‘It… it’s newspaper,’ she stammered.
‘Correct. And do you know where I hid it?’
She shook her head, although she could have made an educated guess.
‘I placed it on top of the medicine cabinet, and in the dust that sits there I wrote the word ‘filthy’ with the tip of my finger. And do you know what I saw when I went there earlier today?’
Again she shook her head, knowing that despite asking her questions, he didn’t really want her to give him the answers, it was all part of the game.
‘This ball of paper was still there and so was my word, “filthy”. Not only do you expect this family to live in total squalor but you are also a liar. That is very bad indeed.’
Kathryn for some reason could see the humour in the fact that Mark’s definition of total squalor was that there was a film of dust on top of the medicine cabinet.
Ten minutes later, however, she found very little humour in anything as his punishment had been exacting and deliberate.
One year ago
It was a full day, but no busier than any other. Kate was preparing for a new arrival. The first few hours of interacting with a resident always told her everything she needed to know. In the four years that she had been running the house, she had honed this skill and knew what to look for, what to glean from inadvertently offered clues. The flinch at a handshake, the lack of eye contact or the false bright smile and counterfeit confidence – she had discovered that these were all ciphers. She was slowly learning how to crack the codes and read the truth that lay behind them.
It was inevitable that Kate would draw comparisons between the life that she used to live and the life that she had now, but it wasn’t always the obvious things that made her look for similarities and differences; quite the opposite in fact. When a girl trod the path to the front door, often either undernourished or overweight and malnourished, clutching all that she owned and was precious to her in a tatty carrier bag, it would make Kate think of the arrival of new boarders at Mountbriers. Eager and anxious parents would alight from shiny convertibles. Beautiful, surgically enhanced mothers and smartly suited fathers would help unload the trunk, the case, the bag, the valuables, the electronic wizardry, the designer labels, the rucksack bursting with tuck and the child’s allowance. It fascinated her how some had so much and others so very little. She had learned in the last four years – actually in the last nine years – that life was very unfair.
The sudden ring of the telephone made her jump; she had been miles away.
‘Yes, this is Kate Gavier speaking. Ah great, so all on time. Yes, yes, someone will meet her from the station. I’ll call you when she’s settled, many thanks.’
She ran her fingers over the foolscap file in front of her; a white sticky label told her that it was Tanya Wilson who was arriving on the 2.30 train. She opened the cover and scanned the front sheet, taking in only the most basic information. She hated these formulaic reports. One of her biggest frustrations was that these girls had had reports written about them and judgements passed on them from when they were tiny.
Before the first wave of adolescence hit, they were described, assessed and stamped, and their fate was sealed. There were only so many permutations of character that ‘the system’ could identify and none were particularly positive. According to the typed sheets in triplicate that Kate handled daily, these girls were nearly always helpless and hopeless.
That was where Kate and her team came in. From the first glance at Tanya’s file, she could see that she was a standard case, sadly. Tanya had been removed from her mother’s care when she was six, following sustained physical abuse. Twelve different foster homes and two residential care homes later, she found herself in a juvenile correction centre and then graduated to prison for assisting in a burglary and carrying a weapon.
Kate was certain that there would also be prostitution, drug addiction and a whole host of psychological problems. She snapped the file shut and placed it in an already cramped drawer. She would make her assessment by looking Tanya in the eye and talking to her. She no longer paid much heed to what she read, knowing that these white sticky labels were interchangeable for every girl under her roof. They had all had the same life; they were all the same person. Only they weren’t, not to her, and her job was to help them realise that.
She considered what her own white sticky label might read: ‘A cool unrepentant killer that has seemingly abandoned her children and lives with a certain indifference to the establishment.’ And she recalled what she had said a while ago: ‘I can see that some people will only ever see what they want to see.’
