by Lucy Diamond
It wasn’t all right though, and they both knew it.
The image of Karen weeping haunted Polly for the rest of the day. She had no idea that her mum still carried around such raw, painful grief for Michael; she’d assumed everyone had just blotted him out from their memories, like she had. Obviously not. That evening Clare and the children came round again for tea, and there was a cake with candles, which they lit with great ceremony. Clare was quiet and thoughtful, and even Graham’s eyes were suspiciously red-rimmed.
‘We miss you, Michael,’ they’d chorused, clinking glasses of wine. Clearly this was a ritual that took place every year.
Polly’s face had burned with shame. She’d always tried to treat June the thirteenth as an ordinary day, albeit one to be got through as fast as possible. But candles were still burning brightly for Michael in this part of the country, and had been for the last twenty years. It made her feel hollow inside, like she was a bad person.
Thirty-five years old, her mum had sobbed. Married with kids, maybe. Unlike his older sister, who’d messed her life up completely, Polly thought miserably in bed that night.
The next morning, though, her parents seemed to have clicked back into normal mode. Her mum gave her a hug at breakfast time and apologized for her tears the day before. ‘His birthday always gets me,’ she said breezily, ‘but I’m fine again now. Coffee?’
Polly accepted with a certain amount of wariness, but she needn’t have worried. Her mum was humming as she buttered toast, and her dad was laughing at something on the radio, as if the mourning and misery of the day before had been a mirage, a dream.
Her heart ached for them unexpectedly. Was this how they coped then? Papering over the cracks for most of the year, with this deep well of sadness always there beneath the surface?
Perhaps she’d been naive to think that life had been continuing as normal for them all these years. Why hadn’t she noticed?
She munched her toast grimly. She already knew the answer to that one.
‘Clare, it’s me. Polly. Hi.’
It was Wednesday afternoon, and Polly had finally cracked. She couldn’t bear another morning waking up to her dad’s shower-singing, another day averting her eyes from the photos of Michael on the mantelpiece, another mug of dishwatery instant coffee. She was also fed up with Waterloo Road, Lark Rise to Candleford and all those other abysmal programmes that her parents devoured. And she never wanted to go through the deeply cringeworthy experience of ‘a nice chinwag’ with Jacky Bore of the Year Garland and her daffy old bat of a mum again, after Karen had insisted on inviting them round for coffee.
‘Hi, Polly, how are you?’ came her sister’s voice down the phone.
Polly sighed. ‘Going insane,’ she confessed. That was the truth. She was starting to hate herself every time she told her parents a lie about her ‘work’. The walls were closing in around her too, tighter each day. ‘I was wondering …’ She licked her lips, suddenly hesitant. ‘Is your offer still on?’
‘About moving in? Er, yeah. Sure,’ Clare replied. ‘I was going to ring you anyway. I’ve found you a job.’
‘A job?’ Polly lowered her voice, aware that she’d just squawked the word in her shock. ‘What … what do you mean?’
‘It’s not a big career move, I’m afraid,’ Clare said cheerfully. ‘But it’s something to tide you over at least. I mean, I do need you to chip in with money for food and stuff if you’re going to be staying, Polly. I’m even more skint than Mum and Dad, and can’t subsidize you.’
‘Right.’ Polly swallowed, trying to push back the ginormous lump that seemed to have lodged itself in her throat. She had a horrible feeling that her sister had her over a barrel. ‘So … what is it, this job?’
‘I’ll tell you later. When do you want to come round?’
‘Tonight?’ Polly said glumly.
‘Don’t sound too excited, will you? Yeah, all right. Tonight’s fine. Not like I’ve got anything else to do. Listen, there’s something in the oven that I’d better check on, so I’ll see you later, bye.’
And that was that. Polly sat for a few moments on the bed, wondering if she was doing the right thing. She wasn’t at all convinced that this ‘job’ her sister claimed to have found her would be up to much. She doubted it would pay even a fraction of her last salary, and she couldn’t believe there were any financial or business-related positions up for grabs in either Elderchurch or Amberley. Unless Clare had wangled her some freelance accountancy perhaps, or maybe even some consultancy work further afield …
Polly grabbed a suitcase and began stuffing clothes into it. She’d missed work so badly, she realized. Missed using her brain, making calculations, solving problems. Hell, she’d even missed putting on a suit and full make-up every morning. Even if she had to take a small step down the career ladder, this job of Clare’s might just be what she needed.
