Watching Edie

by Camilla Way

  Eventually she wipes her eyes and says in a bleak little voice, ‘But what am I going to do? Oh, Heather, what am I going to do? How could he do this to me?’ She bursts into tears again and says, ‘I can’t go home. I don’t want to be on my own. I just don’t know what I’m going to do.’ She looks up at me so helplessly that my heart fills with love and happiness.

  ‘You can come home with me,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll look after you. Don’t worry, I’ll always look after you.’

  I know that I will look back on this night forever. The single best night of my life so far. It’s a shame that Edie has to be so upset, but she’ll get over it, I know she will. And it’s for the best, really. It’s definitely for the best. When we get home I usher her up to my room, handing her a pair of my pyjamas to wear while I sneak back downstairs and find Mum’s cooking brandy in the kitchen. When I return she looks so sweet, like a little girl in my too-big clothes.

  We stay up most of the night, talking about Connor. It’s funny, because after a while, it’s almost as though it did happen. I can see the girl – who I’ve decided is blonde and slim but not nearly as pretty as Edie – walking with Connor by the canal, can see them stop and kiss each other so clearly that I find I can describe it in perfect detail. Edie wants me to go over it again and again, but I have to be firm with her eventually, and tell her that she needs to get some rest. She settles down under my duvet and says with a yawn, her eyes huge hollows in the lamplight, ‘You’re such a good friend, Heather. I mean it. No one has ever really given a shit before. Sometimes I think you’re the only one who loves me.’

  She falls asleep with me lying beside her, and I stay awake for ages, watching her. Beyond my bedroom door the clocks around the house strike eleven. A faint unease flutters around my heart. Edie will talk to Connor eventually, she’s bound to. And he’ll tell her that it isn’t true. But after a few anxious moments I push the thought away: so what? Let him! It’s me Edie loves, me she trusts now. She won’t believe him over me, not any more. I feel my own eyelids begin to droop, but I stay awake and watch Edie sleep for a while longer. I don’t want to move, I don’t want to miss a thing.

  And the following week is just as magical. She comes around most days, turning up on my doorstep at any time of day or night looking lost and desperate, needing me. I welcome her in and we order pizza and we talk. We talk so much, about lots of things. Connor mainly, of course. But that’s OK, it’s to be expected. Soon she’ll get over him, move on, and we’ll be happy again. I only have to be here for her, be a good friend. Sometimes I talk about our future, about how we’ll be together in London one day, but I don’t say too much, because it almost makes me too happy; it almost seems too wonderful to say out loud in case it’s spoilt somehow.

  Dad doesn’t interfere at first. Just looks a bit puzzled every time he sees Edie, before retreating back to his study. Until one afternoon when he returns from work to find me singing to myself in the kitchen as I prepare a sandwich for her lunch. I feel his eyes on me as he hesitates by the door, then he clears his throat and speaks. ‘Your mum, um, your mother thought it was best if you didn’t see Edie, didn’t she?’ he says. ‘I mean, after what happened …’ he trails off, watching me uncertainly as I return the butter and ham to the fridge.

  I glance back at him and smile. ‘But Mum’s not here, is she?’ I say, holding his gaze.

  After a second or two he looks away. ‘No. I suppose she’s not,’ he murmurs. And then he leaves and a few moments later I hear him climbing the stairs, before shutting his study door firmly behind him.

  After

  Uncle Geoff lives in a narrow road of terraced houses off Erith’s high street. While almost all the neighbouring properties have been smartened up or renovated, my uncle’s stands defiantly unchanged since he moved in nearly three decades ago. Unlike his neighbours’ homes the ugly brown pebble-dash hasn’t been removed to reveal the original Victorian brick, the front path doesn’t boast lovingly restored tiles, and the most attractive feature of his cemented-over front garden is his wheelie bin. Yet I usually love coming here – the familiar smells and warmth and comfort signalling to me refuge and safety, my uncle’s home the place I feel most relaxed and cared for.

  Today though my stomach tightens with nerves as I knock on the chipped front door. When he opens it we regard each other in silence before he stands aside and lets me in. In the kitchen he takes Maya from me, ‘You’ve got so big,’ he tells her with a sad smile. Maya takes hold of his little finger and grins back at him.

