Mouths of Babes

by Stella Duffy

  “Right. So when does she find time to earn all this money if she’s off being pampered all the time?”

  “I think, sweetie, when you’re as wealthy as she is, it’s more about investments and handling portfolios than anything as crude as actually having a job.”

  “So they’re rich?”

  “Filthy.”

  “Then what’s his problem? Can’t your client just go to work himself?”

  “Parity, darling. We can’t say a dumped wife deserves alimony for taking care of the husband for thirty odd years if we don’t offer the same for the men too, can we? All I need is proof that she’s still doing any one of those things, though all three would be best, and then my client puts in his final claim. On Friday afternoon. When the wife flies over for their next meeting. Hence the urgency. If we present her – and her lawyer – with proof that she’s still spending loads on the silly stuff, then she can’t keep saying no to my bloke.”

  Saz sighed again, heard the wails of her increasingly irritated daughter, Molly losing patience down the hall in Matilda’s room.

  “Maybe she can’t, Claire, but I can. I’m not doing it. I’m going back to sleep. If Matilda will let me. If you’ll let me. Goodnight?”

  A pause then, Claire thinking of the best way to try one more time, and leaving it just too late.

  “I’m hanging up now Claire. ’Bye.”

  Saz put down the phone. Heart rate returned to normal. Screaming baby, not happy Molly. Home returned to normal.

  Matilda was still wailing on Molly’s lap. Saz took her from Molly.

  “Sorry.”

  Molly offered a questioning look. Saz shook her head.

  “Claire. Offered me a job. I said no.”

  “Good. Cup of tea?”

  Tea drunk and it was now one thirty in the morning, Matilda wasn’t the least bit tired, Saz and Molly were both grumpy. After half an hour trying to pacify Matilda, they took her to bed with them where she promptly fell asleep, hot arms and legs spread as far as her nine-month-old body would allow, pushing Saz and Molly to the far edges of the mattress. A truck drove past outside their ground floor flat, shaking the house from the foundations up.

  “These houses weren’t built to have that kind of traffic going by.”

  “No.”

  “One day the whole bloody place is going to fall in on top of us.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Matilda’s room is way too small for her now. It’s so full of stuff.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  Saz didn’t care. She couldn’t stop thinking about her visitor from the day before, trying constantly not to, glad of the distraction Claire’s phone call had provided. Glad and already interested and trying not to think that Claire’s offer sounded like fun. An easy day’s work, a simple day’s work. Matilda sleeping soundly now, Molly wide awake and not enjoying it.

  “Saz, please don’t look like that.”

  “Like what? What look? How can you see anyway?”

  “Because I know how you think. You’ve got your I-can-solve-the-world’s-problems look.”

  “Didn’t know I had one.”

  “Well, you do. And anyway, you know what I mean.”

  Silence then. Molly worrying on her edge of the bed. High wind blowing about the trees that made up their back fence, hundred-year-old house creaking out the stories of middle-of-the-night floorboards.

  Saz forced to break into the dark. “What?”

  “It’s different now.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “You’ve always put your work before me … ”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “No, you have. And in a way it was OK, before. My work was really important to me too.”

  Saz’s whisper turned hard. “I haven’t done anything for well over a year. Year and a half. I’ve been here for you ever since I came out of hospital, I’ve been supportive with all the stuff about your dad, I’ve taken care of you.”

  “I’m grateful. But you just said it … ”

  “Since you came out of hospital. You promised you wouldn’t do anything again that might harm you. We have a child now, it’s different.”

  “I know it’s different, that’s why I feel it so much more. I look at all the shit things in the world and I can’t help being terrified that any one of them might happen to Matilda. And I still want to make things better.”

  Molly sniffed, “Right, and Claire’s work is about making things better? So she’s left that job where she makes money out of rich people’s misery and is now saving the world?”

  “No, but she is trying to make little bits of justice, in her own way.”

