‘Christ.’ John peers at the damage. ‘Good job euthanasia isn’t legal, it’d be bloody tempting.’
Neither of us laughs at the joke. His hand seeks mine on the cold Formica and our fingers interlock. His thumb finds the centre of my palm and treats my flesh to a gentle massage. Our eyes meet in a silent, mutual acknowledgment of what we are about to do.
‘Come on,’ he says.
He drops my hand when we step out into the corridor. I expect him to head for the main door and go out to the car park, but he turns in the opposite direction.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask. He walks ahead without answering, but I follow anyway. Memory lumbers past with a mop and bucket in her hand. She gives me one of her long, knowing looks.
John leads me along the corridor to the back stairwell. His hand rests on my shoulder as he hurries me down to basement level. He peers through the glass panel on the fire door before steering me into a corridor with blue walls and a low ceiling. He opens the first door on the left and sticks his head inside before beckoning me on.
The laundry room. Warm, cottony air envelops me as soon as I step inside. Machines whir and rattle mid-cycle. The door of one of the tumble dryers hangs open, a tussle of pale blue sheets half delivered into the waiting basket.
John locks the door. My body hums with anticipation, the thrill of just-about-to.
It happens fast. Frantic, painful kissing. His hands fumble with my belt as I unbutton and unzip him. He pushes me backwards towards the sink unit until the hard edge of the draining board digs into my lower back.
‘Turn around,’ he says.
The ridged metal is cool against my left cheek and smells of bleachy lemons. I shut my eyes and concentrate on the rhythm of him. I groan and urge him on, urge him to fuck everything out of me. Everything everything everything, until nothing but peace remains.
13
Tuesday, 11 August 2015
The key I got cut from my mother’s spare worked perfectly. I’d watched her pick up that ridiculous fake stone and take out her emergency key loads of times when she couldn’t find her normal one.
Once inside, I locked her front door behind me. The flat was stuffy and still and silent. I couldn’t move, too overcome at being in her home for the first time. It felt like Christmas, when Isobel and Quentin would buy me far too many gifts and I never knew what to open first.
I began by exploring the hall cupboard, discovering towels and bed linen, a hoover and a rusty boiler trailing copper pipes. Next to the hoover, a red plastic box overflowed with magazines and flattened soya milk cartons.
Bathroom next. I inspected everything. Her toothpaste claimed to be whitening, and her moisturiser promised to plump tired skin and erase fine lines. She didn’t have many toiletries, and her washbag sat open on the ledge next to the sink, as if she wanted to be ready to pack up and go at any moment. That would change once she knew about me.
In the bathroom cabinet, I found tampons, sanitary towels and ibuprofen. It made me feel sick to think she could still get pregnant, but then I found several packets of contraceptive pills and the nausea vanished. Whatever my mother had done to me, at least I didn’t have brothers and sisters to contend with. The first few days I’d followed her, my nerves were all over the place in case it turned out she’d had another child.
I spotted several dark hairs plastered to the white tiles above the bath and gathered them up in a piece of toilet roll. Flipping up the lid of the small pedal bin, I squatted down for a look, coming away with a used cotton wool pad and two waxy ear buds. I added them to the hairs, folded up the toilet paper and stashed it in my Prada tote bag. To finish, I sprayed my wrists with her perfume—Dark Amber and Ginger Lily by Jo Malone.
A narrow counter divided her kitchen and living room. As I dumped my bag on it, I noticed a black sweatshirt draped over one of the stools. I couldn’t resist pulling a couple of stamens off the pungent lilies in the big vase and rubbing the pollen into the soft material.
In the kitchen, I found the cupboards almost empty apart from two packets of brown rice and three tins of baked beans. Isobel had always kept her kitchen well stocked and permanently infused with the scent of something baking or simmering. Looking around me, I realised the entire flat would fit into Isobel’s kitchen. I’m sure my mother thought the Harringtons could give me a better life, but that’s not the point. I was meant to be with her.
