by A J Waines
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know much about musical instruments, but if anyone did try to sell it, wouldn’t it be recognised straightaway?’
‘Well… it would be pretty impossible to pass it on through traditional routes, but I’ve heard of high-profile instruments going underground through the black market.’ She fiddled with the buckle on her belt. ‘It could end up stashed away in a dealer’s vault or in a villa on the Cayman Islands. I can send you links to articles about that kind of thing, if you like?’
‘Well…I’m not sure that’s necessary, just now.’
She rubbed her eye, then picked at a scab on her hand, constantly fidgeting.
‘I forgot to say,’ she went on. ‘The girl who lives in the flat above mine works at Rothman’s Auction House in Wigmore Street. I find out a lot of stuff from her. Dawn mails out catalogues to customers and gets listings for all the big auction houses in the UK.’
‘Go on…’
‘After the crash, I asked if she’d keep her eyes open for any musical instruments that came up for auction and she added me to the mailing list. I mean…as I spoke to her, I knew it was a long shot…but I thought I’d keep checking, anyway. Like you say, no one in their right mind would try to sell a stolen instrument as distinctive as Max’s Guarneri on the open market. It would be spotted a mile off. For one thing, it’s so distinctive – the tail-piece is inlaid with mother of pearl and the pegs have little sapphires in the ends.’
‘Still, it was a smart thing to do.’
‘Thanks!’ Rosie’s face melted into a smile, then tightened into a frown. ‘Maybe there was another motive I don’t know about,’ she said slowly.
‘Let’s stick with what we know, shall we?’ I didn’t want her to get sidetracked speculating.
In our remaining five minutes, I asked about Rosie’s friends, to find out who was looking out for her. She was vague and unforthcoming. It seemed she had ‘acquaintances’ at work and a few regulars who said hello at the local library, but no real friends or family. No one had been to see her when she was in hospital after the crash.
‘I send Christmas and birthday cards to a few people – Auntie Doris, and another lady who took me in for a year when I was thirteen – but I don’t get many back. No one seems to remember my birthday. I think it’s one of those difficult dates…you know?’
I waited for her to explain.
‘It’s in a few weeks’ time, actually, on November thirtieth, but everyone’s already thinking about Christmas by then, aren’t they?’
I gave a faint nod. This was the justification she’d used to convince herself over the years.
‘So, I’ll see you again, outside office hours somewhere, next week – you’ll text me?’ she said when our time was up.
‘I didn’t say that exactly. Something might be possible,’ I said, laying heavy emphasis on the ‘might’. ‘But I can’t give you any guarantees right now…I’ll let you know.’
‘You’ll try your best, though?’ she pleaded, rubbing the door handle as if it was the hand of someone she couldn’t bear to be parted from.
After she’d gone, I stood for a while with my back against the door. The same raw sadness I’d felt when I first met her sucked at my stomach. I let it tug for a while, then jotted down a few notes:
Rosie’s initial response to the memory techniques is very positive and we’ve started to recover lost fragments from the traumatic event. She believes there’s a lot about the accident that remains unexplained and is very keen to unravel the mystery. My view, ultimately, is that she won’t gain a sense of control and stability until she can piece together more about what happened…
I stopped writing. If the best way forward for Rosie was to find answers, then continuing our memory therapy was crucial.
As I put down my pen, a vision of Joanne came to mind, falling as a heavy shadow across my shoulders. Her pale young face scrunched up with desperation, her voice fighting back tears. It made me wince, bringing with it an abrupt reminder of what can happen when a patient hands over their trust and a professional fails to follow through when it mattered most.
Was I going to deny Rosie my support because she might be a handful? Rosie was vulnerable after the accident. Wouldn’t I be in a similar state if I’d had such a close brush with death? And wasn’t dealing with loneliness and isolation part of my job? Surely, I was experienced and professional enough to handle this kind of situation. Only a few days earlier I’d taken a private oath to do all I could to support her.
