‘I’ve been a homemaker for the last few years,’ she said, the heat rising to her cheeks and neck. ‘But I am a passionate cook and a quick learner.’
The two women stood in silence for a beat or two, until Fiona asked the direct question.
‘Forgive me, Nina, but what culinary qualifications do you have?’
‘I . . .’ She faltered, remembering the man on the phone who had been so sharp: ‘We all need a job. The difference is, some of us are qualified to do a job and others are trying to wing it without the relevant experience.’ She felt her confidence crumble; her eyes darted towards the exit.
Fiona again prompted. ‘Tell me about your experience in mass catering. Any culinary qualifications? Anything?’
Nina shook her head. ‘I am sorry to have wasted your time. I just need a job. I really need a job.’ She faltered again. ‘I didn’t think it through. I can cook and I hoped that might be enough.’ She turned to leave and looked back at the woman and the two kitchen assistants who all stared at her. ‘I do think it’s lovely here, and can you please tell Eliza that I hope our paths cross again. I would have liked to talk to her.’ With her head held high, she walked back to the atrium to collect her bag, and then left the building.
Nina felt the sting of tears at the back of her throat.
‘Are you okay, love?’ called a man in fingerless gloves and a grubby fur hat. He swapped his beer can to the other hand and reached out as if to hold her arm.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She smiled at the kindness of the stranger.
‘Then why are you crying?’ He pointed at her face.
Running her palm over her cheeks, she looked at him. ‘I didn’t realise I was.’
‘Would you like a drink?’ He held out his can of beer towards her.
‘No, but thank you, that’s really kind.’ She squeezed his arm as she left, making her way back along Portswood Road.
She heard Declan run towards the front door at the sound of her key in the door, and watched his smile disappear, replaced by fear as he took in her distress.
‘What’s happened, Mum?’ His chest heaved and his brow furrowed. She hated that she was making him worry, recalling their recent trip with his bed linen bundled into a bin bag.
‘Nothing to worry about. Not really.’ She tried to stifle the sobs, but she couldn’t stop. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t seem to stop crying. I just feel a bit stupid and a bit sad. I . . . I went to try to get a job, but I couldn’t do the job and I’m angry with myself for thinking that I could.’ Her tears sprang in a fresh wave.
‘Shall I . . .’ The little boy looked around, as if trying to figure out what needed to be done that might make things better. ‘Shall I get you a glass of juice?’
Nina reached out and stroked his hair, her face wet with tears and mucus. ‘No, thank you, my sweet boy, but I tell you what,’ she sniffed. She mustered a fake smile. ‘You can . . . you can put the groceries away while I have a little nap. I think I am just very tired.’
Connor came out of the bathroom. ‘What’s happened? Are you okay?’ He too looked worried. She knew he would have heard some of their conversation.
She nodded. ‘I’m feeling sorry for myself and I’m going to have a little nap.’
‘I’ll help Dec.’ She was grateful for his conciliatory gesture, not sure how much more she could have coped with today, and left the two of them in the kitchen. Closing the bedroom door behind her, she fell onto the mattress without removing her shoes and closed her eyes. ‘Do you know, Finn, I used to think I was capable of lots of things. I should have insisted. I should have worked. I should have done a lot of things . . .’ She closed her eyes, and the sobs came again.
As her eyes flickered open, she was for a second surprised to find herself fully clothed on the bed and was unsure of how long she had slept. Her sadness was a little diluted, but the swell of embarrassment would take a little longer to dissipate. She sat up on the bed. Her eyes felt as if they were full of sand and her throat was dry. Stretching up towards the ceiling she took a deep breath and reluctantly climbed from the bed where she knew, without the boys to tend to, she would happily have stayed for eternity.
Declan sat on the sofa under his duvet with a book, mouthing the words he read silently. He looked up. ‘Are you feeling better?’
