by Jane Holland
I have to change bus at the next stop. I sway to the exit as the driver corners at speed with brutal precision. Then I hop off in the cold, soon crossing the road at the lights and heading downhill towards a more familiar area.
I used to wait at this bus stop as a teenager, on my way home from shopping or a walk. In those days, I was less scared of the city. Less scared of living. Back then, I would sometimes have a sneaky smoke while waiting for the bus. Like the purple-haired girl in the skin-tight dress and thigh-high boots who’s there today, oblivious to the icy winds, both hands cupped round the flame of her boyfriend’s lighter as she sucks on a cigarette.
I don’t smoke anymore, though Dominic occasionally has a cigarette after dinner or when he’s feeling stressed after a long day.
Rachel used to smoke, I remember with a jolt. Whenever our parents weren’t watching, she’d drag out a packet of fags – probably stolen from Dad, who sometimes indulged in those days – and light one up. Then crush it under her heel before Mum came in, blaming the smell on me.
‘It wasn’t me, Mum,’ she would insist. ‘You know I don’t smoke. It was Cat.’
So Mum would turn to look at me accusingly. And I was only able to shake my head and mutter something incoherent, while Rachel smiled viciously at me behind Mum’s back.
The bus arrives and I get on behind the young couple, touching my Oyster card to the pad while they giggle and head for the back row. It’s impossible not to inhale the stale smell of smoke.
It’s only a short ride to the stop nearest my parents’ home, a large double-fronted house just off the Old Brompton Road. It’s hidden by high iron railings long since taken over by an overgrown box hedge. There’s a weeping willow in the garden, which gives the front rooms a melancholy tint in summer, and now, in winter, looks bleak and somehow lonely without its greenery. The dead willow leaves are still lying on the lawn, brown-edged and curling, even littering the gravelled front path, too.
There are lights on downstairs, though the curtains have been drawn to shut out the cold of the evening. I root automatically in my bag for my key, then stop and ring the bell instead. I no longer live here, as Dad has explained several times. It isn’t appropriate for me to use my key unless they are both out.
My mum opens the door, a tall woman with ash-blonde hair like my own, only shoulder-length and more silvery.
‘Darling, how are you?’ Her eyes widen. ‘Gosh, you’ve cut your hair rather short. I’m not sure what your dad will say about that. What on earth made you do it?’
Her smile falters slightly as she searches my face. But she continues without waiting for an answer. ‘Still, it’s lovely of you to visit us at last. We’ve both missed you. The house isn’t the same. Of course, it’s wonderful that you’re so busy with your volunteering these days. But we’d love to see more of you.’
That’s what Dominic would call a passive-aggressive greeting, I think drily. But I manage a polite smile in return. ‘Hi, Mum. How are you?’
My mother is looking strained. Is that down to today’s visit, or is something else bothering her? ‘Oh, I’m fine,’ she says vaguely as I kiss her on the cheek.
I slip past into the hallway, which smells heavily of flowers, and hang up my coat. I stop to admire the elegant white orchids on the hall table, then head for the living room.
‘No, not in there. Your father’s only just home from a meeting, I’m afraid. He went upstairs for a quick shower.’ Mum gestures me further down the hallway. ‘Let’s sit in the kitchen instead, shall we? It’s warmer in there anyway.’ She pauses, then says with an unfamiliar teasing note in her voice, ‘And I’ve got a little surprise for you.’
I follow her into the large, modern kitchen, with its beautiful chrome fittings kept at a high shine by Kasia, my parents’ cleaner. She’s Polish and very efficient. She taught me how to pronounce her surname once. Lecinska. Like ‘let-chin-scar’. I always get the feeling Kasia doesn’t like me, though I’ve done nothing to deserve that. But I often see her and my dad having a joke together, so maybe she’s the kind of woman who prefers men to other women.
‘No Dominic?’ Mum asks, lifting a bottle of chilled white wine out of the fridge and holding it up. ‘Chardonnay?’
‘Just a small one, thanks.’ I watch as Mum pours us each a large glassful, ignoring my request, then I take the wine with a perfunctory smile. Going to be like that, is it? ‘Dominic’s on evenings this week.’
