by Maureen Lee
“Alison. She’s not sick, she’s autistic” I shrugged. “She’s the same as ever.”
“And what about your other sister? And you’ve got a brother, haven’t you?”
I was being cross-questioned again, I told her about Trudy. “As for Declan, he just drifts from job to job. He’s getting nowhere.”
Bel screwed up her face in an expression of disgust.
“There’s not much hope for young people nowadays.”
She sipped her soup for a while, then said casually, “How’s your gran?”
I had the definite feeling that Bel had been leading up to this question from the start. “She’s fine. She was eighty in June.”
“Is she still in the same place in Kirkby?”
“Yes.”
Bel stared at her ultra-fashionable boots: lace-ups with thick soles and heels, not quite Dr Marten’s, but almost. “I don’t suppose,” she said wistfully, “you know what that row was all about?”
“What row?”
“The one all them years ago between your gran and Flo.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” I said. “We were always led to believe Flo had done something terrible, and Gran never spoke to her again.”
Bel pulled one of her peculiar faces. “I heard it the other way round, that it was Martha who’d done wrong and Flo who’d taken umbrage. More than once she said to me, ‘Bel, under no circumstances must our Martha be told if I go to meet me Maker before she does—at least not till the funeral’s over,’ but she’d never tell me why, although she wasn’t one to keep secrets from her best friend. We knew everything about each other except for that.”
At six o’clock, Bel announced that she was going home, but changed her mind when Charmian arrived with a plate of chicken legs and a wedge of homemade fruitcake. By then I was a bit drunk and gladly opened another bottle of sherry. At half past seven we watched Coronation Street. It was hours later that my visitors left, and I was sorry to see them go. Charmian was natural and outgoing, with a sharp wit, and I felt completely at ease, as if I’d known them both all my life. It was as though I had inherited two good friends from Flo.
“I’ve had a great time today,” Bel said, with a satisfied chuckle when she was leaving. “It’s almost as if Flo’s still with us. We must do this again next Sunday. I don’t live far away in Maynard Street.”
I was already looking forward to it, forgetting that I was there to sort out Flo’s possessions, not enjoy myself.
Charmian said, “Our Jay’s twenty-one this week, Millie, and we’re having a party on Saturday. You’re invited if you’re free—bring a boyfriend if you’ve got one.”
“Of course she’s got a boyfriend, a lovely girl like her!”
Bel exclaimed. “A party might be just the thing to help your James through his crisis.”
Charmian rolled her eyes. “It’s a party, not a counselling session.”
“I’ll ask him, but I’m sure he’s already got something arranged.” I was convinced that James would hate the idea.
The flat felt unusually still and quiet without Bel and her loud voice, though it still smelt strongly of her perfume. A police car came screeching round the corner, the flashing blue light sweeping across the room through the thin curtains. It made me realise that I’d had more glasses of sherry than I could count. If I was stopped and breathalysed, I would lose my licence, and I couldn’t afford that: a car was essential to my job. I’ll have to stay here tonight, I thought.
The idea of sleeping in the soft, springy bed was appealing. I made coffee, put it in the microwave and went into the bedroom to take stock. There were nightdresses in the bottom drawer of the chest. I picked out a pretty blue cotton one with short puffed sleeves and white lace trimming on the hem. A dramatic quilted black dressing-gown, patterned with swirling pink roses, was hanging behind the door, and I remembered the pink furry slippers under the bed. I undressed quickly and put on the nightie. It felt crisp and cold, but the dressing-gown was lined with something fleecy and in no time I was warm. I shoved my cold feet into Flo’s slippers. Everything smelt slightly of that lovely scent from the Body Shop, Dewberry! It seemed odd, because I kept thinking of Flo as belonging to another age, not someone who frequented the Body Shop.
It didn’t seem the least bit odd or unpleasant to be wearing a dead woman’s clothes. In fact, it seemed as if Flo had left everything in place especially for me.
