“Working in Cellphone Cellar, on the other hand,” says Steve, “is another thing altogether. They're sales in there, you see, and salespeople are your modern-day carnival folk. Easy come, easy go. High staff turnover, no time to get too arsy about references. And they've got a national computer system. Get a job in the Cellphone Cellar in Bradford and you can see who's sold what where and when and who to, anywhere in the country. Sell a phone in Romford and it ups the targets for the Bury St Edmunds branch. You get my drift?”
“I think so,” says Kieran.
“And fortunately, your wife bought her new phone at Cellphone Cellar.”
“Oh yes?” says Kieran. Sits forward in his seat. Clasps his hands together over his knees.
“Now I don't want you to get too excited,” he says. “She could have got someone else to buy it for her. She could have made a special trip. Though I think she's probably not thinking about covering her tracks that carefully. It's a pay-as-you-go, after all. No records once it leaves the shop. Only record is which shop the phone was bought in.”
“Which was?” asks Kieran.
“Bodmin,” says Steve. “In Cornwall.”
Chapter Forty-six
The most striking thing about them is their obvious sexual compatibility. In that you couldn't imagine either of them wishing to sully themselves with something as sticky as sex, ever. It's not that they've unattractive people, on the face of it at least: all their parts are in the right place, they're obviously clean and have taken care of their physical wellbeing. Too much so, possibly. These are the sort of people who have never, ever taken a risk in their lives, have never spontaneously discarded duty for pleasure, have got out of bed at seven, always, regardless of schedule, even at the weekend, in order not to waste the day. They look like a pair of schoolteachers on holiday.
Joyless, she thinks. That's the word for it. They run their lives efficiently, and the trouble with efficiency is that it doesn't have space in it for joy. They have efficient clothes, efficient haircuts, an efficient, characterless Vauxhall parked in the drive, efficient well-cared-for luggage at their feet. And they're looking at Yasmin as though someone's come in and riffled their filing system.
“Mr Gordhavo,” says the woman, “didn't say anything about children.”
“I'm not children,” says Yasmin, “I'm a child.”
They blink, together, at exactly the same moment, behind their rimless specs.
“Yasmin, honey, go upstairs and play,” says Bridget, praying that her daughter will have the sense to be obedient, just at this moment.
“Why?” asks Yasmin.
Mrs Benson slips her hand into her husband's and purses her lips.
Bridget turns her back on them, just for a moment, and pulls her fiercest face. Yasmin, of course, isn't looking.
“We're on our honeymoon,” says Mr Benson. “We wouldn't have booked ourselves in here for a honeymoon if we'd known there were going to be children running about the place.”
I can't imagine you're going to be the sort who would be wanting to spend their time swinging from the chandeliers, she thinks, if we had any. “She won't be running about the place,” she says, attempting to sound reassuring. “She's at school in the daytime and we live in a separate flat.”
Mrs Benson peers about, as though looking for where the flat could be hidden.
“You get into it through the utility room at the back of the house,” says Bridget. “I'll lock the door through to the first floor.”
“We were expecting total privacy,” says Mrs Benson.
She feels a surge of irritation. These bloody people. Never satisfied. They’ve always got something to complain about, though the website is completely truthful about the house, if they ever bothered to read it properly. “The brochure,” she says, “does say that there's an onsite housekeeper.”
“It didn't say you had a family, though.”
“Just the one child,” says Bridget. “Who is going upstairs right now.”
This time, Yasmin picks up on the tone of her voice and makes herself scarce.
“And what about the other one?” asks Mrs Benson.
“Other what?”
“There was another one. In the garden as we arrived. Over by the pond.”
The other what?
“Presumably that's one of yours as well?”
She doesn't understand what she's on about.
“The girl. In the garden.”
A girl? In the garden?
She noticed that the pond was iced over this morning when she went out to get the sheets, stiff with frost, from the line where she'd thought it was a good idea to hang them yesterday. God, I hope none of the village kids has got up here. It's bad enough keeping Yasmin away from the pond without worrying about some Kirkland grandchild trapped under the ice, bloating and turning green.
