Keep Your Friends Close

by Paula Daly

  She’s startled by loud, unfamiliar, tinny music, and for a second her heart sinks as she assumes it’s a customer’s birthday. Eve looks towards the kitchen, expecting to see a parade of waiters and kitchen staff shaking maracas and tambourines, faux expressions of joviality plastered across their faces.

  This is what she hates most about Italian restaurants.

  The music turns out to be Alice’s mobile, and Eve picks up her glass and takes a large gulp of the rough red wine. Sean told her earlier there was no point in paying for decent wine in here, because it was all plonk. ‘There’s no money to be made from food,’ he lectured, as Eve perused the wine list. ‘They have to import the cheap rubbish no one in Italy will drink, mark it up by five hundred per cent just to make a decent living.’

  ‘Why do you serve food in the hotel then, if there’s no money to be made from it?’ Eve asked him.

  ‘Because we have to. We don’t make a penny on it, the money’s all in the beds. I’d add another ten rooms if I could get planning permission to expand the hotel. No chance of that, though . . . building restrictions are tighter than ever in the National Park right now.’

  Eve asked for a bottle of red and Sean ordered something Eve had never heard of, which is beginning to strip the lining from the back of her throat. So she puts her glass down and switches to the Prosecco. She watches as Alice tilts her head, gestures wildly as she speaks, acting like this is an important phone call she absolutely must take.

  ‘You’re on your way home?’ Alice is saying. ‘Back in an hour?’

  And immediately Eve stiffens as she realizes it’s Natty on the other end of the line. ‘Mummy, I can’t hear you too well, you’re breaking up . . . you’re not driving, are you?’

  Alice rolls her eyes. ‘You’re not supposed to talk while you do that,’ she tells her mother. ‘Where have you been, anyway? I’ve been calling and calling . . . why didn’t you answer?’

  Eve pretends to be interested in Sean’s starter of chilli tiger prawns, at the same time paying close attention to the exchange between Alice and Natty. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to eat out after all. Sean is twitchy and on edge, worrying about the future of the hotel, and he’s still full of guilt because Felicity has barely said a word since yesterday – which of course Sean thinks is on account of finding them naked in bed. Though Eve knows it has more to do with her mildly threatening behaviour.

  Alice is oblivious to any undercurrent and is carrying on as if she’s her mother’s keeper – reprimanding her loudly for not keeping in contact.

  The other patrons of the restaurant are beginning to stare at her, but in a very British way – hard glares, lots of tutting; no one would be so forward as to approach the table and ask her to lower her voice.

  ‘No,’ says Alice, ‘we’re eating out . . . Italian . . . no, Mummy, I don’t have the garlic mushrooms any more, that’s Felicity, I have bruschetta with tomato, remember? . . . Hang on, I’ll just ask them.’

  Alice covers the mouthpiece of her phone with her thumb and looks to Sean.

  ‘Mummy’s on her way back and wants to come home . . . she’s asking you if that’s okay? That is okay, isn’t it?’

  Alice glances shiftily at Eve as if she’s not quite sure what the protocol is here.

  ‘Tonight?’ Sean says curtly.

  ‘I think so,’ she replies, and screws up her face, because she senses it’s going to be a problem.

  Sean holds out his hand. ‘Pass me the phone.’

  He takes a breath. ‘Natty,’ he says, his voice low, serious, ‘tonight’s not really doable, we’re going to need a bit more notice.’ He looks to Eve as he suggests, ‘How about tomorrow morning?’ and Eve nods her head to say that’s fine by her. ‘Yes, tomorrow morning would suit us much better. Say elevenish? Give us a chance to get packed up . . . I’m stuck at the hotel till late tonight . . . yes . . . drinks with Tony Iommi . . . no, I won’t be back till after twelve, I reckon.’

  Eve sips her Prosecco and watches Alice’s hopeful smile fade as it becomes clear she won’t see her mother until tomorrow. Felicity has her face in her food, spearing her garlic mushrooms with her fork in her right hand – something Sean has already reprimanded her for once, telling her not to eat like a savage.

  ‘You’ve been where?’ Sean asks Natty, his brow creased in confusion. ‘Bolton?’ he says. ‘What on earth were you doing in Bolton?’