Kate was on hand at all hours of the day and night for the many and varied emergencies that seemed to occur weekly at Prospect House. In her four-year tenure she had dealt with everything from attempted suicide (twice), fire (once), flooding (once), fights (sixty-three) and the unexpected birth of a baby on the loo floor, Jayden Lee, who had weighed in at a respectable 7lb 3oz and now lived with his mother and her new partner in Truro. Of all the words you could use to describe existence at Prospect House, dull was not one of them.
Kate knew the residents were ready to leave when the journey from hopeless to hopeful was complete. For each of her guests – seven so far – the timing of that journey varied enormously. Arriving without optimism or any reason to feel positive meant the process of healing was often long and arduous. Only the brave attempted such a feat and not all would succeed. For some, to turn over the boulders that represented their lives and rake through what lurked beneath was not a good experience, and for a few it would end in disappointment.
This had been a bitter lesson for Kate to learn: that sometimes people were too far gone and for those individuals it felt better to leave the lid on their troubles. Prospect House could only help them so far, but each left with the words that if they wanted to try again, the door would always be open. For many, this was hope in itself.
Tom walked past the open door of the study with a stack of clean towels balanced on his forearm.
‘Oh, Tom!’
He retraced his steps, careful not to let his towel tower topple.
‘Yes, boss?’
‘Don’t forget Tanya’s arriving today. Her train gets in at two thirty. Can we get her something ready in case she’s famished?’
He nodded. It was pointless telling her that he had already considered this and would prepare sandwiches after he’d finished lunch. It wasn’t that she was a tyrant, far from it; the whole staff loved working for and with Kate. But sometimes her meticulous need for every detail to be right for these girls meant she worried needlessly about things they were capable of executing perfectly without her comments or suggestions.
‘I’m on it.’
She smiled at his back as he resumed his journey to the stairs. Of course he was, dear Tom.
Tom was a vocal advocate for Prospect House within the local community, extolling all that was good about it to anyone that would listen. The support they had received had been incredible; they had many regular visitors, all wanting to be involved. The first visit would be for no other reason than to satisfy a curiosity, but the second and third would be because they liked the atmosphere and the sense of hope that pervaded there. The odd few who were vehemently opposed remained so. Thankfully Penmarin was just big enough for their paths not to cross with any regularity.
Natalie, who had only recently left and had been with them for eight months, was currently working in the local delicatessen with a bedsit above and a regular boyfriend. Many of the girls had enjoyed comparable employment and acceptance; these were her success stories. She sincerely hoped that Tanya would be similarly and fittingly dispatched when the time was right.
Kate sat on the slatted wooden bench and listened to the loud tick of the clock on the platform. The white-painted wooden canopy held well-tended hanging baskets and there was not a speck of litter anywhere. As for graffiti, she doubted that the maintenance team had ever seen it. It was th
e station of a bygone age; even the station master stood rocking on his polished heels with a pocket watch in place and a flag furled in his hand. She half expected to see Miss Marple alight, with her cloche slightly askew, from a coach full of steam.
The train when it arrived brought the twenty-first century with it, a shiny red-and-yellow bullet streaked with the filth of cities only briefly visited. Kate spotted Tanya immediately. Among the groups, couples, and parents clutching the hands of children stood a teenage girl who looked around her and stood out by the fact of her sheer aloneness. Her confusion was exacerbated when she realised that she didn’t know who or what she was looking for.
Kate dashed over to her, holding her arm aloft, waving and trying to spare her the fear of the unknown as quickly as she could. The girl’s thin legs were clad in tight black jeans; her sneakers were worn and grubby and her skeletal arms dangled from the gaping sleeves of a T-shirt. Her red hair hung in two thin strips either side of her wan face, but her most outstanding features were her lips – blood red and full, a perfect ox bow. She reminded Kate of a delicate china doll.
‘Tanya! Hello!’
‘Hello.’
Tanya’s voice was small and came from a throat dry with either dehydration or nerves. Her eyes darted from Kate to the crowds around her, to the clear blue sky above her head, all too much to take in.
