by Sarah Till
As usual, I ran away and cried in my room instead of confronting him. It wasn't long after this that I had gone downstairs and found Mum sitting in the best room with Dad. She looked at me when I came in, a look of sorrow mixed with disconnection. Her eyebrows were plucked and her hair permed and scraped into a bun on top of her head.
'I've come for my things.'
Dad held his head in his hands. For once, I spoke up.
'What things?'
'That box upstairs. My paints and that. Malc likes me to paint, he's set up a studio for me.'
I blushed bright red. I envied her.
'I've used them. Sorry.'
John stood behind me.
'Yeah. And she's ripped up your paintings.'
I looked at my shoes. I wasn't going to argue with John. Mum lit a cigarette.
'Look. I've come for me stuff, not an inquest. You lot are welcome round any time you like. Not to live. You live here with your Dad. But to visit. You know.'
Dad looked up.
'That's not all she's come for. Tell 'em, June.'
'I've come for a divorce. Me and Malc, we've been living over the brush, you know, and we want to make it legal.' John laughed and Dad sneered at him. She carried on, regardless of them and me. 'What? Didn't know that being happy was a crime. I certainly wasn't happy here.' She did look happy. She was rounder, her face softer. Her eyes were smudged with dark eyeliner and now she was staring at me. 'And you, Lizzie, if you have any sense you'll get out of here as soon as you can and go as far away as possible.'
I wondered then if she knew. If she had guessed something was wrong with me, if she could have taken her eyes of her boyfriend and the mirror for a second. I didn't say anything to her, I just ran upstairs. I could kick myself now, all the chances I have missed to have my say. They reckon everyone has a breaking point, but I don't think I have. Or I just haven't been pushed far enough. Because even now I’ve never told anyone.
I'd forgotten about it until now, but I had watched them from my bedroom window, hearing the arguments in the hallway, hearing him tell her she was leaving with nothing.
'Go on, you whore. Get back to your boyfriend.'
She'd retaliated, and I could hear her heels tap towards him.
'You're a bad 'un, John Nelson. Bad. I'll take what's mine.'
'You'll take nothing. It belongs to him, and then it comes to me. You're not having what's mine. You not having it. You gave that up the moment you walked out of here and left us.'
'But I found it. It's mine and I want it. It's in the box upstairs. That's all I want, and my paints. It's not even worth anything.'
John laughed harshly.
'How do you know? Fancy fella an auctioneer now as well, is he? You bloody know as well as I do what that thing means to him, and what he thinks it is. You're not having it.'
There was a scramble on the stairs, then banging about in their bedroom, then her screaming at John.
'Where is it? What have you bloody done with it? You're bad through and through, John, bad. I know what you've done, you know.'
'It's a piece of tin tat, and you know it. The bin men have taken it. It's probably down the bloody drain, and good riddance, driving him insane like that. And now you do this. Out, get out.'
Silence for a moment, then a crash.
'You can't stop me. Let me go, John. I'm your mother.'
'If I'm bad, I got it off you, you dirty bitch. Shagging half the neighbourhood. Go on, get back to him. And if it does turn up, I'll get it bloody melted down before you have it.'
I rushed to the window and she was lying on the path. The door slammed and I rushed to the top of the stairs. John went, into the lounge to Dad, and the hallway was covered with ground in water colour blocks, a beautiful mêlée of pastel shades. I hopped over them and opened the door but she left. Down the road and up to the park, her dusty mauve and peach footprints growing faint until she disappeared. I never saw her again. For the first time since then I wished she was here, wished I could ask her what to do. Not how she had dealt with the cruelty, because I already knew; she'd left. But now it was becoming clearer. I remember picking up what was left of the paint and brushes from the hallway and putting them back in the ripped box, along with her thimble sand some other tat. Then I took it all upstairs and Sellotaped it up and put it under my bed, a kind of reminder she still existed.
