by Helen Lowrie
‘It’s been a long time, Barb, how are you?’ I said placing my hand over hers.
‘Oh I’m fine, dear, never fear,’ she said, smiling and dabbing her nose with a hankie.
‘Were you, I mean, do you still work in the garden centre?’
‘Oh yes, just part-time you know; helping out in the plant area; keeping the customers happy – that sort of thing.’
‘Well, look, I don’t want you to worry. I don’t know what I’m going to do with the business just yet but whatever happens you and the rest of the staff will be looked after. Dad had a really strong life insurance policy – I made sure of that – and if there are any wages owing I’ll make certain they are paid.’
‘Oh, James, don’t trouble yourself with any of that just now.’ Tears spilled from her eyes and she hastily wiped them away.
‘I just wanted you to know,’ I said.
Jasmine interrupted by leaning in. ‘The people from up the road are waiting to say goodbye before they leave – they’re in the kitchen.’ Her expensive perfume didn’t quite mask the tell-tale scent of cigarette smoke caught in her hair. She was supposed to have given up but I pretended not to notice as I thanked her, excused myself and headed into the room next door.
By the time I’d spoken to everyone, at least briefly, and the last of the neighbours had left, Tupperware and soggy hankies in hand, it was dark outside. With a dazed weariness I closed the front door to my dad’s cottage and leaned back against it. Jasmine was touching up her lipstick in the hall mirror, her faux fur coat already on and her handbag suspended from her elbow.
‘Ready to go, James?’
‘Go?’
‘Traffic should have died down by now and I have a nine o’clock audition tomorrow – I need my beauty sleep.’
‘I should probably stay here for a bit.’
Turning she stared at me, one hand raised to her neat hairdo. ‘Stay? Here?’
‘Yes. My boss has given me some time off and there are things I need to –’
‘How long are you staying for?’
‘Well I, I don’t know, maybe a week or so.’
‘A week?’ Jasmine glared at me impatiently, frown lines bunching between her carefully crafted eyebrows.
There was a growing list of things to sort out and look into and I felt no desire to rush back to my job: all worst-case scenarios, better-safe-than-sorrys and stats-based pessimism. Perversely Jasmine’s impatience to leave only made me want to stay longer. I shrugged, mutely apologetic. Pressing her lips together, her nose flaring, Jasmine yanked on her leather gloves, marched out of the house and wordlessly stalked across the gravel, to where her convertible was parked nose to nose with my hatchback.
As I watched her drive off into the darkness, vaguely hoping she would stick to the speed limit, it dawned on me that one of my own worst-case scenarios had been realised – my last remaining family was dead. I was no longer a child but still – it felt like I’d been abandoned, orphaned, all over again.
Chapter Three
‘Wake up you stupid bitch,’ he spat, grabbing a handful of my hair and yanking me sharply out of bed and onto the floor.
The bedside clock read 2:45 and I hadn’t heard Vic come in but I was awake now – wide awake. What had I done this time? The wound on the back of my head had only just healed and now this. My fingers clutched futilely at his hand in a desperate attempt to relieve the burning in my scalp as my bare feet scrabbled for purchase on the floorboards.
‘Where is it?’ he demanded, shoving me through the living room doorway, the chipped skirting board grazing my knee.
‘What?’ I gasped, blinking in the glare of the overhead light as he released me. Through the archway the contents of the pedal bin had been emptied all over the kitchen floor.
‘My fucking newspaper – where is it?’
Vic liked to study the sports pages of the paper and make cryptic notes in the margin before placing his bets. It was an old-fashioned way of doing things but he was superstitious about the process and took his gambling seriously. Gripping the edge of the couch I hauled myself to my feet, quickly scanning the room and trying to think, all the while keeping his balled fists in my peripheral vision as they trembled with rage. Carefully I lifted his heavy denim jacket off the coffee table where he had flung it, the sour stench of booze, cigarettes, and sweat rising with the garment and revealing a neatly folded newspaper underneath.