  Molly was silent again. Turned over. Then carefully back to Saz, Matilda undisturbed between them.

  “I start work fulltime this week. You know I can end up working late sometimes, there’s always something they need one of us to stay late for. If you take on this job for Claire, what do you intend to do about Matilda? Because there’s no way you’re taking her out with you on a wild goose chase.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I find it hard enough leaving her, Saz. I don’t think I can stand the idea of neither of us being with her.”

  “Moll, it’s irrelevant. I told Claire I wouldn’t do it. You’re going on about this for nothing. I already said no.”

  “But you’d like to.”

  Another silence, acknowledged truth slipping out into the dark.

  “Maybe. You wanted to go back to your work.”

  “My work doesn’t always seem to involve people trying to hurt me. At least not since I last worked nights in A&E. I just want to keep my family safe as well … what’s left of it.” Molly added slowly, “I don’t care if that sounds selfish. I want to put us first, all three of us, always.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  They stopped then. Quiet and dark. Listening to Matilda’s easy breathing between them, the wind outside ripping unready leaves from the trees. In agreement and not at all.

  TWELVE

  One of the things that astonished Saz about becoming a mother was how incredibly long everything now took. She’d heard other parents moan before, how every journey was a mission, and she’d thought they had to be wrong. How hard could it be? You had a bag and your baby and that was it. Saz wasn’t sure why she’d imagined she might suddenly become perfectly organised simply by virtue of getting an egg to agree to the attentions of a passing sperm – she’d certainly never been that together before – but she had figured it couldn’t possibly be so hard. And then Matilda came and Saz understood. Not the reasons why, she still didn’t know why it was that every time she tried to get out of the house with her daughter something seemed to go wrong or get in her way, but she knew for sure that she’d become one of those parents. The one with everything sitting on the back doorstep and ready to load into the pushchair. Everything except the baby. She hadn’t yet left Matilda in a shop, but she no longer thought it was too far-fetched a possibility.

  This morning though, was different. This morning Molly was starting back at work fulltime, and in the space it took her partner to wash, dress, drink two cups of coffee and eat three thickly buttered slices of burnt-to-black toast, Saz had fed, washed and dressed Matilda, showered and dressed herself by the time Molly had her own things ready.

  And all the while the morning routine was undercut with the combined tensions of Molly’s first fulltime day and their unresolved conversation of the night before, with an extra determination for Saz that she get out the door before any unwanted visitors came knocking again. Though she did admit to a growing interest as to why he’d come. Interest and fear – two of her more usual emotions. Molly didn’t need to repeat her view, Saz knew well enough exactly what her partner thought about her becoming involved with any of Claire’s work.

  “I’ll see you tonight?”

  “Yep.”

  “No, it’s just … well, you know.”

  “Molly, I’ll see you when yo
u get home. We’ll both be here, safe and sound.”

  Molly sighed, not wanting to get into it again, not wanting to leave it unfinished. She chose to be nice, make nice. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Understanding how I feel.”

  Saz’s tone was crisp, she wanted Molly to go. “It’s fine. Done. Good luck.”

  “What for?”

  “The beginning of a week’s work fulltime? Being a big girl?”

  “Oh right, that.”

  Then Molly was gone and Saz stared around her, at the messy kitchen and her ready and waiting daughter, slowly relaxed her shoulders, let out her held breath, realised she had made her choice without even noticing it. She reached for the phone.

  The phone rang in New York, Saz left a message on Claire’s machine. Five minutes later a barely awake Claire called back. Another ten minutes and the phone rang in Carrie’s flat, the one she’d been sub-letting from Saz for years now. Saz left a message. Within half an hour an emailed attachment of several pages had arrived. Saz printed out photos and addresses. The phone rang again and now Carrie was talking, croaky sleep voice edged with wakening interest. Saz explained her story and just over an hour later Carrie was standing in Saz’s kitchen, a half-eaten Mars bar in her hand and a wicked grin on her face.