With the family in a tizzy back then about that box, and me still having it, I finally rest on the fact that it must be something to do with that. Although I can't really work it out. I go into the cottage, my feet squelching through the damp, and into the bathroom. I take the side panel off the bath and feel around for the small box of paints. Just the sight of them remind me of good and bad at once, the Matisse-like qualities of Mum's daydreaming. I reach inside to make sure that my memory isn't deceiving me, that the piece of twisted metal defiantly isn't there. This can't be what the notes are about, can it? I'm not imagining it. It's gone. It's where I think it is and, right now, I can't work out if that's good or bad.
I've kept everything else of hers in a wooden box here, and now I think it would be better to keep the box with me. As I walk past the bedroom I look to see if anyone has been in there, and signs of disturbance. It would be difficult to tell, with everything in such disarray.
Out of the house now, I walk through the garden and I sit down in the shed and switch the radio on. The garden may be beautiful but the shed is where I sleep and it's cold and damp, especially in winter. I tune the wind-up radio that I found on the beach to a local station and I'm just in time for the news.
'44-year-old Susan Drake was found dead today in Tintagel. Mrs Drake had recently moved to Tintagel and was walking her dog when the incident happened. Mrs Drake's relatives have been informed and the police say they are treating the incident as suspicious.'
I feel the box, close to me nestled under the bench. Even if anyone thought to look in here, it was unlikely that they would be able to find anything. Particularly not what they were looking for. Only I know where it is. Of course, I know where every little object is, but to a stranger, well, they would have no chance. Not amongst all these bags. A little later I walk to the garden wall and look over at the sea, the sliver of moon above the horizon now. It's early but I won't chance a walk out tonight, not with the mob baying for my blood. I peer at the headland and think I've got through another day without my Top Secret being revealed. But with the threats and the past looming up, I wonder how long it will be before I have no choice but to tell.
CHAPTER 4
Another day, another round of accusations from Julia. Today she's waiting for me at the bottom of the lane as I head for the back of the supermarket to see what they've thrown out.
'Off to murder someone else, are we, Lizzie? I know it was you. It must have been, because how were you inside the police cordon and we couldn't get in there? Answer me that, Lizzie Nelson?'
A small posse of supporters stand behind her. I half expect to see pitchforks and burning torches, but instead a few of the people look embarrassed.
'And just where are you coming from now, eh? Up in that field, sleeping on private property. I've seen you, creeping up there in the dead of night. It's not that I don't feel sorry for you, Lizzie, of course I do, but you should be better looked after.'
The small crowd murmur appreciation at her change of tack.
'You should be in or at least a hostel. You must be nearly drawing the pension now, aren’t you? and you're a burden to this community. So, I'm doing you a favour really Lizzie, aren’t I, by getting the Council to get an injunction on you. Kinder in the long run. You know, cruel to be kind? Obviously, I don’t mean to be cruel, but...'
Drawing a pension? Cheeky mare. I'm nowhere near that age, although I can see why she thinks I am. I walk past her and up the High Street. She and the crowd follow me, and I see that she's made some 'wanted' posters and placed them strategically around, and in her own shop window. As I walk past, she ducks
inside and comes out with a megaphone.
'Lizzie Nelson is a public pest and I am taking steps to get her removed from the village.'
I stop dead in my tracks. I turn around and stare at her. The whole street is quiet, and people appear from their shops.
'Julia. I'm very sorry that Susan Blake is dead. Very sorry indeed. Because I've got quite a bit in common with her.' Oh yes. Quite a bit. And one thing in particular. 'We were around the same age.' Slight exaggeration but I'm on a roll. 'We were the same build.' Again tenuous, but my layers make me look bigger. 'We had the same hair colour. And we were the same height. I know this because I was in the library behind her last week. The police say they suspect foul play. Someone wanted a woman like Susan dead. You want me, not dissimilar in appearance to Susan, out of the village. So where were you at the time of the murder? Where were you, Julia?'
There was a deep silence then Julia ran and launched herself at me, pushing me backwards. She punched at me, hardly connecting because of her blind anger, and soon Alice came to referee again.
'For God's sake, Julia. What's wrong with you?'
