A Life Between Us

by Louise Walters

  ‘I see. I understand. In the circumstances… as long as you’re sure.’

  ‘I am sure. I’m more sure of this than anything else, ever. Will you help me? I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘All right, it’s all right, Lucia. Don’t cry. Of course I will help you.’

  Lucia took a few shaky sips of her tea. It tasted revolting, but she was thirsty.

  Simone thought for a long time. ‘Shall we… ask Eddie what to do?’ she said eventually.

  ‘No!’ Didn’t she understand? No, she didn’t. How could she? It wasn’t her fault. Nobody would understand.

  ‘All right. It’s all right, Lucia. We shall keep this to ourselves. It’s women’s business, no?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are a woman now.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Don’t be ashamed. Don’t worry. And above all don’t be frightened. I’ll help. I promise.’

  Saturday 1st May 1976

  Dear Elizabeth

  Thank you for your reply it was quick! I wonder how soon this will get to you? I am going to walk to the post office and post it as soon as I’ve written it. Daddy has given me and Meg some pocket money so I can post your letters myself. Uncle Ambrose has gone to live with sumebody he knows in London. He wrote to Granny and asked her for money but Granny is not to send even a penny, Aunty Lucia says. I asked if I could write to Uncle Ambrose but the grown-ups say I cant. It is absolutly forbiddon. Uncle Ambrose is naughty so maybe its right he was in prison because that is where naughty grownups go. Uncle Ambrose smelled bad and he messed up the house and did’nt lift a finger. He smelled a bit like our dad sumetimes and Aunty Lucia says this family has always enjoyed drink too much and look where its getting us. I thought she was going to cry when she said it but she looked out of the window for a while and when she looked back in she was’nt crying. Before he left Uncle Ambrose bought an easter egg for me and Meg. They were Smarties eggs. Do you get Smarties in America? They are chocolate sweets with bright colours on the outside and when you buy a tube of Smarties theres a letter under the lid. Meg collects them. She still needs an X and a B. I am reading a good book at the moment it is called Ballet Shoes. I’ve read it before because it was my birthday present I told you about and its still BRILIANT and its about three sisters who are’nt sisters in real life and they do’nt go to school apart from ballet school and they are poor and I wonder if you have it over there? I wish I did’nt have to go to school as I am not good at school work apart from reading and writing because I love them both. In Ballet Shoes I like Posy best even though she is silly and annoying. She wants things and I think it is good to want something very badly and to try to do it. Petrova is nice and she reminds me of my sister Meg. Pauline turns into a big head but she is mostly nice. It is a really good book.

  Before Uncle Ambrose left our house but when he was talking to us in our den about going Meg said why does’nt he take Aunty Lucia with him then we would all be happy. Uncle Ambrose laught when she said this and he told us not to let her boss us about she is spoilt he said. He said when she was young she was a little b-word, a bad word. A girl dog, Meg says. He said Aunty Lucia is a rotton apple I think I know what he means and so does Meg. We liked Uncle Ambrose and we will miss him even if he was a bad man. We do’nt know how bad he was. I wish we knew because we wander a lot about it.

  Love from your English cousen, Tina xx

  Seventeen

  December 2013–

  January 2014

  The Christmas visit to Lane’s End House came to an abrupt end. Lucia was apologetic, Edward confused by the fuss. Keaton drove his wife home and insisted she go straight to bed for a proper rest. It was a nasty fall, and, ‘Why on earth didn’t you call me through to the kitchen? I wouldn’t even have needed the ladder and if I had, it wouldn’t have made me dizzy or faint. And the damned teapot would still be intact. Will you never learn?’Tina thought to herself, sadly, no, she would never learn. ‘I thought it would be all right,’ she said. ‘I thought I could manage it.’

  ‘But you know you can’t handle heights.’

  ‘I need to be able to handle Lucia though.’

  ‘I know, I know. But be sensible.’

