Yasmin sniffs and looks at her with large, watery eyes. “It was Lily,” she says. “It must have been Lily. She said she didn't like them. She said she'd get rid of them.”
Bridget feels another jolt. Feels confused, then angry again.
“Yasmin!” she shouts. “I told you! Stop! Stop with this!”
“What?” cries Yasmin.
“Making things up! Making things up to cover your tracks! I'm not stupid!”
“What?”
“This Lily thing! I've had enough! I know she doesn't exist!”
“She does! She does!”
“No. She. Doesn't.”
She has a weird feeling, a prickle in the back of her neck as though they are being watched.
“She does! She's right there!”
Yasmin gesticulates wildly at the doorway behind her. Bridget freezes. I will not look. I will. Not. Look. She's fucking with my head. I don't know where she got it from, but she's fucking with my head. Suddenly, crazily, she feels the surging urge to cross the room in one bound and rain blows on her daughter's head, to slap her about the face, shake her until the sense goes in. Takes a single step and hauls herself, reeling, to a stop. When her voice comes, she finds she is screaming.
“Stop it! Bloody stop it! I'm not listening to another bloody word! You little – stop it, Yasmin! There is no Lily! You're a little liar and I don't want to hear another word!”
Oh my God. Is that me? Is that me shouting? She is only just turned seven years old. What have I become? What has become of me?
Yasmin has backed further into the corner. The look on her face says everything. It's a look she had hoped she'd never see again. The look she used to wear when Kieran was there. The look she used to reserve for her father.
Abruptly, violently, Bridget bursts into tears. Wraps her arms around herself as though her stomach aches, and doesn't even fight the sobs.
Yasmin says nothing.
I'm so weak. I'm so… I thought I had the strength, I thought I had courage for both of us, but I don't… I can't do anything. I am helpless and weak and now I know the awful truth: that I'm not better than he is. I am weak and I am wicked and my daughter is afraid of me.
“I can't –” she spurts. “I c- Yasmin, I'm not doing this now. I'm not. I'm going to go away now and I'll – I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I didn't... it's just so – hard.”
Yasmin picks up her teddy bear and hugs it to her chest. Big eyes, grim little mouth. I can never make it up to her. Never. She trusted me, and now she knows the truth…
Bridget leaves the room, closes the door behind her. Leans against the corridor wall and covers her face with her hands. Feels seven again herself: seven and vulnerable and alone and not understanding why no-one will come and make it all right. It wasn't meant to be like this. It wasn't. What happened? What did I do? What did I do?
She realises that she is crying out loud, that the noise will be passing through the door, reaching Yasmin, making it worse. She pushes herself off the wall and stumbles, tearblind, down the carpet to the living-room. Somebody help me. Somebody. Please.
The phone is lying on the side-table, face-up. Bridget grabs it, stabs her way through the address book, dials. It doesn't ring at the other end, goes straight to voicemail. “Hi, this is Carol. I can't answer the phone right now, but please leave me a message.”
The sound of her voice makes her cry more. She bawls into the phone after the tone: “where are you? Where are you? You never answer any more and I need to talk to you! Oh, God, Carol, it's all so awful and I don't know what to do! Please! When you get this, please call me back!”
She slumps onto the sofa, rocks forward and back. I don't know what to do. I don't. I need to talk to someone because I'm going mad. Who is there? I am so alone. I don't know what to do. I have to talk to someone. Have to talk to someone.
And because there is no Carol, she calls Mark.
Chapter Fifty-one
I hate her. Hate her. Hate her.
They don't listen to me. Nobody listens. Fucking bastards. Here I am, thirty-four years old and living like this, and all because …
Always her side. Her side. That's the way it is, these days; the feminists have got everyone whupped and they all take the woman's side without ever asking questions. Listen to her point of view and make like I haven't got one. Treat what she says like it's sacred truth. And me, I get to work for fifteen years for… nothing. For a bachelor flat no-one cleans and a child who screams when she sees me. No sheets on the bed for the first month I was there, because she even go those and when do I have the time to go fucking shopping and they go wagging their fucking fingers, can't do this, Mr Fletcher, law says you can't do that.