Vic snatched the paper up. ‘How many fucking times have I told you not to touch my stuff?’
I physically bit back the retort that sprang to my lips. If I’d left the paper on the floor where he’d dropped it he would have complained about my not tidying up. I couldn’t win and I’d long since learned not to argue; arguing just made him more likely to hit me.
Ripping his jacket out of my hand Vic shrugged into it and helped himself to a six-pack of beer from the fridge. ‘Clear this up,’ he said, indicating the leaking heap of rubbish with his foot on his way to the front door.
I stared after him in mute defiance, not taking my eyes off him despite the warm trickle of blood making its way down my shin. I never let him see he’d hurt me if I could help it. As he slammed and stomped his way out of the building I listened, aurally following his progress. Only once I was sure he wasn’t coming back did I let the tension seep out of my muscles. I’d have to be up in a couple of hours’ time and I’d never get back to sleep now. Resigned to a weary day ahead I cleaned and dressed the gash on my knee, wrapped myself in a dressing gown and righted the kitchen. With Vic gone I could afford to treat myself to some comfort. Carefully I extracted the small fish-finger box from the bottom drawer of the freezer, made myself a coffee and settled in the corner of the couch with a twenty-four-hour news channel, on low, for company.
There weren’t any fish fingers in the box. It just made for a good hiding place – Vic only ever ventured into the freezer for vodka or ice cubes. I tipped the cold, meagre, plastic-wrapped contents out into my lap: a wad of five pound notes and some change; a clear plastic hospital bracelet; a tightly folded sheet of A4 lined paper and a faded, dog-eared colour photograph.
I started by counting the cash: just seventy quid and forty-six pence in total but every penny hard earned. It was all the wealth I had in the world. Vic kept a tight rein on his finances and I didn’t even have a bank account. I was only ever given enough currency to buy what Vic wanted me to buy and he checked every receipt so that each and every penny was accounted for. He claimed that as his wife I shouldn’t need funds of my own but really it was his way of making sure I couldn’t leave him. I had scraped together this cash by deviously smuggling tips away in my bra, tiny amounts of coinage at a time so that Vic wouldn’t know, and then cautiously changing the coins into notes when I accumulated enough. I thought of it as my rainy-day fund but what that rainy day might entail I wasn’t sure. I suppose I hoped that if I left one day without stealing a chunk of Vic’s money directly from the till he might be less inclined to come after me to retrieve it. But it was a vain hope – my husband considered me his property and was too well connected; wherever I went he would find me. Escape would not be an option until he was dead – and who knew when that might be. Anyway, where would I go? Dreary as my life was it had a routine familiarity now and was infinitely preferable to selling my body or living on the street.
I set aside the hospital admission bracelet, unwilling to face what it represented, reluctant to go there in my mind and rip open that particular wound. Instead I took a large gulp of coffee and turned my attention to the piece of paper, carefully unfolding it until I could read the familiar words written there:
The dog ran with the ball.
I smiled at the bold letters, painstakingly
transcribed in blue biro at double height and, above them, his name:
Jamie.
Picking up the photo I scrutinised the grainy image of the small boy I once knew: wide chestnut eyes gazing out from beneath a matching mop of shaggy fring
e, a lopsided grin that revealed missing front teeth. He had his hands thrust into the pockets of his dungarees as he leaned affectionately into my left side. He was tucked under my arm; the only person I’d ever allowed to rest there. He was five years old at the time and I was ten. To the right of me stood three other foster kids but I no longer remembered their names, only Jamie’s.
He had been a smart, vivacious kid, a fast learner and eager to please. But his small size made him an easy target – that and the fact that he rarely spoke. Rather than talk to anybody directly he preferred to stand on tiptoe and whisper into my ear so that I could speak for him, as if he was afraid of his own voice. I was the only person he trusted to be his spokesperson, which wound the adults up no end, but I didn’t mind at all.