Julia was out of breath and stumbled backwards.
'She's accusing me of murder. Did everyone hear that? I'm going to prosecute.'
Alice sighed.
'But just yesterday you were accusing her of murder. Can't you see how stupid this is? All the while there's a killer out there, and you are making it worse. There's a killer, somewhere here in this village. And won't you please think about the poor woman's family?'
For a split second I thought Alice meant my family and wondered what she knew. But then I realised she meant Susan Blake's family, who had just arrived in the village and were staring at the scene in the street. Julia backed away and picked up the megaphone.
'You've not heard the last of this. I'm going to get her out of here and do it the right way. Oh yes, the laws on my side on this one. And can anyone blame me. I don’t want to seem horrible, but I’m thinking of the trade. It’s my livelihood.'
Alice patted me on the shoulder.
'You alright? That's all I seem to be saying to you lately, isn't it? You know where I am if you need anything, yeah?'
I did know where she was but there was nothing she could do for me. She couldn't tell me who wanted me dead, or who was pinning dead animals to my door. She'd just tell me to go to the police, but, if it was as I suspected and John or Dad were involved in this, then I'd be in deep trouble. Top Secret. Alice couldn't get me my family back. And she couldn't get Andrew to love me. Or anyone else.
So I go back and sit in the garden looking at the birds on the telegraph wire. It's so lovely here, hard but lovely. It's a kind of compensation for not having anything at all, the beauty of this place. The garden is more beautiful than when I first saw it, but everything else was ruined. The day after we'd moved here from Manchester, and before I'd even unpacked, I was called back to sign some papers. I made the almost fatal mistake of leaving Andrew in the cottage, and when I returned, he had left all the taps in the house running. I'd been gone three days. It was a catastrophe and he was nowhere to be found. At first, I thought it was an accident and he had run away scared. But as the day went by and the water stopped drip by drip, I knew it was no accident. I was angry, and for the first time in my life couldn't see a solution.
I'd stayed in the shed overnight and I woke up in the morning with stiff legs and a whole different perspective. In the early morning sun, I could see the garden at ground level, sideways on. I hadn't really looked at it as carefully as I should have when I bought the house as I was so eager to get away from Manchester. Now, I could see fruit trees that lined the back boundary, a kind of mini orchard, and a vegetable patch that ran right up to the shed. Someone had taken a lot of care to peg out lanes for different vegetables. I put the kettle on the makeshift stove in the shed and rummaged around and, sure enough, there were seed and various gardening implements. I really had no idea what I was doing, but I cleared the weeds and scattered the seeds in lines up and down. My stomach turned with excitement at the idea that, when the house was repaired, I would be cooking vegetables I had grown myself. I planted a handful of sunflower seeds in huge flowerpots at the very end of the garden. I swore that by the time they were stretching their necks to meet the sun, I would have my life sorted out.
The house was quite private, the main door facing the road, but the garden and the rest of the house surrounded by a dense, high hedge. There were no obvious gaps, although winter would provide a less dense cover. Next to the front door was a wooden gate, the top curved and ornate. Until now I'd only really seen the gate from the front of the house and entered the garden though the back door. Now, to my delight, I pulled the gate open easily, shoved it back shut and bolted the two heavy steel fasteners. Perfect. I could get out, but no one could easily get in when I was there.
There was a telephone box at the end of the lane and I tried to call directory enquiries and get the number for a plumber. But there didn't seem to be one. So, after tidying my hair and clothes, I marched down to the village to enquire. She won't remember, but this was my first encounter with Julia. I walked into her grocery shop and asked her if she knew any numbers for tradesmen. She didn't ask why, but she did point me to the notice board.
‘New round here, are you?’
She’s seemed friendly enough, and even now I find it difficult to not like her. She’s an organiser, Julia is, one of those people who likes to make lists. So helpful that sometimes it’s annoying.
‘Yes, I’ve just...’
She interrupted me. If she had just listened me out then, it would have saved a lot of trouble. But I doubt that Julia listens to anyone.