In the last few moments before my next patient was due, I scribbled a note in my diary reminding me to fix up indemnity insurance. I didn’t have an option; it was my duty to carry on seeing Rosie and the only way we could do that was if she saw me privately.
I scanned the impersonal space I used as my office, with its built-in alarm system and team of professionals an arm’s length away. The next time I saw Rosie she’d be stepping across the threshold of my flat. Into my home.
I focused on the positives: she was keen to work hard, she was fully engaged with the process and was making headway. Hot on the heels of that thought came another: one I didn’t want to hear that sent an icy shiver down the back of my neck.
Chapter 10
Rosie
I can’t believe it! She’s just sent me a text; I can have appointments at her house! It’s going to be so brilliant, seeing where she lives and spending time in her own personal space. Touching things she’s touched. Breathing the same air. I thought she was going to give up on me, when I said I wouldn’t be able to come to the hospital any more, but she’s come through with flying colours. I knew she would. She’s got a heart of gold. She knows we’ve got something special already. This is only the beginning. I’m so happy!
I put my phone down and kick off my slippers. I’m too excited to stay in on my own. It’s time to celebrate; I haven’t had a good night out in months. The last time was at a leaving party for one of the girls at work, but it wasn’t much fun in the end. Turned out I was only invited so I could help clear up afterwards.
So, I’m sitting in The Great Boar (which would have lived up to its name with a different spelling) and I’ve dolled myself up a bit with a mini-skirt, a low-cut top and one off those push-up bras. My cleavage looks like two cream buns stuffed together on a tray, but I don’t care. I feel like a pot of honey: attracting the city bees who’ve had too much to drink – the ones who have cold and empty homes to go to. It’s done the trick before. Even for a dowdy carrot-top, like me. Only, I’m not looking for a quickie in a back alley; I’m not bothered about the sex at all, really. I’d rather have the touching, kissing, holding. I want to connect with someone, to gaze into someone’s eyes, to flirt and be treated like a lady. Is that too much to ask?
As I look for a free table, a woman in the far corner gets up from her chair, laughing. She reminds me for a moment of Sam, although her dark shoulder-length hair isn’t as glossy. She isn’t as elegant or as slim as Sam either. As she walks towards me in the direction of the bar, I notice she actually looks quite tarty. Too much make-up and her lipstick is bleeding on to her teeth. Sam wouldn’t be seen dead looking like that – or in a dive like this, for that matter.
I sit in a corner I’d like to describe as cosy, but in fact it’s just gloomy. I hope I’m not going to make a fool of myself. I just want to feel special and wanted, that’s all, to find someone who’s interested in me. I know I’m going to see Sam again soon, but I’m aching for attention now. To cuddle up with someone and be close – do what couples do.
My hopes are high to start with. I look up, try to plaster a light-hearted expression on my face, to pout my lips a tad so people might see me as a temptress. A man begins heading my way, but he reaches behind me for a stack of business cards on the window ledge. I’m certain the next one is going to catch my eye. He gets as far as my small table then grunts when he discovers it isn’t vacant.
I sit there for over half an hour and not once does anyone, male
or female, acknowledge me – worse than that – no one seems to see me at all. It’s like I’m invisible. I half expect someone to walk right through me. Is this how my life is always going to be? Forever screaming from inside a soundproofed glass tomb where I can see out, but no one can see in?
In the next half hour, I sip two more rum and blacks, one after the other, as slowly as I can. Then, something happens, my luck is in. A group of men saunter over from the bar and one of them comes right up to speak to me. He asks if the seats beside me are free. I nod with a big smile and the four of them join me at the table, or rather take possession of it. After that, not one of them speaks to me again or even looks in my direction. They just wanted the table.
It becomes embarrassing. As a group, they gradually seem to expand, like cake mix swelling in the oven and I’m pushed further and further back, trapped in the corner. I pretend to check my texts, scan my diary. I’m tempted to pull out my paperback, but the light is too faint to read. Eventually, I get up, squeeze through crowds of people laughing and joking and go to the bar. This is a better spot. No one can ignore me here. I perch on a stool and offer punters peanuts, but no one exchanges more than a sentence with me.