‘A cleaner? A fucking CLEANER? Tell me you’re joking.’
Clare shook her head. It was eight o’clock, the children were in bed – now both sharing Leila’s room, which had caused a good forty minutes of mutiny on either side, before Clare had had to resort to bribery – and she’d just heaved her sister’s last case up to Alex’s room, which was Polly’s new (and definitely temporary) abode. ‘I thought you’d be pleased’ was all she said.
This was not strictly true. Clare had known damn well that Polly would not be in the slightest bit pleased about the suggestion that she work as a cleaner for the local pub, but as far as she was concerned, beggars could not be choosers. Especially when beggars were about to stay with their kind, patient younger sister and needed some means of paying their own way.
‘Pleased? Are you taking the piss?’ Polly felt as if she’d been slapped in the face. How dare her sister suggest such a ridiculous thing as her, Polly Johnson, taking on that kind of menial, revolting and probably disgracefully badly paid job? She didn’t even know how to clean – and never wanted to learn, either. Cleaning was something other people did, end of story.
‘No, of course I’m not,’ Clare retorted. ‘Don’t be such a snob. Look, I wasn’t joking when I said I needed you to pay your way here. I’m surviving on a shoestring, Polly. No money. And when you’re skint, you can’t afford to be picky.’ She leaned back against the sofa. ‘You don’t have to take the job. It was only an idea, okay? Just something you could do to earn a few quid while you’re waiting for a better offer. But if you’re too high and mighty to put on a pair of Marigolds, then – ’
Polly ground her teeth together. High and bloody mighty indeed. She’d only been in Clare’s grotty little house half an hour and already her sister was trying to rub her nose in it. That hadn’t taken long. ‘I’ll find my own job, thank you very much,’ she growled.
‘Suit yourself,’ Clare said, swinging her legs up onto the sofa and turning her whole body away. A moody silence was on the verge of descending, but then she flicked the TV on with the remote, and brightened. ‘Oh, brilliant, Florida Mansions. Do you ever watch this?’
It was on the tip of Polly’s tongue to say a scornful ‘No’, of course she didn’t watch that sort of trash, but during her meltdown period immediately after losing her job she’d actually watched this programme quite a lot. ‘Sometimes,’ she muttered, sitting down next to her sister.
At least she could enjoy some tacky telly here at Clare’s, she thought, trying to get comfortable on the knackered old sofa. She could feel its springs through the cushion, and the wooden backrest through the thin padding – neither was a good sensation. The cottage wasn’t exactly palatial, with its low ceilings and tiny rooms, and Clare might not have the best creature comforts in the world, but at least there was the glorious Florida Mansions, a programme so brainlessly bad that the phrase ‘guilty pleasure’ might have been coined for it. She sighed and leaned back, staring at the screen as the garish titles began spooling.
‘What a knobber,’ Clare said, guffawing gleefully as one of the characters in the soap – Jed,
a brainless hunk with muscles so pumped up they’d surely been inflated – got completely the wrong end of the stick in a conversation with Marcella, the quirky redhead who’d just moved into their apartment block.
‘I know,’ Polly said, unable to help a snort of amusement herself. ‘Total doofus.’
‘Isn’t he? Did you see that one a few weeks ago when he was trying to get the job with what’s-her-name? Tina, at the car warehouse? Cringe or what?’
‘Oh God, I did!’ Polly said. ‘I could hardly watch. Tina’s face!’
Clare spluttered. ‘Gotta love him, though, especially when he doesn’t actually speak. I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crisps, put it like that.’ She leaned forward to put the remote down on the coffee table and, as her T-shirt rode up, Polly noticed a small bluebird tattoo at the base of her sister’s back. God! When had Clare got that done? Did their parents know about it?