There wouldn’t be time in the morning to go home and change, and George disapproved of jeans in the office. A quick glance in the wardrobe showed it to be so tightly packed with clothes that I could barely get my fingers between them. There was bound to be something I could wear.
I collected the coffee, took it into the bedroom and climbed into bed. I switched on the bedside lamp and picked up the book Flo had been reading before she died, turning to the first page. I was deeply involved when my eyes started to close, although it wasn’t yet ten o’clock, hours before I usually went to bed. I turned off the lamp, slid under the bedclothes and lay in the cool darkness, vaguely aware of the saints staring down at me from the walls, and the crucifix above my head.
There were shouts in the distance, followed by a crashing sound, as if someone had broken a window. A car’s brakes shrieked, there were more shouts, but I scarcely noticed. I thought about James. Perhaps I was too hard on him. I resolved to be nicer in future. My thoughts drifted briefly to Bel, but she had scarcely occupied my mind for more than a few seconds before I fell into a deep, restful and dreamless sleep.
“That’s a charming dress,” said George. “You look exceptionally sweet and demure this morning.”
“So do you,” I replied tartly. I always resent men considering it their prerogative to make comments on a woman’s appearance. “The dress belonged to my aunt. I stayed the night in her flat.”
George looked at me askance. “That’s a bit risky, isn’t it? I hope you weren’t alone.”
“I was, but seem to have survived the experience.”
The extension rang on my desk and George disappeared into his office. It was James. “Where on earth were you last night?” he demanded crossly. “I rang and rang and left increasingly desperate messages on your answering-machine. Then I called early this morning and you still weren’t there.”
I frowned in annoyance. What right had he to know my whereabouts for twenty-four hours a day? “I had visitors at my aunt’s flat and we drank a bottle of sherry between us. It didn’t seem safe to drive.”
“If I’d known what number your aunt had lived at, I’d have come to William Square in search of you.”
“If you had, I’d have been very cross,” I said coldly.
James groaned. “Darling, I’ve been out of my head with worry. I thought you might have come to some harm.”
I remembered that I’d vowed to be nicer to him, so bit back another sharp reply. “I’m perfectly all right,” I said pleasantly. “In fact, I had the best night’s sleep in years.”
Even Diana had remarked on how well I looked. “Sparkling” was how she had put it. “You never usually have much colour, but your cheeks today are a lovely pink.”
“Shall we meet tonight, catch a movie, have dinner? Leaving Las Vegas is on at the Odeon.”
“Not tonight, James. I really need to get on with some work at home. I haven’t touched my report in ages.”
George had muttered something earlier about having found an ideal site in Woolton for the new office.
“Perhaps Wednesday or Thursday.”
“Okay, darling.” He sighed. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I hadn’t time to worry if I’d hurt him because the phone rang again immediately I put the receiver down.
The Naughtons wished to view a house in Ormskirk; they’d received the details that morning. This time they’d make their own way there, and I arranged to meet them outside the property at two o’clock.
The phone scarcely stopped ringing for the rest of the morning.
I ate lunch at ray desk, and remembered my appointment with the Naughtons just in time to avoid being late. Snatching the keys off the wall, I told George I’d probably be gone for hours. “They take for ever, wandering around discussing curtains and stuff.”
“Humour them, Millie, even if it takes all day,” George said affably. He grinned. “I must say you look a picture in that dress.”
I stuck out my tongue at him because I knew he was teasing. Flo’s dress was a pale blue and pink check with a white Peter Pan collar, long sleeves and a wide, stifFbelt.
The material was a mixture of wool and cotton. It fitted perfectly and didn’t look in the least old-fashioned.
Neither did the short pink swagger coat that had been tucked at the back of the wardrobe, though I’d had an awful job pressing out the creases with a damp teatowel.
Even Flo’s narrow, size seven shoes could have been bought with me in mind: the clumpy-heeled cream slingbacks went perfectly with everything.