The door swings open and a group of rowdy West Ham fans crowd in and elbow me out of the way as they order their pints. One of them turns to me and actually makes eye contact. An unruly football supporter with caterpillar eyebrows and too much nasal hair, wearing a T-shirt that fails to cover his muffin-top. He isn’t exactly what I was hoping for, but I’m prepared to lower my standards just this once. He looks like he’s about to give me an oafish chat-up line, but then he calls me a fat slag and guffaws with his mates. It isn’t the kind of human contact I had in mind. I’ve had enough by now, so I get up and leave.
When I get home a pang of nostalgia hits me hard. It’s that time of year, with my birthday coming up. I pull my box of memorabilia out from under the bed. It sounds grand, but there isn’t much in it. I take out the only photos I’ve got and lay them on the tatty candlewick cover like playing cards.
I pretend I’m showing them to Sam, make-believe she’s here in the room with me, sipping a late-night cocoa before bedtime.
A woman I called Auntie Joyce took me in first, after Mum and Dad died. I’ve got one photo of the two of us in Trafalgar Square one winter in the snow. We’re wrapped up in scarves, gloves and hats, bulked out like snowmen. We aren’t smiling at the camera or holding hands or anything, just standing next to each other like we’re in a bus queue. I wasn’t with her long; she was a friend of my mum’s when they worked in the cosmetics’ factory. Then it was Mrs Laine for a couple of months and after that it was Auntie Doris – that’s when I got my viola – but I don’t have any photos of her.
I only have two pictures of Mum and one of Dad in the whole world. None of them together. They’re tatty from years of fingering and flattening down. If my eyes were lasers, the photos would be bleached white by now, I’ve looked at them so often. I try to find more in them each time. I keep hoping for a dog or a bicycle to materialise in the background to bring a fresh memory to light, but there’s never anything there. The only one of Dad shows him wearing an RAF uniform. He looks preposterous in the jacket. He’d borrowed it and it was two sizes too big. I know for a fact he never flew a plane or went anywhere near an airbase. The picture has been folded across his face, so I can’t tell whether he’s smiling. Probably not.
It’s Christmas in a month. Already the shops are full of it. I told Sam I had no joyful memories of family Christmases. When I think of it again now, I can only bring to mind Dad flying off the handle, because the apple sauce was too sour or the parsnips were burnt – he had a ballistic temper.
Christmas Day was no different from any other day in our house. Plates would be routinely thrown, chairs got broken, a grandfather clock was pushed over once on Boxing Day, sent crashing to the floor with a discordant clang. Mum bore it all. She never fought back, except with words under her breath. There were only ever two states at home when Dad was there: incessant shouting or a trembling silence. The silence was the worst of the two, because you always knew something was brewing. Even when he didn’t say a word, I could tell the threats and foul language were flying around inside his skull.
When I think of my dad, I only see a shadow. He was away from home a lot when I was small, but then, when I was about five, there was a massive explosion on his oil rig that sent the whole platform up into the sky. It scattered pieces on the water the size of Mars bars. Dad survived, but he was in hospital for weeks. He came home with a limp and never worked again. He spent his days going to the pub and the bookies – I thought that was some kind of library. I asked to go too, but he shook me off saying it was only for grown-ups.
It’s hard to lose someone who has never really been there in the first place. Would Sam understand that I grieve most over what might have been when I think of my dad? Without the photograph I have no memory of his face, his voice, or the smell of his jacket. That thought makes me feel more isolated than ever.
I suppose if Sam wants to know all this stuff, it won’t do any harm to share it; it’s just that I’ve gone over it so many times on my own and with other therapists, that I don’t see the point. Recounting it never gets me anywhere.
I pick up the most recent photo of my mother and try to imagine being next to her. I do remember her. She was pretty. Her hair was a shade closer to blonde than mine and she had petite features, like a bird. When I look back, I can see that men liked her because she looked vulnerable, not in a weak way, but as if she needed protection, like expensive cut glass.