“Oh. I have no idea. I guess it must have been one of the local children.”
“And do you,” he asks, “have a lot of local children hanging around?”
“No. No, absolutely not. I've no idea where she will have come from. The children around here know better than to come up here without an invitation.”
“Because the brochure said you were isolated and peaceful.”
“We are. I can assure you we are. I'm sorry you weren't expecting to find my daughter here, but I promise she won't be any trouble. She's familiar with the rules, don't you worry. And I'll make sure whoever it was you saw in the garden knows she's not to just pop up without clearing it with me first.”
Bridget crosses her fingers behind her back. She's going to have her work cut out this week.
“You know how children are,” she jokes, palliatively.
On second thoughts, you probably don't, she thinks. There's nothing jam-stained about you. If you've got godchildren, you probably send then educational books for Christmas.
“I'll see if I can farm her out,” she says. “She's got friends in the village. I'm sure she can go and play with them after school and stuff.”
They don't answer. I'm banging my head against a brick wall, here. I have to remember, the visitors aren't interested in the detail of my life. They're only interested in me as an addendum to the house. You're a servant, Bridget. Get used to it.
“I've lit the fire in the drawing-room,” she says, “and I thought maybe you'd like something warm on a night like this, so I've got scones in the oven and clotted cream and jam. Just as a welcome, you know.”
They seem neither surprised nor particularly pleased. It's a mistake to bother. I'm on a steep learning curve here. They never think you get anything for nothing, these people. Now I've done this, gone out of my way for them, they're going to be expecting tea and treats as a matter of course.
Mrs Benson closes the front door. Ok, so they've decided to stay, then. That's a start.
“I'll be you're tired after your trip,” she tries again. “I'll just show you round, shall I, and leave you to it?”
Yasmin has put The Lion King on, sits on the floor a foot from the television, ignoring her. Not even an offer of Horlicks gets a response.
She kneels down beside her, rubs her back.
“What's up, monkey?”
“Nothing,” says Yasmin glumly.
“Well, there obviously is, or you'd be speaking to me.”
“Nothing,” says Yasmin, and shrugs her off.
“Okay,” Bridget struggles back to her feet. “Fair enough. If you want to tell me, you know where I am, but I'm not going to waste half the afternoon trying to get you to.”
She picks up a pair of socks and is halfway to the door when Yasmin says: “I don't like you talking to me like that, that's all.”
She stops, flaps the socks in the air to turn the toes out.
“Sometimes,” she says, “I have to talk to you like that. Sometimes it's urgent. Sometimes you just have to do what I say, right now, and I don't have time to stop and discuss it with you. Sometimes there are situations where I have
to be the boss and you have to deal with it.”
“Yeah,” says Yasmin. “I understand. You want to get rid of me.”
“I – no. I don't want to get rid of you. Don’t be ridiculous. But sometimes, when there's grown-up stuff going on, I need you to leave, yes, or shut up. I'm sorry. I thought you understood.”
“Understood what?”
“Downstairs isn't our home, Yasmin. It's where I work. We have to be careful about invading people's space.”
“Well they invade our space.”
“Yes, well, they pay a lot of money to do it. And it's not our space, when there are visitors here. And the money they pay is the money we live on. If they didn't come, we wouldn't have this place to live in. You've got the garden, and the fields, and you can always go down and see Chloe or Carla or, whatsername, Lily.”
“Don't be schtoopid.”
“What?”
Yasmin huffs. “Nothing.”
“What's got into you?”
“Nothing. It's freezing outside and I'm bored and now you say I can't even play. I'm sorry I'm not convenient.”
“Yasmin! I never said anything of the sort!”
“Well, I can't have my friends here, can I?”
“No! Not while there are people here! Look! If I worked in an office you wouldn't expect to be able to come and play there, would you?”