  And Eve’s glass slips from her fingers, noisily smashing to pieces on the floor tiles of the pizzeria.

  Mad Jackie’s car is parked outside my dad’s in the only space large enough to accommodate his van. I resort to parking the Transit at the top of the street outside an old bloke’s house, and he’s none too happy. He glares at me through the window as I inch backwards and forwards, trying to get as close as I can to the kerb without mounting it with one of the wheels. Once parked, I take the key from the ignition and give the man my best You do not own this stretch of road expression. He narrows his eyes and draws his curtains in disgust. ‘Miserable bastard,’ I mutter, climbing out.

  I’m tired. Bone tired. It’s been a long day. I’ve been on the road since first thing this morning and it’s now almost 9 p.m. My body is stiff and leaden, the muscles of my legs taut and inelastic after so long inside the van. My lower back feels as though I’ve been kicked by a mule.

  I walk down the street, the tarmac beneath my feet a wet, glossy black, after what’s most likely been another full day of rain. The air has a heavy, saturated feel.

  Beyond the main road at the end of the street is the school of my youth and, beyond that, Sheriff Wood. I see the treetops visible and think back to when I was eight or nine: happy days spent beneath the Scots pines, no grown-up cares or worries.

  I unlatch my dad’s gate and through the glass catch sight of Jackie leaning over to plant a kiss on his forehead. A private, tender moment between the two of them. It hits me, watching the exchange, that they are perhaps closer, more together, than I had anticipated. You do not kiss a person’s forehead unless there is love present. I smile at the scene and at the irony of the situation – the first bit of romance my dad has in years and what happens? His daughter moves back in.

  ‘Hello?’ I shout, opening the front door, straightening the mat with my foot, vowing to give this place a good vacuum before leaving tomorrow.

  ‘In ’ere,’ replies my dad, and I can tell immediately he’s already had a few.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Sorry I’m here again. I bet you thought you’d seen the last of me.’

  My dad shrugs. ‘No bother, love. I expected you’d be bringing the van back at some point. Where did you get to, anyway? I’ve had Alice on the phone looking for you.’

  He has a tumbler in his hand. ‘What you drinking?’ I ask, avoiding the question.

  ‘Getting through the rest of that brandy,’ he says. ‘The knees have been bad today.’

  Mad Jackie takes away his glass. ‘I’ll get you a top-up,’ she tells him.

  Jackie’s in her uniform, a length of Tubigrip on her right wrist. She turns to me. ‘Joanne said there was some bother?’

  ‘She arrested me,’ I reply, yawning. ‘Though I wasn’t charged with GBH because the solicitor found some CCTV proving I couldn’t have caused Eve’s injuries. She still had her seatbelt on.’ I sit down heavily into the sofa. ‘What’s happened to your wrist?’

  ‘Sprained it getting a big bugger off the commode.’

  I make a face. ‘Should you be working if you’re injured?’

  She laughs. ‘No choice. I can’t afford to feed myself if I don’t.’ My dad and Jackie exchange shy glances and, reading between the lines, I’d say it won’t be too long before she moves in. ‘You look dead beat, love. How about I make you a hot toddy?’

  I smile at her gratefully. ‘Oh, would you? Perfect. Thank you.’

  ‘Use the cheap stuff for that,’ my dad’s saying, but Jackie ignores him, waving away his words with her hand, giving him a look as if to
say, Don’t be so bloody mean.

  ‘What about a bite to eat as well?’ she offers. ‘Bet you’ve not had nothing all day.’

  ‘No . . . but it’s fine, I’ll get something in a bit. You shouldn’t be waiting on me, Jackie, when you’ve been on your feet all day looking after others.’

  ‘It’s no bother,’ she says. ‘Anyway, I’m back out again in half an hour. I’m on a late. Just called in to check on your dad.’

  ‘You’re going out again?’ I ask. Goodness, where does this woman get her energy?

  She smiles. ‘I’ve got to put two to bed in Windermere, and another out at Crook. One of the new girls has texted in sick . . . she’ll not last.’