‘He so would eat crisps in bed,’ she said, dragging her eyes back to the screen, where Jed’s cheerfully gormless face had fallen at the realization (at last) that he’d totally put his foot in it with Marcella. ‘But, yeah, I suppose that could be overlooked. As long as he shared them with me, of course.’
‘Yeah, and put the packet in the bin afterwards,’ Clare added. ‘That drove me nuts about living with Steve. He never seemed to get the hang of bins; he’d always drop stuff wherever he was, as if he thought the litter fairy would pop by and pick up after him all the time. As for dirty clothes … God. My life is so much better for not having to pick up his smelly pants and socks off the bedroom floor every day.’
‘Ewww,’ Polly said, wrinkling her nose. Not that her own personal hygiene standards had been particularly high recently, but all the same. Men’s dirty pants and socks: ewww.
The titles flashed up to signal an ad-break and they fell silent for a moment. It was as if they’d been in a cosy shared bubble while their programme had been on, which had now popped. ‘Do you miss him?’ she asked as a gaudy pizza advert began blaring. She was surprised at her own question – she and Clare didn’t generally go anywhere near personal stuff.
‘Sometimes,’ Clare said, fiddling with her bracelet. ‘At Christmas I did, and the kids’ birthdays; you know, those full-on happy-family times. And when he’s not there for things that matter to the kids, like their school concerts or sports day, and I can see on their faces that they’re wishing he was there, that’s horrible. I feel a sort of ache, as if something’s not right. But on the whole …’ She lifted her chin up defiantly. ‘No. We’re doing fine without him.’
There was silence for a few moments and Polly scrabbled about desperately for something to say – something that wouldn’t sound patronizing or ineffectual. What did she know about bringing up two kids on her own, though? Bugger all.
‘I never liked the way he tried to put you down,’ she blurted out before she could stop herself.
Clare’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’
Tread carefully, Polly. ‘I mean, he seemed to hate it when you had any kind of success or triumph,’ she said. ‘Like the Christmas you made Mum and Dad that amazing mosaic picture and he came out with a mean comment about buying them a “proper” present next year when you had more money.’
Clare flushed. ‘I’d forgotten that,’ she mumbled.
Polly hadn’t. It had been painful seeing Clare’s look of pride crumple into embarrassment when Steve came out with his snarky remarks. Mum and Dad had protested, saying how lovely the picture was and how long it must have taken Clare to make, and it was lovely, even Polly had to admit as much, despite despising home-made gifts in general. Unfortunately it seemed that Steve had already destroyed what pleasure she’d had from giving it to them.
‘And then there was that time, another Christmas it must have been, when Leila was only tiny and—’
‘All right, all right,’ Clare snapped. ‘No need to dredge all that up now.’
‘I was only—’
‘Yeah, I know. But let’s not go there.’
Oops. Okay, so slagging off the ex was still off the agenda. Luckily Polly thought of the perfect thing to say instead. ‘Oh, I forgot! I’ve brought you some wine as a thank-you for having me. Shall I open it?’
‘Yes,’ said Clare with audible relief in her voice. ‘Good idea.’
One bottle of Ernest and Julio’s finest later (the village shop wasn’t exactly laden with quality vintages) and Polly felt she and her sister might just be approaching some kind of peace treaty. First they’d bonded over Florida Mansions. Then had come the discovery that they were both addicted to Flying High, the sexy-pilot series that had been repeated recently. And finally, when they had moved on to tumblers of Clare’s emergency gin ration, they’d come over all confessional. Clare had admitted to breaking their mum’s prized porcelain doll at the age of six (Michael had got the blame at the time, despite him hotly denying having anything to do with it) and Polly had fessed up to nicking fifty pence out of the collection plate at Sunday school, back when she’d been nine and desperately saving up for roller skates.
The topic of money must have jogged Clare’s drunken memory, because the next thing she said was, ‘So are you going to think about that job at the pub then?’