Yasmin rolls her eyes. Teenagers get younger every year. “I'm sick of being by myself,” she announces. “All shut up, with no-one to talk to.”
What are you on about? “Well, I'll tell you what,” says Bridget, “I'm not mad about being around you when you're being this disagreeable.”
Yasmin bursts into tears. “Well, I hate you too!” she wails.
Bridget sighs. Nothing matches the illogicality of the childish mind set on being the injured party. God, it's all very well, these parenting manuals banging on about self-esteem, but they don't half make it hard for you, kids. She folds her arms. “I didn't say I hated you,” she tells her. “I said I didn't like the way you're behaving.”
“Bugger off!” screams Yasmin.
Oh, God. She glances at the house door in the corner of the room, hopes against hope that the Bensons have gone downstairs to be by the fire. They'll hear everything if they're still in their bedroom. Not just a child, but a screaming child who has worked herself up into such a tantrum that she's gone purple. I have to stop this. I have to get her away.
She crosses the room in two strides, wraps her arms round her daughter and heaves. She's getting too heavy for this. Another six months and I won't be able to do this any more. Yasmin screams some more, kicks out, slaps at her face as she hauls her upward, throws her over her shoulder.
“Ow! Stop that!”
“Bugger off! I hate you! I hate you!”
They get into the corridor and she gets the door shut and drops her. Stalks away into the kitchen and leaves her there. Who'd be a single parent? All of it, I have to do all of it by myself. The no-sleep, the worrying, the nagging and the comforting. I have to make the choices, take the flak and it doesn't get better, does it? It's going to be like this for ten more years – longer than that, probably – and I just want some rest, a chance to be me again. I've been a Mummy for seven years, but I can still remember what I was like when I was a Bridget, when I didn't have to be blamed for everything.
She buries her face in her hands and listens to the sound of her daughter's sobs from the other side of the door.
Chapter Forty-seven
She dreams that they are making love. One of those disturbed, disturbing dreams which come to tell us that the past is always with us. She can feel his hard, his warm body against hers, the buttery smoothness of his skin, the rough-soft caress of his hands. She is repulsed and aroused in equal measure: ashamed even in sleep that he should still have such power over her.
“You're mine. You'll always be mine,” whispers Kieran, kisses the tender skin of her neck, and she feels her back arch in response, the wave of pleasure roll through her body.
Oh, God, please stop. Please don't. Don't stop.
He is still there on her skin when the door opens. Repulsing her and arousing her in equal quantity. He always had that power over her, right up until very close to the end, when violence started leaking over into the sex as well. He could make her weak from lust when he saw that the fear was beginning to lose its grip. She is so ashamed. Repelled by her own weakness.
She is still fuddled with sleep, stares wildly into the dark, unsure at first whether she was really woken by the sound of the door. Yasmin hasn't turned the light on in the hall, and she can only feel her, standing in the doorway, waiting.
Oh, thank God. She's forgiven me.
She struggles, finds her voice. “Hello, darling.”
Yasmin doesn't answer.
She waits. Nothing passes between them.
“Can't you sleep?”
No reply.
“Yasmin?”
Bridget shimmies over to the cool left side of the bed. “Do you want to get in?”
She hears her footsteps cross the floor. Yasmin stands beside the bed, over her, unseen, silent.
“I'm sorry,” says Bridget. “If it helps, I couldn't sleep for hours myself. We shouldn't fight, you and me.”
No reply.
She lifts the covers, holds them up. “It's freezing,” she says. “Go on. Get in. Let me warm you up.”
The silent sound of decision. She hears the creak of the bedsprings, feels the mattress drop beside her. Holds out her arms to let her come into them.
Yasmin is cold. Icy cold to the touch; hair, nightdress, feet, skin. As though she's been dipped in frozen water. Stiff against her body, unresponsive. As though the blood in her veins is ice.
“Oh, darling,” whispers Bridget, “you've been out of bed for hours. Here. Let me warm you.”
