He has explained this before, but it’s now I see it myself that it feels like something that can – and does – make money.
We’re about to leave the stall when I spot a small, clay Tigger pot next to the counter. It’s the odd item out in a stall of soft toys. When I was a girl, I read the Winnie The Pooh books and Tigger was always my favourite. Pooh always seemed to be so depressed and then Tigger would bounce around and make things better. That’s how I remember it, anyway.
‘Do you like it?’ David asks.
‘I think my mum used to have one. I might’ve played with it when I was a kid. I remember filling it with buttons.’ I swirl a hand, trying to find the recollection. ‘I sort of remember it, but I don’t. I must’ve been really young.
David turns to the girl behind the counter: ‘How much?’ he asks.
She spies the pot in my hand and pouts a lip. ‘Twenty?’
‘There’s a chip at the bottom. How about five for cash?’
The girl doesn’t bother to check the damage, which I hadn’t noticed. She mutters, ‘OK’ and then I hand her a note.
We continue walking around the fair and David shows a little interest in one of the record stalls, though he doesn’t buy anything. It takes us around ninety minutes in total until we’re back where we started at the platform overlooking the hall. I assume we’re going to leave, but David stops and leans once more. I join him because I’m not sure what else to do.
‘Have you thought about it?’ he asks.
I stare sideways at him, wondering if I missed a sentence among the hubbub: ‘Thought about what?’
‘The seed money for the Slovakia thing…’
I don’t know how I missed it before, but it now seems obvious that he was asking for money when he brought it up earlier. I wait for him to look at me, though he is focused only on the floor below.
‘I can’t lend you what I don’t have,’ I say.
‘But you could get a loan,’ David replies. ‘Say it’s for a car, or whatever. Once I’ve got the stock, I’ll be able to get your money back straight away. Like that Pooh Bear thing down there.’ He wafts a hand in the direction of the toy stall.
‘But that Pooh hadn’t sold,’ I reply. ‘You can put a price tag on anything – but if it’s unsold, then it doesn’t matter.’
David shakes his head. ‘You’re not seeing it.’
‘I can’t go and ask for a car loan and then give the money to you instead.’
He bites his lip and nods slowly before suddenly spinning on his heels. ‘Shall we go?’ he says.
‘Are you sure that’s all right?’ I ask.
He continues nodding, too quickly. ‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘Let’s go.’
Eighteen
THE NOW
I’ve pulled up the handbrake of Andy’s car when I spot Veronica hurrying along the pavement. She has a satchel over her shoulder and is wearing a pair of bright white trainers, with thick dark tights.
Mum’s bungalow is among a collection of thirty or so that are occupied by people who are of, ahem, ‘advancing years’. Mum doesn’t like the term ‘elderly’, let alone ‘old’. It’s a gated community, where cars have to either be buzzed in or stop to type a code into a metal speaker box. The security detail is slightly compromised by the fact that anyone can simply open the pedestrian gate and walk in, though it gives a veneer of sanctuary, which is probably the most important thing.
Veronica visits six days a week to make sure everyone is healthy and has what they need. She’s a mix of warden and companion, with a large aspect of babysitter thrown in. She is also the most patient person I’ve ever met and does a job for which there is not enough money in the world to tempt me.
As I get out of the car, she stops and offers an impressed smile.
‘Nice…’ she says.
‘It’s not mine,’ I reply. ‘I’m borrowing it for a few days.’
She hoists her satchel higher and smiles politely, ready to get back to whatever she was doing.
‘Were you here yesterday?’ I ask.
‘On and off.’
‘Did you see anyone new around?’
Veronica shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so. It’s pretty quiet around here in December.’
She pulls her cardigan tighter as if to emphasise her point. While she’s doing that, I unlock my phone and find the photo Jane took the other evening. I deleted all the old ones of David and I have no idea what happened to the wedding photos. I certainly don’t have them. I zoom in on the face of the man who looks like David and turn it around for Veronica to see.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen him around, have you?’
She squints and then slowly shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so… is there anything to worry about?’
I put the phone back in my bag. ‘Not at all.’
Veronica eyes me for a moment, but I can’t explain much more than that. She wasn’t working here when David was around. She probably knows my husband disappeared – everyone seems to – but I don’t want to get into it today.
‘Bit chilly out,’ I say, which is enough to break our impasse.
Veronica pulls her satchel higher again, agrees with me, and then heads off towards the furthest of the bungalows.
I let myself into Mum’s, though she barely looks up as I enter the living room. She’s in her chair, arms folded, watching an auction show on TV.
‘Look at this,’ she says. ‘He’s trying to get £200 for that flowerpot. No chance.’
I go through the basics – filling the kettle and setting it on the stove before cleaning away the cups and plates Mum’s left in the sink. Veronica does it some days, but it’s not really her job. When the kettle starts whistling, I make a pair of teas and then head back into the living room. Mum takes hers without a word and sips from the top before putting the cup on the side table.
‘Do you want another pillow?’ I ask.
‘I’m not an invalid.’ She takes a breath and then nods at the screen. ‘I told you he’d never get £200.’