‘Good. Well, I hope you settle in, let me know if you need anything, civic, you know, need to contact a councillor or even just the rubbish collection times. Only I’m the chairman of the Community Committee. I’m in charge.’
A solid upright member of the community, yet even then she was judging me, her eyes on my clothes and hair and shoes. I felt a little bit sorry for him even back then. I borrowed a pen and copied the numbers, and the first one I called arranged for a visit at two o'clock.
I went home and assessed the damage. Overnight, the house had acquired a strange musty smell. Although most of the water had drained away, it reminded me of a washed-out watercolour, the kind my mother would paint when she was sad. I carried some electrical items into the shed and my radio. The shed had live electricity, and I sat outside and listened to radio two until Jack Barnes turned up.
'Sorry it's took so long, me dear. I've come from Padstow. You won't find no one to do this kind of work in these parts.'
I nodded shyly and opened the front door. He stepped in and took off his cap.
'Bloody hell. What's happened here?'
'There's, erm, been a leak.'
Still lying about Andrew then. Still defending him.
'I've never seen anything like this before. It's a bloody mess. It's going to be expensive, lovey, but your insurance will sort that out.'
My insurance. I sighed with relief. I'd left that to Andrew, and he'd given me the forms to sign a couple for weeks ago. He'd given me a copy in a brown envelope, and I even knew where it was.
'How long will it take? Only I've just moved here. I've slept in the shed last night.'
He scratched his head and coughed.
'About two weeks. Then you'd need a decorator. Until I have a look under the carpets, I can't see how bad the damage is, but most of it will be concerning the electrics. Not safe to use, by the way. What a bloody shame. All those light fittings'll have to come out.'
He walked around the house for a while, looking in nooks and crannies and under carpets. Finally, he gave me the bad news.
'It'll cost about seven thousand, possibly a bit more. But don't you worry about that, you just give the insurance company my card. They might ask for three quotes, if they do give me a ring and I'll recommend someone.'
I waved him off and went back in the house to find the insurance forms. I grabbed them, their damp odour making me gag a little, and laid them out on the kitchen side. I could see my spidery signature at the foot of the forms, and my excitement finally focused on the content. Life insurance. He hadn't mentioned that, but still. I leafed through and all the forms were for life insurance. I sat down heavily and there was a static crackle somewhere in the house. The familiar sensation of doom that accompanied everything to do with Andrew set in before I even read the contents. I read the papers one by one, my desperation growing.
He'd set up four life insurance policies, all on my life and payable to him. Each one had been purchased for thirty thousand pounds. Incredibly, I could see my signature on every page, even the bank authorisations. The cooling off period for the agreement was fourteen days, which expired the day before yesterday. I threw the papers onto the floor and ran down the long winding road to the village, birds scattering from the high hedgerows as I sped with my bank card. I sprinted through the main street, scattering tourists now, and pushed my card home. I quickly entered my PIN number and the balance appeared on the screen. £785.36. There had previously been near to one hundred and forty thousand pounds in my account. I sat on the floor and screamed.
'No. No. Oh my God. No.'
This was my first taste of how screaming makes you invisible. People hurried past and clapped their hands over children's eyes to save them seeing the crazy lady. No one came to help me, and I realised that there was no real point to grief without an audience. Expression of loss is only valid if there is someone close to you, someone who cares, to soak up some of your pain. My pain built to a crescendo, and I took it home. Back to the ruined house that has no insurance, no funds to put it right.
I tried to ring Andrew for the telephone box up the lane, but after three attempts I realised that there was no point. I read the insurance papers again. There were written-in clauses that there would be no refund of payments and that should the policy be cancelled, the monies paid would go in trust for Mr Andrew Nelson. No one in their right mind would have signed this. No one in their right mind. It was the first time I had really wondered if there was something slightly amiss, something that made me vulnerable, helped people to take advantage of me. Had Stan been right, was I a little bit strange? It wasn't really a thought, more of a vague wondering, because I was so upset that thinking would have been impossible.