In the fridge, I discovered a bar of dark chocolate and broke a chunk off to nibble on. A half-empty bottle of Pinot Noir sat beside the microwave, and I poured myself a glass. No need to rush. I’d trailed my mother on the Underground to Liverpool Street earlier this morning, which meant she’d be in Brentham dealing with my grandmother for ages.
Grace is a sinner.
What my mother did to me was a crime, not a sin. However, my grandmother could have been referring to other offences of my mother’s that I knew nothing about. It was also possible my grandmother knew nothing about me. Perhaps she’d never even known her daughter was pregnant.
Sinners could be forgiven. Sometimes I wasn’t so sure about my mother.
On the work surface sat a chrome block full of knives. I slid each one out, then in again. Contemplated hiding in the flat until her return and giving her a proper surprise.
I drained the wine and proceeded to the bedroom. The white walls matched the linen on her low double bed. The duvet lay tangled in the centre of the mattress. I threw myself onto it and inhaled her musty sleep scent. Rolling onto my back, I lowered my head to her pillow, into the dip carved by the weight of her skull. Eyes closed, I wafted my hands through the air, as if to catch any traces of her dreams that might linger there.
After a few minutes, I got up and turned my attention to the two cardboard boxes behind the bedroom door. The stickers plastered all over them showed they’d come from Singapore. They contained books—historical fiction and travel stories. No photo albums or cards or letters. No glimpses into my mother’s past. I felt disappointed, like an archaeologist whose dig has failed to uncover hoped-for evidence. I did find an old photograph of my mother and her parents on top of her chest of drawers. She looked about six or seven years old and had on a pair of flared denim dungarees. My grandfather—who I’d guessed must be dead—had a thick black moustache, bushy eyebrows and a warm smile. I couldn’t believe the tall, attractive woman beside him was the grandmother I’d seen in Brentham General. Old age sucked. I wouldn’t visit her in hospital again; the place was just too depressing. If Grandma did die soon, what would my mother do? Where might she go?
On the opposite side of the room, the mirrored doors of the built-in wardrobe beckoned. I accepted their invitation to investigate and eyed up the items on the rail inside. I had nothing from my mother, no memento of any kind. Why shouldn’t I take something? Didn’t daughters always borrow clothes from their mothers’ wardrobes?
Hangers clattered against the rail as I rifled through her sparse collection of jeans, trousers and tops. I wanted something special but nothing leapt out at me. For fun, I tried on the one dress my mother owned, a mauve silk thing from All Saints. It swamped me, the hem low on my shins; the shoulders sliding down my arms. I slipped my feet into her lone pair of stilettos. Her feet were three sizes bigger than mine, and I laughed at the sight of myself in the mirror. The laughter continued as I clip-clopped along the hall like a kid who’d raided the dressing-up box.
Back in the kitchen, I poured some more wine and carried the glass into the living room. English language textbooks lay strewn across the floor. I’d discovered my mother’s profession a few days ago, after trailing her to several English language schools. She’d looked smart and nervous, so I’d assumed she was attending interviews. I couldn’t bear to think of all those students getting her guidance and nurturing. Then I realised she’d only turned to teaching to fill the void I’d left. Her students were a substitute for me.
I sat at the counter and sipped my wine, imagining us there together, me perplexe
d by A-level homework and her helping me with it, patient and wise. An official white envelope propped against the vase distracted me from my fantasy. My mother had already opened it so I removed the letter inside and had a look. It was from a company called the Beaumont Care Group. We are writing in response to your recent visit to the Birch Grove Care Home in Brentham. The letter confirmed my grandmother’s place on their waiting list and stated a room would become available for her soon.
Interesting.
I finished my wine and took the glass over to the sink. As I rinsed it in warm water, I looked out over the park. The day was hot and close, the blue sky blemished by dull clouds. My bench was empty, waiting for me and my binoculars to take up our usual position.
I returned the glass to the draining rack where I’d found it and stood with my hands dripping into the sink. Birch Grove Care Home. Grandma wasn’t going anywhere soon and neither was my mother. We’d have plenty of time to get to know one another. I gazed up at the gloomy sky for some time, mesmerised by the frail tips of two clouds kissing.