  Keaton closed the curtains, plumped up the pillows and insisted once again on checking the bump on Tina’s head. It was sore but there was no cut, and only a little bruising; Tina refused to go to A & E. ‘It would be a waste of everybody’s time,’ she claimed, and Keaton stopped nagging. She took an arnica tablet.

  ‘Keaton?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think I learned… I think I might have discovered something today. About me, I mean.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It’s silly really but I think I may have misunderstood something. All these years.’

  Keaton stiffened. He slowly sat down on the end of the bed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think… that day…’

  ‘That day?’ a voice shrieked – Meg’s, loud and angry and just behind Tina, there but not there, loud but silent. ‘Only we talk about that day!’

  Tina ignored the voice. ‘I think I may have got things wrong. Something happened in the kitchen… her voice… it was her, Keaton. She made her do it!’

  ‘All right, darling. Don’t get excited. Why don’t we talk about it later? You look exhausted.’

  ‘Shut up. Just shut up!’ screeched Meg, and Tina feared that Keaton would hear Meg and her soulful fury, but of course, he could not.

  ‘All right,’ said Tina. ‘I am tired, rather. But I meant what I said about the counselling. I am going back. Even more so now. Something… something else happened. I know it did. I’ll ring them after Christmas.’

  ‘I can’t tell you what a relief it is to hear you say that,’ said Keaton. ‘It’s truly marvellous, it really is. Now, I’ll get you some coffee. Then I’m going to track down your numerous rolls of wrapping paper and wrap your presents, so you mustn’t come downstairs for at least two hours.’

  Keaton left the bedroom and all was silence. Tina felt alone; she was alone. She would not listen to Meg, and Meg was gone. Keaton brought Tina’s coffee. She sipped it, thinking, trying to… remember? Put things in order? It was hard to say. It was hard to think and she was tired, so very tired. Her head hurt, but not much. When she finished her coffee she huddled down under the duvet and slept an exhausted sleep.

  Christmas day passed uneventfully. They stayed in bed until ten o’clock, enjoying their customary champagne breakfast. They opened their gifts. They cooked dinner and ate all of it, and dozed on and off for the rest of the day, watching television, reading a little of their new books. They went to bed at eleven o’clock. They both silently regretted their grown-up Christmas, bereft always of the distant trappings of childhood: glittery homemade cards, bulging stockings, the household raised at five in the morning. Maybe, Tina allowed herself to believe, maybe one day that would be their Christmas. It could happen. In a way it was a good thing she had fallen from the stepladder in Lucia’s kitchen. Keaton seemed to have forgotten about her letting slip she’d been to the doctor.

  Tina didn’t visit Meg on Christmas Day. She’d done that on Christmas Eve, against Keaton’s advice, ignoring his pleas for her to look after herself and wait a day or two more. She’d taken a nasty knock to the head, he’d reminded her. Surely she needed to rest? But Tina had gone to her sister’s grave. Meg had not been around. Tina had left a poinsettia, which Meg would not have appreciated any more than Lucia did. But there was nothing else to give.

  Keaton took himself off to work on the day after New Year’s Day and felt that strange, empty, post-festivity sadness. Yet he was also glad to return, for he liked routine. Sharanne greeted him with the usual cup of coffee and a smile he couldn’t read. He was more nervous than usual around her, but he couldn’t tell why.

  ‘
How was your Christmas?’ Keaton felt he ought to ask.

  ‘Oh, you know.’

  Keaton guessed hers had been rather lonely.

  ‘How was your Christmas?’ Sharanne asked.

  ‘Similar to yours I should imagine.’

  He thought of Tina, who was, he hoped, making her nervous phone call this morning, arranging her appointment with Virginia, who, Keaton believed, had been making progress with Tina last year, until Tina had decided to quit the weekly sessions. They had cost a small fortune, but he didn’t begrudge the expense. He would do anything, anything at all, to help rid his wife of the tyranny of her memories, the plague of the trauma that dominated her life. What happened, he wasn’t entirely sure. He wasn’t convinced his wife was sure either. And now this new… “discovery” of hers. What exactly had happened in the kitchen at Lane’s End House before Christmas?

