The Silk Factory

by Judith Allnatt

  ‘Everything all right?’ The librarian looked over at her curiously. ‘Did you find what you wanted?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’ Rosie fumbled with the dial, moving quickly away from the story, obliterating it in a blur of words. She picked up her jacket and bag.

  ‘You sure you’re all right? You know you called out? And you’ve gone very pale …’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly. Thanks for your help.’ Rosie hurried from the room, out of the library and into the stream of shoppers, slipping gratefully into the indifferent crowd.

  At the supermarket she wandered up and down the aisles as if on automatic pilot, scanning the shelves for the things they needed: spaghetti, Dairylea cheese, fromage frais, a mountain of nappies, toothbrushes, porridge oats … The fluorescent lights and the beeping from the checkouts made her headache worse. She saw several people she knew from the village: the Saturday girl from the grocer’s shop, the old boy who put boxes of runner beans outside his door for anyone who left a pound in the tin, other young mums from the reading group that Tally had persuaded Rosie to join with her. At any other time she would have stopped to chat, enjoying the fact that she knew so many people now, relishing the knowledge that she couldn’t go ten yards without bumping into someone from the village and that she was becoming part of that community. On this day though, she nodded and smiled or exchanged a few words, excused herself quickly and pressed on. The sooner she got this done the sooner she could go home.

  She passed the deli counter with its pungent smell of smoked cheeses. The assistant, a woman in a pristine white apron and cap, was serving a young man in a Barbour jacket with his back to Rosie. Fleetingly, she registered that he was familiar – something about the way he moved and the set of his shoulders … then she was past and turning down the aisle for household goods, hurrying down the home straight, dumping bleach and furniture polish into the trolley without caring about brands or 3 for 2s.

  As she made her way towards the tills she reached the flower section and her feet slowed. Bunches of sweet williams, mixed bouquets of gerbera and carnations, hothouse roses and orchids were arranged in a bank of colour before her. She trailed to a stop. Living up here meant that she hadn’t been to Mum’s grave for months and she pictured the gaudy silk flowers she’d left as a poor substitute for fresh ones in the marble pot at its foot. The photograph from the newspaper floated in front of her eyes. Cut flowers drying and shrivelling in the sun, long ago and far away, a small pile of bouquets left near the water’s edge for want of a grave or a stone to mark a final resting place. I could buy some flowers, she thought, but where would I put them? She reached out to touch the waxy petals of a bunch of lilies and found that her hand was shaking. Bleak, bleak, the graves stretched away in their ordered rows; bleak, bleak, the sea stretched away to the horizon, wholly implacable. She drew her hand back. Pointless. Anything she could do was pointless now.

  Slowly, she wheeled her trolley over to the checkout and began piling the shopping on to the belt. The cashier at the next till went off on her break and the queue shuffled across to wait behind Rosie. The checkout girl, who had dyed black hair and thickly pencilled eyebrows, passed the stuff over the scanner. ‘You want bags?’ she said, without looking at Rosie, and shoved a handful towards her. Rosie packed as quickly as she could, conscious of the queue behind her, but her hands didn’t want to do what she told them; she fumbled with a packet of biscuits and dropped it and then stuffed one of the bags too full so that the handles broke as she lifted it. She got her hands underneath it, picked it up and dumped it on top of the rest. The woman immediately behind her pointedly looked at her watch.

  ‘Eighty-seven pounds fifty,’ the girl said, staring at her screen.

  Rosie put her card into the machine and went to key in her PIN. Blank. What the hell was it? It had completely gone from her mind. She tried really hard. It started with a three, didn’t it? The woman behind her was getting out her purse and shunting her trolley forward. Why couldn’t she remember it? For God’s sake, she used it almost every day!

  ‘Eighty-seven pounds fifty,’ the girl said again in her flat monotone.

  Rosie punched in a wild guess at four numbers. Card Rejected came up on the screen. The girl’s head jerked up then and turned towards her. She reached across Rosie, yanked the card out and shoved it in again.