  ‘Uncle Geoff,’ I say, taking a deep breath. ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch.’

  He turns away and puts the kettle on. ‘Expect you’ve been busy,’ he mutters.

  ‘No, it wasn’t that, I wasn’t well, I—’

  ‘Yes,’ he nods, looking at me for the first time. ‘So your friend said,’ and I see how his expression sours at the mention of Heather.

  There’s a silence as I wonder how to explain. My uncle, warm and kind though he is, has never been one for discussing ‘feelings’. A docker for thirty-five years, the closest I’d ever seen him come to showing emotion was over a pint on a Friday night, talking about snooker with his mates. I take in the tall, broad bulk of him, the craggy face with its deep lines and thick grey eyebrows and at last I say in a rush, ‘Heather’s gone now and she won’t be coming back. I thought I could trust her but, well … she turned out to be bad news. I never got your messages, or your letter, and for a long time I was too ill to get in touch.’ I feel tears sting my eyes and say, ‘I’m so sorry, Uncle Geoff, I really am.’

  For a moment he doesn’t respond and I hold my breath as he stares down at Maya. At last he comes over to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘OK,’ he says gruffly. ‘Don’t upset yourself.’ I’m overwhelmed with relief: he has forgiven me, because he loves me, sees the best in me, and I can’t speak for the lump in my throat.

  Later, as we’re drinking our tea he says with unexpected vehemence, ‘I’m glad you got rid of that Heather woman. Not often I take a dislike to someone but there was something about her … I hated thinking of her up there with you and the baby.’ He glances at me, before continuing hesitantly, ‘In fact, I spoke to your mum about her.’

  My eyes shoot to his face, and I feel a little sick. ‘Yeah?’ is all I can whisper.

  ‘I thought she might remember her, what with Heather being a friend from Fremton and that.’

  I nod, and though I can hardly bear to hear the answer, I ask with a kind of fascinated horror, ‘What – what did she say?’

  He frowns. ‘Well, it was strange really, her reaction. She got quite agitated. Especially when I said she’d moved in to help with the baby, she was very upset about that – not that she’d say why. Clammed right up on me, she did.’ He gives a wry smile, ‘To be honest, I wished I hadn’t phoned her – didn’t exactly put my mind at rest.’ He pauses and looks at me with sympathy, then says carefully, ‘I got the idea Heather did something very nasty to you back in Fremton, love – that’s the impression your mum gave, anyway. Is that right?’ I don’t reply, staring down at my hands as he goes on, ‘That’s why I wrote you the letter. Thought it might get through to you even if my texts and whatnot didn’t. But you didn’t reply – I know why now, of course,’ he adds hastily. ‘Edie? Edie love, are you all right?’

  I nod, getting to my feet. ‘I’m fine.’ My heart still hammering in my throat, I force myself to smile, and take Maya from his arms. ‘Think I need to change this one, that’s all.’ In the bathroom I lock the door behind us and take long, deep breaths as I hold Maya to me, trying to quell the nausea rising inside me. I stay up there for as long as possible, and when I finally go back down, my uncle thankfully, tactfully, changes the subject.

  On the doorstep I hug him as I say goodbye, silently thanking God that Heather hadn’t managed to come between us. But before I can open the door he clears his throat.

  ‘Listen, Edie, don’t you think it’s time you an
d your mum buried the hatchet? Specially now you’ve got the little one. She obviously cares about you, to worry the way she did when I rang.’

  For a moment I let myself imagine knocking on my mother’s door with Maya, seeing her face again after so many years. But then the memories of that last night return and instantly I’m back there, in the kitchen of our house in Fremton. I see the revulsion in her eyes as I told her what had happened, and in my uncle’s hall I begin to feel sick and shaken again. I force myself to smile. ‘Maybe,’ I say, before busying myself with Maya’s buggy, then hurrying on my way.

  I push the last box up into the loft and look down at my newly cleared hallway. It hadn’t taken long to pack up Heather’s things; those few sad piles of random belongings that had accumulated during the months she’d lived here. I had dithered for a while over whether to bin them or not and at last had hit on the idea of the loft – the one saving grace of this tiny, top-floor flat.