  He knew, he thought, the bare bones of what had happened all those years ago when Tina and Meg were eight-year-olds. The memories weighed Tina down, but sooner or later, surely, you had to get a grip and move on with your life? He was convinced that his wife was stuck in the past and could not escape it. Her sister, even though she was dead, had a lot to answer for. How he wished Tina could get over her. All that had happened, happened a long time ago. Nobody should mourn for that long. And the accident in the kitchen, Tina’s fall, it had awakened something in her; some memory was alive again where once it had been dead. But she didn’t seem to want to talk about it, and he didn’t want to keep on.

  ‘Penny for them?’ said Sharanne, her pretty face showing genuine concern. Her pretty face? He shuddered at his creeping fear. Her eyes were blue and sharp, yet disconcertingly pale. He had not noticed this before.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Keaton. ‘I wouldn’t… it’s all right. Thank you.’

  Sharanne sat on Keaton’s desk. Keaton froze. He didn’t know where to look so he kept his eyes on the small patch of desk next to her thigh. She was wearing a short skirt and black tights. There was a coffee ring on the desk. Next to that, an indeterminate stain; perhaps ink.

  ‘Poor old Keaton,’ said Sharanne. Her voice wasn’t as soft as the words. She smelled of hand cream, but it was not like Tina’s. Sharanne’s hand cream was cloying, a rich smell that invaded him. Her nails were perfectly manicured and painted a deep red. He looked up at her face and their eyes met and he was pierced, pinned to his chair. He felt like a hapless victim. But he wasn’t hapless.

  ‘Sharanne, I—’

  ‘No. Please don’t say anything. I just want you to know that I’m here for you, if you need me. I’m happy to help, as a friend. I mean it.’ She slid off Keaton’s desk, as a mermaid slips into the sea. She swayed towards the door and he refused to watch her, and turned his face to the window. Tears pricked at his weary eyes. He was being worn down, and he knew it. Tina had better ring that counsellor today, thought Keaton, as his assistant retreated from his office. She really better had.

  It was a normal Thursday – time to clean the Haynes’s house, time to visit Meg again. Was it Tina’s imagination, or had Keaton seemed happy to return to work? After any holiday he was usually burdened by feelings of regret, lethargy, reluctance. But this morning he’d seemed wide awake and enthusiastic. Skippy, which was not like Keaton.

  Tina had not read much of I Capture the Castle over Christmas. Of course, she had read it before, three times (it was one of her teenage favourites), but not recently. She knew she ought to refresh her memory so she would be able to speak about it. It would be incumbent upon her to introduce the book, to say why she had chosen it and what she loved about it. But now she was running out of time. She knew in her heart she probably wouldn’t even go to the meeting this month, which wasn’t really fair. It was nice, the group, but… that was all it was. Sometimes these things were too much of an effort.

  The cemetery was surprisingly busy this lunchtime. The sun was struggling out from behind dark grey clouds. How she longed to take her sister home. How they both hated it here! If only things could go back to how they used to be.

  How they used to be? Is that really what she wanted? Even if it were possible? Her thoughts turned to Uncle Edward, how strong he’d once been; how fresh and funny and fine. She recalled his kind face, his kind actions, his mysterious, never-ending supply of lollipops, his clean white handkerchiefs. Seeing him before Christmas had saddened her – the wizened and resigned-to-his-fate old man, huddled in his chair, lost to Tina as much as Meg was lost to her.

  ‘Tina?’

  ‘Oh! I didn’t hear you. Sorry. I was thinking.’

  ‘I didn’t know you could think,’ said Meg and she sat beside Tina, she really did. Tina felt that if she reached out she would meet flesh – a body, something tangible. ‘Actually, you think too much,’ Meg said crisply. ‘That’s your problem, sister.’

  ‘I see. Not “Hello, thanks for coming, it’s good to see you” or, dare I suggest it, “Happy New Year?” Just more insults. Thank you so much.’

