weaponised. Sarah heard her own mother’s voice, riffing on a favourite tune of Sarah’s childhood: ‘You’re a bad seed. Your father and I were fine before you came along!’

  Photographs existed of Sarah’s mother: younger, ecstatic, holding a brand new Sarah to her cheek. Sarah never opened the album; the happiness trapped between the pages was extinct.

  ‘Soon, people stopped expecting the girl to talk and she felt safe in her new quiet world. Until one day, she wasn’t happy any more. She wanted to speak, to say something, anything, but it felt as if everybody would turn and look and point. She worried that she’d left it too late. But, Una, it’s never too late. You own your voice. Say what you want, when you want.’

  Una’s gaze was a straight arrow from one broken soul to another. Sarah ruffled Una’s hair and thought what a formidable, brilliant woman this little girl would become.

  ‘Right.’ Tom bustled across the lawn in his linen suit. ‘I’ve got all Mikey’s gear. Let’s get him settled into the shed so I can go and mess up this audition.’

  Officially, Mikey was a hoglet, explained Tom, as Una shredded newspaper for lining the cardboard box.

  Mikey was weighed on the kitchen scales, then Tom oversaw Una placing a hot-water bottle on top of the paper, then a folded towel. ‘It’s one of Jane’s best. Don’t tell her, for God’s sake.’

  After Tom checked the creature for ticks – ‘Clean as a whistle!’ – Una ceremoniously bedded Mikey down in his new home. The hoglet was tentative at first, probing the towel with spindly paws before lying down.

  Lactose-free milk, which Tom had, astonishingly, found in the corner shop, was offered to Mikey from a plastic dropper. Again Jane’s, last used when she had an eye infection. Again, a secret. Finally, sated, the cosseted hedgehog fell asleep.

  ‘He snores!’ laughed Sarah.

  Mavis had tiptoed into the shed, like a tardy shepherd come to worship a hoglet Jesus. Una stepped away from her, venerating Mikey from Sarah’s other side, but this was a less dramatic reaction than previously. Sarah and Mavis shared a look; another small step for mankind, another giant leap for Mavis.

  When Graham arrived to pick up his daughter for her weekly sleepover, the child didn’t want to leave Mikey’s bedside.

  ‘Una!’ Graham stuck out his hand.

  The tone was better suited to training a dog, but Sarah held her tongue. She wasn’t there to criticise, just to help. ‘Our first session was very illuminating, Graham. You have a lovely little girl.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Graham’s lean face was dark. ‘Don’t tell me about my own daughter. I’m not buying into this crap.’

  It had been a fortnight since Sarah had stepped down from her vocation, but the carefully level voice she used for tricky parents was second nature. ‘I believe I can help Una to express herself, given time. And your support. You and Lisa are the most important people in Una’s life.’

  ‘Like I said, I know.’ Graham was in no mood to be mollified. ‘Come on,’ he said impatiently to Una.

  ‘Daddy’s waiting!’ sang Lisa with a withering undercurrent that nobody could miss, not least a six-year-old who hung on her every word.

  Sarah waved as Graham marched Una away, forcing her little feet to pedal super-fast. There was no goodbye, no soft word for Lisa.

  The droop of Lisa’s shoulders no longer seemed churlish; it was eloquent of hopes dashed, of love lost. Sarah risked a hand on the small of Lisa’s back and a sympathetic smile.

  Surprised, Lisa blinked and strode away. Sarah, who knew how it felt when ordinary dreams collapse inwards, watched her go. A touch on her arm reminded her of Tom’s presence.

  ‘The hot-water bottle has to be changed every four hours. Can you take care of it while I’m out?’

  ‘Sure. And Tom? This hedgehog . . .’ Sarah folded her arms. ‘It’s dangerous to make promises to children you can’t keep.’

  ‘Or adults, for that matter,’ said Tom.

  ‘True.’ Sarah glanced up at the terrace. It was empty.

  ‘Don’t worry about Mikey. I keep my promises.’ Tom cocked an eyebrow. ‘Believe me?’

  ‘I guess I’ll have to.’

  Chapter Ten

  Notting Hill, W11

  This calendar is FREE to valued customers!

  Monday 27th June, 2016

  LOVE TURNS WISE MEN INTO FOOLS

  The UK had finally coughed up one of those long, drowsily hot summers that all Brits think they remember from childhood. Sarah was drawn to the reception’s plate-glass wall, cursing the stuttering air conditioning that made no difference to St Chad’s sultry microclimate.

  ‘I’m meltin
g,’ she complained to Keeley at the end of the day, when her boss came to flick through the appointments diary Sarah now kept for her.

  ‘The interview rooms are nice and cool.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘How long will this last?’ Keeley’s braids were wound together on top of her head, making her a foot taller. She was imperious, stapling Sarah to her swivel chair with a glower. ‘You’re the most overqualified receptionist in the world.’

  ‘I, it’s, I—’ Sarah couldn’t drag together a sentence. She’d settled into her new persona and was comfortable with its lack of responsibility. There was a pride to be taken in doing the many small tasks well; she knew she could deliver excellent tea, deal sympathetically with stressed parents on the phone, tick appointments off one by one as the clients arrived. None of it felt beyond her. How to explain to fierce, righteous Keeley that for the first time in a long time Sarah had stopped feeling as if she was treading water in the open ocean?

  ‘You keep quoting that letter of yours yet you ignore its advice,’ said Keeley. ‘You’re good enough the way you are, sure, but the real you is a child psychologist, Sarah. We need you.’ It must have been a stressful day because she added, ‘If that means anything.’ She turned at the sound of a tap on the revolving doors. ‘Looks like you’re finished for the day,’ she said, picking up an armful of case notes and heading for her office. Slowly. Keeley was built for comfort, not speed.

  Sarah waved at Jane and pressed the switchboard to answerphone. She felt wounded, as if Keeley had lifted a scorpion tail from beneath her floor-length dress and lashed her with it. The sting tore through the tissue of Sarah’s denial; she couldn’t stay indefinitely at St Chad’s as receptionist. Her days there was were numbered, just like her days at number twenty-four.

  Keeley wouldn’t stay angry; Sarah knew that. I hope I know that, she thought, as she stooped to pick up her bag. The rot went deep: Sarah was still on that opposite riverbank, wondering about the people on the other side, people she used to know well. How could a woman who hadn’t noticed her husband falling out of love trust herself to counsel children?