What's this arsehole doing? Fast lane's for fast traffic, fuckwit, not granddads who want to dawdle with their hats on the back of their heads. I'll give him ten seconds, then I'll flash the bugger. I'm going to be driving all fucking night at this rate. 250 miles. How much petrol is that going to take? Good thing I've got cruise control, not that I'll ever get to use it when I've got – that's right, dickhead. About fucking time.
It's not that much to want her to know, is it? All I've ever wanted is for her to know. What she's done to me. Lying. Twisting the truth so I look like the bad guy when she had as many faults as I had. They never listened to my side, did they? The way she used to go on, nag nag nag nag nag, winding me up ’til I couldn't think any more. She's got to know. She'll have to listen. She can't destroy my life and not see that there are consequences.
Basingstoke. Sulphur lights and a great big roundabout. What sort of shithole is Basingstoke that the traffic's thinning out? At least I'm out of fourth gear, anyway. If only this – would get out of my way. What is it with these people? You get past one and all you've got is another, blocking up the lane, crawling along as if they own the bloody road.
She'll be surprised to see me. Two weeks since she stopped answering the phone. Probably thinks I've given up and crawled off to die somewhere. Convenient. That's what she'd like.
Bitch.
Bitches, the pair of them. All three, if you count Carol. Not that you have to now, of course. Didn't see that coming, did you? The big ones, turning the small one against me. My own child. My property, and she screamed like I was some sort of monster the last time I went to that school. Supervised access. A bloody joke. Serves her right. Bloody interfering cow. Wonder how long it'll be before that yuppie wanker notices the smell? Probably won't, ever. Got no friends. No-one who's going to be asking questions in a hurry.
Alienation of affections. You used to be able to sue people for that.
It felt good, that. The way her eyes went wide, when she realised I really meant it. Broke a few fingernails. Didn't make any difference.
My hands are aching. I must be gripping the steering wheel really tightly. How funny. Am I angry? Do you think I'm angry?
She's in for a shock. She thinks she's been so clever, but she's not that bright.
Couldn't learn from her mistakes, for a start.
Christ. It's ten o'clock already. Another four hours to Bodmin. Won't be able to find a billet at that time of night. It's hardly a throbbing metropolis. Should have thought harder when I packed. Put in a couple of blankets, a pillow, at least. It's too cold to spend a night in a car. God damn it, Bridget. Why have you done this to me?
Travelodge. I'll get past Bristol. Get onto the M5. Another hour or so. At least that coffee's working. What's she doing down there, anyway? What's in Cornwall, for God's sake? I bet she's got a bloke. That'll be what it is. Jumped horses in mid-stream, thought she could do better. I always knew she was like that. Always knew it. Couldn't take my fucking eye off her for a – ow! Fuck that hurts. Now see what you made me do, Bridget? Get out of the way! Get out of the fucking way! Yes, you! That's right! Get over! Christ! Christ, Bridget! You are going to pay for what you've done to me!
Chapter Fifty-two
He calls in the early morning, while she's m
aking her fifth cup of tea, still in her dressing gown, head clogged with tears and sleeplessness.
“Hi, it's Mark. I just wanted to check you were okay.”
“Oh, Mark. Thanks. I'm okay.”
“Get any sleep?”
Bridget half-laughs.
“I know what it's like,” he says. “God knows.”
“It wasn't meant to be like this.”
“No. Well, we were all going to be perfect parents, weren't we?”
“I wish,” she says, “I could talk to my Mum, now. I was so young when she died, I didn't have the chance… you know… to appreciate…”
“Mmm. Yeah, well,” he says, “I daresay a lot of things would be different if your Mum and Dad hadn't died.”
“Or maybe not. I don't know. You could do the what-if game forever, couldn't you?”
“Yes,” says Mark, “you could. How's Yas this morning?”
