Ninepins

by Rosy Thorton

  Vince replied from the textbook. ‘It’s not that simple. The medics talk in terms of percentage risks of developing a given condition. Of increased percentage risks.’

  Frustrated, she jabbed her glass at him in the air. ‘But what do you think?’

  There was a brief pause, and then he said quietly, ‘Listen.’

  ‘To what?’ Was this another diversion? She could hear nothing: no trace of voices from the spare room window, no slur from the sluggish lode, no breath of wind, no lone night bird.

  ‘Just listen.’

  ‘I can’t hear anything.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Through the dark, she could see his half smile. ‘The fens,’ he said. ‘You live here in this silence. Just look at it – listen to it. You live here and you ask me, is it nature or nurture? Depression, madness, are they in-bred or a factor of the environment?’

  Laura gazed at him, a little helpless.

  ‘More than a little of both, out here, I’d think. Wouldn’t you?’ He laughed, and she heard it as at a distance, strange and jarring. Perhaps it was the wine making her dull, but she could see no cause for humour in it. ‘Come on. Let’s go back inside.’

  In the kitchen, they sat down again at the table on opposite sides of the litter of crumbs. It was still early, so why did she feel so tired?

  ‘What about Marianne, then?’ She knew she should drop it. She knew she was getting nowhere, only banging her head against a closed door. She knew the answer already. Bloody confidentiality.

  ‘What about her?’ he said, and sipped his wine.

  ‘What’s the prognosis? Will she ever – ’ it sounded so trite ‘ – get better?’

  Vince shrugged. ‘I’m not a psychiatrist.’

  ‘But,’ she persisted, ‘you’ll have seen her medical files, or at least spoken to her doctors. You must liaise.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘And? Is she ever likely to improve? Or will she always be that way?’

  He eyed her levelly. ‘I’m really not in a position to say.’

  So there it was. The same stone wall, the same professional cold shoulder he’d shown her in the Fisherman’s Arms, that first time they went for a drink, back before Christmas. Still keeping her at the same stupid, superior distance.

  Something of her irritation must have shown in her face, because he unbent a degree or two, conceding, ‘She hasn’t always been so acute. She had spells, I gather, when Willow was younger, when things were at least less volatile. More manageable. And she manages now, too, when she takes her medication.’

  Flatter, remembered Laura. Emptied out. ‘So she’s safe where she is now?’

  ‘And by ‘‘safe’’ you mean secure, I assume. Not liable to go walkabout again.’ He was smiling; he could be infuriating with his judgments about her – all the more so when, as this time, he struck close to the truth. ‘Look, don’t worry. I’m sure when they moved her to Cambridge, they were well aware that Willow is in a placement nearby.’

  ‘Placement?’ The word came out dangerously high; she struggled to contain a tide of anger. ‘So that’s what we are, is it, Beth and I? A placement.’

  She saw something cross his face, some flicker of self-consciousness – Vince, who was never known to doubt. But her blood was up; she pressed on furiously.

  ‘I’m not some foster carer you’re liaising with, Vince. This isn’t a placement. This is our home you’re talking about, Beth’s and mine. This is our lives.’

  If she expected capitulation or apology, she had misjudged him. ‘Of course. I know that. But Willow is still my client, and as such she has to come first. My duty to her – ’

  ‘Your duty, always your bloody duty. What about Beth and me? Where do we fit in? What’s your professional duty there?’

  ‘Laura.’ He reached for her hand but she snatched it away.

  ‘Just part of Willow’s placement, is that what we are? Some case notes in a file? I suppose you fill us in on your time-sheets. I thought we were friends, but it turns out we’re just part of your caseload.’

  ‘We are friends – I hope. But I’m also Willow’s social worker. You knew that from the start. My first responsibility – ’

  ‘Oh, yes. Your responsibility.’ She heard the bitterness in her own voice; she felt the heat in her face too, but there was no help for it. Her anger had seized its own momentum. ‘You always hide behind your jargon, don’t you? Your duty, your responsibility. Your confidentiality and your increased percentage risks. Your damned stupid bloody placement.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You know I – ’

  ‘Don’t be silly? Don’t be silly!’ What was she, now – one of his problem fifteen-year-olds? She took a deep breath. ‘I think it’s best you just leave.’