Until I reached the countryside, I hadn’t noticed how miserable the weather was. Mist hung over the fields, drifting in and out of the dank wet hedges. The sky was a dreary grey with blotches of black.
When I drew up outside the house the Naughtons were waiting in their car. It was a compact detached property on a small but very smart estate that had been built only five years ago.
I got out and shook hands with the rather homely middle-aged couple. Their children had left home and they were looking for something smaller and easier to clean. The trouble was, they were unwilling to give up a single item of furniture and seemed unable to visualise life without their present curtains. “Let’s hope this is it!” I smiled. They were registered with several other agents and had been viewing properties for months. “The vendors are both at work, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.”
The house was owned by schoolteachers who were moving south. It had been very untidy when I had called to take details a few days before, but I’d assumed they would tidy up when they knew prospective purchasers were coming—I’d never known a seller yet who hadn’t.
However, when we went in, the place was a tip. Heaps of clothes lay on the stairs to be taken up, the remains of breakfast was still on the kitchen table and there were years of ground-in dirt on the tiled floor.
“This is disgusting,” Mrs Naughton expostulated indignantly.
Her husband nudged her, embarrassed, but she refused to be silenced. “It smells!” she claimed.
After a brief glance in the lounge, which looked as if a hurricane had swept through it, Mrs Naughton refused to go upstairs. “I dread to think what the bathroom must be like. I couldn’t possibly live here.” She made for the door.
Seconds later, I found myself shaking hands again and apologising for the state of the house. They drove away, Mrs Naughton in high dudgeon, and I returned to my car. I had expected the view to take at least an hour but it had been over within a few minutes.
I drove out of the estate and was about to turn right towards Liverpool when I remembered that the St Osyth Trust, where Alison lived, was only about five miles away. On impulse, I turned left in the direction of Skelmersdale. I’d tell George the Naughtons had taken their usual lengthy time. “I’m normally very conscientious,”
I told myself virtuously. “I rarely take time off.
I’m never ill.”
It was months since I’d seen my sister. I preferred to go “without Mum, who frequently made a big emotional scene, patting and kissing a mystified Alison who had no idea what all the fuss was about.
The sky was growing darker and it began to drizzle. I hated driving with the windscreen wipers on, and it was with relief that I turned off the narrow, isolated road into the circular drive of the gloomy redbrick mansion.
The big oak trees bordering the grounds at the front had shed their leaves and a gardener was leisurely raking them into little heaps on the lawn. Round the side of the house, a bonfire smouldered reluctantly. I parked in the area reserved for visitors. Perhaps because it was Monday, I appeared to be the only one there.
The heels of Flo’s shoes clicked loudly on the polished wooden floor as I went over to Reception where a woman was typing. She looked up questioningly. “Can I help you?”
“I’ve come to see Alison Cameron. I’m her sister.” I felt uncomfortable. The woman, Evelyn Porter, had worked there for as long as I could remember, yet she didn’t recognise me because I came so rarely.
“Of course. I should have known. Alison’s in the lounge. She’s already got a visitor. You know the way, don’t you?”
I nodded and turned to go, when Evelyn Porter said, “I should warn you that Alison’s a little upset today. We had to have the upstairs redecorated—it was in a terrible state, and the painters are in her room. Alison can’t stand her precious things being disturbed and you’ll find her rather agitated.”
The lounge was built on to the rear of the house, a sturdy conservatory that went its entire width, filled with brightly cushioned cane furniture. I paused before going in, praying it would be Trudy who was visiting, not Mum. Trudy’s car hadn’t been outside, though, and Mum couldn’t fit in the bus journey to Skelmersdale between finishing work and being home in time to make my father’s tea. During the week he monopolised the car it would have been fixed quick enough when he needed it himself, assuming there’d been anything wrong in the first place.
To my pleased surprise, when I opened the door I found Declan, who was supposed to be at work, alone in the lounge with Alison. “What on earth are you doing here?”