And just like that the new-found confidence between them splintered and broke. Polly twisted awkwardly on the uncomfortable sofa – she was so going to have backache the next morning – and scowled. ‘No! I already told you! I’m …’ She thumped a fist down on the arm-rest. ‘I’m not interested in that kind of work. I want to go back to London, not hang around in this poxy place any longer than—’
She broke off, slightly scared by the look of fury that had appeared on Clare’s face. Ahh. Maybe she shouldn’t have called Elderchurch a ‘poxy place’ quite so bluntly.
‘Well, I’m sorry that this isn’t up to your usual standards,’ Clare fumed, getting unsteadily to her feet. ‘And I’m sorry you’re not even going to try, when a perfectly good job is going begging right on the doorstep. I should have known you’d turn your nose up at it; just as you’ve always turned your nose up at everything here, your whole flipping life. The sooner you go back to London, the better for everyone.’
‘Oh, don’t be like that, I didn’t mean—’ Polly tried, but Clare had already flounced out. Seconds later there were thunderous footsteps on the wooden staircase and Polly guessed she’d stormed off to bed. Goodnight to you too, Clare.
Polly leaned her head back in irritation. Deliberate antagonism, that was her sister’s game; goading Polly and trying to humiliate her with this wretched cleaning job.
Well, she’d be damned if she let it get to her. Clare could shove her stinking Marigolds up her own jacksy, Polly thought savagely, draining the last of her gin. And from now on, she could bloody well keep her nosey beak out of Polly’s business too.
Polly tossed and turned under Alex’s alien-patterned duvet that night. Luminous miniature planets dangled disconcertingly above her head from the ceiling, a Wallace and Gromit clock ticked loudly, and there was a distinct pong of socks emanating from under the bed. The Ritz this was not. ‘The Pitz, more like,’ she muttered, rolling over for the umpteenth time.
The sooner you go back to London, the better for everyone, Clare had said. Yep, Polly thought. Couldn’t have put it better herself. She’d never moan about city life again when she returned there. The smog, the traffic, the crime – she’d embrace them all like long-lost friends. As for the thought of a new proper job, with her own desk to sit at, a PC, an assistant … She’d be the dream employee, given half a chance.
If only she could get that half-chance …
Tomorrow I’ll wake up and someone will have emailed saying they want to interview me, she promised herself. Tomorrow, things will start to turn around: I’ll spot a new vacancy for my perfect job, I’ll be headhunted, my phone will ring and it’ll all begin to fall into place. I don’t need a crappy cleaning position. I can do better than that. I WILL do better th
an that.
‘So there,’ she said out loud. She punched the Pirates of the Caribbean pillowcase into a better shape and rolled over. Positive visualization, that was the key. She had to keep telling herself that her luck would change any day soon. The alternative was simply too dreadful to contemplate.
Chapter Fourteen
‘Alex SNORES,’ Leila announced grumpily at breakfast the next day.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘No, I don’t.’ Kick.
‘Yes, you DO.’ Push.
‘Oh, stop bickering, for God’s sake,’ Clare snapped. She had a thrumming headache right behind her eyes (whatever had possessed her to break into the emergency gin like that?) and had nearly cracked the bathroom mirror with her rough-as-sandpaper reflection when she’d peered into it just now. Polly no doubt was still sleeping it off, the lucky cow. That was if the quarrelling niece and nephew hadn’t just woken her, of course.
‘How long till I can get my own bedroom back anyway?’ Alex grumbled, pulling a hideous face at his sister.
‘A few months, not that long,’ Clare said, trying to appease him. Damn, they were nearly out of coffee, she noticed, foraging fruitlessly for a new jar in the cupboard. ‘We’re just helping her out for a while, that’s all. That’s what families do.’ She tried to keep a kindly tone to her voice, but couldn’t help hearing a ring of sarcasm through it. She hadn’t been best pleased to come down that morning and find the gin bottle still there on the coffee table with its lid off, and the glasses either side of it too. Her glass still had an inch of gin in it, she’d noticed, with rising fury. What if one of the children had thought it was water and glugged it back? Had it not occurred to Polly that she should have tidied them away before taking herself off to bed?
Obviously not.
‘A few months?’ Leila wailed. ‘Oh, great. That’s like nearly Christmas!’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Clare said. ‘It’s only for the summer. It might even be less time than that.’
