by K. L. Slater
I try and take some deep breaths to keep relaxed but it’s not working. I feel grateful it’s not so cold that we need the heating on. If they knew the boiler failed nearly every other day, they’d certainly have something to say about that.
‘I’ll leave these two… officers with you then, shall I, Rose?’ Jim growls when they all reach my desk.
‘Thank you, Jim,’ I say brightly. I turn to smile at Cynthia and Greg but they stare back, po-faced. They’re obviously not too impressed with our back office.
‘So, this is the main library area.’ I lead them over to the far-side wall. ‘We keep a good, wide range of fiction and non-fiction titles. And we try to keep the education section stocked with useful books relevant to the national curriculum. Miss Jennings, a local teacher, helps us to choose—’
‘How many end-users do you have using the facilities at present?’ Cynthia consults her keyboard. ‘It looks as though your figures have declined steeply in recent years.’
‘Customers, you mean? Readers?’
‘We refer to them as end-users,’ Cynthia says blankly.
‘If the library closes, then what happens to all our jobs?’ I blurt out. ‘Is that it, we’re just finished?’
‘It might be you’re selected to work elsewhere if there’s a vacancy, perhaps a school, or—’
‘I can’t!’ Moisture prickles on my forehead and I lean against a shelving unit until the dizziness passes.
‘Are you alright, Miss Tinsley?’
‘Yes.’ I stand upright again. ‘It’s just that relocation isn’t really suitable for me, you see. On… health grounds.’
‘That’s jumping the gun a little.’ Cynthia sniffs. ‘Nothing has been decided about the library’s future as yet.’
We’re coming back full circle in the library space now.
‘And here we have our children’s corner,’ I say, managing to gather myself a little. ‘It’s very well used. The local primary school bring classes here once or twice a week during term-time and we also have mother and toddler story sessions on two lunchtimes each week.’
Cynthia’s eyes widen. ‘Looks as if it could do with a bit of a tidy!’
‘Yes, it’s a bit of a mess but a session just finished before you arrived,’ I explain. ‘There’s only me working today but it will get done before we close.’
‘I think it’s safe to say the whole place needs re-carpeting,’ Greg observes.
‘We’re doing our best, you know?’ I hear myself say steadily. ‘We’re doing our best under difficult circumstances.’
I’m actually afraid that Mrs Brewster’s eyes are going to pop out of their sockets at any moment but it’s too late by then. I’ve gone and said it.
‘We’re well aware of that, Miss Tinsley—’
‘I’m sorry, will you excuse me?’ I push by them, heading for the back office. ‘I’m sorry, I just… I just need a moment.’
50
ROSE
PRESENT DAY
How I’ve managed to get though the afternoon in this daze and propel myself out of the door, I honestly don’t know, but I find myself walking home after work.
Earlier this afternoon, when the council officials left the library, I promptly burst into tears.
Jim, Mrs Brewster and Miss Carter all rushed to console me but I brushed their concerns away. I didn’t feel at all worthy of their sympathy.
‘It’s not your fault, pet,’ Jim kept saying. ‘You seem very uptight; perhaps things are getting on top of you a bit.’
I said nothing and buried my face in the tissue Miss Carter proffered but, in my head, I berated myself. I’d known about the visit for over a week but, because my head was elsewhere, I’d done zero planning for it. In fact, worse still, I’d totally forgotten it was happening and I felt sure, judging by their faces, they gathered that.
I’m making mistakes, forgetting important stuff and blurting things out inappropriately without thinking about the consequences.
Ordinary, everyday things just seem too hard to think about on top of everything else. Even my safety checks are half-hearted today.
My stomach has been growling all morning, so loudly that one or two people have joked about it. Jim offered to pop out and get me a sandwich but I can’t stand the thought of eating anything. It would have to be the right kind of food. Nothing else will do.
But it’s not long before I stop feeling so nonchalant about my surroundings. My heart begins its fretful pumping and my mouth is dry as sawdust. I hasten my pace, just wanting to be home.
As I turn the corner, I see the familiar and reassuring sign of the local Co-op up ahead and, before I realise I’m making a conscious decision, my feet divert me there.
Inside, I whip round the aisles in record time, loading my wire basket with items. I don’t go to the checkout; I stand instead in the short queue for the self-service where a new young man, who mercifully is not a master of polite conversation, stands sentry, ready to help any confused shoppers.
Just fifteen minutes later, I’m walking into the house with my two shopping bags.
I lock the door behind me, dump my shopping on the floor and close the front room curtains. Carrying the stuff through to the kitchen, I pull down the blind and double-check all the deadbolts are still in place on the door.
I pour a large glass of fizzy pop, sit at the kitchen table and begin the process that I know without doubt will bring me relief.
First, I eat the three chocolate eclairs. The choux pastry is so light I barely need to chew at all before the chocolatey cream slides down my throat.
As I fiddle with the packaging of the large lemon drizzle cake, I cram a couple of chocolate Hob Nob biscuits in my mouth and, finally, I start to feel the tension in my neck and shoulders begin to dissolve.
