‘Thank you.’ I deliberately speak loudly so she’ll know I’m here, but she doesn’t turn round because she’s concentrating on marking the lids of the takeaway cups and fitting them into the cardboard carrier.
A minute or so after I sit down, Sam appears to my left and sets my coffee and flapjack in front of me with a flourish. ‘Enjoy,’ he says. ‘Anything else I can get for you today?’
‘No, thanks.’ I say. Just bugger off so I can catch her eye. But by the time Cassie finally spots me and waves, I’ve finished my coffee and I’m waiting for a lull in the queue so I can go up and order something else.
I wave back, but she still doesn’t come over. Oh God, it must be a no. Or maybe she’s too embarrassed to tell me. Or perhaps she’s going to pretend that conversation never happened. I push down that thought. Maybe I should go up to the counter as soon as it quietens down and just ask her, Did you give some thought to what we talked about the other day? She’ll have to answer then, surely? I don’t realise how much I’m fiddling with the little paper cylinder of demerara sugar until it splits and the amber crystals spill out onto the table. As I’m attempting to sweep the spilled sugar into my hand, Cassie appears beside me. I look up. ‘Sorry, I’ve made a bit of a mess here.’
‘No problem,’ she says.
I look at her expectantly.
‘Um, you know what you said the other day? About me maybe coming to clean for you?’
‘Yes.’ I smile.
‘You said . . . Well, I just wanted to check again about my little boy. Would it definitely be all right—’
‘Yes, bring him with you. Honestly, he’ll be no trouble, and it’ll be lovely to have him. He can watch TV or do some colouring – I’m sure I’ve got some coloured pencils from when the boys – my nephews – were little. And there’s quite a big garden, so he can play outside if the weather’s nice.’
Cassie’s face breaks into a grin. ‘If you’re absolutely sure, then yes, that would be great. Did you say two hours a week?’
I nod. ‘As a minimum. Extra hours as and when?’
‘That sounds perfect.’
‘It’ll need a good going-over to start with. I only go in to work on Mondays and Tuesday afternoons at the moment, but if my back’s bad, it’s hard to keep on top of the cleaning, and I’ve really let things slip since my . . .’ No, maybe I’m saying too much. I clear my throat. ‘Any chance you could start this Friday?’
‘As a matter of fact, I can – my mother-in-law was supposed to be coming over, but she’s cancelled, so—’
‘You’re married?’ Everything seems to tilt, and for a moment I wonder if I’ve made a massive mistake.
Cassie is shaking her head. ‘Widowed. Five years ago. But I stayed in touch with his mum. She likes to see Oliver.’
‘But I thought . . . How old is Oliver?’
Cassie looks puzzled for a minute, then smiles and shakes her head again. ‘Sorry, it must be confusing. Ollie isn’t my husband’s child, but Joyce – David’s mum – is fond of him, and—’ She glances over at the counter, where the queue is building up again. ‘Sorry, I’d better go and give them a hand. I’ll have to tell you all about it another time.’ She starts to walk away, then turns back, taking a pen and notepad from her apron pocket. ‘Here’s my phone number.’ She tears off a sheet and puts it on the table. ‘Can you text me your address?’
‘Yes, sure. What time should I expect you?’
Cassie looks at me oddly and laughs. ‘I think you’re supposed to tell me, aren’t you?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
NOW
I go round the house, opening all the windows to let in some air. They’ve been closed for so long that I have to force some of them. There aren’t many photos of Adrian on display, but I check in every room. I take down the wedding photo from the wall in the bedroom, choking up as I look at Adrian’s smiling face. I remember how his eyes glittered as he made his promises, how his voice cracked with emotion. We both meant what we said, I know we did, so how could he have done this to me? And a child. After everything; a child. As I stand there on the verge of tears again, I have an unexpected urge to throw this picture at the wall. But I’ll only end up picking bits of glass out of the rug, probably end up cutting myself, too. And all that would be different afterwards would be a Band-Aid around my finger and splinters of glass in the carpet. I sigh as I wind bubble wrap around the picture so I can store it away on the top shelf of my wardrobe.