During weekends and holidays I built dens under furniture for him to hide in and made up games for us to play. And at night, when he was afraid of the dark, afraid to be alone, he would crawl into bed with me and I would spell out words by tracing them on his back with my finger; usually something reassuring like ‘Y-O-U A-R-E S-A-F-E W-I-T-H M-E.’ He’d be asleep before I had finished.
I’d have done anything for that little boy. I loved him unconditionally as if he were my real brother. And he had needed me, really needed me, like no one else ever had, before or since. Of course I tried to be happy for Jamie when he was adopted – it was what we foster kids all yearned for, to have proper parents, a real family, a normal life … but it was as if Jamie had taken a vital part of me away with him and left me hollow inside.
At first, I’d had more to remember him by, various other belongings he’d left behind: books, a toy car, a blue mitten … but over the years, as I’d stumbled in and out of various homes and hostels and doorways, they’d all been stolen from me. Nothing was sacred when you lived on the state or on the street.
In the relative silence of the night I stared unseeing at the scrap of handwriting practice in my hand as all the usual questions floated through my mind: Where was Jamie now? Was he happy? Healthy? Rich and successful? Was he a husband? A father?
I would never know the answers. So why couldn’t I just let him go?
Chapter Four
It was only when my mobile abruptly vibrated on my desk that I became aware I’d been staring vacantly out of the window for the best part of an hour. I’d found myself doing that a lot recently – ever since Dad’s funeral my mind had a tendency to wander, especially at work. On this occasion I’d been considering the view from my office. A window was a distinct luxury to someone working in a cubicle in the artificially lit, open-plan office on the floor below. I had worked hard to achieve my promotion and this small room, with its view of a brick wall and concrete stairwell, was my reward. But recently, after a spell in the countryside, I sorely missed green open space.
Of course, if I pushed back far enough in my fully adjustable, ergonomically correct swivel chair and craned my neck, I could just about see beyond the building next door and catch the very tips of the tree out on the pavement. But it wasn’t enough. At the moment the tree was leafless anyway; the bare branches like spidery cracks against a grey sky, barely alleviating the monochrome pallor of this corner of the city. I couldn’t immediately recall which variety of tree it was, which bothered me, but after much deliberation I decided it was almost certainly a London Plane. Picking up my mobile I yawned and made a mental note to check the tree the next time I passed by. The message was a text from Jasmine:
Out with friends 2nite, C U tomoro x
I texted back ‘OK x’, just remembering to add the kiss at the last moment. Jasmine’s messages always ended in a kiss, regardless of whether they were sent to me or to the window cleaner. The kisses didn’t mean anything and yet she got irrationally offended if I accidentally sent her a message without one. All of my previous girlfriends had placed great importance on similar minor details – the correct timing and use of a pet name, the financial value of a gift, the position of a toilet seat – as if the success or failure of our relationship hinged on them. Maybe it did – how would I know? Either way I’d always tried my best to adhere to my girlfriends’ myriad rules and preferences and the relationships were doomed to failure regardless.
Returning my gaze to the brickwork outside the window, a procession of pretty faces floated through my mind. Some I remembered more than others: Cecily the half-Brazilian model with an addiction to grapefruit, the tarter the better; Jessica who worked in PR, talked too fast and always wore lipstick to bed; and Dionne the Australian aromatherapist who left various rocks and crystals on every available surface, even inside my briefcase. She was convinced they would improve our relationship, or more specifically improve me, but if they did help it was too subtle an effect for me to detect. All the women I’d dated over the years were attractive, lively and ambitious in one way or another and all inevitably disappointed in me by the end. Jasmine and I had been together almost two and a half years now – a record for me – but I suspected the end was nigh.
The truth was I just wasn’t good at love. It wasn’t something I usually dwelled on or analysed; on the contrary I avoided thinking about it completely. But it was there inside me – a cavity, a void, an absence of something that everyone else had and took for granted. I’d once seen a TV programme about sociopaths and some of the signs were disconcertingly familiar: I often employed charm to conceal the emptiness I felt inside and regularly felt alone despite rarely ever being single – I’d been hopping from one failed romantic relationship to another, ever since I was a teenager.