“I haven't been in yet.”
“Not up of her own accord, then?”
She catches herself shaking her head, has to remember that he's not in the room.
“No. What time is it?”
“Just gone eight.”
“God. Well, I suppose I'd better face the music if I'm going to get her into school on time.”
“Have you not talked to her yet? Since you rang me?”
“I tried. But she was asleep. Or pretending to be, which is much the same thing when it comes to trying to talk to someone.”
She hears a sigh. “Oh, Bridge.”
“Yeah,” she says, snappishly, “I could do without a parenting-skills lecture right now.”
That's it, Bridget. Way to go. Call him for advice one minute, bite his head off the next.
“Sorry,” she says. “Sorry. I know I'm a hypocrite.”
A chuckle. “You said it.”
A pause.
“Saved me the bother,” he adds. She's not sure how much is reproof and how much is joking, but his gentle West Country accent softens the intent, makes it bearable.
“Look,” he says, “you'll get over this. And then you'll get on to the next row. That's what kids are for, and there'll come a time when we look back at the “I hate yous” with nostalgia. Once they've discovered the delights of Newquay and are blueing all their pocket money on crack cocaine and getting lifts with drunks.”
“She'll not be getting enough pocket money for crack for some time.”
“Crack's pretty cheap these days.”
“Well, so am I,” says Bridget. “I can be as cheap as it takes.”
“That's the spirit,” says Mark. “I'll see you down at school.”
“Yeah. Oh, and Mark?”
“Mmm?”
“Thanks. You know. For – everything.”
“Don't mention it,” he says. “You can buy me a drink some time.”
Was that another date? Hard to tell. She decides to ignore it. “See you later,” she says.
She goes back to her room to get dressed before calling Yasmin. Wants not to look like she's just come off the set of Misery. Pulls on jeans and jumper, brushes frantically at her hair. Her hands are red from all the cleaning products she used yesterday. Must buy some rubber gloves. I'm a housekeeper now. They're necessary tools of the trade.
If I get to keep the job.
I will not get despondent. I won't. I can sort this out, one way or another. I'll give them my own money to pay for their cleaning. Maybe it was just a threat. Maybe he didn't mean it, about Mr Gordhavo.
As she's thinking, staring vacantly at her red eyes in the mirror, she notices a noise. A tapping. Coming from the living room. Oh, God. What now?
She goes through. The tapping is coming from the door to the main house. Bridget stand for a moment, staring at the handle.
It's Lily.
Don't be bloody ridiculous, woman.
There's something in this house. You know there is. It's there. Look. On the other side of the door.
She breaks her fugue, steps forward, throws the bolt back.
It's the Bensons. Wearing overcoats, outdoor shoes; suitcases at their feet, done up, wiped clean of yesterday's residues. She's wearing her specs again, the tiny stud-sleepers in her ears, her discreet engagement ring.
“Hello,” says Bridget awkwardly. What does one say now? How are you today? Can I help you? What do you want? Please, please don't get me sacked?
The awkwardness, it seems, goes both ways. The Bensons don't speak for a second, but a blush creeps onto the wife's face. She looks exhausted, thinks Bridget: as bad as I feel. I thought she was pale when she arrived, but she looks, now, under the blush, as though someone's turned down the contrast on her. The glasses frame eyebags so spectacular they look as though they've been inflated with a pump. He doesn't look much better. He looks – desiccated.
“Hello,” Mrs Benson replies, eventually. “Sorry to bother you – ”
“That's okay,” says Bridget. “I was just about to get Yasmin up for school,” she adds, to hint that time is short.
“We just came… to say…”
“Well, the thing is…”
“We thought… we decided…”
“Last night…”
“Thing is,” he says, “we've decided to move on.”
“Oh?” Bridget is taken aback. “I'm sorry. I didn't think you would – gosh. Look… I'm terribly sorry. I don't know what to say.”
Their expressions are unreadable, mysterious, their tones gentle. It's as though, she thinks, they are sorry for me.