  Jackie disappears to the kitchen and within moments I hear the short stabbing sound of a knife piercing cling film and I wonder which of Jackie’s Weight Watcher meals is on the menu. I’m hoping for the salmon and broccoli bake. The microwave pings, there’s the sound of the back door opening and closing, and Jackie appears with a tray, on it a steaming hot toddy and a plate of chicken tikka masala. Morris the cat is brushing up against her legs in an attempt to attract her attention.

  ‘There you go, love,’ she says, setting down the tray. ‘I’ll just feed this cat, Kenneth,’ she says to my dad, ‘then I’m off.’

  ‘What time you back?’ he asks.

  ‘Elevenish. Might be a bit earlier. You’re sure you want me to cancel Karen tonight?’

  My dad nods. ‘I’d rather wait for you, my love.’

  He says the words ‘my love’ softly, as if trying them out, seeing how they sound.

  ‘I can help you up the stairs to bed, Dad,’ I offer, but he shakes his head.

  ‘You’ll be asleep in twenty minutes by the look of you. Jackie can take care of it.’

  When Jackie’s left we sit in companionable silence. I’m happy to say nothing and Dad’s enjoying the respite the brandy is giving from his knee pain. After a while, my eyes drooping, I ask why he’s not smoking the discomfort away, as would be his usual way, adding: ‘What happened to marijuana as a pain reliever, and all that?’ But he tells me he’s quit.

  ‘You’ve given up smoking full stop?’ I ask, surprised.

  ‘No . . . just the dope . . . it’s not really Jackie’s thing,’ he says mildly, and I think: Crikey, it must be love. I’ve never known him stop smoking for anyone.

  Ready to call it a night, I stand, and he asks me what my plans are for the days ahead. ‘Back home tomorrow,’ I tell him. ‘Then I’m going to make an appointment with a family solicitor and apply for a divorce.’

  My dad raises his eyebrows. ‘The fight’s over, then?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s over.’

  And he nods. ‘The only way to come out of this alive,’ he says, ‘is to move straight through it. There’s no point in resisting; you do right to let it go.’ He nods again, as if agreeing with his own words. ‘Good girl,’ he murmurs. ‘Good girl, Natty,’ and I kiss him goodnight.

  After a hot shower it takes me less than a minute to fall asleep.

  When I wake, someone is trying to kill me.

  32

  I’M BEING SMOTHERED. I cannot breathe. As I fight for air, there is a sequence of sharp, knife-like jabs to the skin of my face and neck.

  I cry out, desperate.

  Please not now. Not now, not like this.

  I fight with my hands. Push away the perpetrator and, suddenly, inexplicably, the air floods into my lungs.

  But I’m coughing. My mouth and nasal passages are filled with rust and peroxide fumes, and I’m disorientated. I fly from the bed, flicking on the light.

  There, on my pillow, is the cat. Which explains my being smothered – so, momentarily, I relax, because no one is trying to kill me after all. It was simply Morris waking me up.

  Now, as my eyes adjust to the light, I begin to cough again. And it’s then that I see smoke seeping into the room. Violet-tinged smoke, snaking through the gap between the door and the frame. It’s acrid-smelling, toxic.

  I stare, appalled. It’s like something from a bad horror movie. And as I watch, transfixed, my limbs freeze.

  I am that person who cannot move even though the ship is sinking. Even though the threat of death is imminent, I am the person immobilized by shock.

  My eyes register the danger, but my body does not respond. I feel my conscious mind shutting down, closing in on itself, as if for protection.

  I’ve no idea of the time. Is it morning? Where’s Dad? Is Jackie back?

  I’m confused, but I’m powerless to do anything about it. My senses are leaving me. Into my mind flutter sepia-toned images of the girls: Alice as a baby, Felicity getting married, Alice with a baby . . .

  And now I hear crying. Sad, pitiful, strangled-sounding meowing.

  Morris.

  All at once, I’m lucid. I look around, knowing the second I fully open the door the smoke will billow in and I’ll be paralysed by the lack of oxygen. Tentatively, I touch the door handle with my fingertip. It’s not hot. No fire outside the door yet.

  Christ, what do I do?

  Short of a better idea, I push up the window, grab Morris and shove him on to the sill, shouting, ‘Help! Help me!’ out into the night. It registers somewhere in my brain that there are lighted windows beyond the yard. People are still awake. We have hope of being rescued.