‘You made it okay. How was your journey?’
‘Long.’ She flashed a brief smile.
‘Yes, I’m sure. I’m Kate and you are very welcome here, Tanya.’
Then came the sideways glance from beneath the fringe, what was the catch? Why was this complete stranger being nice to her? What did she want?
‘Do you have any luggage?’
Tanya bent and retrieved the small sports bag at her feet. It was approximately thirty centimetres in length, yet big enough to hold everything she owned.
The two strangers walked together from the platform to the car park. Kate was careful not to overdo the friendly welcome, having learned that this could be just as off-putting as being unfriendly. Tanya wondered what she was doing in this place without buildings, cars, shops or grime and all the other things that made her usual surroundings familiar and safe.
‘You are arriving at the best possible time of year. The weather has been glorious and when the sun is out there is no place that you would rather be than the beach. We take little picnics down and sit on the sand and have great gossips, it’s lovely!’
Kate watched the girl glance at her from behind her fringe, trying to fathom her tone and energy, waiting for the catch. They drove the short distance in silence. Kate negotiated the lanes and the holiday traffic. Tanya stared at the hedgerows.
Pulling the car up onto the driveway, Kate killed the ignition and allowed the full splendour of Tanya’s new home to sink in.
‘Welcome to Prospect House. You are welcome here for as long as you want to stay, Tanya.’
The girl nodded.
‘What do you think? First impressions?’
‘Of you or the house?’
Kate liked the girl’s intelligence. ‘Both.’
‘The house looks like something out of an American film…’
Kate smiled and nodded. Yes, yes it did.
‘And I’m not sure about you. Are you a…? I mean, do you…?’
‘Yes?’ Kate wanted questioning.
‘Is this a Christian thingy or some religious sect? I’m just hoping you’re not a bunch of nut-job Jesus lovers, cos if you are I’m getting straight back on that train.’ She thumbed the direction over her head. ‘I think I’d prefer the nick to living with that.’
Kate’s laugh came loud and suddenly, making her eyes water.
‘Oh, Tanya! No wonder you look so worried! Is that what you thought?’
Tanya flicked away her fringe and tried making a hesitant smile in Kate’s direction.
Kate considered giving Tanya a speech about being a little fish, but decided against it.
‘No. No, love, nothing like that. I myself was released from prison just over four years ago; I served five years for manslaughter. Janeece, our counsellor, was a fellow inmate of mine, a wonderful girl who will tell you her story if and when it’s appropriate. Natasha is our art therapist—’
‘Art?’ Tanya interrupted.
‘Yes, art therapy. It’s where—’
‘You don’t have to tell me about that. I know how it works. I love paint and I love painting.’
Kate looked at the girl and noticed the widening of her eyes and the flush of colour to her alabaster cheeks.
‘Well then, it looks as if you are going to get along just fine.’
Tanya exhaled loudly and they both realised that she had been holding her breath for most of the journey.
‘Come on, let’s get you inside.’
Tanya trod the wooden steps to the terrace with her bag clutched to her chest, a bodily shield against the physical and mental blows that she always expected and often received. Best to be prepared.
The house was silent; everyone had scattered after lunch. Tom would no doubt be on one of his ‘trips for supplies’ – although what he thought he could purchase from inside the van with the seat reclined in siesta position was beyond Kate. Stacey Hill, the only other resident, was probably on the beach, trying to clear her head; this too was a daily exercise and would one day, hopefully, enable her to sort the muddled thoughts that plagued her.
‘Are you hungry, Tanya?’
The girl shrugged. Her confusion was not over whether she was hungry or not – she was starving – but whether or not she was comfortable in saying so.
Kate read her reaction.
‘Tell you what, why don’t I pop some sandwiches up to your room while you are getting settled?’
‘Thanks.’
A deal had been struck.
