The Home

by Karen Osman

  *

  Rosemary slammed around the kitchen, banging cupboards, pans and drawers. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so enraged. How dare Evelyn call her? And saying James was Angela’s real father? It was ludicrous. She would tell James about the call; how brazen Evelyn had sounded, how she had referred to Angela as her daughter. She no longer cared whether she woke James or not – she wanted to wake him as a punishment – but as he stumbled through in a sleep-laden fog, she felt a sliver of remorse. He looked so tired. But then she remembered his persuasive patter about how finding Evelyn would be in Angela’s best interests, especially with the news of his cancer. And who could deny a sick man, thought Rosemary bitterly, as she threw salt into the pan of potatoes. At the time, it had all seemed to make sense, but now she wished she’d stuck to her initial reaction.

  ‘Rosemary!’ he said, the use of her full name indicating his annoyance. ‘What on earth is wrong and why are you making so much noise?’

  Rosemary turned to him. ‘I just got a phone call. From Evelyn Harris.’

  ‘Who?’ replied James, bewildered. ‘Evelyn? As in Angela’s birth mother?’

  ‘The very same. Apparently, she told Angela that she was going to call to thank us for raising her daughter. Her daughter!’ flared Rosemary.

  ‘Now, calm down, Rosie. While the wording’s not great, I’m sure the intention was—’

  ‘And do you know what else she told me, James?’ she interrupted, bending down to get the place mats from the cupboard. ‘That you are Angela’s real father! You!’ she emphasised, her voice lost in the back of the cupboard. ‘Can you imagine? Didn’t Angela say something about her once being on drugs? She must have been if she’s managed to concoct that story. Honestly, James, I said at the time it wasn’t the best idea to go looking for her…’

  Standing up, place mats in hand, she was surprised to see him pale.

  ‘James! What is it? Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. It’s nothing. Just felt a little dizzy, that’s all. I’m fine.’

  James walked over, turning down the heat on the pan of potatoes. Then he placed both hands on Rosemary’s shoulders, gently guiding her to sit down at the dining table.

  ‘Now tell me again about the conversation with Evelyn,’ he asked calmly. ‘But this time, a little more quietly,’ he added with a grin.

  As he listened carefully while she talked, her anger dissipated as it always did when James directed his full attention on her. After all, Evelyn’s life was sad and lonely – surely she could let such an insensitive comment about her daughter pass? As James had pointed out, Evelyn was probably just a lonely old woman who liked to make up stories.

  43

  Evelyn

  So, Rosemary didn’t know then. Jimmy had kept his wife in the dark about being Angela’s real father. Evelyn wasn’t surprised: he was a secretive snake who only thought about himself and she hoped the pretentious bastard was getting an earful right at this very moment. Evelyn wasn’t sure what she would have done if Jimmy had answered – probably resisted the urge to give him an earful herself, hung up and tried again another day – but she’d been lucky on the first try.

  As she heard Rosemary’s Queen’s English down the phone, she’d understood exactly how Angela had grown into the sophisticated woman she was today. Nurture had trumped nature on that one, that was for sure, thought Evelyn, looking down at herself critically. It sounded like Jimmy had done very well for himself. From an East End council estate to a posh town favoured by royalty, no wonder he hadn’t given Evelyn a second thought. Resentment, jealousy and relief wove together. Her decision – or rather Mother’s – to give her daughter up for adoption had been the right one but that didn’t make it any easier, and Evelyn felt regret settle in the pit of her stomach.

  *

  After several more days in self-imposed incarceration at home, Evelyn knew she had to get out. The walls were starting to close in and the anonymity of the letter writer was becoming more frightening than the threat itself. If she could find out which of her neighbours had written it, then they could thrash it out and that would be the end of it. Job done. Over a breakfast of dry toast and black coffee (lack of food being just one more reason to get out) she hatched a plan. She would take a walk around the estate and see how her neighbours treated her. If any of them acted suspiciously, she could approach them. What she would do from there she had no idea, but a confrontation in broad daylight was better than letting her imagination get the better of her.

  Evelyn put down the piece of toast, suddenly frightened. It wouldn’t be a confrontation – more like a beating – but at least it would be over with. She balanced the thought of never-ending worry and claustrophobia with a fifteen-minute punch-up and made her choice. Getting up from the table before she could change her mind, she left Charlie fast asleep next to his dog bowl and quickly left the flat before she could change her mind.

  It was a late Saturday morning and Evelyn could smell bacon in the stairwell, which was a welcome change from the stink of the bins. She normally loved a fry-up, but that morning it made her feel queasy. As she passed Billy’s flat, she willed him to open his door and shout some obscenity just to reassure herself that everything was normal. She’d even put up with his mooning if she had to. But his door remained closed. As she reached the first floor, Evelyn paused, her hand holding the stair rail tightly. Her whole body was telling her to turn round right now, go back upstairs, make a cup of tea, stick the telly on and spend the day at home. But she knew she would go mad. As if being led to the gallows, Evelyn reluctantly started her descent.

  *

  At first, she saw and heard no one, and the concrete communal area seemed to be empty. There wasn’t even the usual pump of a boom box. She was sticking close to the walls, trying to maintain as wide a view of the area as possible. She didn’t fancy being taken by surprise. Leaning with her back against the wall, Evelyn nervously lit a cigarette and pulled on it thankfully. She was dismayed to see her hands shaking. Come on, Evie, she said to herself, you’re tougher than this. After a few drags, she felt brave enough to leave the comfort of the wall and walked across the grassy area. There were several benches and she headed for the one furthest away but giving the best vantage point. Her heart pounded and with every step she imagined the muffled sounds of a hood being placed over her head as she was carried away to one of the flats to answer for her decision.

  But nothing happened.