‘I am.’ She nodded. ‘The wonderful restorative powers of sleep.’ She heard Connor in the kitchen. Turning her head, the first thing she saw was the pickle jar on the counter-top, half-filled with water and stuffed with snowdrops she’d seen growing on the verge. She walked slowly towards them.
‘I thought they might cheer you up a bit,’ Connor said, shifting from one foot to the other, as if he might be regretting the gesture.
Nina ran her fingers over the relief pattern on the edge of the glass and then the little sticky area where glue stubbornly held on to a sliver of the label, before picking up the jar and cradling it to her chest. She thought again about the grand display of blooms that used to grace the round table in the hallway at The Tynings.
So much money. I wasted so much money . . .
This pickle jar filled with simple flowers was the most beautiful expression of love, the most precious gift of flowers, that she had ever received.
‘Thank you. Thank you, Connor.’ She stared at her boy.
‘Oh no, are you crying again? They were supposed to stop you crying,’ he pointed out, sighing.
‘Happy tears, darling,’ she explained. ‘These are happy tears.’
NINE
The three of them sat together on the green velour sofa, empty breakfast bowls nestling on their laps. Surprisingly, with this the only seating option, it was rare that the three sat like this, in a line, staring at the wall. Usually one of the kids took his breakfast cereal to the bedroom, or hung around the fridge in case a milk top-up was required. But it was cold out and sitting this way provided some measure of warmth. Nina sipped her first tea of the day and felt a little cleansed after yesterday’s bout of exhaustive crying. Both boys seemed to be in better moods, and the atmosphere was as pleasant as it had been in a while. There was a hint of spring to the sunny February morning; it felt like a fresh start. Just a few days before the next challenge: the boys starting at a new school.
‘I have to say that I know things are far from perfect, but right now I feel quite peaceful,’ she told the boys honestly.
A bus wheezed to a halt outside the window and the noise of random shouts filtered in.
‘Oh yes, because it’s so peaceful here, you weirdo,’ Connor joked.
Declan twisted on the sofa and placed his bare toes on her leg for added warmth.
‘Do you think it’s odd, Mum, that our house is empty, and there’s all that space with no one in it, and yet we are here squashed in like sardines in this little flat?’
She placed her free arm around his shoulders, unable to remember the last time the three had been happy to sit closely like this without one of them rushing off. It was nice. ‘I guess it is odd, darling, but there’s lots of things that are odd about our lives at the moment.’
Connor tipped his head back and stretched his legs out in front of him as he spoke to the ceiling. ‘I’ve had loads of messages from George and Charlie . . .’
She tried not to think of what would happen when the boys’ phone contracts, with all-you-could-eat data, expired.
‘. . . and I don’t reply because I don’t know what to say, don’t know what to tell them. I don’t want them to know how rubbish it is.’ He let his eyes sweep the room. ‘In some ways I wish they wouldn’t get in contact because I don’t want to know what they are up to and what they’ve got planned. It makes me feel like crap.’
‘I understand.’ She felt the same when she pictured their home with a new family roaming the empty rooms, discussing paint colours and deciding what furniture might suit the space. ‘But they are your friends, Connor, and you should keep in touch, even if it’s just the odd word or message, and when thi
ngs are less raw, it will be easier to hear from them.’
He shrugged, as if he only half believed her. ‘Maybe. They keep talking about the rugby training because they know that’s my thing.’
‘They probably think they are being kind, keeping you informed.’
Connor nodded. ‘I guess, but I wish they wouldn’t.’
She squeezed his arm.
‘And I wish I’d used the swimming pool more. I keep thinking about it. I thought it would always be there, and I couldn’t be bothered to go outside a lot of the time. God, I wish I’d had parties!’
‘You didn’t have enough friends to invite to a party,’ Declan quipped.
‘Thanks, Dec. You’re probably right though.’
Both boys laughed at the truth.
It was Declan’s turn. ‘I wish I’d rolled down the hill in the paddock from the top to the bottom. I wanted to put myself in a carpet and roll down it, but I never did.’