I sit on the sofa and shuffle around, trying to get comfortable. I only stop when Mum tuts loudly in my direction and it feels like I’m a scolded six-year-old again.
‘Mum…’ I say.
She doesn’t turn from the screen.
‘You said you saw David…’
She snaps her reply: ‘Who?’
‘David. My ex-husband.’
Mum’s attention switches to me momentarily but only for a second until she looks back to the screen.
The thing is, she’s not been diagnosed with anything like dementia or Alzheimer’s. First, she would refuse to go to the doctor; second, she wouldn’t acknowledge any diagnosis anyway. Third, she can sometimes be frighteningly clear about things that actually did happen in the past. Finally, there’s a horrible part of me that doesn’t want to push for any sort of confirmation because I don’t want to know.
Sometimes, she will talk about things from a decade ago as if it’s happening now. Once, she spoke as if Dad was still alive and he was in the other room. She can forget that she now lives in Poynton-on-Sea instead of Gradingham, where she spent her previous fifty or so years. She thinks she’s on holiday and talks about looking forward to getting home. And then, twenty minutes later, she’ll have forgotten we ever had the conversation.
There’s obviously something not right – and it’s getting worse. That doesn’t mean that I know what to do. Her own stubbornness will win over anything I could suggest.
She doesn’t speak for a good thirty seconds as she watches the TV – and then, from nowhere, she says: ‘David…?’, making it sound like a question. It is as if she doesn’t know the name, like it could be a character on television about whom she is unsure.
I show her the photo on my phone from the other night. She takes it from me, her hands shaking as she tries to grip the screen.
‘I hate these things,’ she says.
‘Do you remember David?’ I ask.
&
nbsp; She squints over her glasses at the photo: ‘Course I do.’
‘Was he here, Mum?’
‘He made me a nice cup of tea.’
The hairs rise on the back of my neck. It feels as if there is someone behind me, blowing a gentle breeze.
‘When?’
The delay is interminable. On the television, someone in a red shirt is running along a street, waving a lamp at someone else in a red shirt. Mum is captivated by it, her gaze unflinching.
‘Oh, y’know…’ she says.
I wait to see if there’s anything more, but that’s all she has. This is the type of response she gives when she doesn’t know the answer but will absolutely refuse to admit she is unsure. I won’t get a better reply.
For a while, we sit and watch the television together. We’d do this when I was young, but, back then, it was something like Art Attack or Fun House. I was an ITV girl.
The auction show ends and then, amazingly, another begins. I wonder if this is all that exists on daytime TV. Mum gives a running commentary on everything that’s on screen. Everyone is an ‘idiot’, ‘stupid’, ‘ugly’ or wearing something ‘hideous’. She doesn’t seem to have a good word to say about anyone.
I don’t interrupt because it will be met by an indignant silence. Sometimes it is nice to hear her voice, regardless of what she’s saying.
It’s only after we’ve been sitting for twenty minutes that I spot what’s sitting next to the TV. I get up and pick up the small frame and return to the sofa. Mum doesn’t move and it takes me a short while to figure out what it is. It’s a strip of white cardboard that’s scuffed and a little battered, which has been framed by dark cherry wood. As best I can see, it is a ticket for a New York Mets’ baseball game from 1979. It takes me a good minute to understand what the black squiggle across the centre actually represents.
I hold it up, waiting until Mum turns slightly towards me.
‘Where did you get this?’ I ask.
‘Get what?’
I don’t want to pass it over in case she drops it. My fingers are shaking as I hold it up for her to see.
‘This ticket, Mum. Where did you get it?’
‘I’ve had that for ages.’
‘You haven’t. I was here two weeks ago and it wasn’t here.’
She crosses her arms and turns back to the TV. I wouldn’t usually push an issue like this, but it’s too important.
‘Where did it come from?’ I ask again.
The frown lines deepen around the rim of her eyes. ‘Just put it down.’
I move until I’m standing in front of the television, blocking her view. ‘Did David give this to you?’
With a speed I’ve not seen her produce in years, Mum reaches forward and snatches away the frame. ‘It’s mine!’
She holds the frame to her chest, cradling it like she’s clutching a newborn.
It wasn’t that hard to figure out once I realised what the scrawl on the ticket actually was. The ‘J’ at the beginning was as clear as could be.
It was the one thing she told David she always wanted.
The one thing she always said she regretted not getting.
The one thing she craved.
John Lennon’s autograph.
Nineteen
THE WHY
Three years, three months ago
I’m so tired that I almost fall through the front door. I go to hang my coat on the hook, but there is already a row of jackets there, as if David is breeding them. I move a couple of his so that they’re on the same peg, and then hang my own. After that, I head to the kitchen and drop my keys into the Tigger pot, before opening the fridge. I left some chicken in there last night – an Asda rotisserie job – but that is gone. So is what was left of the apple juice I’d bought myself.
David is in the living room, his feet up on the coffee table as he simultaneously taps away on his phone and watches TV. It’s the exact same position I left him in this morning. He barely turns as he mutters ‘All right’ in my direction.