  It had been depressing going through her stuff – the dust-clogged hairbrush, half-filled-in puzzle books, bitten Biros, old Friends DVDs and bags of clothes and underwear. As I’d packed it all away I’d brooded over the things she’d said the night she left, wondering where it was she’d gone to, whether it was true she never saw her parents any more – and whether she would ever return. As I slide the attic hatch back into place I think about how she’d been when we were younger. How manipulative she could be, how suffocating.

  A sudden knock on the door makes me jump, my heart shooting instantly to my throat. I hadn’t heard anyone on the stairs and I feel a brief stab of fear. Heather? I nearly cry out with relief when I hear Monica call my name. ‘Are you OK?’ she asks when I open the door. ‘You’re white as a sheet.’

  ‘I’m fine. Sorry, it was—’ I stop, and force myself to smile. ‘Nothing.’

  She nods. ‘I was at a loose end, so I thought I’d come up.’ She looks around at the newly cleared space. ‘Wow. You’ve been busy. Looks great.’

  I feel my heart slowly begin to return to normal. ‘I guess I’ll have to look for a bigger place soon,’ I tell her. ‘Now I’ve got Maya.’

  ‘You can’t move,’ she says, ‘I’d miss you both too much.’ She picks up Maya and brings her to the sofa with her, while I make some tea.

  ‘Can’t believe Christmas is almost here,’ she says as I bring our drinks over. ‘What’re you doing for it? Do you have family back where you’re from?’

  The question takes me by surprise and I momentarily forget the stock answer I usually give. ‘My mum lives there still,’ I say slowly, handing her her tea. ‘But we’re not in touch any more.’ There’s a pause while I feel her eyes on me, and at last on impulse I admit, ‘I haven’t seen her for years, actually. Not since I was seventeen.’

  ‘Really? How come?’

  ‘Oh, usual teenage stuff I guess. I got together with a lad and he was bad news. I started getting involved in … all sorts of shit. He messed with my head. I wasn’t …’ I shake my head and sigh, ‘I wasn’t in my right mind when I was with him. I was obsessed. Sixteen and completely obsessed. And then it went … everything just got really messed up.’ A silence opens up between us and I can’t quite believe I’ve said the words out loud. I’ve never spoken about Connor to anyone before.

  ‘How so?’ Monica asks gently.

  I bite my lip, realizing I’ve said too much. ‘Nothing. Teenage stuff, you know? My mum couldn’t handle it, so I came to London to live with my uncle and the two of us … we just lost touch.’

  I feel her puzzled eyes on me as I walk over to the window. I’m about to change the subject when she says, ‘Must be hard.’

  I stare out at the sky for a long time, caught up in a memory of my mum. When I was a kid she hadn’t looked like other people’s mothers. Her skirts were too short, she smoked in the playground and flirted with my friends’ dads. I hated her for it, convinced she wished I wasn’t around to spoil her fun. ‘You’re so embarrassing,’ I’d shouted at her once when I’d caught her trying it on with our next-door neighbour. ‘None of my friends’ mums act like you!’ and I’d been shocked when she’d sunk into a chair and burst into tears. ‘I’m so lonely, Edie. I’m so bloody lonely,’ she’d said.

  I’d stood there, not knowing what to do, pity and resentment mingling and leaving me tongue-tied. A part of me wanted to comfort her, but instead I’d muttered, ‘You made Dad go. You wouldn’t be lonely if you’d let him stay.’

  ‘Your precious father didn’t want us!’ Mum had spat. ‘He put it about with anyone who’d have him. He didn’t care about us, he only cared about getting his end away!’

  It was as though she’d slapped me. ‘I don’t believe you. You’re lying!’ Tears of confusion had stung my eyes and I’d run to my room and locked myself in, refusing to come out again, no matter how much she begged me.

  Here in my flat I turn to Monica and say, ‘You don’t know, do you, when you’re a kid, how hard it is being a grown-up. All you want is to be a grown-up too. I thought I’d be so much better at it than she was, and now I am one, I realize how stupid that was.’

  After a silence, Monica asks, ‘Do you miss her?’

