“I’m chaperoning Jules today. She’s not replacing me.” Lilah sounds calm but there’s something impatient about her voice. “Shall we get on with our job, now.”
Hilda, who seems at least eighty, is still remarkably beautiful. Every time she talks however, she spits venom and suddenly seems ugly. I notice her legs don’t seem rake-thin like someone with paralysis and wonder how able she is. She catches me watching her and scathes, “She can watch what you do without joining in. I don’t trust her to do a good enough job.”
I swallow my retort but Lilah argues, “What if I do decide to take another holiday this year and this young lady is my replacement? It’s a legal thing, you know? Annual leave. If we don’t get a break, you might get us dying on you instead of the other way round.”
Nice comeback, Lilah. I smile and Hilda sneers in my direction.
“She’s not young, she’s at least thirty. Look at her, she’s going grey. What’s she doing this for? She looks like she’s got some brains. What happened to you, eh? Fella ran off on you, hmm? Left you saddled with twelve kids. Well, it happens.”
She swivels off in her chair, taking herself back down the stone corridor at a speed we struggle to keep up with. So that’s why she has the chair – to remain authoritative. I even wonder whether she is a former headmistress, acting the way she does.
She drives herself down the hall and further into the expansive house which she seems to live in all alone. I realise she lives on the ground floor when she takes the chair into a bedroom with a four-poster. She parks in the corner and waits for Lilah to put down her cleaning equipment.
Hilda gives her a stare I don’t like. It’s not intimidating, but it’s making her instructions clear without even a word. It’s like this is a drill and Lilah’s meant to know it off by heart and I’m merely an outsider meant to be impressed by some strange routine I have no understanding of whatsoever.
In a bid to try and help out, I offer, “Why don’t I help you dress while Lilah makes up your bed?”
She shakes her head swiftly. “You, touching me? Don’t be so fucking disgusting.”
I look around the room, wondering if those words came from someone else. Lilah nods at a chair in the corner and I sit down, observing. After all, I guess that’s why I’m here today.
“Better. Furniture looks a little crowded now, but better,” Hilda scathes, still sat so rigid in her chair she might be a human plaster cast.
Lilah begins peeling all the bedding off, piece by piece. She even takes off the mattress protector and a plastic sheet beneath that which I spot a sheen of wetness on.
Pride. Lilah did warn me.
It’s too late though, Hilda’s spotted that I’ve spotted. She wets the bed.
“What’s her story then, Lilah?” Hilda asks, like they’re as familiar as best friends, when in actual fact Lilah definitely hates Hilda’s guts. “She in debt? What? Is she disgraced? What’s wrong with her? What’s happened to her? She looks wimpy. Pathetic.”
I don’t say it, but I want to argue I’m just willowy. I have a dancer’s physique. Even having twins hasn’t really changed me all that much. I put on weight while pregnant and lost it a few months afterwards. I’m like a rubber band and never even got stretch marks. I was born with a naturally high metabolism. I’m just built like this! I want to scream at her, but that will make her think she’s winning, and I wouldn’t want that. Don’t people realise calling someone skinny is as bad as calling them fat?
“Jules is doing this for her own reasons,” Lilah states as she removes the plastic sheet and carefully delivers it to the bathroom – the reason she’s wearing thick rubber gloves.
Hilda and I listen to the sheet being washed, chemicals being applied and then Lilah wiping it dry with bundles of tissue. The old woman scowls as the routine is exacted.
“What are you looking at girl, hmm? Things you can’t have? Things you want to steal from me? What?”
“Hush, Lilah, keep your forked tongue,” Lilah insists, re-entering the room, “otherwise I swear you will see an unpleasant side to me, too.”
“I’d like to see that, actually.”
Lilah smirks at me from across the room, her back turned to Hilda who remains in the corner. I try not to show I’m smiling back at Lilah, otherwise Hilda might take umbrage.
I watch as Lilah replaces the plastic sheet exactly where it was. Taking all the used bedding off the floor and stuffing it into a big laundry hamper, she opens a cupboard door and takes out an entirely new set of bedding.