‘Must be hard, not having him there when you get in from work.’
‘Not at all,’ I lie, but know my mum won’t be fooled. Our relationship is none of her business though, as I’ve told her before. ‘I like having extra time to myself.’
To distract her, I turn on my heel, studying the room next door, just visible through an archway. Light-blue walls and a new, gilt-framed oval mirror facing me. I check my reflection in it, then hurriedly look away, not liking what I see. The cold wind has left my cheeks tinged red, and my blonde hair looks sharp as a hedgehog’s bristles, sticking straight up over the crown. No wonder Mum stared at me on the doorstep. I look wild, like a changeling.
‘Oh, you’ve redecorated the breakfast room,’ I say, playing with the thin stem of my wine glass. ‘Is that the surprise?’
‘God, no, we had that done over the summer, while we were away in Barbados.’ My mother draws out a chair and sits down, watching me.
I feel uneasy under her gaze and avoid looking at her, prowling the room instead.
‘You must see the new decor in the guest bedroom, too,’ she continues. ‘I wanted pink wallpaper, had it all picked out. But your dad said no, it had to be something stylish and classic. In case one of his banker friends comes to stay. You know how conservative they all are, these business executives. So we went for grey and cream.’
‘I’d have preferred pink.’
‘Me too, absolutely.’ Mum’s voice has begun to tremble, as though she’s uneasy. An impression she confirms a second later, adding brusquely, ‘Do sit down, darling. You’re making me nervous. You remind me of a caged animal when you pace about the room like that. A panther, maybe.’
‘A blonde panther?’
My mother’s mouth compresses, but she goes on smiling. ‘Yes, a blonde one. I was so glad when you rang. So was your dad. It really has been too long since you came to see us, Cat.’
‘Please don’t call me that.’
There’s a short silence.
‘Sorry, I forgot. You prefer Catherine these days, don’t you?’ My mother takes a deep swallow of wine. ‘So grown-up.’
I sit down and place the glass in front of me without having yet taken a sip. The chilled wine is already frosting up the outside of the glass.
‘How’s the job?’ Mum asks brightly, then jumps up and fetches her handbag from beside the cooker, as though she’s already forgotten asking. ‘Here.’ With her most generous smile, the one reserved for moments when she knows gratitude will shortly be in order, she hands me a small, gift-wrapped box. ‘A little present for you, darling. I bought it for your Christmas present, but . . . well, you’re here now. So go ahead, open it.’
Reluctantly, I jerk on the thin gold ribbon holding the wrapping paper in place, then peel back soft layers of crepe. Inside is a small blue jewellery box.
Harrods, it says on the lid in gold lettering.
I hesitate, suddenly wary. What on earth has Mum bought for me from Harrods, of all places?
‘Shouldn’t I wait,’ I ask, ‘if this is a Christmas present?’
‘No, go on.’ My mother is watching with childlike eagerness, almost as though the present is for her, not me. ‘I can always buy you something else for Christmas. Besides, I want to see what you think.’
‘I think you’ve spent too much money on me.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly. You’re my daughter and it’s not as though we’re hard-up. Besides, my goodness, your bloody dad never lets me spend more than we can afford. Well, you know what he’s like.’ She laughs, but
without any real humour. ‘Ebenezer Scrooge, to a T.’
I don’t laugh.
I’m remembering the young widow with sad, desperate eyes today. The one with four equally desperate kids, all crammed together in two dingy rooms, and barely any money to buy food.
Whatever’s inside this jewellery box from Harrods, it would probably feed that whole family for six months.
‘Yes, Catherine, open the damn box,’ a deep voice says from behind us, startling me to the core. ‘Let’s see what Ellen has been hiding from me for weeks.’
Chapter Seven
I jump up, my heart suddenly racing. The box waits unopened on the table as I throw both arms about his neck.
‘Daddy.’