  ‘No, no, it’s all right. I’ll pay by cash.’ Rosie rifled through her purse, pulling out all the notes she had. There was an audible sigh from the woman behind her and a subtle shifting of feet from the rest of the queue. Rosie counted: she only had seventy-five pounds in notes. She picked out the pound coins – she could only make it to eighty. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a small voice, ‘I can’t quite …’

  The girl stared at her. ‘I’ll have to get a supervisor to void it,’ she said loudly. She reached down under the counter and rang a bell. A mutter ran down the line and the woman at the front tutted and scowled.

  ‘Hello, maybe I can help?’ a voice said beside her and Rosie turned to find her solicitor, Mr Marriott, in the unfamiliar outfit of jeans and Barbour jacket, taking a ten-pound note from his wallet.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Of course you can; we can sort it out later. There’s a cash machine just round the corner,’ and he passed the note to the girl, pocketed the change and put the receipt into the trolley before she could say any more about it. He picked up his own carrier bags. ‘How nice to see you. How are things?’ he asked as if he knew her well, steering the trolley away from the till so that the glowering woman could at last move forwards. ‘Are you all right?’ he said in a quieter voice. ‘What about a coffee?’

  Rosie glanced at the clock. She was due to take over from Tally at six and babysit until Rob got in from his shift so that Tally could get to her yoga class. She had half an hour … and she felt she was almost on her knees.

  Amidst the chatter of voices and the clatter of cutlery echoing in the barn-like space of the supermarket café, they carried their cappuccinos to a table. Mr Marriott slung his Barbour over the back of an orange plastic chair. In place of the office wear of jacket and tie were a checked shirt and chunky sweater in which he looked more comfortable and somehow solid, Rosie thought. The bags he’d dumped on the chair beside him gaped open, revealing a joint of lamb, a bottle of Merlot, two packs of newborn nappies and a tin of first milk formula. Two children then, she thought, remembering his adept manoeuvring of the buggy at his office: a toddler and a new baby. She imagined him cooking dinner while his wife fed the baby … chat in a warm kitchen … a proper family. ‘Thanks for helping me out back there. I was so embarrassed! Lucky for me you were taking time off today,’ she said.

  ‘Mmm, I’m helping out at home for a bit. Just for a few days to give Viv a break. Mum helps a lot but she’s not as young as she likes to think.’

  Rosie nodded, remembering the early days when she first brought Cara home. Her mum had been struggling with a frozen shoulder and couldn’t lift the baby so she’d done all the cooking instead. Even so, Cara had been a wakeful baby and they still could have done with an extra pair of hands.

  He spooned sugar into his coffee. ‘How are things going with the house sale?’ he asked.

  ‘I haven’t got that far yet,’ she said ruefully. ‘I thought if I spruced it up a bit I’d get a better price but there’s more to spruce than I thought.’

  ‘There always seem to be unforeseen expenses when a relative passes on, don’t there? People often get into a temporary difficulty.’ He looked at her sympathetically.

  ‘Oh – no, I hadn’t run out of money completely at the till!’ She laughed. ‘I forgot my PIN. Silly really. Mind you, if I don’t get the house done up quickly and sold, it soon might be a different matter.’

  He waited, stirring his coffee.

  ‘Before Mum died I was doing some supply teaching in London but I had to give that up.’ She found herself telling him about Sam taking things badly, the ex
pense of keeping up the rent on the flat and her DIY efforts that were breaking the bank.

  ‘I’m guessing you’re not allowed to sub-let so you can’t rent the flat out to someone else short-term?’ he said when she’d finished.

  ‘No, the contract prohibits it – and the landlord lives underneath me so no wiggle room to do anything on the QT.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He sipped his coffee and gave the problem some thought. At length, he said, ‘Excuse me for asking, but do you feel your solicitor got you a fair settlement in the divorce? Do stop me if I’m intruding but I’m just wondering if we, the firm that is, could help in any way?’