I don’t bother with a plate; I cut a large slice of cake and deposit a dollop of extra-thick double cream on the end. My mouth is almost too full to chew but I manage just fine, relishing the moist, clogging sweetness that is everything.
I close my eyes, and all the worry – all the awful thoughts that plague me – disappear. All that matters is that wonderfully full sensation in my mouth that negates everything else around me.
Within minutes I have wolfed down half the tub of double cream and two-thirds of the cake. I start on the large tub of cookie dough-flavoured ice cream. It freezes my mouth and throat and numbs the pain, burying it under the weight of the calories.
When the tub is empty, I stagger into the living room and lie down on the settee. I close my eyes and try to ignore the roiling of my stomach, focusing on the warm, reassuring feeling that covers me now like a warm blanket.
I start to drift in that strange place betwixt sleep and wakefulness, and after a while I force myself to sit up. It’s time.
I walk upstairs, unbuttoning my work blouse as I climb, discarding it on the top step. Outside the bathroom door I slip off my trousers and step into the room in just my underwear.
I lift up the loo seat and bend forwards, pressing my index and second fingers together and inserting them smoothly into my mouth. I press down on to my tongue and increase the pressure as my fingertips reach the back of my throat.
And voila! Up it comes in all its glory: the lemony, creamy, chocolatey goo that has wrapped itself around all my worries and taken them down the pan with it.
I feel so relieved I still have the knack.
After washing my face and hands and swilling out my burning mouth, I change into leggings and a loose T-shirt in my bedroom.
I flush the loo again, wipe around the rim and squirt some bleach in there before replacing the lid. I open the window a touch and sit on the top step while the air circulates for a few moments.
I don’t leave windows at home open and unaccompanied, ever. It’s one of my safety rules.
When I’ve closed it, I go back downstairs and clean up the mess in the kitchen. I sweep up the strewn lemony crumbs with the edge of my hand into a small pile on the work
top before depositing them into a pedal bin liner. In goes all the ripped packaging and the almost empty tub of cream.
I feel sick as I mop up the litter of creamy smears on the counter. My acid-burned throat is smarting so I take a sip of water but that only seems to make it worse.
I touch my lips gently and remember back to when the bulimia was at its worst. I had blisters on my lips and sores in the corner of my mouth. My throat was permanently sore and my skin broke out in spots.
But all I could see was that my ugly, fat body had got a little bit more acceptable and my mind had ceased its almost constant torture. It only lasted a short time before I felt the need to purge again.
I don’t want to revisit that place. I silently promise myself I won’t do this again.
I can’t delay what needs to be done any longer. I put what I need in my handbag, pick up my keys, Ronnie’s key and head for the back door.
It’s time to talk to Ronnie.
51
ROSE
PRESENT DAY
It’s only five-thirty in the afternoon but it feels like the end of a very long day.
I feel like a bit of a zombie, like my mind has drifted on to autopilot to get ordinary tasks done but nothing more. My conversation with Mike North this morning, the visit from the council officials, stuffing my face with food when I got home… it all seems fuzzy in my mind’s eye. As if it happened a long time ago.
More’s the pity it didn’t because then I might have dealt with my problems better and move past them. I lock the back door and stand still in the garden for a few moments. The air is warm outside but the sky is grey and overcast. It’s not the sort of evening for sitting out.
I look back at the house. The mortgage is paid on the property now; it belongs to me but I still couldn’t manage without a job. If the library closes there is nothing else going around here, I’d definitely need to look for work out of the area.
What that might do to my anxiety levels, I can’t afford to think about.
I turn my back on the house. I had the chance today to impress the council officers at work and I blew it. Yet worse than that was the feeling of panic, of lack of control in my own life. It brings back the worst sorts of memories, makes me fear I’m slipping again.
I push thoughts of the library closure away for now. There is something more pressing that needs to be dealt with as a matter of urgency.
I open the adjoining gate and walk through, leaving it open ready for when I return, after speaking to Ronnie. I tap on the back door and try the handle but, as I’d expected, it’s locked. Claudia, the home help, must’ve locked up before she left.
I open it with my key and then lock it behind me once inside. At the bottom of the stairs I slip off my shoes.
‘It’s only Rose,’ I call as I begin to climb the steps.
I hesitate on the landing, transfixed once more by the spare room door. I’m still finding it almost impossible to grasp that, for all these years, Billy’s blanket has been concealed in there. Nobody, including me, ever thought to look there.
I hear a rattling cough, which brings me back to the present moment, and I turn the other way so I can try and forget the room is there.
When I knock on Ronnie’s bedroom door, there is a hoarse reply. ‘Come in.’
Ronnie’s bedroom is gloomy and there’s a sour smell in here. Claudia has only opened the curtains halfway, probably because during her visit earlier, the light outside was much brighter.
Ronnie is in bed, padded upright with several pillows.
I can see how much weight he’s lost since he’s been in hospital. His face looks gaunt and pale.
‘Hello, Ronnie,’ I say, forcing a little smile. ‘First things first, do you need help getting to the loo?’
He shakes his head. ‘Claudia only left about an hour ago.’
‘OK,’ I say, and sit on the end of his bed. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m tired,’ he says, subdued. ‘I feel really tired, Rose.’