14
Wednesday, 14 October 2015
Lunchtime. Alone in the strip-lit staffroom of the Capital School of English, I search through the damp jackets on the coat hooks behind the door. No sign of my cashmere scarf. Did I have it when I left Aroma? I remember rushing out of the café and then a downpour forced me onto a bus. Perhaps I left it on there? Losing things is becoming a habit. Two months ago, I lost my phone and had to replace it. Since then small things have gone missing on a regular basis. Last week my electric toothbrush disappeared, and I still haven’t found it. Did I throw it away by mistake? At times I feel Mum’s dementia might be catching.
Max saunters in. ‘Hi there.’
‘Hi.’
Max, twenty-six and from Camden, is blessed with cheek and charm. With his short black hair and dark stubble, he is a favourite among the female students, a position he never exploits, managing their crushes with tact and kindness.
‘How was your class?’ he asks, commandeering one of the four desks at the centre of the cramped room.
‘Fun. They’re a great group.’ I give up on the scarf, annoyed with myself for being so careless. I bought it years ago in Goa, and it has seen me through all seasons.
The staff room door opens again. Theresa hurries in, already wrapped up in her red velvet coat.
‘Shouldn’t you be at your tutorial?’ Max asks.
‘I’m running late. My beginners group is a fucking nightmare.’ Theresa, a slender, Chinese girl with a strong Belfast accent, is a champion swearer. She rushes over to Max and gives him a kiss. ‘Just wanted to say goodbye.’
Max and Theresa have been together since their first week at university. Both work at the school part-time and both are studying for a Masters in Applied Linguistics at UCL. After that they plan to get married, teach in Saudi Arabia and save up enough to put a deposit on a house so they can have kids. I’m not sure whether to be impressed or terrified at their level of planning.
Theresa hurries out again just as Barney, the school’s teacher of Business English, marches in. Barney’s short, wiry frame is decked out in Lycra cycling gear. He lifts his fluorescent jacket from one of the coat hooks, says a quick hello and dashes out again.
‘Don’t tell me he’s training for another triathlon,’ Max says. ‘I’m sick of sponsoring him.’
‘All for a good cause, I’m sure.’ I claim the desk opposite Max and remove my lunch from my backpack. Cheese salad sandwich and a banana already turning brown. I nibble at the sandwich while Max leafs through a thick textbook on linguistics. At his age, I had none of his dedication to my career. Back then, teaching served as a way for me to travel and live abroad. A means of escape.
After finishing my lunch, I take my phone from my bag and reread the text John sent this morning. I get hard just thinking about you. My cheeks flush. Neither of us made any promises as we parted ways outside the laundry room four days ago. We gave each other what we needed at that moment, nothing more, and our sporadic texts are merely a distraction. A game to lose ourselves in.
I type a quick reply: What exactly are you thinking?
Our encounter on Saturday left me loose-limbed and drained and resulted in my first night of uninterrupted sleep for a week. Since then I’ve felt calmer, able to see that the stress of Mum’s decline has affected me more than I realised. I must remember that, if anxiety takes hold again.
Another text from John: Will call you later and tell you?
I’d like that, I reply.
My phone rings. Is this him calling now? I glance at the screen and see the number for Birch Grove.
‘Hello.’ Heart stuttering, I rush out into the corridor, phone pressed to my ear. Is this it? Is it over?
‘Hiya, love, it’s Kegs.’
I’m not ready. Not ready for Mum to go, and I should have been there.
‘Nothing urgent,’ he says, ‘but your mum had a bit of a fall this morning.’
‘Is she okay? She’s not hurt, is she?’
‘Bit shaken up and bruised but she’s fine. The doctor’s coming after lunch to give her the once over. Just to be on the safe side.’
‘What happened?’
‘We think she must have tried to get out of bed on her own. Emma found her when she came round with breakfast. She did a brilliant job of keeping your mum calm.’
My throat closes up at the thought of Mum confused and in pain. I cough to clear it.
‘Thank God Emma was there,’ I say.