‘Did you eat the chicken?’ I ask.
‘Yeah.’
‘I was going to have it for my tea.’
‘Sorry…’
He doesn’t sound particularly remorseful and I have to content myself with a glass of water for now.
I check the fridge again and then turn back to David. ‘Did you have the bibimbap as well?’ I ask.
‘The what?’
‘The rice bowl.’
‘That was lunch,’ he replies. ‘It was really nice. I was wondering what it was.’
It’s probably because I slam the fridge door, but David finally realises there’s something wrong. He puts his phone down and crosses to the kitchen.
‘Everything all right?’ he asks.
‘I’ve just done three classes in a row – and you’ve eaten all my food!’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘You’ve been in all day. You could’ve gone shopping.’
He presses back onto the counter and, though I can see he’s trying to look somewhat sorry, it doesn’t stop the smile slipping onto his face. He’s like a child who’s just been told off.
‘I have news,’ he says.
‘What?’
David reaches into his jeans pocket and takes out a wad of banknotes that he places on the counter.
‘There’s five-hundred there for you,’ he says.
I look from him to the money and back again. ‘Why?’
‘I figured a sort of rent thing. Or use it for the bills. Whatever. It’s not fair that you pay for everything.’
I don’t know what to say at first. This is what I’ve been hinting at for months and he’s finally got the message. It probably doesn’t cover everything I’ve spent on him in regards to food and bills – but it’s better than nothing. We’ve also got here without a big argument. I wonder if this is what it’s like with other couples. Sometimes we feel more like housemates.
‘I know we’ve never talked about it,’ he says, as if reading my mind, ‘but I think I should contribute. The sales to Sweden went through and I paid off your mum’s friends with plenty to spare.’
He smooths down the notes and then passes them over. I don’t know what to do with them, so end up holding them. I’m not sure I’ve ever had this much cash in one go.
‘What about the Slovakia thing?’ I ask.
‘That fell through.’
‘Oh…’
He bats a hand as if it doesn’t matter, even though I know he was keen a short time ago.
‘You go and sit,’ he says. ‘I’ll cook something for you to eat and then we can watch something on catch-up.’
I start to protest but not in any meaningful way. Instead, I go and change into my pyjamas and then decamp to the sofa. I fiddle with my phone, check Facebook and generally don’t do very much.
After a while, David comes over with a bowl full of a risotto he’s put together. If I’m honest, it’s not very good. He’s cooked it for too long and the rice has dried out, while the only discernible flavour is garlic. I tell him it’s nice anyway because I’m not a complete lunatic.
He sits at my side and scrolls through the list of recorded programmes to put on last weekend’s Strictly.
‘What did you get up to today?’ I ask.
‘Checked a few websites and followed up a tip about an auction that’s happening in Marlborough on Tuesday. I headed out there to ask a few questions and then tried to persuade the owner to sell privately to me. I’m waiting on a callback. I met a couple of interesting locals out there, actually. Some bloke who does house clearances who took a card and another guy who was going on about how he can get fake IDs and passports. I took his card just to be polite. Probably a nutter.’ He pauses and then adds: ‘What about you?’
‘I got my first personal training clients today.’
‘Congratulations! I knew you could do it.’
I try not to be too smug – even though I’m definitely pleased with myself.
>
‘I’m hoping I’ll be able to do a bit more during the day and have more evenings off,’ I say.
‘That’ll be nice.’ He rests an arm around my shoulder. ‘I’m so proud of you. You’ve done this all by yourself. So many people lack the ambition to do the type of thing you’ve done.’
I put my bowl to one side and press my head into his shoulder. I needed to hear this. It’s what makes us more than housemates.
‘Thank you for believing in me,’ I say.
‘Of course I believe in you. Who wouldn’t?’
‘Nobody else did,’ I reply. ‘Only you.’
Twenty
Three years, two months ago
The traffic light changes to red with such perfect precision that it might as well follow it up with a flashing middle finger. I could gun the engine and pile on through the junction – but I’m not a taxi driver, so I ease onto the brakes and sit.
There must be some sort of in-built sensors in traffic lights that can pick up on when a person is in a hurry. Got hours to spare? Hey, here’s a green light. Running late? Too bad: it’s red for you.
It’s probably no longer than a minute, but it feels like an age until the light switches back. I hit the accelerator on the ‘g’ of green and fly across the junction, taking the series of familiar turns until I pull up outside Nick’s house. The garage door is open and he’s already there in his running gear, waiting for me.
‘I am so sorry,’ I say as I head along his drive. ‘I was having problems with the car and then I got caught behind a tractor.’
He waves me away and doesn’t question the story, even though it’s only cover for that fact that David and I spent twenty minutes arguing over how he never does anything around the apartment. He’s not swept up since he moved in and the fridge was empty again today. He never shops for more, as if nipping into Asda is beneath him.
‘It’s fine,’ Nick says. ‘I’ve not been home that long either. It gave me a chance to warm up.’
Close to You (ARC) Page 11
