by Ann Troup
Lena too was mulling over thoughts of old friends, so much so that she hadn’t been able to concentrate on the bingo and had missed the opportunity of winning twice. Not that she wanted the prizes, last year’s recycled Christmas presents and the same bottle of wine that had been re-donated as a prize three times weren’t exactly high on her list of desirables. But peace of mind was. She was going to be hard pressed to find any of that now that Number 17 was under scrutiny. There were too many ghosts hidden in that house and she for one wasn’t looking forward to any of them making their presence known. Edie was going to find things, things she probably wouldn’t understand, and the mere thought of it was breaking Lena’s heart. She sighed and hauled herself to her feet, bingo was over and everyone was leaving. If there were going to be things that Edie didn’t understand, Lena would have to make herself available to explain them.
Edie was sorry to discover that Sam wouldn’t be joining her at Lena’s; though she had to accept that he did have a life away from his mother, she had enjoyed his company. It had been good to laugh and spend time with a man she didn’t want to brain with the nearest blunt object. Thoughts of Sam were soon chased away by Lena’s demeanour, the old lady looked tired, as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Edie guessed that the afternoon’s bingo session hadn’t yielded its usual pleasures. ‘Everything all right, Lena?’ she asked as the woman trudged into the house and slumped into her favourite chair.
Lena shrugged. ‘Tired, that’s all. I usually get fish and chips on a Wednesday, be a love and go and fetch them would you? I don’t think these old bones will stand another trip out today.’
Edie didn’t hesitate; it was the least she could do to repay Lena’s hospitality. Though there was some grappling over who would pay. Edie won and set off to fetch their supper.
The queue inside the shop was long; she loitered outside for a few minutes, loath to expose herself to the steamy aroma, which would linger on her clothes – l’eau d’chip shop wasn’t the most appealing perfume in the world. A man, the smart man with the military bearing from yesterday’s funeral, sat on the bench opposite unashamedly staring at her while he ate chips from a paper cone. Edie found his scrutiny wholly unnerving and tried to ignore him by peering up and looking around the square, but his attention was like a magnet and compelled her to keep glancing at him. She almost sprang back when he suddenly stood up and launched his unfinished meal into a nearby bin. From the corner of her eye she saw him step forward, hesitate, seemingly think better of it and walk away. A bizarre sense of relief washed through her and she had no idea why, it was hardly as if he had been about to attack her in such a public place. Even so, she kept her wits about her as she made her way back with two steam-sodden parcels of the nation’s favourite. The man was nowhere to be seen, though she was sure that he had walked across the green towards the opposite side of the square. Fortunately she didn’t have to cross it herself, and could cling to the more brightly lit pavement to reach Lena’s house, nonetheless she closed the front door behind her with a sigh of quiet relief.
Lena had laid the table and warmed plates in the oven, Edie found it odd that such ceremony should accompany a paper wrapped meal; surely the whole point was to have time off from preparation and clearing up. She would happily have eaten her own supper from the greasy bundle, but concluded that when in Rome it was wise to feign Italian. They sat at the table to eat, Edie picking at the congealed mess of carbohydrate while Lena ate with mechanical regularity, her fork moving from plate to mouth with instinctive precision as she focused on the television. One of the soaps was on, churning out typical storylines where someone had stupidly lied, someone else had slept with someone’s partner and yet another was developing a dangerous addiction that would result in doom and disaster. Edie found the show mindlessly oppressive and mentally tuned it out, her thoughts returning to the strange man in the square. There had been something vaguely familiar about him, more than the recalling of him at the funeral. It was something from way back that nudged at her memory. She reached for a slice of the thin white bread that Lena had provided and took a bite. A slick of margarine coated her mouth and she felt her stomach begin to lurch, she had never been able to stand the taste and texture of margarine. She discarded the bread and took a gulp of tea to wash the taste away while her memory wheeled and clicked like an enigma machine and decoded the messages of the past. Slowly images flickered across her mind, another death, another funeral – limp white bread sandwiches made with margarine and a smear of meat paste. The flush of tepid tea to take the taste away; a grimace and the glimpse of a man sitting in a corner and staring. The same man. He had been at her mother’s wake. Much of the event was a complete blur, she couldn’t look back at it without an overwhelming, confusing sense of loss and longing for the woman she had never felt able to love. She couldn’t remember who had been there other than Simon (who had insisted on repeatedly looking at his watch and sighing) and Rose, who had done all the talking and thanking people for coming. But she recalled that man and it didn’t make sense. ‘Lena, did you come to my mum’s funeral?’