  “Just one thing, Carrie, I don’t want Molly to know you’re here today.”

  Carrie finished the last mouthful of the caramel topping and threw the mangled nougat half into the bin. “Why not?”

  “I just don’t, OK?” Seeing the resentment on her ex’s face, she added, “It’s nothing to do with you, it’s just … you know … ”

  Saz could feel the smirk even though her back was turned and she was pulling on her jacket.

  “Of course I won’t let Molly know I was here instead of you. You know how much I love it when you lie to her.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Sure it’s not, but you do have a story just in case? To explain why I looked after your daughter all day?”

  Saz grabbed her car keys and bag. “I thought maybe I just wouldn’t bother.”

  “I see. Sin of omission rather than commission?”

  “No idea, sweetie, we lapsed Protestants don’t care so much about the definitions.” Saz was playing along, much preferring to bat the idea back than acknowledge the complicity. “You’re sure you know what to do with Matilda?”

  “Feed her, play with her, put her to sleep, change her if necessary, feed her some more, watch telly. Maybe in that order. How hard can it be?”

  Saz looked at her daughter’s face, the slight yawn and simultaneous frown indicating a looming tetchiness. “Good question. You can let me know later. And don’t answer the phone. Molly will call my mobile if she thinks we’re out.”

  “What if she comes home unexpectedly?”

  “She won’t.”

  “She might.”

  “No, she won’t. Doctor Steel has precious little lives to save. Very important job.”

  “Well I have daytime telly to watch, so piss off.”

  “Good luck.”

  “You too.”

  Saz heard the first of Matilda’s wails as she reached the footpath. Part of her felt guilty and wanted to run back. Part of her knew her daughter had had a disturbed night and that Matilda tired was simply Matilda tired, no matter who was holding her. And part of her was happy to be walking out of the flat. She got into the car and drove away.

  THIRTEEN

  Maybe we could become friends again. Not that we were that close before, not that you ever gave me a chance before, with your funny looks and arty knowing and your clever – so clever – mouths. But hey, let’s let bygones … be. All of you with your lovely lives and charming lovers and whole new worlds, partners and babies and engagements and weddings and families and moving on, always moving on. You have something of mine. You have my past. Each one of you has denied it and hidden it and pretended for so long that it didn’t happen, you almost made me think so too. Certainly everyone else believed you. But I know better now. And I want it back.

  FOURTEEN

  Checking out cleaners was always easy. Saz had been a cleaner, it was the easiest of her post-school jobs when she was wasting time between finally deciding not to go to university and what else it was she wasn’t going to do. Wasn’t going to be a lawyer, wasn’t going to be a doctor, wasn’t even going to be a teacher, all those dashed parental hopes despite the holy grail of an attained grammar school education – wasn’t going to be a nurse, hairdresser, bank manager, soldier, plumber, chef either. Wasn’t going to do any of the things her parents or teachers or sister had suggested she do. Not that she wanted to do nothing. Saz did want to earn her own money, had no desire to slump in front of the telly all day, and even less desire to become a career waitress like most of her sister’s university mates seemed to be doing. She just didn’t want to do anything that actually sounded like work. And didn’t know what an alternative career might be, or how to find it. Cleaning houses for rich people filled the gap perfectly. Even when the rich people weren’t all that rich, just two jobs and too many kids and not enough time and employing a cleaner was a damn site easier than fighting about who did what every weekend. Though some of them were loaded. It gave her cash in hand and got her out of the house. And, eventually, it gave her an inkling of what might become her proper job – the person who finds out the things you don’t want them to know. And sometimes, don’t even know you want to hide.

