Barbara Foster looks at the tall warty one, who shrugs. She looks back at me. ‘Well, I suppose that’s okay. But we’ll need to arrange another date with you soon. To talk to you again.’
When they leave, the tightness in my chest evaporates. For the first time in ages I can breathe without feeling dizzy, and when I look at other people they don’t seem distant or blurred.
Mr Nelson sits silently in the armchair, head turned away from me.
‘Poor love! They’ve gone now.’ Mrs Nelson bustles around, then sits next to me and gives my shoulders a comforting squeeze. ‘Silly girl for hiding! It’s not your fault!’
Katie comes downstairs from the bathroom.
‘Come and sit with me, princess. Tell Dad and Lizzie what they asked you,’ Mrs Nelson says, adding bitterly, ‘I didn’t interrupt you that much! They had no right to keep shushing me like that. Cheek!’
‘I just told them what we saw that time,’ Katie tells me. ‘How we looked through the window and saw them dancing Flamingo. I told them how I didn’t see anything all the times after that.’
With horror, I realise she’s referring to her weekly reports. I’m not sure what the policewoman would make of our arrangement. Was Katie stupid enough to mention our secret contract of employment during her interview? If so, I’ll have to emphasise her unreliability in my written account, how she’s a shoplifter and bottle-thief, certainly not to be trusted as an eye-witness.
‘Did he do something bad to Helen?’ Katie’s voice quavers. ‘Will they find him and arrest him?’
‘If they hadn’t kept telling me to shut up, I could answer your questions,’ Mrs Nelson says bitterly. ‘I simply wanted answers to some basic questions.’ She looks at me. ‘If you’d let me come in with you, Lizzie, I’d have a bit more information.’ Then her chest heaves. ‘Poor Lizzie! Would you like to go over to the hospital and tell your mum all about it?’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Is it okay if I stay here?’ I urgently need to start planning my document to save myself from future interrogations. I don’t want to talk to those two women ever again.
****
Tues 28th February
The winter sunshine bounces off Dad’s glasses and I can’t see his eyes. All I can see is my face reflected twice, once in each lens like a pair of identical twins.
‘Beautiful day! Let’s go out somewhere rather than sitting in.’ He leans forward to give me a hug and tries to kiss me on the cheek.
I hunch my shoulders, face burning uncontrollably.
‘Nice haircut!’ Dad’s face, neck and arms look patchy and leathery like a dry lump of beef.
‘I had it done ages ago.’
He gets the message. ‘Sorry I haven’t been able to see you, Lizzie. I’ve been trying to find a place to live. And a job. I’ve had to prioritise things. And hospital comes top of the list at the moment.’
If I repeated what I told that policewoman yesterday about what Mr Phillips did to me, he’d soon find out who should come top of the list at the moment
‘Hey, Lizzie. Do you know how to ask someone in German if they’d like to do a poo?’ He interrupts my thoughts, speaking in a cheerful voice.
I shake my head and look over my shoulder. I don’t want Mrs Nelson to emerge from the kitchen and start talking to him about yesterday. Today I’m going to have my dad all to myself for a special day out. We arranged it last night on the phone. At the hospital, Rebecca told him about my interview and gave him the Nelsons’ number.
He adopts a comic German accent and raises his hand in a Nazi salute. ‘Durst du do doo-doos?’
I laugh at top volume to ensure that Katie, up in her bedroom, can hear what an excellent rapport I’ve got with my dad. My laughter’s so loud it explodes out of the front door and cartwheels up the path to the road.
In reality, however, I don’t think my dad’s joke is remotely funny. I’m learning German at school, and what he said isn’t even half-German. ‘To do’ isn’t ‘do’ and ‘poo’ isn’t ‘doo-doos.’ I remember how he and Rebecca used to chuckle in amusement during dinner when one or the other told a joke. They would play ping-pong with words, batting them back and forth across the table. As their puns got increasingly complicated, they would go into convulsions of laughter, shutting me out.
In the awkward silence that follows, Dad fidgets with a bunch of keys. ‘Want to go for a walk? Have a chat about yesterday?’
He doesn’t have a musky smell any more. I inhale vigorously, seeking the lost scent, but all my nose can find is a hint of lavender washing powder.
‘Can’t we go into town for a Big Mac?’
In planning today, I’d imagined us starting out at Macdonald’s for an early lunch, followed by an hour’s clothes shopping, then the cinema for Trading Places and perhaps a bite to eat afterwards at Pinocchio’s. I don’t want to discuss the interview with him because I still can’t work out whether or not my story about Mr Phillips fits with what Katie said. Mr Nelson, who was present at both interviews, has hardly spoken a word to me since then.
Dad says, ‘Sorry, love, I haven’t got the money for meals out.’
‘Not even for a special treat? Please?’ I hear myself wheedling.
‘Let’s go for a walk on the seawall. I’ve got to be at the hospital for lunchtime. We’re sorting out Helen’s transfer arrangements.’