Lena pulled her attention away from the TV ‘Eh? No love I didn’t. Bill was in hospital at the time, and I couldn’t make it. Why?’
Edie shrugged. ‘It’s just that I saw someone in the square who I’m sure was there. I was just trying to place him.’ She had forgotten that Lena’s husband Bill had died soon after.
Lena frowned. ‘Other than me, Dickie and Dolly I can’t think that there’d have been anyone left who’d have known your mum. Unless the Bastins went, though I can’t see that would be likely.’
That name too was familiar. ‘Who are the Bastins?’
‘You must remember Sheila Bastin – you know, always went about the place looking sorry for herself and sheepish, lived across the way with that boy of hers, Matthew. It was her bastard husband what killed Sally Pollett and them others. But like I said, there was no love lost between us lot and them, so I doubt she’d have gone to your mum’s funeral. But Matthew might have done, odd bugger that one. Spent all his life trying to prove his father’s innocence and getting nowhere – used to stalk this place like a nosy little goblin, so it wouldn’t surprise me at all if he’d pitched up there just to have a look see. He came to Bill’s and all, cheeky swine. Didn’t get past the door for the wake though, I saw to that. We didn’t see much of him after that, I heard he joined the army or something. Not sure I’d even know him now.’
Of course! The different sections of Edie’s memory clicked into place like a combination lock set to the right sequence and released. She did remember him, Matthew Bastin, son of a killer and bully bait for the whole square. Skinny, scruffy and always hanging around as if he was waiting to be picked on. It was a fleeting thing, but Edie recalled a sense of pity for the boy which had been knocked out of her eleven-year-old self by Rose’s remonstration and a Chinese burn painfully administered by a young and spiteful Sam. All because she had offered Matt a sweet once. Was it Sam who had told her to stay away from Matt because he would chop her to little pieces and stuff her down the drain? She couldn’t recall, but someone had. It seemed that Matt Bastin was still a glutton for punishment if he had chosen to come back to the square.
Lena’s attention had drifted back to the TV where another soap with its familiar themes had begun to insinuate its immorality onto the supper eating viewers. Edie couldn’t stand it. She pushed her unfinished food away and reached for Lena’s empty plate. ‘I’ll wash these up and make some more tea.’ she said, waiting for Lena’s absentminded nod of approval. All those characters could remain faceless and unnamed to Edie; life already had more than enough drama for her.
Chapter Four
Lena’s kitchen was cluttered but clean, full of the paraphernalia that marked out a busy and productive existence. Edie was surprised at the quality of some of the equipment and assumed that Sam was the culprit, treating his mother to labour-saving devices and goods that would make h
er life a little easier. It must be nice to have a son who dropped in frequently and who cared about your day. Edie thought of Will and felt a pang of longing as she considered the distance between herself and her son. It wasn’t only the gulf of the Pacific that separated them, but his dogged loyalty to his father. She had always felt that Will though of her as a loving fool, just a doting, laundry-doing, food-cooking mum who needed no nurture and who could survive on that role alone. Edie sighed, whichever vantage point she chose to stand at and look at her life, the view always appeared to be half-baked and wanting. She plunged her hands into the scalding water and let the heat seep into her skin and creep into her bones in the vain hope that it would travel to her heart and start a thaw.