  A lump blocks my throat. ‘Yeah,’ I say quietly. ‘I just wish … I wish things had been different.’

  Monica comes and joins me at the window. ‘Well, there’s a lot of water under the bridge since then, love,’ she says. ‘You’ve got your own little one now. Maybe you should take her to see her nana one of these days – make a trip up there.’ She smiles. ‘I bet she’d be proud of you, your mum, to see what a lovely little girl you’ve got.’

  I nod, swallowing hard. And it feels to me in the silence that follows that a warmth gathers in the space between us as we stand there, the two of us, at my window. After a while I ask her hesitantly, ‘What happened with your ex, Monica? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I just … I know you’re scared of him.’

  Abruptly she turns away, returning to the sofa, and inwardly I kick myself. But after rummaging in her bag for a cigarette and lighting it, she sighs. ‘Phil. He liked to kick the shit out of me.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I should have left years before I did. But it became … normal, you know? And at least he never touched the boys.’ She smiles wryly. ‘Just me he used as a punchbag. Whenever he was in a bad mood, or drank too much, he’d flip.’ She exhales a long breath. ‘Then one day he went too far.’ She stands up, raises her top and shows me the long, deep scar that runs almost the entire width of her body.

  ‘He did that?’ I whisper.

  ‘He came back drunk one night. Started a fight because I hadn’t answered my mobile earlier – didn’t hear it ring. Picked up a knife and did this to me.’ She lowers her top and shrugs. ‘At least it was enough to make me see sense. He went to prison. I moved to a shelter with the boys, then to another, and another. He always found out where, though – had his spies, even from inside.’ She sits back down. ‘Only got a couple of years. He was released not long after we moved here. He came looking for me, didn’t give a shit about the police. I know he won’t give up.’ She taps her head. ‘He’s sick. Twisted. He’s biding his time.’

  ‘What will you do if he does come back?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She seems to me in that moment very small and vulnerable sitting there, as though even the memory of Phil has diminished her. ‘Every time my phone rings, I panic. Every time I go out by myself or someone knocks on the door, I think, that’s it: he’s come back for me.’ She turns and looks at me. ‘I haven’t been able to work since it happened. I keep having these panic attacks. I think he’d kill me, Edie, I really do.’

  I watch James as he peels and chops an onion. It’s a nice room, his kitchen: light and airy with whitewashed brick walls covered in paintings, drawings and black-and-white photographs. Every surface, including the large pine table, is cluttered with books or CDs, pot plants or cooking things. A band I’ve never heard before plays on the stereo an
d the scent of the food James is cooking fills the air.

  I’d been pleased when he’d phoned earlier and invited me over. I’d dug out a dress I’d bought years before and for the first time in ages made an effort with my hair and make-up. When Monica had come up to babysit she’d looked me up and down and whistled. ‘Blimey, you scrub up all right, don’t you?’ and she’d surprised me by giving me a quick hug, ‘Have a great time, love,’ she’d said. ‘Don’t do anything I would do,’ and I’d laughed.

  But then something strange had happened on the walk over here. My mobile had rung and when I’d pulled it out and looked at it ‘Caller ID Withheld’ had flashed across the screen. I’d answered it and when no one had replied I’d stood beneath a lamppost, repeating, ‘Hello? Hello?’ into the silence. Except it hadn’t been silent, not completely. I could hear whoever it was breathing on the other end, could feel them listening to me. After a long moment they had hung up.

  I stand here now in my too-high heels trying to hide my stupid, too-short dress behind the coat I’m clutching, feeling ridiculous about being so dressed up and trying not to think about who it had been on the other end of my phone. James is stirring a pot on the stove wearing jeans and a pale blue T-shirt and I feel entirely unable to think of anything to say.

  He looks up and smiles. ‘Take a seat,’ he says, and hurriedly I pull out one of the kitchen chairs. ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’

  My hand flies to my mouth. ‘God, sorry. I should have brought a bottle. I didn’t think.’ I can hear the nervousness in my voice and he shoots me a surprised look.

  ‘That’s OK. I’ve got a couple in the fridge. Or I’ve red, if you prefer? Go on, sit down, I’ll pour you one.’