I look at my Swatch. ‘But it’s half ten now.’ I try not to let my disappointment show because I know Dad can’t bear sulky behaviour. That’s one of the main reasons he left Rebecca, in my opinion.
We quick-march down the road and turn left through the boatyard.
A thread of water trickles along the centre of the creek, forming a sharp line that divides the mud banks on either side.
I struggle to keep up with Dad. I can’t ask him to slow down because I don’t want him to think I can’t do it. He strides ahead, feet thudding firmly on the path.
The cold air stings my eyes and I squint in the sunshine. I keep tripping over tufts of grass.
After half a mile or so, Dad slows his pace. I wait for him to speak. I’m sure he’s got a significant announcement to make because he keeps breathing in and pausing. Each time he exhales, his breath becomes visible like a speech-bubble in a cartoon. But the bubbles are empty of words.
When we reach the wrecked barge, we halt and sit side-by-side on the seawall, gazing at the blackened ribs jutting out of the mud.
‘Want to talk about yesterday?’ Dad asks.
After Barbara Foster and that policewoman left, I sat in the bedroom and secretly composed a list of my crimes. Each crime stood out beside its neighbour like a bead on a string digging into my neck.
1. Trying to poison my sister to death.
2. Breaking into Mr and Mrs Phillips’ house.
3. Stealing large sums of money from Katie and Rebecca.
4. Forging other people’s handwriting in order to make things happen.
One or two more commonplace offences need to be added to the string, like telling lies to people at school, taking things from the cloakroom and shoplifting in town. But everybody I know is guilty of petty theft, especially Katie Nelson.
After writing it, I destroyed the list immediately.
‘They wanted to find you to be here too.’ I try not to let my voice sound too accusing.
‘I haven’t got a number at the moment, love. I’m staying odd nights here and there with friends.’ He looks across the mud, which shimmers in the sunshine, forming a smooth blank surface. ‘Sofa-surfing. Not pleasant, I can tell you.’
I decide to offer him an exit clause. ‘Yes, but I bet Rebecca didn’t even try to contact you.’
‘Lizzie! Don’t be so horrible! Your mum’s trying her best in very difficult circumstances.’
‘She makes up all kinds of stories about you. She says I used to follow you round when I was small. She doesn’t like the fact we’re so similar.’
‘You did follow me around. You wouldn’t let me out of your sight. You bur
st into tears whenever I disappeared from view.’
I can’t understand why he’s taking Rebecca’s side rather than mine. I’m the loyal one, not her. He shouldn’t repeat her story just because they’re both adults.
A greylag goose roots around on the saltmarsh, panning the foliage for edible stems. Closer and closer it comes, beak moving rapidly to and fro, ignoring me and Dad. From afar it looks grey all over, but now I see the flash of white beneath its tail and the detail of an intricate bodice, a subtle mosaic of grey and brown feathers.
I look for the rest of the flock, but can only see herring gulls.
I stare at a bundle of rope half-buried in the mud and wonder if I should tell my dad about some of the things he’s missed while he’s been away. What would I start with? School? Helen’s special friendship with Mr Phillips?
Dad picks at stalks. ‘Do you think that man abused Helen? Did you see something?’
Suddenly he starts to cry. Tears stream past his down-turned mouth, which looks exposed and raw in the absence of his beard.
I look at him, appalled. ‘Stop it!’
Shoulders heaving, he says, ‘I can’t stop thinking about it. What that man did to her. We need to know what happened. But I can’t bear the idea of what might’ve happened.’
‘I saw them.’
His noise halts. ‘What did you see?’
The distance between the sides of the story is too vast to cross. Helen’s secret. My lies. ‘I told them everything yesterday. Don’t worry, Dad. They were only playing games. Card games, hide and seek, dancing. It’s because he wanted a girl, and he’s only got boys.’ I gaze at the graylag for a while. ‘Why don’t you come back and live with us, Dad?’
‘I can’t see Rebecca agreeing to it after all this time,’ he says quietly.
Even though I wouldn’t admit this to a single living soul, my dad is cowardly and indecisive. He lacks motivation. He gives up too easily. He’s passive. I was always the one to help and encourage him at home.
‘I’ll persuade her.’ I insert a cheerful, problem-solving tone into my voice, but I know I sound crestfallen in the face of all this negativity.
He sighs. ‘No. There’s no point trying. It’s all such a mess.’
‘You’re useless! You can’t do anything!’
‘Don’t attack me, Lizzie.’
‘You’ve changed.’ I stare angrily at the bone factory, roof and chimneys looming through the trees, exposed in the winter sunshine.
‘You don’t understand a bloody thing. You’re the one who’s changed!’
A sudden cackling and gabbling noise makes us look up. A loose V of geese passes overhead, heading for the salt marshes at the mouth of the estuary. The greylag near us launches into the sky.
Suddenly, a smile spreads over Dad’s face. He gives me a playful smack on the arm and grins. ‘Naughty Lizzie! Trying to blame me for everything!’