He looks down at me with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes that always make me think of home and childhood. Not entirely happily, it has to be said. He glances at my mother. ‘Sorry I’m late, Ellen. Traffic was insane, as usual.’ He kisses my flushed cheek, then pinches it. ‘Catherine, where have you been? You know I like to keep a very special eye on my daughter, to make sure she’s not in any trouble. Yet weeks go by and you don’t get in touch.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Too busy with Dominic to bother with your old mum and dad, is that it? Well, never mind, you’re here now,’ he says, in an echo of my mother earlier. His voice deepens with affection. ‘Not sure about the drastic haircut. But if it makes you happy—’
‘It does,’ I say.
‘Well then.’ Despite the indulgent smile, there’s an edge to his voice, making it clear he doesn’t approve. ‘Now, why don’t you open that box? Put us all out of our misery.’
I turn back to the jewellery box, meaning to open the lid, but my hand shakes at his words and I suddenly can’t bring myself to do it.
Why don’t you open that box? Because I’m remembering my sister’s snow globe, heavy and cold to the touch, an eyeball bobbing about inside, staring back at me.
‘Go on, darling,’ Mum prompts, her eyes shining.
I open the lid of the box.
Inside is a beautiful cat in profile, cast in silver and nestled against a bed of black velvet. The cat’s back is arched as if it’s spitting, tail raised, head forward. Its single eye winks at me under the kitchen spotlights. A tiny diamond, I realise. At the apex of its hunched back is a loop with a delicate silver chain threaded through it.
‘What do you think?’
I look blankly round at Mum. ‘It’s a cat.’
‘You always wanted a cat as a child. Do you remember? Because of your pet name. Cat. Only we were worried about all the traffic. Central London . . . A kitten might have got itself killed under a car’s wheels, and we couldn’t bear the thought of that.’ She looks at my face, and concern creeps into her voice. ‘Cat? What is it?’ She glances at the silver necklace. ‘You don’t like it?’
It’s all I can do not to scream in her face.
‘No, it’s . . .’ I unthread the necklace from the box with unsteady fingers. ‘It’s lovely. Thank you.’
My parents say nothing, watching me.
‘Daddy, could you possibly . . . ?’ I smile, awkwardly miming putting on the necklace. ‘These things are so fiddly.’
‘Turn around,’ he says in his deep voice.
I stand still while Dad positions the necklace around my neck. It fits perfectly. His warm fingers brush my skin, fumbling a little as he fastens the clasp.
‘It is a little fiddly,’ he agrees after a few seconds, breathing heavily next to my ear. ‘There,’ he says at last, and steps back. ‘All done.’
I close the lid of the jewellery box and straighten the silver cat on my chest. It hangs to just above my cleavage. I’m pretty sure Dominic will love it.
‘Thank you.’ I smile politely at Dad, and then at Mum. ‘It’s super. Thank you so much.’
‘You’re welcome, darling,’ Mum says, beaming. ‘Oh, it does suit you.’
Dad says nothing.
‘If you don’t need me, I think I’ll go up to my old room for a bit,’ I tell them, wishing my voice did not sound so high and breathless. ‘I’ve got one of my headaches coming on. Probably the wine.’
My mother glances at my face. ‘Do you need painkillers?’
‘It’s fine, I have something in my bag.’
‘Of course.’
I glance vaguely about the kitchen. ‘Unless you need help?’
‘God, no. We’re only having steak and salad. Your dad’s agreed to cook the steaks, and Kasia made us a big salad before she left tonight. It’s in the fridge, chilling.’
‘Like the wine,’ Dad says, and winks at me.
‘Then I’ll see you both later.’
‘Should be ready about seven thirty.’ Mum smiles broadly, gripping the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Her knuckles look almost white under the spotlights. ‘You have a nice lie-down, Cat. I’ll send Daddy to let you know when dinner’s ready.’
‘I told you, please don’t call me that.’
I turn and leave the room, feeling their gazes on my back all the way out. The hall is brightly lit, but the first floor is in darkness. I don’t put the lights on though, finding my way upstairs without any help, my hand sliding along the smooth wooden banister.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five . . .
In my head, I count all the stairs up to the second floor, reaching twelve and stopping. It’s pitch-black at the top of the house. My bedroom to the right. Rachel’s to the left. Her room locks, mine doesn’t. I can still see marks on the wooden frame of her door where there used to be a bolt, too. On the outside, to keep her safely locked in when she was having one of her violent tantrums. Our shared bathroom lies straight ahead.