‘You are such a weirdo!’ Connor laughed.
‘Well, that’s both of us who have been labelled weirdos in the last few minutes,’ Nina protested mockingly.
‘Maybe he takes after you!’ Connor fired back.
‘Maybe he does.’ She kissed Declan’s head. ‘That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it, Dec?’
‘I’d rather take after Daddy. He could run really fast and he knew all the flags of the world,’ he whispered.
And just like that, the sledgehammer of grief shattered the chat, the joy, the normality, as Declan gulped on a sob. She rubbed his toes and noted that Connor looked skyward and blinked repeatedly, trying to will away the tears. Her heart flexed with love for her sons, and not for the first time she wished she could make it all go away. It was a stark reminder of what lurked so close to the surface. Nina knew that they, like her, not only wished that they could turn the clock back and use the swimming pool or roll down a hill, but that they could have one more night with the man they all missed, living that easy life.
She would like more than one night back; she would like years back, years when she would stand tall, recalibrate their relationship, get involved in the business, lose some of her fear and ask more questions, make her mark. Maybe then they would all be in a very different situation.
Later that afternoon Nina and Tiggy jumped off the bus and made their way into the centre of town. The boys had been sent to the launderette. Not only did Nina think it was good for them to be involved in chores, but it was good to get them out of the house. It also meant she could turn off the fire and save money.
She and Tiggy walked side by side in silence. They stopped outside the shop, recognisable by the three brass orbs hanging above the door. It was the first time Nina had visited a pawnbroker and she already felt humiliated. Even walking inside and facing the bearded man through the safety grille behind which he sat sent a wave of embarrassment over her. She looked from side to side before closing the door behind her, but no one on the busy street gave her a second glance.
The chances of running into Kathy Topps or any of her peers here was next to nothing. She recalled how she had judged the hopeless and hapless people that she had spied trudging into a similar establishment in Bath. Maybe some of them had been far from hopeless and hapless; maybe they were just individuals who were a little down on their luck, whose lives had been thrown into disarray by events over which they had little or no control.
People like her.
‘Hello. How can I help you?’ The man sat forward on his stool.
At some level she had anticipated rolls of grubby banknotes, fat cigars, smoky corners and a set of knuckle-dusters sitting within his reach. This place was nothing like that; it was part bank, part junk shop, part jeweller’s, and his matter-of-fact approach and polite demeanour made things easier.
‘My sister would like to sell some items.’ Tiggy tapped the grille and nodded at him sternly. It made her smile, the fact that her big sister was looking out for her.
Nina stepped forward and gingerly removed the antique silver cigarette case from her handbag, along with Finn’s gold cufflink sets. She placed them on the wooden surface, along with his Montblanc pen-and-pencil set. She swallowed the wave of emotion at seeing these items from their home, things her husband had used in everyday life. But that was the nature of hardship, she reminded herself; it left no room for sentiment. She pushed them into the metal chute in front of him and watched them slide towards his outstretched fingers.
The man placed an eyeglass into his eye socket to appraise the markings on the antique silver cigarette case and weighed the items on his official-looking scale.
‘I have antique dealer friends who will take some of this from me, but not all of it.’ He removed his eyeglass and gave her a brief smile. ‘Some items are more commercial than the rest.’ He fingered the three sets of gold cufflinks and weighed them. ‘The price of gold is down slightly, there’s been a ten per cent drop in the last two months. They will, however, fetch less if sold as scrap, so I would keep them in the window.’ To hear him talk of market values again bolstered her faith in him and took away some of her discomfort. He then scrutinised the Montblanc pen-and-pencil set, before twisting his head from side to side, as if adding up numbers in his head.
‘I can give you four hundred and forty for the lot.’
Nina blew out, feeling crushed to see Finn’s possessions reduced to nothing more than a number, and not a very big number at that.
