by Emma Cooper
‘Not a home?’
I shrug my shoulders as she opens a wire airer, hanging a variety of pink and purple pyjamas over it. ‘But the cottage, Soph? Are you sure? Won’t it bring back memories of . . .’ She shakes out a tangled pair of dungarees and folds them over one of the bars. ‘What I mean is, you’re obviously in a bit of an emotional state at the minute and I’m just worried that being there, on your own—’
‘I’m not on my own. I’ve got Bean with me, haven’t I, Bean?’ I imagine it practising, this little person, moving its arm and giving me a little wave. Oh, before I forget,’ I add, ‘they’re picking up the car later. Could you give them the keys?’ I grin.
‘You’re sending the company car back in that state?’ Helen laughs.
‘I am. It serves them right.’
‘Fair enough, but the cottage, Sophie . . . it’s a lot to deal with.’
‘I know it sounds strange, but I want to feel close to her. I need my mum, and the cottage is the next best thing. And Handy Huw says that it’s habitable.’
‘Habitable? God knows what kind of state it’s in. And Samuel?’
‘I don’t know what I’m going to do about Samuel.’
I indicate off the main road and start the steep climb into the hills, lowering the window a fraction and letting the thick, kelpy tang of the sea air fill my new car. It’s not brand-new like my others, but it felt good to buy it, to have another piece of independence. The trees are still mostly bare. Their age-old arthritic fingers are stretching and turning their gnarled knuckles towards the sun as another new year pulls them away from death and into new life. Green hills rise up, like sleeping giants, while in the distance, toy-like sheep and tractors roam and play, and bubbling streams slice their way between the fields that stretch towards the Irish Sea.
Our cottage is in Mid Wales, towards Aberystwyth. I used to hate being so far away from the town when we were growing up. Helen and I would despair whenever there was an event of any excitement in town because we were very rarely able to go, especially if it ended late at night. We wouldn’t be able to get home – bus routes this far out were few and far between, Mum didn’t drive and taxis just cost too much – but as I drive deeper into the valley, down narrow lanes and up steep inclines, I couldn’t be happier that I am far from all of the hustle and bustle that I used to crave.
I pull up to where the gate closes over the lane, with a sign announcing ‘private property’. I smile at the memory of my childish self giggling with Helen about the word ‘privates’ and open the car door, holding on tightly to the handle before the wind snatches it away from me. Strong winds lift my hair, pulling it and teasing it across my face, blurring my vision as I coerce the rusty bolt into submission. Long grass tangles beneath the gate, as it groans with indignation at being woken so early. The frayed rope which holds the gate open has seen much better days, and I climb back into the car with some urgency, fearing that it may snap at any moment, sending the gate into my newly purchased car. I rev the engine and pass through it unscathed, closing the gate behind me, fighting against the wind once more. The cottage inches into view and I suddenly feel sorry for neglecting it for so long.
It is a long, low building made of large, chalky stones. Our red door stands to the right with small windows either side, each pane split into six small rectangles. To the left, the neighbour’s black door crouches beneath three more windows, their wooden frames battered by the sea air. The slate roof has seen better days, but the two chimneys still stand proud at either side of the roof. Next door seems empty and a tired ‘For Sale’ sign hangs defeatedly from its post.
I remove the key and sit with the engine ticking and the sea breeze filling the view with chaotic gusts.
‘So, Bean. This is home.’
I tread carefully towards the door; my fingers struggle with the lock until it yields and the door swings open. I prop it open with my bag and then return to the car and retrieve the rest of my things, as well as shopping bags filled with a couple of days’ worth of essentials.