  ‘Listen, Laura – ’

  ‘I want you to leave now, Vince.’

  He rose and came round the table.

  ‘Laura, please.’ His hand was on her shoulder. He was looking down at her searchingly, with eyes as brown as Willow’s were green.

  Determinedly, she closed her own. ‘Just go.’

  Laura wasn’t sure how long, after the front door banged, she sat there among the pizza crumbs with her head on her arms. It was some time before she was even aware that she’d been crying. Her watch face, when she managed to bring it into focus through the blur, told her it was only a quarter past ten, but her limbs were leaden and a tightness behind her eyes told her a headache was on its way. The washing up could wait for the morning. She wanted to be in bed with her mind blanked shut.

  No noise from upstairs had made itself heard at all, not since Beth and Willow disappeared after supper. Maybe they had gone their separate ways to read or sleep. But as she made her way along the landing, heading for the bathroom and her toothbrush, she heard the murmur of voices. Outside the spare room door, she halted, hand raised to knock. They might want a drink, and she should at least say goodnight before turning in. Besides, it was school in the morning. But there her hand stayed, suspended. Red-eyed and tear-streaked, she was in no fit state to face her daughter.

  As she stood there, trapped in uncertainty, a word caught her attention through the closed door.

  ‘… Vince …’

  She leaned closer, torn between curiosity and guilt. She heard Beth’s voice.

  ‘… didn’t even come up and say goodbye to you before he went.’

  Willow, laughing dryly. ‘It’s not me he comes here to see.’

  It was impossible, then, to make herself walk away.

  Beth said, ‘What do you mean?’

  Willow’s laugh again, rasping, mirthless. ‘We meet on Fridays at his office, for my sessions. He doesn’t need to come out here to see me.’

  ‘So, what then?’ demanded Beth.

  Laura’s blood pounded and the tension behind her eyes resolved itself into the colour of pain.

  ‘Obvious, isn’t it?’ came Willow’s voice. ‘He comes to see your mum.’

  There was a silence. Laura held her breath.

  ‘Has she had any boyfriends, since your dad?’

  ‘No.’ Beth’s voice sounded tight, resentful. That rhythmic thudding would be her kicking something: the bed, the wall? Then, quietly, ‘I don’t believe you. You’re wrong. She doesn’t even like him much. I’m sure she doesn’t. Else why would she be shouting at him, earlier?’

  Oh shit, thought Laura. Had she really raised her voice? She hadn’t been aware of shouting.

  She imagined Willow’s shrug. ‘Because. I bet she’s down there right now, crying.’

  Laura’s throat was flooded with saliva, but she feared to swallow; in her madness, she was convinced it would be audible through the door.

  ‘That’s how it is,’ said Willow. ‘I was always crying when I was going out with Carl, last year in the bin. I was bloody miserable the whole time.’

  Distracted, Beth snorted. And then both girls were laughing: choking, helpless, a little wild.

  ‘What happened to him?’ asked Beth, whe
n she could summon the breath.

  ‘Youth custody.’

  ‘What – you mean, prison?’

  ‘ ’S’OK. He was a loser anyway.’

  That set them off again, and nothing more was said for a minute or two. I should get away from here, Laura told herself; I shouldn’t be listening. Now was the moment, while they weren’t talking; she should clean her teeth and go to bed. But her feet remained stubbornly rooted.

  At length came Willow’s voice again. ‘It would be perfect, though, her and him. Just perfect, don’t you think? I mean, we’ve neither of us got a dad – ’

  ‘I’ve got a dad.’ The words were sharp, the note rising; the rhythmic kicking had begun again.

  A grunt from Willow. ‘He’s not here, is he?’

  Then Beth again, more doggedly than before. ‘I’ve already got a dad. Where d’you think I was all weekend?’

  ‘OK, I was just saying. Thinking what it’d be like, that’s all. Like being a proper family.’ She sounded, suddenly, younger than Beth.