****
Wed 29th February
‘Please stop!’ I beg from the doorway. Every time she drops a fresh glass, a picture of Helen flashes across my eyes, throwing my precious ballerina at the radiator and toppling my bottles, then collapsing in a bony heap on my floor.
‘Fuck off!’
Katie ran upstairs, closed her bedroom door and turned on her stereo the instant she heard the first tinkle of glass, but I hung around because I thought she’d listen to me.
The Waterford crystal shatters in an explosion of light. Shards of glass stick to the toes of Mrs Nelson’s slippers. I want to grab her hands and tie them up so she can’t do any more damage.
‘Please come and sit down! I’ll make us a cup of tea.’ My voice is almost a squeal.
Starting with the tumblers, moving through the wine glasses and ending with the champagne flutes, Mrs Nelson has smashed her way through the entire set. It’s the opposite of drying-up and putting away. She takes each glass from the cabinet, holds it high above her head and releases it. She has studiously ignored me for the last ten minutes, but now she staggers through the broken glass and lurches at me, pointing a finger at the ceiling. ‘Ger ourra my shite!’
She turns around and makes a bee-line for the dinner plates.
I run through the connecting door to the garage.
Wearing oily blue overalls, Mr Nelson tinkers with his Ford Capri and whistles along to a tune on Radio Two. Pieces of the car lie in haphazard patterns all around him on the floor. He seems to have no inkling that the family home is being destroyed from within.
‘She’s breaking everything!’ I feel as if I’m telling tales. But I need him to stop her from destroying all those beautiful things.
‘Stay in here for a bit. No point trying to stop her.’ He wipes his hands on an oily rag.
‘What’s the matter with her?’
‘She won’t remember in the morning,’ he replies. ‘Stay in here for a bit. Be alright in the morning.’
‘But she’s breaking all your things.’
‘Leave her alone. She’ll be okay.’ His voice is firm. He wipes his hands on the rag again and looks around. ‘Where’s that broken doll of yours?’
I bring my box over to the workbench and take off the lid.
Inside, my ballerina lies on a crackly bed of tissue paper. Pieces of her head are positioned at the top of the box, and her chest, skirts and legs lie roughly where they used to be when she was whole, with the severed feet and plinth at the bottom. I’ve tucked the hands and arms around the edges, wherever there’s space.
She looks like a mosaic version of her previous self.
‘Give us a look.’ He leans over, frowning, picks up a segment and examines every edge. His fingernails are ragged and dirty. ‘Nice clean lines. Good quality china. Want me to get you a new one? Haven’t got the same one. Want a different one from the shop?’
‘I like this one. Can’t we try to mend this one?’
‘Worth a try.’
He rummages in a toolbox the size of a sink, taking out clamps, masking tape, wooden splints and Araldite. I ask why he doesn’t use the new extrastrong stuff everybody’s talking about at school, and he explains that good craftsmen need more than a split second to decide how to mend broken objects.
He squeezes equal parts from the two tubes of glue and stirs them together with a matchstick. The mixture looks like snot. When I joke that it smells good, he tells me to promise never to take that turning or go down that road.
We line up each fragment. He carefully presses each piece into position, wiping away the excess glue with a clean rag that looks just like one of Mrs Nelson’s blouses.
Nose almost touching the china, he fixes each limb with a splint and tape.
I’m concentrating so hard I don’t hear anything apart from his breathing and the satisfying click as each piece slides into position. Slowly, the familiar figure rises out of the board, and we leave her standing in the garage, shrouded in tape until morning.
****
Thurs 1st March
The rigging rattles against the masts and, further off, a faint clatter fills the air from the bone factory.
I sit at my table by the window in the peace and quiet of number eleven, home at last. The spotlight I borrowed from Rebecca’s study illuminates the first page of the deluxe hardback notebook I got from W. H. Smiths the other day. Rebecca has challenged me to a game of Scrabble later on, but first I want to write some things for Barbara Foster and warty-nose.
The paper in this notebook is really good quality.
My calligraphy pen is poised in my hand. I dip the nib in the bottle of black ink, but I’m not sure where to start. My notes form a neat pile beside me, ordered by date, but I’ve crossed out a lot of material from my rough drafts. Before beginning, I will open the dictionary and study it, so that I can be in control of the best vocabulary and the best combinations of words.
I pull the notebook towards me, then pause and look through the glass.
People disappear so easily.
THE END
> Acknowledgements
I am indebted to Anna Kerr for her detailed guidance on the police and social worker interview scene. Dave Swann, Karen Stevens, Jill Campbell and Graham Minett, plus members of the creative writing workshop at the University of Chichester, gave valuable feedback on drafts of the novel. Ideas about family secrets came from the work of Carol Smart.
####
For more information about Stephanie Newell and Philistine Press, visit www.philistinepress.com.
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Food for the mind
Table of Contents
Title
The Third Person
The Third Person Page 22