  ‘There’s a fire!’ I yell, nudging Morris from the sill. He doesn’t want to go, so I shove him hard and he screeches, clawing at my arm, but it’s only a short drop down on to the roof of the kitchen. I hear a thud and put it out of my mind, because now I’m thinking 999, and start looking frantically for my phone.

  That old safety commercial plays in my mind. ‘Get out. Call the fire brigade out. Stay out.’

  I’ll get out when I’ve got my dad out. Where the hell is my phone?

  I close the window, knowing that if it’s left wide open then the smoke from the landing will be sucked in here in a split second.

  I grab the throw from the end of the bed and put it over my head like a shroud, pulling the corners across my face, covering my nose and mouth. Then I take the deepest breath I’m able to and open the door.

  The smoke hits me at once, forcing me back into the room. Straight away I’m shocked by the denseness of it. It’s a wall, impenetrable, almost solid.

  I push into the hallway and try to shout, cry out loudly for my dad, but the smoke pushes me back again. It’s thick and caustic and I’m completely blinded, enveloped as I am now within it.

  I drop to my knees. Smoke rises, I’m thinking. Lay low on the floor. Get to Dad.

  But I can’t.

  I start to cry with the realization that I just can’t get to him. I don’t know where he is. I crawl across the landing towards his bedroom, ‘Dad!’ I’m calling, but now I’m hacking and choking. My eyes are streaming, they’re raw, and I cannot see my own hands. I can see nothing at all.

  Turning around, I make for what I think is the stairs.

  And that’s when I hear it. The fire is right there at the foot of the staircase, the glow I can sense more than see; it’s spreading through the smoke like strobe lighting.

  And the heat – the heat is overwhelming.

  I suddenly realize the whole house is on fire. The whole fucking house is on fire.

  I cannot get past it. I cannot get to my father.

  ‘Dad,’ I whimper, overcome now. ‘Dad, answer me! Where are you?’

  But there is no reply.

  33

  FROM MY CHAIR in the window I stare blankly out across the lake. This morning the water is a muddy khaki. It reflects the area of thick woodland crowding the opposite shore. Not all the deciduous trees are yet in leaf; some are still bare. The sycamore to the right of our land has just the beginnings of tiny buds; hardly visible unless you’re right up close.

  The timing of this life cycle catches me unawares every year. I’m surprised by the horse chestnut holding on to its leaves in early December, perplexed now b
y the hydrangea, still dormant in its winter state into late May. I have in my head – perhaps from childhood TV, I’m not sure – that the leaves fall in October, and the land reawakens in March. But this is not the case here. In Windermere, it happens on its own clock.

  House martins return to nest beneath the eaves of the house each spring, and each spring I nag Sean to do something about it. Remove the nest if necessary.

  Now I’m grateful he never got around to it. Now I can pass hours – whole days, in fact – watching them dive and swoop. They seem to fly for the sheer pleasure of it.

  My dad has gone.

  He didn’t make it. I got out, and he didn’t.

  I gaze through the glass, and it’s as if time has stopped. I have no sense of anything right now.

  I lift my eyes. Focus on the fine haze draping the peaks of Claife Heights in the distance. In places, the fog merges with the cloud above, giving a sense of two worlds coming together. Those clouds will pass across the lake towards its western edge, droplets of rain will fall against my window and the room will be plunged into shadow.

  I am told the fire was his fault. Told it was down to a cigarette falling on to his chair as he snoozed, his senses compromised by the high level of alcohol in his blood as he waited up for Jackie to return.

  I am told he didn’t stand a chance. That the fumes from the tapestry wingback chair – the chair which I supplied was not fire-resistant, as it turned out – would have overcome him in seconds. Way before he actually . . . No one finishes this sentence.

  I’m left to make the leap for myself. The toxic fumes from the sponge-filled cushions would have killed my dad before he realized he was on fire. Before he knew he was burning to death. Before he was cremated inside his own living room.

  They tell me that, and I’m supposed to gain comfort. I’m supposed to feel better about the fact that I couldn’t get to him. ‘Silly old sod,’ I can hear people of the village saying. ‘Got drunk and set himself on fire, didn’t he?’ Stupidity like this is not classed as tragedy. He should have known better.