He does look tired to be fair but I can’t help wondering if he’s paving the way to evade speaking to me. I told him earlier, in no uncertain terms, that I wanted a chat…
He says he’s not hungry but that he’ll have a cup of tea.
Downstairs, I put the kettle on and then stand looking out of the small window on to the bleak concrete yard, wondering how I’m going to broach the subject of finding Billy’s blanket.
Ronnie has been really poorly – still is – so it’s quite possible his memory is patchy. It might be a good idea to get him generally thinking about the past first, with no pressure attached.
I take up his tea and two digestive biscuits.
He leaves the biscuits on the plate and sips the tea, watching me over the top of his mug.
‘You don’t look that well yourself, Rose.’ He frowns and his voice crackles like screwed-up paper.
‘I’m OK,’ I say.
‘Your cheeks look a bit flushed like they used to be before. When you were ill.’
I ignore the comment.
‘Have you taken your tablets?’
‘Yes,’ he says, nodding.
‘When I came through the gate just now, I started thinking about some of the parties we’d have in the garden,’ I say lightly. ‘When you and Dad would crank the barbecue up. Remember that?’
He takes another sip of his tea and makes a small grunt at the back of his throat.
‘Happy days. Where did all those years go, eh, Ronnie?’
‘I don’t know.’ He sighs. ‘But I wish I had them back. I’d do things differently then.’
My ears prick up.
‘Like what? What would you do differently?’
I hope I sound casual but inside my heart starts banging. Sometimes, when people get old and ill, they decide, on impulse, to unburden themselves. Maybe this is one such moment.
‘I wouldn’t work as many hours for one thing.’ He clears his throat. ‘The money came in handy, it gave us a good life, but I wish I’d have spent more time with little Eric and with Sheila.’
‘You did your best,’ I tell him. ‘I bet most of the men round here feel the same. You all worked so hard down the mine.’
‘Aye. Didn’t know the government would shaft us then though, did we? Thought we’d all keep our jobs for life.’
I nod.
‘And… I—’ he hesitates and the air around us seems to crackle with electricity ‘—I regret what happened with Billy,’ he says, his voice dropping to a whisper.
52
ROSE
PRESENT DAY
‘What do you mean by that, Ronnie?’ My throat’s tightened and the word comes out strangulated. ‘What do you regret?’
‘I know it’s painful for you to even hear his name, Rose. But something’s tortured me ever since that night.’
I hold my breath and stare at my old neighbour. He seems to move closer and then further away and he’s speaking but his words sound vague as if they’re bleeding into each other.
He’s going to tell me about the blanket. He’s going to confess everything.
‘Rose?’ Ronnie raises his voice and everything sounds clear again.
‘Sorry—’ my eyes focus again ‘—what did you just say?’
‘I said, I blame myself that we didn’t find him on the search,’ Ronnie said, turning his face to the window and the fading light. ‘I guided the volunteers towards the lakes and the abbey, and away from the residential area of the grounds. Away from the bushes where he… where it happened. I deeply regret that.’
I stare at him. I’d never considered that Ronnie had had the power back then, as organiser of the village search, to divert the volunteers away from Billy’s body. If he’d had anything to do with Billy’s death, it would have been the perfect foil. These days the police would have taken control of every last detail but back then things were different.
‘Are you alright, Rose?’
I tear my eyes away from him. He’d seem
ed to remember the past perfectly well just now, despite his insistence yesterday that he couldn’t recall anything at all.
‘I suppose you did what you could,’ I mumble, trying to keep him engaged. ‘Back then, I mean.’
A dread settles over me as I realise I’ll never get a better time than this to talk about the spare room discovery. This is my one chance, probably my last chance, to get information out of Ronnie, because soon I’ve got to decide what to do about the crucial new evidence.
Without speaking, I reach for my handbag and close my fingers over the clear plastic bag within it. I pull it out and place it on the bedspread between Ronnie and me.
The red blanket, although faded, sits on Ronnie’s pale bedding like a puddle of spilt blood.
His eyes settle on it and he puts down his mug on his bedside table.
‘Do you remember this, Ronnie?’ I ask him gently. ‘It’s Billy’s blanket.’
‘I – I’m not sure,’ Ronnie replies, his fingers worrying at the edge of the quilt. ‘Since I fell, my memory is patchy, Rose. It keeps coming and going.’
‘Billy used to take it everywhere with him. He had it on the day he was taken. I saw it in his rucksack as he left the house. The police tried to find it for weeks afterwards.’
Ronnie can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the blanket.
I keep my voice firm and level. ‘When you were in hospital I found this blanket in a box. In your spare room, Ronnie.’
He shakes his head.
‘Yes. I did find it in there and I need to know how it got there.’ I look at his baffled expression. ‘You understand what I’m saying, don’t you, Ronnie? The police searched everywhere for this blanket and then I find it sixteen years later in your house. I can’t ignore that fact; I’d be failing Billy.’
‘But… how… I don’t know why it’s there, Rose. I mean, if Billy had it on the day he went missing, then how can it be here?’
He’s either acting very stupid because he’s playing it smart or he’s genuinely confused. I can’t figure out which it is.