But no matter how much I wanted it, I just wasn’t good at getting close to someone – or letting them get close to me. Jasmine was a case in point: my Dad had just died. Shouldn’t I be sharing that with her in some way? Shouldn’t I want to share my grief with my girlfriend and allow her to comfort me? The very idea was terrifying but why? Was my aversion to getting attached to someone a result of my own biological mother abandoning me as a toddler? Surely not – it had happened when I was too young to have any memory of it and I rarely even thought about her. And yet, since Dad’s death, I’d been pondering all sorts of things.
My parents and I had never talked much about my adoption, or my life before it, and I was never one to daydream about who my birth parents might be – there was never any point since the official records clearly stated that their identities were unknown. I was a foundling, abandoned in a church hall and raised in the custody of foster parents until my adoption by the Southwoods aged seven. My life with them was as happy as any child could hope for (up until Mum died at least) so I had almost no reason to dwell on my time before then. Almost. There was one reason; one person, whom I’d never been able to forget; her name was Kitkat.
She was older than me by about five years – a tall, skinny, tomboy of a girl with mousy hair and badly chewed fingernails. Smart, fierce and intimidating she had been residing with the Plumleys for some time when I came along, a naive three-year-old and small for my age. But, as soon as the other foster kids started to pick on me, Kitkat had stepped in to defend me, outsmarting them and twisting their words (and sometimes their arms) until they gave up. She caused no end of trouble for herself in the process but for some reason she took me under her wing and I’d been grateful to her ever since.
For the four years Kitkat and I were together we were very close. The Plumleys had an old dog called Mungo, who we were fond of, but otherwise it was just her and me. I was frightened of everything and everyone, horribly insecure, and had trouble expressing myself. Sometimes I would go days or weeks without speaking. On those occasions Kitkat would act as my mouthpiece; I would whisper my words into her ear and she would safely communicate them to the rest of the world for me. She was the nearest thing I had to a sibling, a sister. She was my family.
I was thrilled to be adopted by the Southwoods – of course I was – but after the initial euphoria wore off it took quite some time to admit, even to myself, how much I missed Kitkat. I wanted to completely forget al
l about my time in care but, try as I might, there was no forgetting her. Eventually, when I was ten, after Mum died, I asked my dad to go back for Kitkat. I pestered, begged and guilt-tripped him until, against his better judgement, he took me back to the foster home to see her. But the Plumleys were long gone; the house was divided into flats and the neighbours were alien and disobliging. Kitkat had been absorbed into the confidential anonymity of the care system and that was that. And yet my loss of Kitkat was an ache that never went away. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that I had intimacy issues after all.
Slouching in my seat, I turned back to my computer screen and the report I was supposed to be compiling but it wasn’t particularly pressing and the only meeting I’d had scheduled for the afternoon had been postponed. Since returning from compassionate leave, I was struggling to get back into the daily grind.
The days following the funeral hadn’t been much fun. The weather was typically cold, damp and miserable; my dad’s absence was unnervingly palpable and my list of ‘to do’ jobs increased daily. Each evening I called Jasmine on her mobile, to hear her news and reassure myself that I still had someone in my life who cared about me, but it often felt like she was speaking to me from a different planet. Being back in Wildham and my childhood home had stirred up a whole host of memories that I’d long forgotten or simply buried. It was disorientating, like stumbling about in a dream, everything familiar but slightly off-key.
Picking up my pen, I spun it a few times between my fingers and doodled on my jotter. I’d spent hours just sorting through and boxing up my dad’s possessions. Some things I’d thrown out, some I’d donated to the local charity shop and some I’d boxed up and brought back to London with me. But all the furniture I’d just left in situ. I was reluctant to clear the house completely because there was still the family business to get to grips with and I didn’t fancy staying in an empty house while I did that.