  ‘Stop whining. What went on between you and Lucia before Christmas anyway?’

  ‘I don’t recall discussing that with you.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, sis. You know how it works by now. You could have told her to get stuffed. I don’t know why you didn’t. I wanted to mention it on Christmas Eve but I thought I’d better not. I kept out of sight. You were so uptight!’

  ‘For God’s sake!’

  ‘Shush. I—’

  ‘No, you shush. Just for a moment. Please? I have something to tell you for once.’ Tina leaned forward; she wanted to feel assertive. ‘My mind is made up. I’m going back to counselling.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘Don’t scoff. Please.’

  ‘You’re the scoffer around here, not me.’

  Tina imagined the eight-year-old Meg sticking out her tongue. Tina ignored her.

  ‘I just don’t understand why you think you need “counselling”,’ said Meg. ‘It should be clear enough what needs to be done by now. How old are you?’

  ‘How old are we.’

  ‘Right. We’re big girls now. Well, you are. By the way, how’s Uncle Edward?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me as you seem to know everything that goes on in my life?’

  ‘I know the things a twin should know. That’s all.’

  Tina closed her eyes and hummed for a few moments. Then: ‘Meg? Don’t you hate all of this?’

  Meg shrugged. There was a pause during which the young Meg seemed to melt away and the latter-day Meg, an up-to-date Meg, took her place. Tina thought she could see her sister’s pale, gaunt face. Tina gazed at it, trying to focus, trying to see the mischievous smile, the arched eyebrows. In a whisper Meg said, ‘You know what needs to be done.’

  ‘I’m going to counselling,’ said Tina. ‘What needs to be done is I go to counselling and get it all straight in my head.’

  ‘You make me laugh. “Straight in your head”?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just don’t let this counsellor person talk you out of things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘You know what things.’

  ‘But that’s probably what I need. To be talked out of things.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘I’m going,’ Tina said. ‘I’m going to ring up and do it this time. You are not going to talk me out of that. I’m going to these sessions for as long as I need to regardless of what you say.’

  But Meg had gone.

  The woman in the green coat watched Tina. Tina shook her head, sighed, waved her hands around and hummed, loudly. She stood up, she sat down again. Eventually she left the grave, looking tired and frustrated. It was painful to watch. Once again the woman had sat in silence, saying nothing, doing nothing. She had to make up her mind. All this dithering was getting her nowhere, all this careful observi
ng. So what? What was it achieving? Nothing. It had been all right to begin with, she’d got the idea, could see the situation clearly enough, had confirmed her growing suspicions.

  God, January was a hateful month, so long and dark. Yet it was the New Year, and time for a new start. Time for action, no? The woman got up to leave, and wrapping her coat closer around her, pulling her scarf up over her chin, she too left the cemetery.

  Eighteen

  April 1964

  When Lucia arrived for her “day out” in London, “wedding shopping” with Simone, she wondered how on earth her young life had come to this. She was intimidated by London – just getting off the train at Paddington was fraught. The hustle and bustle was difficult to escape. So she was relieved when she spotted Simone coming towards her along the platform, waving and smiling. The day’s pretence, Lucia could tell, was going to be absolute. They embraced. Lucia asked to visit the toilet.

  The underground was hot and the rough swaying of the train made her feel sick. They had to stand up for most of the journey. Lucia felt sweat forming all over her body. Simone put her hand on the small of Lucia’s back in a protective gesture. Lucia was dizzy on the escalators, and breathless climbing the endless steps up to the street. It was a relief to be above ground again, in sunlight, breathing warm city air. They walked for some minutes, Simone an expert guide in the labyrinthine London streets.

  The house was inconspicuous, with no outward signs of the horrors waiting within. There were three steps up to the front door, just like at home. The front door was smart, a pristine red, with brass trimmings. Simone knocked on the door. Lucia started to cry as they waited for somebody to answer. Simone put her arm around her. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. Lucia wanted to believe her.