  By the time Saz had half a dozen regular jobs, she realised that not only was she incredibly skilled at cleaning a four-bedroom house in three hours – while charging for five – she also knew all she could ever want to about her various employers. The unused sheets she washed from the guest room when her boss had asked her to change the sheets specifically for the old friend who was coming to stay for the weekend – an old friend who was coming to stay while his wife was away. The uneaten healthy foods thrown out after a week in the fridge and the rubbish bin loaded down with takeaway containers, pushed to the very bottom of the bin by the woman who could kid herself she was on a diet, could kid her boyfriend she was on a diet, but certainly couldn’t kid Saz. The failed pregnancy test sitting in the toilet rubbish bin, open desk diary indicating heartbreak or heavy-sighed relief. Yet another depressed coffee cup left beside a rumpled, uneasy bed, the morning’s whisky dash still scenting the dregs. Saz found she knew way too much without even trying. And then she found she liked knowing so much and tried harder. Eventually she turned uncovering secrets into her proper job. But she never forgot how much the cleaner knew. Which is where she started with Claire’s client’s ex-wife.

  Laurelle Cottillo was out at work; Saz had checked with the office secretary, Ms Cottillo was in a meeting all morning. Newly reclaimed gay sexuality or not, the soon-to-be-ex husband had still behaved like a traditional bloke during their relationship, and had left his wife to take care of all domestic arrangements in their London home. He offered the suggestion that the cleaner came from an agency, that she was Spanish – or Portuguese maybe – and that was about it.

  Saz waited outside the house for an hour and then, when the cleaner had set the alarm and was leaving, jumped out of the car and introduced herself as the manager of a rival agency. She told the Brazilian woman that she’d heard good things about her and suggested they stop for a chat. Maya played up a pretence of interest – as long as Saz was stupid enough to think offering a free coffee and cake down the road was a sensible way to get new workers, Maya wasn’t going to disabuse her. The cleaner was on her way to another job, she’d have needed to stop for lunch anyway. If she agreed to chat, this woman would pay for the food and drink, and Maya would get out of the rain for a while.

  Saz told Maya about her own start in cleaning. Told her true stories of stupid clients and greedy clients and just plain dirty clients. And in return Maya, at first circumspect and then happy to talk, told her own truths. The bloke who’d tak
en her on and hoped she’d offer more in his bedroom than just clean sheets. And she might have as well, if he’d have been better looking. The old woman she cleaned for weekly whose daughter employed her as much as a companion as a cleaner – easier for the daughter not to have to clean her mother’s home, or talk to her mother except on the phone. And then Ms Cottillo. Still having Maya come in three times a week so there were clean sheets every second day and the bins emptied faster than any mess could be made. Booking Maya as often as before, but paying her just once a week through the agency and the other two days cash in hand. Good for Maya and good for Ms Cottillo who needed to keep some things private from her ex. Saz paid for the sandwiches and coffee, bought a chunk of extra thick coffee cake to take home for Molly and, having taken Maya’s details – name and number for her own invented agency – they parted at the door, neither woman looked back.

  Saz went back to the car, did her best not to eat the cake – though smeared her mouth with a couple of fingerfuls of icing instead – and waited while the rain continued its incessant roof-top drumming. Half an hour later the cake was gone and Laurelle Cottillo came home, just as her husband had told Claire to expect – mornings at work, lunch with her girlfriends and then the afternoon at home. An hour later a young man bounded up the rain-slippery steps. After ninety minutes he came back out, carefully closing the gate behind him. Saz left her car and followed him along the quiet residential street, through the park and into the High Street. As he headed into another café she started to wonder what the hell she was doing, and worse, what she was going to say to him. She liked how it felt, not knowing what was coming next.

  He bought an espresso, water, low-fat muffin. She had a cup of tea. He settled down on the empty sofa in the window. She sat on the armchair opposite, dripping umbrella propped against the chair leg. He started to read the Guardian he’d pulled from his bag. She read the writing on the walls. Meaningless aphorisms about the joys of coffee. He looked up, she looked up. She smiled. He didn’t. She smiled again anyway. Saz watched the big-city mask settle over his features, the don’t-talk-to-me face she usually wore in public, the one Carrie didn’t even know how to pretend, the one Saz would hate Matilda to get too used to.