When she returned to the sitting room Lena was dozing in her chair, slack jawed and snoring. Edie considered fetching a blanket to cover the old lady, but something told her not to, that the intervention would not be welcome. The way that Lena was clutching at the arms of the chair in her sleep was jarring and it made Edie want to look away. She walked softly into the front room and, like many before her, peered out through the net curtains. This side of the square seemed quiet at night, all the activity took place in the communal garden and outside the pub where the smokers were gathered. Edie watched as they downed their drinks and laughed, then she turned her attention to the garden, where a group of kids, or what looked like kids to Edie, were busy clambering on a bench with the apparent intent of dismantling it. Was this what had caused Dolly to shut the world out?
The unexpected clatter of a skateboard on the paving slabs and the sudden appearance of a boy whizzing by sent her scurrying back into the dimly lit room, her heart pounding. The noise had shocked her and had seemed to come from nowhere. The grating rattle of loose wheels faded and her heart slowed as her senses came off red alert. All that she could hear now was the ticking of the clock and Lena’s gentle snores. The clock told her that it was five past nine, too early to go to bed and too late to do any more work in Number 17. She thought of ringing Rose and asking her about Matthew Bastin, but decided against it – if she rang after nine Rose would think something was wrong and what could Edie say, everything is wrong and I don’t know how to put it right?
With another sigh she headed for the stairs, a long bath and an early night seemed like her only option. While the hot tap thundered water into the tub she opened the window to release the steam and peered down into Lena’s yard. None of the houses had gardens as such, just a yard that used to house an outside toilet and a coal shed. Each yard backed on to an access lane where modern residents squeezed their cars to load and unload. Someone, Sam she supposed, had knocked down the old structures in Lena’s yard and had created a little seating area with a few pots and a small barbecue. Edie smiled at the thought of Lena’s huge family crammed into the tiny space, eating chargrilled burgers amidst the busy lizzies. The smile was wiped from her face when she spied a movement in the shadows of Number 17’s yard. Something was moving about down there. Her first instinct was to assume that an urban fox was rummaging about amongst the mountain of Dolly’s uncollected bin bags, but whatever it might be seemed too large to be a fox, and too noisy to be a burglar. Not that any burglar would find much, except maybe a bad dose of e coli poisoning and a fit of asthma. Nevertheless, Edie felt obliged to investigate, especially as she had a sneaking feeling that she hadn’t locked the back door. She thought of the kids in the square and their bid to vandalise the bench. Number 17 was in enough of a state, without the addition of graffiti and saboteurs.
Abandoning her half run bath, she made her way quietly down the stairs and was relieved to find Lena still sleeping. Logic suggested that Edie should ring the police, but knowledge equally suggested that by the time they arrived the house might be wrecked – though it would be hard to tell the difference. In Lena’s kitchen she cast about for a weapon in case she needed to indulge in a little self-defence, knives were definitely out, although brandishing a meat cleaver might look dramatic and terrifying Edie felt she’d be more likely to damage herself with such a thing than menace anyone else. In the end she settled for a hefty rolling pin and a weighty Maglite that had been conveniently left on the windowsill. Armed and ready she made her way through the back door and out into the alley at the back of the house. Her first shock was the discovery that Lena’s house had been fitted with outside lights, which were triggered by motion. Having her progress suddenly illuminated for all to see was almost more unnerving than the fear of facing a roomful of teenagers hell bent on wanton destruction. For a moment she froze, unsure of the wisdom of her mission and feeling faintly ridiculous, armed as she was with baking equipment and a torch. The prospect of facing a vandalised house drove her on while the security light projected her shadow on the yard wall, where it loomed like some monstrous parody of a Victorian villain.
The yard of number seventeen was littered with junk and did not benefit from security lighting. Even in the weak beam of Lena’s torch Edie had to pick her way through the detritus and fight the smell of rotting rubbish. As she had suspected, the back door had been left open and her heart sank and floundered like a landed fish.