In the kitchen, I tear the cellophane off the pack of colouring pencils I bought yesterday, then rip the first few pages from the sketch pad. I take a few of the pencils and scribble roughly over the paper to wear down the ends, then I take a few more, sharpen them, then break the ends off and sharpen them again. Why on earth didn’t I say I had felt pens instead? There: at least they no longer look like they’ve just come out of the packet. I don’t want it to look as if I’ve made too much effort.
I glance at the kitchen clock. Ten fifteen. They’ll be here soon. I’ve bought pains au chocolat for myself and Cassie, and a gingerbread man for Oliver. We’ve agreed on a three-hour session today, just to get on top of it, so maybe she’ll want to start straight away and have coffee later? I realise I have no idea whether she prefers tea or coffee. What if she’s one of those people who only drink cold drinks? Bugger. I should have bought some Coke, or something. All I have is the summer fruits squash I bought for Oliver. I sit down, but stand up again, restless. My hands and lips strain for the feel of a cigarette.
Five minutes before they’re due to arrive, I have a sudden memory of seeing Adrian’s old staff photo card in the dressing table drawer. What if she opens it? It’s natural to be curious, after all. I hurry out into the hall and climb the stairs as quickly as I can, which isn’t very fast. I’m not using my stick at the moment, but I still need to be careful and it’s frustrating, having to go so slowly. Before the accident, I’d have run up these stairs two at a time. But there’s no point in thinking about that. I was a different person then.
I scan the bedroom again to check there are no more photos on display, then I slide open the shallow drawer in the dressing table. Yes, there it is. The picture is five years old, but it’s unmistakably Adrian. I shove it in my jeans pocket for now. My heart is beating harder, partly from climbing the stairs and partly from recognising what was – or could have been – a near miss. The last thing I want is for Cassie to find out who I am by stumbling on a photo of Adrian. I suppose I’ll have to come clean at some point, but I haven’t thought that through yet. I haven’t really thought any of this through. All I know is that Oliver only has one parent when he should have two, and as Adrian isn’t here, I can be that other parent. I can help Cassie, and I can give Oliver all the love I’ve built up inside me.
Cassie tells Oliver to say hello, but he just smiles shyly, remaining glued to his mother’s side as we stand in the kitchen having the obligatory discussion about the weather. ‘So,’ Cassie says, ‘do you want to show me what you’d like me to do? And where you keep your cleaning stuff and so on?’
I talk her through where to find things, open the cupboard under the sink to check what’s there and then cross the room to show her where I keep spare cloths and bin bags. As she moves nearer to have a look, Oliver clings to her hand. It’s hard to see how she’s going to be able to leave him while she cleans, but somehow, this has to work out. ‘Oliver,’ I say, crouching down to his level and ignoring the tight pull in my back, ‘Would you like to do some colouring?’
Oliver appears to give this some thought before shaking his head. ‘No thanks,’ he says. This is the first time I’ve heard him speak, and his voice is so sweet I want to reach out and hug him. ‘Tell you what,’ I straighten up and smile at Cassie, ‘how about we have coffee first? Then he might relax a bit; feel more comfortable.’
Cassie glances at her watch. ‘Only thing is, I’m a bit tight for time today because Ollie has a party to go to at two.’
‘That’s
fine. I don’t expect you to work for the whole three hours, you know. I was factoring in coffee and a chat.’
‘Well.’ Cassie smiles. ‘If you’re sure. That would be lovely, thank you.’
There’s a subtle difference in the way we’re talking to each other now, I notice. In the café, she was more at ease, more confident. ‘So,’ I smile at Oliver, ‘you’re off to a party today, are you? That’s exciting, isn’t it, Oliver? Or is it okay if I call you Ollie?’
He looks at his mother and then back at me and he nods, a smile touching the corners of his mouth but not quite manifesting fully.
‘Whose party is it?’
‘Harry’s.’
‘I see. And is Harry your best friend?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, him is just my friend. My best friend is Edmund. He’s three. I did went to his birthday on a different day. He did get a Spiderman suit and a Spiderman lunchbox and I gived him some Spiderman pyjamas and a Spiderman mask.’ He looks up at his mum. ‘Didn’t I, Mummy?’
‘You certainly did.’