From mattress protector to pillow cases, clean sheets, new comforter and blankets to go between the top sheet and the comforter, everything seems to have to be totally clean before it touches her bed again.
Lilah busts her gut making up the king-size, four-poster again from scratch. I sense there are many more cleaning duties we have to fit into the time we have here. Sweating from her exertions, I’m desperate to help her out but Hilda is watching me like a hawk and I dare not even breathe for fear it’ll piss her off.
Just when Lilah thinks she’s done, Hilda bolts forward in her chair and brings it to an abrupt halt again, this time right by the side of her bed. She stands from her chair (knew she was capable) and lifts all the layers of blankets to tell Lilah in such a vicious voice, I almost want to smack the woman, “LILAH! Didn’t your mother teach you anything. Look…”
Hilda begins breathing hoarsely as she does it herself – putting right whatever it is that’s wrong – the strain of bending down to re-tuck in sheets making bones creak in her back and legs. I’m wincing just sitting here watching this.
She stands and looks directly into Lilah’s eyes, “You disappoint me. Let’s see if you can do better after you dress me.”
She slams her arse back into her wheelchair and puffs, exhausted.
“I’d like the underclass to leave the room while you dress me.”
I stand, almost ready to bite. Lilah stares, terrified, willing me not to stand up for myself. I spent so long not standing up for myself but for some reason now, it feels wrong. I know I deserve more than to be in the presence of this ungrateful old sow.
I don’t want to leave Lilah alone with her. Feeling protective, I start to protest, “I’ll turn my back but stay in case–”
“I’ll be fine, Jules,” Lilah insists, “you can make some tea. Hilda has hers with one sugar and just a dash of milk. I take mine black.”
“She’s not having one,” Hilda retorts.
“I wouldn’t take a thousand pounds off you,” I say under my breath. I get out into the corridor and Lilah shouts after me, “Make a left at the end of the corridor, Jules.”
She thinks of everything.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jules
When I reach the chef-style kitchen, I realise there’s a chill in the air. Seeking some sort of heat, like a sunbeam through the window, I can’t even find that. It’s so cold, in a way that’s intangible. It’s not just the air that’s cold, it’s the atmosphere. I feel shivers run through my very marrow and those creepy crawlies slide and wriggle along my skin again. It’s the sort of cold that even a hot bath can’t get rid of. Outside, the sky’s turned grey and bleak and as I look around the kitchen, I don’t see a radiator or a freestanding heater. I realise the only kettle she has is one of those whistling ones. After filling it, I turn on the gas and stand by the cooker, taking a few licks of warmth emanating from the stove. Even the heat coming out of the stove doesn’t make me feel warmer. I move to the doorway, checking the corridor. There are no radiators in there either. In fact, I don’t think I saw radiators in her bedroom even. She has open fires everywhere but no central heating system. I guess that explains the layers of blankets on her bed and also why she wets it, perhaps – because she’s so cold at night. Either that or incontinence, which isn’t uncommon for a woman her age. Whatever her problems are, she’s too proud to admit she has them and she’s too much of a martyr to ask for help. She’ll take her lonelin
ess out on Lilah to make herself feel better.
They enter the kitchen at the same time as the kettle starts to whistle. Hilda’s dressed in clothes most becoming of a headmistress – smart slacks, plain white blouse with barely any detail and a navy cardigan the same colour as her trousers. There’s no personality at all in what she wears.
I’m not making tea for myself because I don’t want her contaminated tea. As she sits beside the breakfast table in her chair, her eyes drilling holes in my back, I sense her waiting to find out whether I’ve gone and ignored her on that one.
Lilah moves towards me and I tip her a glance, noticing her face flushed and eyes raw. It seems like Hilda’s made her cry. I have to wonder what Hilda said to make Lilah of all people cry. Lilah seems like the toughest, nicest woman you could ever meet.
I frown but quickly wipe it off when Lilah shakes her head slightly, mentally telling me, It’s not worth it.