“I – look, the curtains will be back up in the master bedroom by this afternoon. I left them drying by the Aga last night, so they should be…”
“It's not that,” says Mrs Benson. “Honestly. We just – we just thought it would be nice, you know, to go and spend a few days at St Ives. We've booked in at the Tregenna Castle. We thought it was more – there's more to do down there, and my wife's always wanted to visit … you know… the Tate…”
“Yasmin's been thoroughly told off,” says Bridget. “She won't – I promise she won't be in your quarters again. Definitely.”
“No, really,” says Mrs Benson, “it's fine. And don't worry about Mr Gordhavo. We shan't be bringing you into this.”
“I…” she casts about for something to say, some way to persuade them, though part of her is flooded with relief that she will not have to face them again – that her job, it seems, is safe for the time being. “But your honeymoon…” she says, helplessly.
“This isn't really the place for a honeymoon,” says Benson. “We've decided. We both think we need somewhere a bit more…” he glances over his shoulder, seems to have lost use of his vocabulary. Turns back with a wide-open shrug. “Anyway,” he finishes.
“Is there really nothing I can say to change your minds?”
“No,” says Mrs Benson, sharply. Looks surprised at her own vehemence. “No, there isn't. Really. We just want to get on the road. Thank you.”
“Let me give you a hand with your luggage,” she offers.
“No, that'll be fine.” He bends and snatches his case away from her reaching hand. “We don't want to bother you any more. We're just going to…”
“Goodbye,” says Mrs Benson.
“Um, goodbye. And I'm so sorry. That you've not enjoyed yourselves here. Very sorry.”
They've already turned their backs, are hauling their cases toward the stairs. “Not your fault,” says Mr Benson. “We understand that.”
She stands in the doorway as they retreat, watches them disappear round the bend in the stairs. Odd, odd people. The strangest she's come across yet. Should she be running through the rooms, checking for missing valuables? Following them down the stairs, begging them to stay?
In the end, she does nothing. Yasmin needs getting up, the day needs getting on with. She'll call Tom later and let him know, but now there's the school run to do, the laundry to get on, another cup of tea to be drunk to fend off the tiredness.
As she crosses the livi
ng room, she hears the sound of feet running up the stair, Mrs Benson's voice calling out: “Ms Sweeny? Hello? Are you there?”
She turns back, meets her at the doorway. She is out of breath, flustered. “I just – look, I wanted to leave you this on the dining table, but then I realised I wanted to speak to you.”
She holds out a bundle of notes. Tenners: a thin sheaf, enough for a week's groceries. “Please,” she says, “take this. Buy something for Yasmin. Tell her I'm very, very sorry for blaming her. Tell her we know she didn't do it.”
Chapter Fifty-three
The snow comes with the dawn, silently, muffling the wind in the eaves and waking her with its deadness. Lily is strangely relieved to hear it, to see it drift in the dark past the dormer. It feels as though some tension has broken, that winter is finally really here, no longer hovering in wait. She kneels up on Vera's old bed – she's stayed, despite having a choice, in the one she was originally assigned to, because it is the furthest from the door, the least assailed by draughts – wrapped against the cold in a papoose of blankets, and leans her elbows on the sill to watch. She's never really encountered snow before – not this thick white mantle that covers everything she sees now. Snow is something of a rarity in the southern counties, and that which fell on Portsmouth was warm and damp and, even if it lay, turned grey and glutinous in the twinkling of an eye.
This, though, is something else – a thing of beauty. She wishes she had her paints, her pencils, though she doubts she would have the skill to translate this strange drifting creature as it meanders toward the earth, spirals in the cross-breeze, settles and builds, coats the grey garden, brings a glow to the half-light. Lily scrapes at the window where the moisture from her breath freezes as it touches the pane; draws quickly back and tucks her hand into the blankets. She can't afford to allow herself to get chilled; knows from experience that heat, once lost, can be excruciatingly slow to be regained.
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