‘Really?’ I say. ‘Does Edmund like Spiderman, by any chance?’
He nods earnestly.
‘And do you like Spiderman, too? By any chance?’
Again, the serious nod.
I catch Cassie’s eye and we laugh. ‘What would you like, Cassie? Tea or coffee? Would Oliver like some squash?
‘Oh, black coffee, please. I’ve got Ollie’s drink here.’ She rummages in her cavernous bag and brings out a cup with a lid, which she hands to Ollie. ‘Now sit at the table and drink that like a good boy.’ Then she pulls out some miniature figures and a couple of plastic cars.
‘If it hadn’t been so wet recently he could play in the garden.’ It occurs to me that there isn’t really anything for a small child to play with out there, although there’s a lot of space to run around in. I remember seeing him in the playground at the nursery kicking one of those smaller-sized footballs designed especially for young children. I make a mental note to buy one. I switch the coffee machine on. ‘Americano okay?’
‘More than okay – I’m used to instant at home.’
I bring the coffee to the table along with the pains au chocolat and the gingerbread man.
‘My goodness, look at this, Ollie! What do you say?’
‘Thank you,’ he says obediently, not taking his eyes from the enormous biscuit. Then he looks at his mum. ‘Am I allowed—’
‘Go on,’ she says. ‘Special treat.’
‘Sorry.’ I look at Cassie. ‘I didn’t think – I should have checked with you first.’
‘It’s fine. We’re careful about sugar, but that doesn’t mean he can’t have the occasional treat.’ She nods towards the pastries. ‘You’re spoiling me as well – this is so kind of you, Leah. Honestly. I’m perfectly happy with a cup of instant and a custard cream.’
‘You might be,’ I laugh, ‘but I’m bloody not.’ I slap my hand over my mouth. ‘Oh, God, sorry.’ What is the matter with me? I’ve dreamed of getting to know Ollie since I first laid eyes on him, and then I go and spoil it by swearing in front of him.
‘Don’t worry,’ Cassie says. ‘I’m sure he’s heard worse from me.’
‘It won’t happen again, I promise.’
We’d agreed on eleven pounds an hour, and when I hand Cassie thirty-five pounds, she starts rummaging in her purse for change. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t worry about that – it’s only a couple of quid.’
‘But I’ve hardly done anything today. By the time we got Ollie settled and sorted out what needed doing, well, I can’t have done more than two hours at the most.’
‘No, you’ve been here for three hours, so I pay you for three hours.’
Cassie looks hesitant. ‘Well, if you’re sure. Thank you, thank you very much.’ She packs Oliver’s toys back in her bag. ‘Next time, I’ll bring your stepladder up from the cellar so I can do the tops of the pictures and mirrors. I’ll have a wipe round the picture rails, too.’
‘That would be great,’ I say. ‘Climbing ladders is tricky for me now, so anything above eye level is probably filthy.’
‘Does it cause you a lot of pain?’
I pause, wondering if she’ll ask. People tend not to. There’s something about accidents and injuries that everyone seems to recognise as being private. It’s another taboo – if you don’t ask what happened, you keep it out of your consciousness; it’s not part of your world and therefore it can’t happen to you. ‘On and off. Some days are worse than others. Anyway,’ I smile and look around, ‘the house looks lovely – it must have been dirtier than I thought.’
‘No way. Between you and me, your house is considerably cleaner than some of the houses I’ve worked in.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes, especially the last one. Massive place it is, even bigger than this. They’ve got a big long drive at the front and huge gardens at the back – even have a gardener twice a week. You’d think they’d try and keep it nice, wouldn’t you?’ She kneels down to help Ollie with his trainers. ‘They’ve got three teenage children. And, well, their bedrooms . . .’ She wrinkles her nose and fans under it with her hand. ‘Even the daughter – and I thought girls’ bedrooms were supposed to smell nice!’
We laugh conspiratorially. ‘Sorry,’ Cassie says. ‘You must think I go blabbing about every house I clean, but honestly, I’m not usually this indiscreet.’ She lifts Ollie and sets him back on his feet, then stands and hoists her bag onto her shoulder.
‘Cassie, I think I know you well enough now to know you’re not a gossip.’