  ‘Well, actually, I didn’t have a solicitor.’ Rosie flushed. ‘It all happened when I was pregnant with Cara, you see. When Josh moved out he based the maintenance payment on us splitting all the bills fifty-fifty.’

  ‘Fifty-fifty, I see.’ Mr Marriott rubbed his chin. ‘But there are three of you in your household, aren’t there? You retain responsibility for the domicile and all the household expenses, because of the children.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you could look at it that way,’ Rosie said uncertainly.

  He tapped his fingertips together. ‘So there was a transfer order for the property and periodical payments agreed from your spouse, based on figures provided by him,’ he said, sounding all at once back in his professional persona.

  ‘I suppose so; I can’t really remember the details,’ Rosie said, looking down into her coffee cup. ‘I was in a bit of a state. Josh and I weren’t speaking and work was so hectic and there was Sam’s childcare to arrange; it all went a bit pear-shaped for a while.’ What an idiot I sound, she thought to herself, as though she hadn’t paid proper attention to something really important, as though she’d been so busy fire-fighting she’d ignored the earthquake happening right under her feet. She glanced up, expecting to see a look of professional horror at her lack of savvy but his brow was furrowed in concern, wrinkled in the same way that his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He’s nice, she thought; he’s really rather nice.

  He leant his chin on his fingertips, thinking. ‘So, you were working at the time of the settlement but you’re not working now?’

  ‘Not until I’ve sorted everything out here, I’m afraid. In fact it’s not really viable until Sam starts school.’

  ‘Might be worth going back to the court. Once you sell the house it’ll all change again of course but meanwhile you’re providing for your household on a diminished income; there should be grounds for an adjustment.’ He got out his diary. ‘Why don’t we make a date for you to come in to the office again?’

  ‘If you really think …’ Rosie felt flustered. Josh would be livid and she wasn’t sure if she felt up to taking him on.

  ‘Say, next Friday?’ Mr Marriott said. ‘Two o’clock? Bring your financial information, bank statements and so on.’

  ‘OK.’ Rosie nodded slowly. There was no harm in looking into it, was there? She didn’t have to take it up with Josh unless she wanted to. Unless you get up the nerve, you mean, said a voice in her head. She glanced at her watch and finished her coffee. ‘I’m afraid I have to go,’ she said. ‘I’ll just nip to the cash machine and get what I owe you.’

  They retrieved Rosie’s shopping from the trolley store and made their way outside. She took out fifty pounds and gave him a ten-pound note.

  ‘It wasn’t that much,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but I owe you for the coffee.’

  ‘That was all my pleasure though,’ he said and smiled that crinkly smile again so that just for a second she thought: He’s flirting with me!

  She turned away and began to push the trolley towards the car, feeling a moment’s frisson of interest, followed by the realisation that she was a little shocked. He was married! With two tiny children! And surely … he was taking advantage … she’d let her guard down, let him see she was feeling vulnerable. What was the matter with men? Must they always play the field, married or not? She felt irritated. He had fallen in her estimation.

  He helped her pack her bags into the boot and offered to return the trolley for her. ‘Well,’ he said, lingering, ‘I look forward to seeing you next Friday. What with this and then your conveyancing, this could be a long and fruitful relationship.’

  He was doing it again! ‘Thank you for all your help, Mr Marriott,’ she said stiffly, realising that she was even more annoyed with herself for her own treacherous moment of response to his charm. What had she been thinking of?

  ‘Oh, Tom – please.’

  She gave a weak smile as she pulled the car door shut and raised her hand only briefly in reply to his cheery wave as she pulled away.