As they climbed the staircase, Kate pointed out the sitting room with its oversized sofas, the dining room, where all meals were taken, and the kitchen with its central table, perfect for catch-ups over coffee or the issue of tissues as and when required.
They stopped at a door with a sign on it that read ‘Dream’.
‘All the rooms have different names. We have “Wish” and “Faith” and “Free”, but “Dream” has the best views and I want you to have sweet dreams.’
She turned the handle and let Tanya walk in first. The girl walked straight to the sash window and stared at the expanse of ocean.
‘Where does it go? I mean, what’s the other side of the sea?’
‘That’s a good question. Geography was never my strong point and I had to look it up when I first arrived, but I have been reliably informed that if you swam as far as you could, the first country you would hit would be Canada.’
‘Canada near America? You’re shitting me?’
‘No, it’s true – if you swam until you hit a beach, you’d probably be handed a towel by a Mountie! Imagine that.’
‘I can’t swim.’
‘Would you like to learn?’
‘No.’
She shook her head. Her answer was loud, emphatic, as she placed her forehead on the cool glass. Kate could not have guessed at her thoughts, the flash of an image, her mother’s boyfriend, angry, pushing her face under the water, a deep, cold bath, don’t breathe, don’t breathe…
‘I’ll go and fetch your sandwiches and leave you to it. Your bathroom is through that door and the wardrobe’s here – it’s all pretty self-explanatory. I’ll let you get settled and I’ll be straight back.’
Tanya didn’t lift her head from the glass. Instead, she stared at the ocean, vast and black and going all the way to another country, another world, Canada… She had never seen the sea before, only pictures of the ocean or in movies. The way the water constantly flexed and jumped leaving tiny white crests wherever she looked was fascinating; it was alive. She hadn’t been prepared for its size, all consuming and limitless.
When the door clicked shut, she l
ooked for the first time at her surroundings. The room was beautiful, with pale blue walls, a stripped wooden floor and a pretty rug. There was a small Victorian fireplace with two comfy chairs in front of it and a little table. The chairs and bed were covered in white cotton with the tiniest sprigs of green flowers sewn onto it, like something out of a magazine. Tanya had never seen anything like it. It was lovely.
The bathroom was similarly perfect, with large white fluffy towels and a thick towelling dressing gown hanging on the back of the door. Tanya could not help but compare it to the bathroom of her childhood. When she blinked she could see the image tattooed on the inside of her eyelids, a constant reminder. It was the room that most symbolised the deprivation in which she had lived and it would stay with her forever. The tiny, cramped room, maybe six foot by eleven. It had a plastic bath with a jagged crack along the side panel and two greenish white streaks like the residue from tiny waterfalls snaking from the tap down to the rusted plug hole. The frosted window was small and high up on the wall, too high to reach and open with ease. In lieu of a curtain, her mum had tacked up a child’s striped pyjama top. Tanya didn’t know where it came from, it wasn’t one of hers. It hung like washing trying to dry, suspended with drawing pins and sagging forlornly in the middle. The loo was filthy and the whole room stank of urine and damp.
The exposed concrete floor was curiously daubed with blobs of yellow and lilac paint, though Tanya had no recollection of any decorating ever having been done, and there was certainly no evidence of it anywhere in the flat. Looking back, Tanya decided that if yellow and lilac were the chosen colours, it was a good job they hadn’t been used. In every corner of the bathroom, gathered behind the pipes and along the side of the bath, were piles of short black curly hair, matted with a curious grey fluff that seemed only to gather in this one room. The wall next to the loo was streaked with long brown tears, sticky droplets of old urine where a drunken cock had misfired. A medicine cupboard that had long ago lost its door hung above the sink, crammed with objects that made her tummy flip, adult things, forbidden things. Tampons, condoms, gels and potions, items that when she glimpsed them made her feel vulnerable and inexplicably queasy. The taps of the sink were relics of the 1970s and dripped constantly, adding to the brown pool that stained the bowl.
What Have I Done? Page 19