  Laura felt a wave of pain as physical as nausea. Even with her eyes screwed shut, the headache dazzled to a piercing point of light.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ came Beth’s voice, finally, flat and sullen. ‘We heard her shouting, remember.’

  ‘All right – whatever. Forget it, OK?’

  Laura had heard enough; far more than she wished she’d heard. Stomach pitching, she lurched away along the landing towards the open bathroom door.

  Chapter 16

  They were all sick during the night. All three of them in the house, that is – Laura didn’t know about Vince. The Mozzarella seemed the most likely culprit. Willow’s tin of tuna was freshly opened; Beth’s sausage was reheated but only she’d had any; but the cheese was the buffalo kind, wet and unpasteurised. It had to be that.

  Laura succumbed first, almost as soon as she reached the bathroom. The spasms were violent, racking her guts, burning her chest and exploding her vision into blinding scarlet stars. After the first wave came another, more painful now that her stomach was empty, leaving her sore and spent. As it subsided she heard Beth’s voice behind her in the doorway.

  ‘Mum. Are you OK?’

  ‘Mm,’ she mumbled, ‘don’t worry, just sick,’ and rose to flush the loo.

  Beth had never coped well with vomit, her own or other people’s. Once, at Brownies, she’d gone to the aid of a younger child who’d been sick in the toilets and ended by vomiting herself. Yet now she stepped forward.

  ‘Sure you’re all right? D’you want a cup of tea or something?’

  Laura’s stomach turned another somersault at the very idea, albeit kindly meant. ‘No thanks, love. I’ll be fine. I’ll just get to bed.’

  She rinsed her mouth at the basin while Beth hovered uncertainly; out on the landing Willow stood with watchful eyes.

  ‘Honestly, it’s nothing,’ Laura insisted. ‘I’ll be fine now.’

  The optimistic prognosis proved premature. Twice more over the next two hours the heave of weakened muscles sent her stumbling along the landing. It was on her third visit, kneeling on the cold tiles, that she remembered Vince hadn’t come by car. She had sent him away without calling a taxi home. He’d have his mobile, of course, but he might still have walked twenty minutes through the unlit night before the cab had arrived to meet him. She would have felt some compunction on his account, had she the strength to spare from her own wretchedness – and if she hadn’t still been angry with him. Why didn’t he say something? It was typical of him not to say anything – his smug, stupid pride.

  Back in bed, she dozed uncomfortably and had little idea of the time when she awoke to sounds of distress from the bathroom. Beth. She wrapped her dressing gown around her and set off blindly, as she had done fifty, a hundred, two hundred times, for early feeds and wet beds and asthma and nightmares, over the past twelve years. But when she got there it wasn’t Beth; it was Willow.

  Bent over the bowl in just her T shirt and knickers, she looked about eleven. Knobs of vertebrae studded the worn cotton; her arms were white but the soles of her feet were a blotchy pink, like Beth’s after a bath. Too exhausted herself for diffidence, Laura approached and took hold of the girl’s shoulders.

  ‘You, too? Poor sweetheart.’ Automatically, she fretted the skin of Willow’s upper arms. It was goosebumped, clammy to the touch. ‘You’re freezing. Here.’ She reached for a bath towel from the rail and passed it around her.

  A spatter of vomit had missed the bowl and raked the upraised seat. Laura pulled a handful of tissue from the roll and wiped it clean. She dropped the soiled wad into the toilet and flushed, then crossed to the basin and washed her hands. Willow’s flannel was there so she ran it briefly under the cold tap, then wrung it out. Willow’s face was grey, her forehead dewed with sweat. Still on instinct, Laura bent and smoothed the cool flannel over her brow.

  There was a recoil, and for a second Laura was afraid of what she’d done: the intrusion on privacy, unasked for, unwanted. But after the first flinch, Willow didn’t move away. Instead, she closed her eyes and groaned.

  ‘I’m never sick,’ she said.

  Laura laughed softly. ‘Me neither. I’m really sorry. I think it must have been the Mozzarella. But I don’t think I shall ever want to eat mushrooms again. Or olives.’

  There was a grunt. ‘I’m never eating anything again.’