I pass Lilah her cup first and she cradles her black tea between her fingertips. I don’t know anyone else who drinks black tea and I can only imagine it’s gross.
I almost place Hilda’s cup down when I halt and look her in the eye. “Do you need a coaster?”
She grits her teeth. I beat her to that one. “Top cupboard, above the toaster. I take two slices, each with a sliver of margarine and then honey on top. All the way to the edges.”
I get her coaster and respond, “No problem.”
I take my time making her toast, ensuring she has nothing at all to complain about. When I worked part-time in a café as a student, one of my bosses had a peculiar desire to keep her own mug and cutlery and didn’t like to sit with the other staff at break times either. Also, if you put one foot out of line, she would take you into her office and tear strips off you. Hilda’s got nothing on that woman. I’ve dealt with worse people than her. Just little people in their self-orchestrated big worlds.
“Toast, as requested,” I announce, putting down a placemat and then her plate on top.
“Hmm,” is her only response.
She eats loudly, her dentures working hard to chew her toast. Lilah’s still standing there, drinking slowly, and I sense she’s sort of in shock.
“Lilah, what needs doing? Tell me and I’ll do it.”
She whispers, “Clean the bathroom. I’ll clean up in here after we’re done in this room. Then there’s just the sitting room to dust.”
“Okay.”
“The cleaning products are where I left them,” she says and adds quietly, “sorry.”
I stare, questioning her, but she says no more.
I leave the room and head down the corridor, back to the bedroom and through to the adjoining bathroom. As I enter, I’m immediately hit by the stench of shit. It’s acidic and putrid and I immediately reach for the window.
Now I know what Hilda did to Lilah. Lilah wanted to clean this but Hilda no doubt said it was more a job for me. As I look around, I realise this is less of a bathroom and more just a room to house her commode and a small basin to wash your hands in. This house is in desperate need of modernisation, clearly.
The stink is still so disgusting, I have to find something to wrap around my mouth and nose before I tackle her putrid leavings. I don’t have anything on me except a hankie I always carry in my jeans pocket in case one of the twins has an accident. With that thought, I get a text on my phone and see it’s 7.45a.m.
WARRICK: Kids washed and dressed. Joe helped me, so we managed fine. Just about to leave for Kitty’s. Hope your day isn’t too bad?xx
ME: Busy. Call later x
WARRICK: No probs. Love you x
I put the phone back in my tunic pocket and tie the hankie around the back of my head. The basin at the bottom of the commode is full of watery shit, swimming in a ton of piss. It’s really disgusting and the worst thing is, it’s all mixed with toilet paper. I feel myself wretch and almost want to bolt out of this place. I take a deep breath and don’t think about it.
Shouting down the corridor, I yell, “Lilah, where’s a working toilet?”
She shouts back, “Upstairs, first door on your left.”
Has the woman not heard of a stair lift or a plumber who can put in a toilet downstairs?
“Maybe nobody wants to deal with her,” I say to myself as I carefully lift the basin out of the bottom and begin carrying it away. I try not to look at the contents but it’s difficult because I need to carry it without spilling anything as I go.
Tentatively I take one step at a time and try to concentrate on not falling and spilling shit everywhere, not yakking myself and not forgetting where the hell I’m going to dump this when I get there.
I get to the upstairs bathroom and find it’s absolutely immaculate, a huge, beautiful bathroom in black and white marble. It seems a shame to spoil it and then I decide Hilda is all about the show. She has this perfect bathroom upstairs should visitors come to stay, while she shits and pisses in basically a box. Hardly hygienic.
“Jesus Christ,” I say out loud as I lift the toilet seat and tip the huge amount of excrement into the toilet bowl. It’s absolutely disgusting.
Some splashes are unavoidable and I work at cleaning those up afterwards, finding a bottle of bleach and some wipes in a cupboard nearby. I rinse the commode basin out and wipe that too.