The door slams closed behind me. I secure the latch and stand in the middle of the small square of carpet at the foot of the staircase. To my right is the low door into the lounge and to my left is the kitchen. There is a dream-like quality when I step into the lounge; distorted memories fly at me from every direction. Even though the room has lost its feeling of home and security, it still embraces and repels me in equal measures. I’m so overcome with emotion that I feel breathless and unsteady. I turn my head and face Mum’s empty chair, the wooden legs chipped and marked and the beige upholstery almost threadbare. She would sit with her legs folded beneath her to one side, a book on the arm and a cup of tea balancing precariously next to it. My legs feel weak and I sink into the beige sofa opposite, as the smell of mould and disgruntled dust is expelled from the tarnished material. I feel her loss engulf me, but not in the way it has in the past. This time I feel myself folding into it; I nestle against memories that I have blocked out because the pain was just too acute to bear. I let myself remember Christmas mornings in this room, the smell of pine from the tree and the feel of the waxy holly that she used to lay beneath the log burner. I look towards the window where an overgrown bramble taps and claws at the glass above the sill where Mum used to arrange sweet peas in a crystal vase. Anger starts to rise, speeding up my heartbeat and shaking my limbs: the vase had been smashed, broken shards trapping daylight inside them, sparkling and gleaming. It had seemed so wrong that they could still sparkle when the light inside her was gone; the shimmer and glint had been taken from her, but that vase was still full of light. I remember kicking the pieces across the room into the darkness, away from the sunlight. I close my eyes and let the memories consume me: the ridiculous scarecrow outfit she had made for me for a book day at school; the way I screamed at her – brimming with teenage indignation – at how unfairly life was treating me; the way she would smile when he was kind to her; the way she would look at him as if he had given her diamonds instead of a backhanded compliment.
I’m shivering. I don’t know how long I’ve been here or when sleep claimed me; the skin on my face is tight and my eyes are swollen, but I feel better, lighter. The wind has calmed a little as I go outside into the small garden. Hedges and grass still frame the overgrown lawn and swing tyre. There are a few broken fence panels too, which have become part of the land, smothered and hidden by the undergrowth. I bring in some logs from the old coal bunker and set about lighting the burner in the lounge.
The amber light begins to dance as the flames come to life and I stand up. My attention is caught by the crack in the plaster next to the door. My feet stop moving.
I’m petrified, just as I had been the day that crack was made. I stare at it; walk towards it; touch it. That day was a Sunday. Helen and I had heard his voice, slurred with rage rather than alcohol. As I ran into the room, he was holding her long, dark hair in his fist, her head leaning so far back that she didn’t know I was there.
I watch the memory play out like a film in slow motion: his spittle flying slowly from his mouth; his lips brutishly forming the words of blame. I turn my head towards the door where I see my ten-year-old face, as bit by bit, my expression changes from shock to fear. My blond ponytail, kept in place by a plastic cherry hair bobble, swings fluidly from side to side as I shake my head, my mouth gradually forming the word ‘stop’. Her crime that day had been ironing a double crease in his trousers. She was trying to make a fool of him, he had said. She had tried to tell him that she hadn’t been able to find her glasses that day. In fact, he had broken them with the heel of his work boot while she had been crouched on the floor trying to pick them up.
My innocent face takes on an expression that the muscles of a ten-year-old shouldn’t have learnt yet, an expression of absolute horror at the scene it’s witnessing.
Helen’s hand creeps into the shot, her fingers digging into the flesh of my arm as she pulls me out of the room, pulling me up the stairs, towards our bedroom. I hear
d the noise that had made the crack in the wall . . . but Helen saved me from seeing it.
I blink, and their images have gone.
My fingers stroke the hairline fracture in the wall. What had been her crime the day she died? Perhaps she had forgotten to buy his newspaper? I picture her optimistic smile as he walked through the door, his steak frying on the hob, his beer already being poured into a glass. Her beautiful smile fading, her heart thudding in her chest when she watched him looking for the newspaper, the image of the bare shelf in the shop filling her body with dread. Was that what had happened? Had he grabbed her by the wrist? By the hair? Or had she left the fridge door open so that his milk had turned sour? I picture her face blanching as she poured the milk into his cup of tea, the milk floating to the top in globules, the image filling her mouth with a sour taste before he smacked her face into the kitchen counter. Had she tried to flee the room apologising?
My stomach growls, bringing me back, and I put my hand to my stomach.