***
I leave work just after four-thirty and decide to walk home, despite the return of the morning’s rain. Umbrella up, I stride along Pentonville Road. I cannot get Mum’s weak and frightened voice out of my head. Kegs called again mid-afternoon to tell me the doctor had examined Mum and found no sign of any fractures. I spoke to her then and explained I’d taken time off work to come down tomorrow afternoon.
‘Only trying,’ Mum whispered.
Up until today, the reality of her impending death has kept its distance. I’ve always assumed there would be plenty of warning, followed by a long, drawn-out passing. What if Mum had died today, without me there? That thought is unbearable, surprisingly so. As is the thought of spending every day at Birch Grove, keeping a bedside vigil.
Cold air encircles my throat, reminding me I need another scarf. In Islington, I head to the shopping centre and nip into H&M. I select a long scarf in grey wool and make for the till. As I pass the racks of jewellery, I consider buying something for Emma. A small thank-you gift for being so kind to Mum. Why not? Her wages are probably pitiful, and it would be a nice gesture.
I stare at the rows of earrings, necklaces and bracelets for some time. What to buy a nineteen-year-old girl? What would Emma like? Uncertain what to choose, I decide to get a voucher.
I leave the store with the scarf around my neck and a gift card for twenty pounds in my handbag. Upper Street is busy, buses pulling up and expelling passengers onto the already crowded pavement. As I wait for the lights to change at a crossing, I notice a small, dark-haired girl marching along on the opposite side of the road. Emma? I call her name but a passing bus drowns me out. By the time it has moved on, the girl is further away. Even from this distance, my mistake is obvious. The girl I’m staring at wears a smart, tailored coat and high-heeled boots. An expensive-looking bag hangs from her right shoulder. She is nothing like Emma.
***
In the lobby of my block, the lift takes ages to clank and groan to the ground floor. Once the doors open, I have to step over a green plastic water gun and a pink bucket to get inside. I nudge the toys out of the lift with my foot, certain that Wendy or one of her kids will be on the hunt for them later.
When I reach my floor and step out onto the landing, the white light on the wall beside me flickers on and off, as if sending a Morse code message. SOS.
The sensor light outside my flat comes on when I am still a few metres away. That’s when I see her, si
tting upright not far from the front door. A chunky doll in a pink gingham dress and yellow cardigan. One eye is shut, but the other is open and looking right at me. As if she knows who I am; as if she has been waiting.
My thigh muscles soften. My jaw clenches. The doll’s chestnut brown hair gleams beneath the light. Reason tells me this toy is a random deposit by one of Wendy’s feral brood, but biology has pushed me into panic mode.
I run towards my front door, skirting the doll, one hand in my bag searching for my key. For once I find it right away and ram it into the lock.
The door swings open, but the doll stops me from entering. I sense her behind me, lonely in the dark. I walk back to her and crouch down. Short sharp breaths stick in my throat.
She is so light when I pick her up. Nothing like the soft, dense weight of the real thing. I lift up her left eyelid, but it drops shut as soon as I release it. Her body is bare beneath the dress; her plastic legs sculpted into replica rolls of fat. There are deep creases on the palms of her hands. I do not touch them.
The yellow cardigan hangs open, so I do the buttons up one by one. I lick the tip of my right index finger and rub away streaks of dirt from her cheeks and forehead. Once she is presentable, I hurry back to the landing and place her beside the lift. Then I return to the flat, close the door and seal myself in with lock and chain.
15
Friday, 14 August 2015
‘Feta and courgette or quinoa and kale?’ Ryan asked, holding out two Tupperware containers.
‘Both,’ I said.
‘Is the right answer.’ He scooped several spoonfuls of each salad onto a paper plate and handed it to me. As well as preparing homemade food for the picnic, he’d brought cutlery and white cloth napkins from his flat.
Hyde Park on a Friday lunchtime was full of people soaking up the sun. Picnickers like us sprawled on the grass, while in the shade of the nearby chestnut trees, a group of men and women endured an exercise boot camp—press-ups, sit-ups and lunges.
She Chose Me Page 6