I hardly know how I’ve managed this without puking or running from this place screaming – but I have. I take the smooth stone steps downstairs and feel that hollow coldness creep down my spine again, something lifeless and eerie about this place.
I hear the sounds of Lilah cleaning in the kitchen echoing down the corridor and then a hoover switches on in the living room. Over the hoover, Hilda demands, “Take the nozzle off and get in all the corners!”
After I’m done with the downstairs toilet situation, I head onwards to help Lilah finish up.
I find her still vacuuming, and as she does so, I see she’s crying.
“What the hell’s going on? There’s something not right here,” I demand. I just feel it in every corner of my being. “Lilah, go wait in the car while I finish up.”
She nods without a word, practically running away.
After the front door slams shut, Hilda turns her chair so she’s facing me, the mechanisms of her machine the only sounds echoing through the whole house.
“Why don’t you go?” she challenges me.
“You’ll call the office, complain, and Lilah will get into trouble. You’ll say we didn’t do our job properly and you’ll ask for a deduction on your bill.”
She scratches her nose and smiles, darkness rising in the corners of her eyes, her blue veins pumping blood faster around her body.
She looks at my wedding finger. “It’ll never last,” she spits.
“I don’t believe I’m employed to be verbally abused.”
She smiles, sickly. “It’s a free country. I’m allowed an opinion.”
“And I’m allowed to come to work without harassment. My personal life is of no concern to you.”
“So, he’s never put a foot wrong then, clearly? Never left you wondering… if he might… one day.” Her icy pause feels dangerous. One more wrong word and I will combust and retaliate, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction. She sees the torment in my face and adds, “So, he did do something wrong.”
I turn my face away. “What else is there to do here today? What other jobs? I just want to get done, and get out.”
“The dusting,” she blurts.
I pick up a feather duster, a bottle of polish and a yellow duster cloth. I’m meticulous about this in my own home so there will be nothing different about how I clean here. I use the feather duster first, tossing up any cobwebs or big blobs. I use the hoover to clean blobs from everywhere, the nozzle first then the full setting to vacuum the floor.
I polish everything with the duster and polish, shining everything, no slight smear anywhere. I don’t want this woman to have anything to pull me up on. Mistakes are weakness and I refus
e to show weakness to her.
“He broke your heart, didn’t he?” she says as I finish what I’m doing, her sitting room gleaming.
I turn and look at her, returning her gaze without impediment. “I think most people we love break our hearts, at one time or another. Opening yourself up to love means being vulnerable, it means willingly risking getting hurt. It’s how we know we feel.”
She smirks, her thin lips drier than tobacco leaves. “Your fate is to be left holding the baby. It’s how the world works. Man watches you do the jobs you do as a mother, he doesn’t see you the same anymore. You’re no longer his mistress, his lover, and those are the things a man craves.”
This woman is bitter and twisted, clearly.
“Why don’t you have central heating installed, and a downstairs toilet?”
“What’s the point? I’m dying. Didn’t you just clean up the vile entrails of a dying woman’s deteriorating bowels?”
I swallow. “You could have treatment.”
“No. I’m ready to go and meet my maker.”
I fold my arms, “What will he, or she, say? What do you think?”
“I wasted my life, worked my body into the ground, all that, nothing I don’t already know. At least I did it my way, that’s all I care about.”
A text on my phone arrives. Looking down I read:
LILAH: Five minutes, Jules, we need to go.
I look at Hilda, staring seriously. “Anything else? It’s time to go.”
“Just water the plants in my library. That’ll do.”
“Which door? Do you have a watering can?”
She points to the windowsill, where a little blue watering can exists, no doubt for indoor use only.
I fill it with water and she adds, “Room just opposite, across the hall.”
I walk across the hall and open her library door. The stench of plant life hits me, earthy and dewy, and I see it’s dark in here, and dank. The walls all around are floor to ceiling chock-full of books. There are so many books, all bound in leather, all dark and offering no surface for light to bounce off. The curtains remind me of those I used to have at my old flat, the place I had when I first met Warrick.
Beyond Angel Avenue Page 21