Whoever was inside hadn’t turned on the lights so she paused and strained her ears in a bid to pick up auditory evidence of a wrecking party. There was nothing, only the distant wail of a siren and the muffled hum of the square. Feeling increasingly apprehensive she stole through the door and found the kitchen empty of vandals and the same as she had left it, except for the presence of a back pack that had been placed on the kitchen table. Edie shone the torch beam on it. The bag was old and worn and emitted a pungent smell of old dirt and rotting daffodils – why the prospect of facing one of the great unwashed was less fear provoking than a houseful of rampant teenagers was beyond Edie, but for some reason she felt less tense about the anticipated encounter. Until a loud, house-shaking thud from upstairs caused her to drop the torch and cling onto the rolling pin with both hands in a primal stance of abject terror. The torch rolled on the floor, its thin beam making a kaleidoscope of shadows dance across the walls, to the extent that she felt surrounded and assailed by the ghosts of her own fears. Taking a deep breath she moved into the hallway and crept towards the stairs. Her heart was beating so loudly that she became convinced that the intruder would hear it, consider it a war drum and consequently see it as a call to arms.
From the bottom of the stairs she could hear no further noise, the house was menacingly quiet – as if waiting with bated breath along with her for someone to leap out and break the silence. For Edie the absence of any sound was more terror provoking than anything else, a cacophony of joyous destruction would have been less menacing, at least then she could have sallied in and used the impetus of an unexpected interruption to halt proceedings. She faltered at the foot of the stairs, remembering a history lesson in which the teacher had explained that in defending a castle, the soldier descending the stairs always had the advantage. Whilst she pondered her own disadvantage, the realisation that the bathroom light was on penetrated her consciousness, as did the recognition that whoever was up there was groaning in what sounded like pain. Tentatively Edie peered around the newel post and looked up. A thin hand protruded over the highest tread, it twitched, the fingers jerking and clutching at the air. It didn’t look like the hand of a man.
Aware that unless the intruder had set a trap she was safe enough, Edie took the stairs, still keeping a tight grip on the rolling pin while the other hand slid up the bannister, twitching against it almost as nervously as the one she could see at the top of the stairs. The groans had become weaker and fear changed into concern as Edie’s ascent revealed the presence of a girl. Her thin body was curled onto the landing floor in a state of collapse and she was half conscious and bleeding.
Edie’s immediate response was to drop the rolling pin and lurch towards the girl, all fear and reservation having fled in the face of this unexpected situation. As she knelt beside her, the girl’s eyelids fluttered an
d she seemed to register Edie’s presence, though she tried to roll away and use her free arm to bat Edie away.
‘No, leave me ‘lone,’ she groaned.
Blood had trickled from her nose and had congealed on her face below a pulped and bruised eye. ‘What happened? Can you sit up?’ Edie said as the girl flailed. ‘It’s OK, I’m not going to hurt you, what happened?’
The girl groaned again and rolled onto her front. ‘Fainted, don’t like blood, feel sick.’
Edie noticed a blood stained towel on the floor – one of her own, and a thing that might have irked her under other circumstances. She grabbed it and rolled it into a rough pillow and pulled the girl onto her side in a rough approximation of the recovery position, or as much of it as she could recall from her Girl Guide first aid course. She put the towel under the girl’s head. ‘Lie still, wait for it to pass. I’m going to get something to clean you up.’
The bathroom was smeared with blood and the smell of vomit rose from the toilet, forcing Edie to wrinkle her nose and recoil as she rummaged through Dolly’s bathroom cabinet looking for something suitable that she could use to clean the girl up. The search yielded nothing except an ancient flannel and a dribble of antiseptic in a bottle probably older than Edie. She used the antiseptic more to ensure that the flannel was clean than any hope that it would have any healing properties for the girl’s face. An old crystal fruit dish purloined from a side table on the landing served as a suitable bowl for the concoction once it had been rinsed free of dust.
She returned to the girl, who now lay less rigidly and who peered at her from her un-swollen eye with increasing consciousness. Wringing out the flannel, first Edie began to dab at the girl’s face, unsure of which was the most unsightly – the blood, the bruising or the grime that adhered to her skin. Once she had cleaned most of the mess away the damage didn’t seem too bad. A bloody nose and a small cut above the swollen eye. ‘Who did this?’ she demanded, knowing that what had happened to the girl’s face had been no accident.