‘Hungry, Bean?’ I walk towards the arch into the kitchen. My mouth is dry and my heart thuds inside my chest, the vibrations climbing up my spine and into my ears.
‘Come on, Sophie.’ My mother’s voice is soft but insistent. ‘It’s just a kitchen.’ I step into the last room my mother ever went into, the last room that she ever saw, the last room that she took her final breath in: the room where her life ended.
Another scene plays out in front of me as I step into the kitchen. It’s a memory of before Ian, before Helen, but after Dad had left. She is younger and her hair is piled on top of her head in a bun as she stands by the counter with a mixing bowl. Mum is wearing a sage-green apron with little leaves on it. The kitchen is bright, the summer sun streaming from the windows as she pulls a chair next to her. I watch as my four-year-old legs clamber up, my podgy hand taking the mixing spoon from her hand. She ruffles my halo of golden hair as I start spooning cake mixture into pink paper cases. It was just the two of us and we were happy. We were happier on our own. My hand slides down to my stomach and I smile. We’ll be happier on our own.
The memory slips away and instead, I let the horrors of the day she died creep their way in. My feet carry me to the spot where she would have been standing as he held his hands around her windpipe, her back against the edge of the draining board, the cupboard filled with cleaning products behind her legs. I let the tears fall freely as I picture her trying to fight him off. The weight of his stomach hanging over his jeans, the smell of his overpowering aftershave filling the room. My own breath catches as I stifle a sob at the thought that the last thing she would have smelt was not the sweet peas that she used to love, not the smell of my hair after a bath when I was three, not the smell of the wholemeal bread that we would cover in honey, but his stench: thick with rage and violence.
Maybe if I hadn’t been at a sleepover that night, he wouldn’t have done it. I shake this thought from my head. Her death wasn’t my fault. I have no culpability here; but I do have regret. I regret that Helen found her, and I regret that Helen was alone when she called the police and when they questioned her about her father; a stranger from social services comforting her instead of me. I think that was what I was most afraid of whenever I thought about returning here to this house. But as I stand in the middle of this room, I don’t feel alone; I feel like I have come home.
This room that I have been so afraid of is nothing more than mismatched cupboard doors that never hang quite right, a white plastic kettle, white fridge-freezer and a kitchen table which never stays still when you’re trying to cut your food, unless you fold up some cardboard beneath the table leg.
I sit down and open a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and a can of Coke.
‘We’ve got a lot of work to do,’ I say out loud. ‘We’ll clean in here first and then make the bed, OK?’ I tap my flat stomach, scrunch up the packet and crush the can. I roll my sleeves up and begin cleaning the kitchen with anti-bacterial spray. The kitchen cupboards are empty from that day so long ago when I closed up the house. It’s hard to think I was just a teenager then; I had felt so grown up. Helen had tried to come in with me, but in the end, she couldn’t set foot inside.
Instead, I filled bin bags and loaded them into the boot of Helen’s old white Citröen, and she transported them to the skip in town.
The house and Mum’s life insurance, which I inherited, was put into a trust fund for me until I turned eighteen. Mum had made changes to her will a year before her death, making Helen my legal guardian and trustee of my inheritance, in case anything happened to her. Helen paid the bills on the house until I was old enough to decide what I wanted to do. We moved to England, not far from where she lives now. Mum had left a small inheritance for Helen too, enough for the first few months of living in a new place, but that soon ran out. Helen worked twelve-hour shifts in a factory making power tool parts, to pay the rent on a one-bedroomed flat, which we kitted out with bunk beds and charity shop furniture. I never intended to stay away for so long, but the longer I left it, the harder it was to return. It was no surprise that I would inherit the cottage; Mum had bought it with her own inheritance when her dad died (a heart attack, I think; she never talked about it much). He had left the house to her, not to my grandmother – much to everyone’s disgust from the stories Mum used to tell. She never had much to do with Mum after that, and from what I could gather, there wasn’t much love lost between them.