She hesitates. ‘Leah, don’t take this the wrong way, but it feels a bit weird, you know? Working for you after we’ve talked so much in the café? I’m really grateful for the job but, well, I hope we can still, like, chat when you come in for your coffee?’
‘Of course we can! Have I put you in an awkward position? That’s the last thing I want to do. It’s just that when you said you did cleaning as well, I got quite excited because, like I said, the only cleaners I’ve come across before have been . . . I don’t know, I’m not sure how to put it without sounding like a stuck-up cow, but, well, you’re not your average cleaning lady, are you?’
Cassie laughs. ‘I suppose not. Although when you think about it, what is your average cleaning lady? I know several intelligent, educated women who clean other people’s houses because it’s the only thing that fits in with school times. One of the other mums at the preschool cleans four mornings a week and she’s doing a PhD.’
‘Now you think I’m a snob.’
‘No. But let’s be honest, it’s not exactly a career choice. Nor is the café, although I do enjoy working there.’ She glances at her watch. ‘Oh God, I’d better get Oliver Cromwell here to this party.’
‘My name is not called Oliver Clomwell.’
‘Joking, mister,’ Cassie says. ‘Leah, sorry – I must go. But I’ll see you at the café on Wednesday as usual, yes? We can catch up properly then.’
I smile. Catch up properly. Like old friends. ‘I’ll look forward to it. Unless . . . unless you want to pop back after you’ve dropped Ollie off? I could do us some lunch.’ Am I being too pushy? ‘Only a sandwich, or some cheese on toast, maybe. It’s just as easy to make enough for two.’
Cassie appears to consider this before shaking her head. ‘It’s ever so nice of you, Leah, but I need to get some shopping done while he’s at his party. Thanks, though. Maybe another time?’
‘Great. I’d like that.’
‘Say bye-bye to Leah.’ She takes Oliver’s hand and leans down to whisper in his ear.
‘Bye, Leah. Thank you for the gingerbed man.’
‘My pleasure, Ollie. Enjoy the party.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
NOW
Five minutes or so after they’ve left, the doorbell rings. I’m not expecting anyone, so I almost don’t answer it, but as soon as I step into the hall, I recognise Cassie’s outline through the glass. She mus
t have forgotten something.
‘Leah, I’m so sorry to bother you, but the car won’t start. I’ve called the AA, but they said it’ll be forty minutes to an hour, and I was just wondering if you’d mind if I leave my car keys with you in case they arrive before I get back. We’re going to hop on a bus.’
‘Where’s the party?’
‘Oh, it’s not that far. If we weren’t in a hurry, we could probably walk it, but—’
‘Let me drive you.’
‘No, I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that. It’s only, like, a ten-minute bus ride.’
‘Cassie, it’s no trouble at all – really. If it’s not that far, it won’t take long. Then I can bring you back here for a cup of tea while you wait for the AA.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. It’s ever so kind of you.’
‘No problem. Let me grab my keys.’
Cassie takes the child seat out of her car and fits it into mine before lifting Oliver into it, chatting to him all the time, There we go, Ollie, let’s get you strapped in, that’s it, good boy, isn’t it kind of Leah to drive us to Harry’s party?
‘Okay, where are we heading?’
I drive according to Cassie’s directions, and we go past Oliver’s little nursery. ‘Look!’ he says, excited. ‘That’s my preschool.’
‘Is it?’ I say, making a point of looking out of the window. ‘It looks a very nice place, Oliver. Do you like going to school?’
‘Preschool.’
Cassie laughs. ‘He’s a bit pedantic because he’s just moved up from nursery. It’s the same place, he’s just in a different room with different teachers, and he’s feeling very grown up about it.’
‘Ooh, I see. Sorry, Oliver, I mean, do you like going to preschool?’
There’s no reply, then Cassie laughs. ‘It’s no good nodding, Ollie. Leah’s driving – she can’t turn round to look at you.’ She turns to me. ‘He used to do that all the time when he was on the phone to my mum or David’s mum. He’s getting the hang of it now, though.’ She points straight ahead. ‘If you can take the next right, then it’s the second turning on the left.’
The Flight of Cornelia Blackwood Page 10