  Tally got back before Rob and found Rosie at the kitchen table surrounded by bits and bobs from Halloween costumes she’d been making with the kids. She picked up a makeshift mask, painted a fluorescent green, its broken elastic dangling. ‘Whoooo! Ghosts, spooks and spectres!’ she said, holding it up in front of her face. Bumps and squeals came from upstairs, where Nicky had made a tunnel out of cushions from the sofa bed in the spare room and, in a black leotard painted with skeletal white bones, was chasing Sam and Amy through the ‘ghost train’. Cara wandered around the kitchen putting play food into a plastic cauldron intended for a trick or treat collection on Monday. She brought it to Rosie, who pretended to eat the plastic hamburger and cup cakes and then put them aside so that Cara would set off again to collect new objects.

  Tally fished out a bottle of white wine from the fridge and held it up to Rosie.

  ‘Mmm. Yes please. How did the yoga go?’

  Tally poured the wine. ‘Good, but glasses reach the places classes can’t.’ She passed one to Rosie, who she thought looked decidedly peaky. ‘You look tired,’ she said. ‘Did you try to pack too much into the afternoon?’

  Rosie shrugged, not wanting to talk about what she’d been doing in case it led to what she’d found out at the library. She didn’t want to go there. ‘I bumped into the solicitor at the supermarket,’ she said instead. ‘He thinks I should go back to court for a better maintenance settlement.’

  ‘So you should,’ Tally said. ‘Josh is getting away with murder there.’

  Rosie sighed. ‘I don’t feel as though I’ve got the fight for it somehow.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Josh is relying on,’ Tally said drily. ‘Any luck with the publishers?’

  ‘I did have one indie publisher come back with some nice comments; they liked the work but had already commissioned other artists for this year’s books. I’ve had three standard rejection letters since then though.’

  ‘Well, I think your stuff’s brilliant. You’ve just got to persevere until it gets on to the right desk at the right time. Yes?’

  Rosie shrugged and gave a weak smile. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Come on, what’s up?’

  ‘I haven’t been sleeping too well, that’s all.’

  Tally cleared a chair so she could sit down, gathering up a half-made witch’s hat – a cone of black card fixed with staples – and an old sheet with eye holes cut in it.

  Rosie picked up the green mask and threaded the elastic through the eye of a darning needle, ready to mend it. ‘Do you believe in them – ghosts?’ she asked. It simply popped out unexpectedly. There, she’d said it.

  ‘No, not really,’ Tally said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know: odd sounds in the house, things moved from where you left them, the things May used to say went on,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘There are always plenty of patients seeing things at work,’ Tally said, settling herself comfortably with her arms resting on the table, ‘drunks and pot-heads, people with concussion. It’s all in the mind, isn’t it? Your brain can play funny tricks.’

  ‘But May still talks about seeing a person … a … a little girl. It still seems to disturb her even now. She seems to find her quite frightening. She doesn’t want to see her,’ Rosie said vehemently.

  Tally looked more s
erious. ‘Well, it could be the Alzheimer’s or even the meds they’re using to treat her. We’re just a bunch of chemicals, you know, and things can easily get out of balance; lots of drugs have hallucinogenic side effects.’

  ‘Anti-depressants?’

  Tally nodded. ‘I didn’t know May was on those.’

  Rosie, feeling herself blushing, bent to put Cara’s toy food under the table for her to find all over again.

  ‘Interesting,’ Tally said, resting her chin on a plump fist.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That it’s a little girl May sees and that it started as she began to get ill.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, sometimes it’s deep-seated fears that surface. Perhaps May was aware that her mind was starting to deteriorate and felt afraid of losing her independence. The child could represent her fear of not coping, of being returned to a dependent state.’

  Rosie sipped her wine, thinking of the strange child, and of her discovery of Lily too. She had come to the house in extremis, raw with grief over Mum, to a house full of echoes of the past that resonated just beyond memory. Perhaps at some deep subconscious level she’d always known about her twin. No wonder her mind was playing tricks on her; she was popping pills that made you imagine things and her desperate need for her lost family was taking those echoes and forming them into a shape, peopling the house … calling up a presence … The image of the girl bending over Cara’s cot came back to her, the remembered touch of the strands of silk making her shiver. She pushed the needle through the tough plastic of the mask, making strong even stitches.