He stood up and hugged me. “Hi, Sis. You’re the last person I expected to see.”
We stayed in each other’s arms for several seconds. It was only when I saw him that I remembered just how much I loved my little brother, though he was several inches taller than me now. “Declan, love, you’re thinner than ever,” I said. I could feel the bones protruding from his neck and shoulders, and I remembered the violence meted out to his puny body by our father. I gave him an affectionate push and turned to my sister. “Hallo, Alison.
It’s Millie. I’ve come to see you.”
Over the last few years, Alison Cameron had grown into a beautiful young woman. She’d always been the prettiest of us three sisters, but now she was breathtaking.
Her eyes were large and very green, like a luminous sea in sunlight, the lashes long and thick, several shades darker than her abundant ash-blonde hair, emphasising the creamy whiteness of her flawless skin. Her condition was only evident in the movements of her lovely body: stiff, clumsy, lacking grace.
“Hallo, hallo, hallo.” Alison flicked her long fingers in front of her eyes. “You want to go upstairs.”
She meant, “I”. “I want to go upstairs.”
“Sorry, luv. You can’t,” Declan said gently. “Your room’s being painted a nice new colour.”
I kissed the smooth, porcelain cheek, but Alison didn’t seem aware of the gesture. “It will look very pretty when it’s done, darling. Then you can spread all your lovely things out again.” She kept her talcum powder, hairslides, toys and other odds and ends in neat rows on the bedside table and window-sill, and was always deeply distressed if anything “was put in the ‘wrong place.
“You want to go upstairs.”
“Later, darling, later.”
Alison looked at the floor, avoiding eye-contact.
“Come in thing with wheels?”
“I came in my car, yes.”
“You go in thing with wheels.”
“You’ve been in a car? Whose car, darling?”
“I think Trudy and Colin took her for a drive yesterday,”
Declan whispered, when Alison shook herself irritably and began to flick her fingers again.
I had never been able to comprehend what went on in my sister’s mind, although one of the doctors had once tried to explain it to Mum. It was something to do with mind blindness, the inability to perceive another person’s emotions, which was why she some
times laughed when our mother cried. Poor Mum was unable to accept that Alison wasn’t laughing at her. My sister just wasn’t aware of tears.
“Would you like to do a jigsaw puzzle, luv?” Declan suggested. “The woman brought some in before,” he said.
“Thought they might calm her down, like.”
But Alison was looking out of the window, where a narrow line of smoke was drifting upwards from the bonfire. She had an uncanny, inexplicable ability to do the most complicated jigsaws in a fraction of the time it would have taken most people.
Declan and I looked at each other. As far as Alison was concerned, we might as well not be there.
“You know,” Declan said softly, “I used to think me dad was responsible for the way Alison is. I thought he shook and slapped her so hard it damaged her brain. I envied her something rotten. I always hoped he’d do the same to me so I’d be sent here, too.”
“He did more than shake and slap you, Dec. He leathered the three of us regularly.”
“You had it the worst, Mill. You were the oldest, and he seemed to have it in for you more than the rest of us.”
I made a face. I seemed to have caught the habit from Bel. “Maybe there was something about me that drove him over the edge,” I suggested lightly.
“Still, it didn’t damage our brains. We all stayed quite normal.” Declan grinned. “Least, relatively normal. Mind you,” the grin disappeared, “there’s still time for one of us to snap. I’ll end up behind bars if I stay in that house much longer. I swear one day I’ll kill the bastard because of the way he treats Mam. He hasn’t given her any money in weeks. It used to be the horses, now it’s that bloody lottery. Yet you should hear him moan if the food isn’t up to scratch. He nearly hit the roof when we got a reminder for the electricity bill, as if she could pay everything out of the fifty quid a week she earns and what I hand over for me keep. He called her a lazy bitch and said it was about time she got a full-time job. If she did, there’d be hell to pay if his meals ‘weren’t ready on time.’