  Laura swilled out the tooth mug and half filled it with water. ‘Rinse your mouth,’ she said. ‘Get rid of the taste.’

  Willow did as she was bidden, still in her kneeling position, and spat in the toilet bowl.

  ‘Are you done with being sick, do you think? Shall we get you back to bed?’

  It must have been nearly dawn when she heard Beth. This time Laura had fallen into a sounder sleep and awareness took longer to reach her consciousness. When she got to the bathroom, Beth was not alone. Willow stooped beside her at the toilet; while Beth retched, she held back her tumbling curls of hair.

  Willow but not Beth looked up at Laura’s appearance; Beth’s eyes were clamped tight shut.

  ‘This is what I learnt from the bulimic girls in the bin,’ Willow remarked. ‘Always hold your hair up out of the way, they said.’

  Beth’s eyes opened then, and she shook herself free of Willow’s grasp with a small, protesting moan.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Willow, straightening up.

  ‘Get off.’ Beth scowled, her face a mask of misery. ‘Don’t want touching.’

  With that she pitched abruptly forward, shoulders braced as if for the onslaught of asthma, and let forth a stream of thin bile. She gasped twice, spat in the bowl, then turned, wet-mouthed, to Laura.

  ‘I want Mum.’

  Wakening again at nine, Laura dragged herself downstairs to call the school absence line. Beth, when she had glanced in, was fast asleep, her face pale and washed out on the pillow. Having informed the automatic machine that Beth Blackwell of 7JB would not be in today, Laura’s energies were exhausted and she crawled back up to bed.

  At ten she rose once more and took a shower. Washing was beyond her but she stood with her eyes closed under the gush of warm water and hoped it might do her good. When standing became too much, she stepped out, and dried herself sitting down on the mat. She determined to dress, which took another effort of will and necessitated a short rest on the edge of the bed before she made her way back down to the kitchen. Putting the kettle on was a reflex, but she didn’t make a drink. She sat and stared at yesterday’s Observer, but the attempt to read made her eyes blur and her head pound. It was dehydration, she told herself, and filled a glass with water. She stood at the sink and drank – but too quickly, her sore stomach jolting as the cold liquid struck – then took it to the table and confined herself to slow sips.

  She was still sitting there when Willow came down twenty minutes later.

  ‘Hi,’ said Laura. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Ugh. You?’

  ‘Ugh,’ she
agreed.

  Rousing herself, she clicked back on the cooling kettle and made them both some weak, black tea. The thought of sugar turned her stomach, but she offered it to Willow, who stirred some in. Dry toast, she thought, might help a bit. She made two rounds and laid them on the table. Willow didn’t touch hers; Laura took one bite before pushing her own away.

  Dimly, it occurred to Laura that she hadn’t yet called work. She rose and dialled; Sylvia answered at the first ring, sounding horribly bright and healthy.

  ‘Department of Land Economy.’

  ‘Oh, hello. It’s Laura. Just to say I’m sick, and I’m staying at home today.’

  ‘Okey dokey. Shall we expect you in tomorrow?’

  ‘Um, I guess so.’ Although right now, she could imagine no end to this queasy torpor.

  ‘Great, so we’ll see you then. Look after yourself, won’t you?’ And Sylvia rang off.

  Still holding the receiver, Laura glanced over at Willow. ‘Shall I phone in for you as well?’

  The green eyes registered nothing: a simple blank.

  ‘What I mean is, don’t they expect you to let them know, when you can’t make classes? Or doesn’t it work that way?’

  Again, no reaction.

  ‘It is Monday today, isn’t it?’ Monday and Thursday: Willow’s college days.

  Willow’s eventual reply was so brief as to be cryptic. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘OK for me to ring them for you, or OK you don’t need to let them know?’

  ‘It’s OK, there weren’t any classes I was going to today.’

  There was something about this – the way it was phrased perhaps, or a tone of the voice, a dip of the eyes – that convinced Laura it was evasion. It made her remember that other day, the recent Thursday, when she’d come home at lunchtime to find Willow here and not at college. The direct question would quite evidently be disastrous, but she was too weak and tired for artifice.