‘Is that all?’ She did her best to keep her voice steady and remove the emotion, her fingers drumming lightly on the counter-top. ‘I don’t want to be rude, but it doesn’t seem like much. I know what we paid for them and it was more than double that.’ She did her best to keep the images from her mind, tried not to think of the items of value that Mackintosh and Vooght had spirited away into the depths of that dirty lorry. She placed her hand on her waistband to try to soothe her anxious stomach.
‘I’m sorry.’ He gave a small, sincere smile and raised his palms. ‘I hear this every day, and believe me, I understand, but it’s the same as buying a brand new car. The moment you drive it off the forecourt it goes down by at least twenty per cent – that’s without a mile on the clock.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I can only give you a percentage of the resale value, plus a small amount of commission on top and that figure, in my opinion, is the market value.’
Nina nodded and fixed her eyes on the cufflinks that had sat next to her husband’s skin in a shirt he wore to go to work, when their life was very different, when she had been in the dark . . .
‘I’ll tell you what I can do.’ He sat back on his stool. ‘I can increase that by thirty – four hundred and seventy. That’s my final offer, and that is only because I am soft hearted and you seem like a very nice lady.’
Nina matched his smile. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’ She watched as he counted the notes, licking his thumb. She left with the roll of cash in her pocket, an amount that wouldn’t have paid her monthly food bill at The Tynings, but right now it was a lifeline.
‘You okay?’ Tiggy asked as they walked away. It felt like they had conducted something illicit, the way her sister looked at her sideways. Nina nodded. To have cash in her pocket that would top up her meagre funds gave her a feeling of instant relief. She thought about her dad on a Friday night, walking through the door with a wider smile than usual and a playfulness to his demeanour. He must have felt the same, happy to know that he could provide whatever might be needed, with his wages in his wallet; a brief moment when worry evaporated – a feeling that she could now relate to. She then pictured her dad’s ashen face on a Monday morning and knew that this moment of relief would be short lived . . . I need a job.
They rode the bus home in silence, as if each considering how very much Nina’s life had altered in the space of a few weeks. They sat with thighs touching.
Something caught her eye in the charity shop, a little way along the road.
‘How do you put a window blind up? Is i
t hard?’ she asked Tiggy.
‘No. It’s easy. No more than a couple of screws into a wooden baton.’
Nina smiled at her sister as she rang the bell to call for a stop.
They returned to a note from Connor to say the boys had taken a rugby ball up to the common.
‘It’s funny. I used to long for them to spend more time together, to be closer. Yet right now I’m wishing they had their own friends. That would mean they were settled.’ She folded the note.
‘It’ll come.’
Nina ran a damp cloth over the glass of the French windows, removing the residue of dust and dirt. She unhooked the net curtains and folded them neatly, in case Cousin Fred wanted them back. Tiggy unpacked the tool bag she had grabbed from the pub and charged up her drill. The white venetian blind was a little bent, a little grubby, but it had cost pence and Nina knew it would let in more light when open than the curtains, not only brightening the room, but when shut would also hopefully help keep out noise and draughts. It would surely be better than the drab, dated, discoloured nets.
‘How come you’ve got a drill?’ Nina asked. ‘Was it your boyfriend’s?’ She didn’t know the name of Tiggy’s last beau, but all the men she had known her date were curiously interchangeable: quiet, moody drinkers with little drive and a penchant for a gamble. She had always hated to see and hear about the men who traipsed through her sister’s life, knowing she could do so much better.
Tiggy slowly turned to face her sister with her drill in her hand. ‘Did you really just say that? Are you living in the 1950s? You are aware that you don’t need a penis to operate a power tool? And I hear that if you are really modern, women can actually go out to work too and earn their own money! Some of them even drive! But only if your husband agrees it’s a good idea, of course.’
‘Very funny. You know what I mean.’ Nina unscrewed the light bulbs and hung the new paper ball lampshades she had also bought at the charity shop, instantly cosying up the space. There was something about bare bulbs that to her felt like a constant reminder of their deprivation. This was much better.
The Art of Hiding Page 17