She wraps herself about her, presses her chin onto the top of her head, rubs with her hands up and down her back. Her hair feels strange: spiky, rough; not the silken strands she's used to. She doesn't speak. Lies stiff in her arms, cold face pressed into her throat. I can't smell her tonight, thinks Bridget. Can't feel her breathe. She's so stiff, it's as though I'd have to crack her joints open to make them bend.
“It's okay,” she whispers. “I'll take care of you, darling. I'll keep you warm. I'll keep you safe.”
Teeth. Teeth sink into her neck just above the collarbone.
Bridget screams. Yasmin digs her fingers into her upper arms. Scratches, clings, feet flailing against her shins.
“Yasmin! Stop it! Ow! What are you doing? Stop it!”
She shoves, hard, breaks her grip, throws herself out of the bed. Red clouds of rage and pain dance before her eyes. She scrabbles for the light switch. What is going on! What is going on?
The light dazzles her, makes her throw her hands across her eyes. “What are you doing?” she cries. “My God, Yasmin – ”
The bed is empty. Bed, room, empty. No-one here but myself. Door closed. No sound from the corridor.
There is no-one here.
It wasn't a dream. I didn't dream it. See? My heart is pounding. The hairs are on end on my arms. I can still feel the cold, the deep, black cold where she was pressed against me.
Bridget shakes. Hold her hand out and sees that it is trembling. Puts it against her neck. I can feel it. I can feel where she bit me. It's not a dream. I can feel it.
She takes her fingers away, sees that they are streaked with blood.
Chapter Forty-eight
Something has happened to Mrs Blakemore. It's been happening slowly since the summer, but now she's alone with her in this echoing house, it seems to have speeded up. Her face, so neatly powdered when Lily first arrived, goes without embellishment nowadays, the muscles beneath the skin gone slack, half a dozen thick black hairs sprouting unplucked from chin and upper lip. She rarely bothers with dressing, now; shuffles around the house in a man's woollen dressing-gown and slippers, trailing fo
od stains and the smell of body odour behind her.
No-one comes to the house these days. Not deliveries, not neighbours, not even, with nothing to bring with him, it seems, the postman. It is as though, now the Vaccies have gone and Lily has been expelled from the school, the house and its occupants have been forgotten about, isolated as though they carry disease. It is just the two of them, now: a woman who talks to herself and a child who talks to nobody. Lily has given up running away. Understands now that the is fated to stay, that whatever she does, wherever she runs to, she will end up, as in a recurring nightmare, back where she started.
They brush up against each other, occasionally, in the halls or the kitchen. Lily occasionally makes forays down into the village with the ration books, or they would be subsisting on a diet of porridge and cabbages from the field behind the house. She has been putting odds and ends on the house's accounts at the shops, but doubts that the credit will last much longer. Mrs Blakemore doesn't seem to notice. Rarely answers the rarely-ringing telephone. Prefers to spend her time drinking her way through the prewar cellars and staring blankly out of the windows across silvered winter farmland. Lily doesn't know what will happen when the shops finally cut off their supplies. When the oats run out, they will probably live on cabbages alone.
Lily doesn't frighten easily, but she is nervous of Mrs B. Knows that she is unwanted, knows that, if the Ministry found her papers, she would be gone in an instant. Wishes, vehemently, that they would. The Barnardo's would be better than this, she thinks. At least in the Barnardo's someone would know I existed.
One way or another, I have to get away from here. The old woman's gone nuts. It's as if someone's come along and taken her soul. If we were in Portsmouth, if we were among the poor people, they would have taken her away by now, cleared out her lodgings and shut her safely away. If we were in Portsmouth, they would have shut me safely away after what I did at the school, instead of dumping me and washing their hands, saying it was Blakemore's problem. That was the point. That was the idea. If they weren't going to let me run away, I was going to make them take me away. And instead, here I am, dodging Blakemore and waiting for Him. For Hugh. They don't want me here, but they won't let me go. It's as if the whole world's been planning it all along.
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