After I have cleaned, I make my way upstairs. The stairs still creak in the same places; I picture myself and Helen trying to avoid the loud ones, so we could sneak into the kitchen for snacks: the memories are vivid and comforting. I open the airing cupboard, and the dusty smell of the old towels that are still stacked there reminds me of how long this house has been closed and empty. I flick the switches and the central heating bangs and clanks into action.
Mine and Helen’s bedroom is bare apart from the old wardrobes and beds. The window is curtainless, but the old net lace, yellowed by age and sun, flutters at the sides of the window where the elements battle to clamber through the gaps. The sun breaks through the clouds and bubble-gum-pink light stretches and pops against the back wall where blotches of old wallpaper leave silhouettes of the many pieces of paper that made our word-wall. I smile and take a deep breath as I leave the room and face Mum’s bedroom door. My hand turns the porcelain doorknob, and as I step inside . . . I swear it smells of her.
Week Eight
Samuel
‘Don’t try to move.’ I hear Sarah’s voice. My body feels hot and heavy; the inside of my eyelids scratch as I force them open. The room feels small; I feel too big. ‘Take your time. You’ve been asleep for a while, Sam . . . you’ve had an accident. You’re in the hospital. You might feel a little groggy, you’re on morphine for the pain.’
I try to reply but I’m pulled back under.
Week Nine
Sophie
I smooth down the white duvet and smile. I chose this bed with a purpose; a new beginning. It’s different from anything I owned in the house in London: it is not practically making use of every inch of space and it doesn’t boast an oversized headboard or a television at its foot. Instead, I have chosen something a little more . . . more. The frame is brass, not something I would normally choose. I love the way the pattern curls and twists itself – no beginning and no end – just an endless journey. I run my hand over the cold spheres of the knobs and let my fingers trace the loops and dives of the headboard.
The window is ajar. April exhales in a long, cool breath, the sea air setting a course towards summer. White lace billows inwards, swollen, like the sails of a ship, towards the heavy white curtains which try to anchor it. I know the idea of having everything white may sound alien to some people. But there are so many different types of white, and I love how they sit together: the fresh, almost milky tone of the painted bureau against the harsh, electric white of the mirror-frame. The floorboards I have kept bare, just as Mum had originally had them, before He
had complained that the floor had been too cold and covered them with a hideous blue patterned carpet. There are thick white rugs either side of the bed and almond-white French vintage-style bedside tables, with bowed legs and a deliberately weathered look. Each piece of furniture I have chosen carefully, filling this room with things that I love, that I enjoy, that make this my room. Looking over at Mum’s old brass carriage clock, sitting on the bookcase, I realise I need to get going. I allow myself another moment to enjoy being in this room; this room that I have been so afraid of for so long.
‘So, as you’re quite late seeing a doctor, we may as well make this your booking appointment.’ Doctor Flint’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he looks at me over his wire-framed glasses. He had glasses like that when I was younger – are they the same pair? I have been in here for about twenty minutes talking about my family history and about the foods I can and can’t eat.
‘Let’s find out your due date, shall we?’ He picks up a cardboard circle and begins to turn part of it around. ‘What was the date of the first day of your last period?’
‘Oh, um, the sixth of February.’ He turns the disk around and then smiles at me over his glasses again.
‘So, your little bundle of joy—’
‘Bean.’
‘Bean, is it?’ he chuckles.
I nod, feeling curiously proud.
‘Right then, well “Bean” is due on the thirteenth of November.’
I’ll have a baby before Christmas. This thought scratches my mood. It runs its nail around my fragile bubble of contentment, pushing it slightly so it starts to drift from my grasp. I’m going to have a baby: a real-life baby. I think of last Christmas, which I spent on my own. I’d eaten a supermarket turkey and stuffing sandwich and had spent the day researching the profiles of some of Greenlight’s employees – seeing which staff we would want to keep, and which ones would be dead wood. It hadn’t been a sombre day: I didn’t feel left out or sad; I just had work to do and that was that. Helen had invited me over, of course, but I’d declined; I didn’t want to waste valuable time travelling over the festive period.