The house is silent up here.
Oppressively so.
I tuck the necklace under my knitted top, but I can still feel it there. The silver cat is cold against my skin. Cold and heavy.
Pushing the door to my room open, I grope along the wall for the light switch.
The light comes on.
I look up, straight into Rachel’s eyes.
Chapter Eight
Of course, it isn’t Rachel. It’s just my own reflection in the full-length mirror opposite. But it frightens me enough that I gasp, take a sudden step back.
Someone – Kasia, perhaps? – has hooked one of my old black evening dresses on a hanger over the framed edge of the mirror.
For a second, looking into the mirror is like looking through a second doorway. A doorway into the past, and not a very flattering one.
Rachel was thinner than me, and slightly taller too, being older. Otherwise we were quite similar, so that people often mistook us for each other. In this instant though, I glimpse Rachel as she might have looked if she’d survived into adulthood. The narrow face filled out, her long hair chopped unflatteringly, hips somewhat broader, the suggestion of a rounded belly where Rachel was flat as a board. A slight coarsening of the features, too, which shocks me, examining myself in contrast to my dead sister.
There was always an air of elfish malevolence about Rachel that has kept her ever young in my memory. But if she’d lived, she might have looked very different by now. Perhaps even unrecognisable, if encountered on the street.
I lied about the headache.
My primary impulse downstairs had been to escape. To flee the claustrophobic atmosphere of the kitchen, where I’d felt – and acted – like a child again. That’s how it always seems to go when reunited with my parents. Pure regression, everything driven by kneejerk reactions that date back to childhood. One excellent reason for avoiding them all this time, though I can hardly admit that to my mother.
Daddy, I called him.
As though I were a little girl in short socks, and he was my hero. The best man in all the world.
‘Ugh.’
I drop backwards onto the bed, which is made up with fresh linen as if they told Kasia I’m staying the night. I won’t stay, of course.
But dinner won’t do any harm.
>
The mattress creaks beneath me in its wooden frame as I shift, getting comfortable. A sleigh bed, both ends curved like a Russian troika. My initials are carved into the wooden scroll at the head end.
There’s a photograph on the wall: me and Dad, soon after we returned home from Switzerland, taken by Mum in the back garden.
I look young and vulnerable. No make-up, my clothes ill-fitting. I would go on to lose a lot of weight in my mid-teens, my body a kind of stranger during adolescence. By contrast, Dad looks easy and self-assured in jeans and shirtsleeves, his top button undone. No tie, I notice. He took several months off work after Rachel’s death, which pleased me as I got to spend so much time with him alone.
Dad’s arm is round my shoulder, hugging me close. His smile is warm and open. Yet there’s a sadness about him, too. A distance in his eyes.
We had just lost Rachel.
His hair was only faintly threaded with silver in those days. Tall and broad-shouldered, but with a leanness that made his jeans sit low on his hips, he dominates the shot. Behind us stands the gigantic magnolia tree that is still the focal point of the garden, especially in spring when its petal buds open into vast, waxy-leaved, bowl-like flowers. Even now I can almost smell that rich, citrus scent that is always so overwhelming when sitting beneath it in the shade . . .
Did Dad love Rachel more than me when we were kids? Was I some kind of consolation prize for him after her death?
I often wonder, yet never dare ask him directly. And with my adult mind, it’s a possibility that makes little sense. Rachel was an unpleasant child, always in serious trouble, always doing something not merely mischievous but downright appalling.
Yet my parents usually like to pretend that she was normal.
‘You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,’ they told me once, after an inadvertent mention of Rachel and some dreadful crime she’d committed. Their disapproval was tangible.
Rachel, the saint.
Canonised after death, and quite undeservedly.
I bring out the cat necklace from under my top, straightening it on my chest. I both love it and hate it at the same time. A conflict which hurts and causes me confusion. The very fact that my mother can buy me a gift like this, and not know how painful it must be, makes me question my own memories.