I remember Dad once saying he didn’t like the way men ogled her, one bit. I didn’t know what it meant then, but it made him so livid that he’d sometimes pull out the wire to the phone and lock me and Mum in the house. I notice keys now; I tend to spot them if they’re lying around because I know how important they are. Mum missed important tests at the hospital one time, because we were trapped inside. I guess he was possessive and that’s one of the reasons Mum wanted to get away.
There are plenty of unpleasant incidents I could tell Sam about, if I had to. Like the time he’d come back from the bookies one afternoon and demanded a fruit pie with a decent crust on it. Two hours later, Mum proudly carried a lemon cheesecake into the room. Dad got to his feet and at first I thought he was pleased, but his voice didn’t sound right. Cheesecake is NOT a pie, he said. Cheesecake is a CAKE! And he smashed his walking stick into the centre of it.
Unbelievable! When I explained this to my last therapist, Erica, she said he sounded like a character out of Dickens.
‘Even in the 1980s,’ she’d said, ‘your mother shouldn’t have had to put up with that.’
But everything got worse. No one seemed overly surprised about what happened on that horrible day when they both abandoned me forever. Neighbours nodded knowingly when the police cars came and the two of them were lifted into the ambulance inside long thin bags. Some said they saw it coming, others that it had only been a matter of time. I remember that half-filled suitcase on the bed – Mum and me were supposed to be going away together. Instead, they both left without me.
Chapter 11
Rosie
As my shoes crunch up the gravel drive of Sam’s Victorian house, I’m disappointed. There’s a board with buzzers and nameplates by the front door, which means it’s been divided into flats. I was expecting Sam to live in a detached property all by herself or at least somewhere smarter than this. Once inside, I can’t see much of the flat. She’s closed most of the internal doors, but I swear it only has one bedroom.
The decor isn’t what I was expecting either. It’s a bit odd. Quirky. A hotchpotch of battered old and shiny new belongings. An overused velvet settee – but a stylish gold-framed mirror above the fireplace. A trendy light-fitting that’s like a gnarled tree branch suspended from the ceiling and a coffee table from a huge slab of tree trunk on a Persian rug. Bookshelves made with bricks. I wan
t to stop to take it all in properly, I want to work out what it says about her. While she picks up her notes from a small table, I move closer to an unusual painting on the wall.
‘Did you do this?’ I say. It’s loud and colourful, but I’m not sure what it’s meant to be.
I get a measly one-word answer. ‘No.’
She isn’t going any further than that, but I’m one step ahead of her, having spotted a signature in the bottom right-hand corner. Another Willerby. Sam’s mother?
‘A relative?’ I say.
‘Mmm…’ is all I get back.
I take a chance. ‘Your sister?’
‘Yes.’ Neutral. No, she’s actually verging on being annoyed. What’s the big deal?
‘Must be nice having a sister,’ I say, but she says we’re not here to talk about her.
I’m dying to ask if she’s married or has a boyfriend, or any kids, if there are any other brothers or sisters lurking in the wings, but I’m going to have to work everything out for myself. She’s not wearing a wedding ring and she uses the same name as her sister, so that’s a start.
There are no photos of her or any family groups about the place. Instead, just a few pale grey outlines on the wall where several frames have been removed. Is that for my benefit? Something inside my chest shrinks. Why does she have to hide things from me? I’m letting her right inside my head after all. It’s not fair.
I don’t need to go, but in the middle of our session I ask to use the bathroom. You can tell a lot about a person from their bathroom. Sam has put out a tiny guest towel, so far unused, and there’s expensive oil on the side of the bath and only one toothbrush. Only one dressing-gown hangs on the back of the door, too. While I’m in there, I take a quick peek inside the mirrored cabinet above the basin. Wax treatment, nail varnish, creams, hair mousse. Nothing to indicate a second person. I’m rather relieved at that.