  Sitting down, she felt as exhilarated as if she’d climbed Mount Everest.

  ‘All right, Evelyn,’ muttered a voice behind her.

  Shit. Dougie.

  He was walking Floyd, the bulldog roaming free, the empty dog lead held in his right hand like a whip.

  Evelyn swallowed.

  ‘All right, Dougie,’ replied Evelyn.

  The silence stretched between them and she knew it was a waiting game. Suddenly, she jumped as she felt Floyd sniffing at her ankles under the bench. Had Dougie instructed the dog to attack her, wondered Evelyn frantically. She froze as the dog’s wet nose pushed up her leggings and Evelyn had a vision of her leg being ripped off, Floyd holding it between his jaws like a trophy. She knew she had to lean down and stroke him to appear normal but every fibre in her body resisted.

  ‘Hungry, is he?’ called out Evelyn, forcing herself to chuckle.

  ‘He shouldn’t be, the amount of bacon he’s just eaten, the fat bastard,’ replied Dougie. ‘Floyd!’ he called sharply. ‘Get over here now!’

  At the sound of his owner, Floyd pushed past Evelyn’s feet towards Dougie, who leant down to put his lead back on. His goodbye came in the form of a brief nod, and Evelyn almost cried with relief. Dougie – with the protection of his sons – pretty much ruled the estate, so if it wasn’t him, surely she couldn’t have too much to worry about. It was probably just one of the lads on a dare. They would do anything for a fiver, that lot.

  Evelyn sat back on the bench and looked up a
t the sky, feeling ridiculously grateful to be alive. Sitting up, she decided to make the most of her new-found freedom; she would go to bingo tonight – she would call Brenda as soon as she got home – but first she needed to get to the shops.

  *

  Evelyn struggled up the stairs to her flat, but not even the weight of the shopping bags could dampen her mood. She’d spent a little more money than she normally would on groceries and even treated herself at M&S food, which she hardly ever did. She was looking forward to a nice curry lunch and an afternoon nap. Evelyn unlocked the door and dumped the shopping bags in the hallway, placing her handbag and keys on the table. As usual, Charlie came to meet her.

  ‘Hello, boy!’ she said, bending down to give his tummy a rub. ‘I missed you. But we’ll go out for a long walk later. You’ll enjoy that, won’t you?’

  Evelyn picked up the shopping from the floor and it was then that she noticed the envelope. She looked at the letter box as if her mind could conjure up the person who had delivered it. In disbelief, she stared at it, hoping that it was nothing more than junk mail. But as the white envelope, addressed to her, lay on the carpet, Evelyn already recognised the handwriting as the same as on the last one. She debated whether to just throw it in the bin without opening it but as she picked it up, she could feel a small, slim rectangular shape inside. As she lifted the flap, a packet of white powder fell into her hands with a note attached. Hardly daring to unfold it, she braced herself, slowly exhaling as she read.

  GO ON. TREAT YOURSELF. WHO KNOWS IF IT WILL BE YOUR LAST CHANCE BEFORE...?

  Evelyn felt a scream claw its way up her throat. Her mind raced as she tried to think who could be sending her these notes. Her next-door neighbours were dead. It had to be someone who knew about her past and her history with drugs – otherwise, why send an eighth of coke through the door?

  44

  Angela

  Angela arrived in Tetbury much later than planned. She was hungover, had missed the train due to delays on the Tube, and had had to wait an hour and a half to catch the next one. She’d gone out with Lucy for a late dinner and drinks the night before. They were supposed to go clubbing but her friend had made her excuses and left early. Angela had been disappointed and as a result had drunk slightly more than she’d intended to after Lucy had left.

  While waiting for the train, she found a seat in a café in Paddington near the departure board, trying not to take out her irritation on the waiter. It was valuable time that she could be in the office. It wasn’t just that, though. She was fed up with the snide comments from Raymond.

  ‘Leaving early again, Angie?’ he’d sniped as she tried to slip out of the office unnoticed.

  She didn’t know which angered her more, his overfamiliar use of her shortened name or the fact that he was keeping tabs on her. The other week she’d caught him loitering around her desk. She’d left the office for the night but had come back as she’d forgotten her umbrella. As she’d approached her desk, she could see him hovering over her desk planner. When she’d asked him what he was doing, he’d said he’d misplaced a file, but he’d looked shifty. On Monday, she’d do something about him once and for all. A tearful chat with Lisa in Human Resources would do the trick. She knew the manager was particularly gung-ho about sexism in the workplace. Perhaps Raymond had got a bit handsy one evening with Angela when they were working late – nothing too dramatic, of course, just enough to get him suspended for a bit.

  Satisfied she had a plan, she sipped her hot tea along with two paracetamol and tried to refocus on something else, her gaze finally falling on the new bag on her lap. Shopping for it had been the only consolation for the theft on the Tube. She hadn’t planned to spend so much money, but browsing Selfridges she had spotted the soft red leather and been drawn to it immediately. Slipping the flap between her fingers, she had caressed it appreciatively. Nearby, a saleswoman had hovered, recognising desire when she saw it.

  ‘Would you like to try it?’ she’d asked, slipping the bag from its stand. Not waiting for a response, she’d continued her sales pitch, unaware that it wasn’t required.

  Angela had let the words flow past her as she gently held the bag in her right hand, admiring the gold clasp and matching zip as she walked to a nearby mirror. As she’d seen her lean elegance reflected back at her, undoubtedly enhanced by the luxurious bag, Angela knew she had to have it.

  The saleswoman nodded in agreement. ‘It was made for you,’ she’d concluded smoothly. ‘Shall I wrap it?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Angela had replied.

  Handing over her credit card, she tried not to look at the price on the till. It was expensive, even for her. But it would last for years, justified Angela to herself, trying to ignore the fact that red wouldn’t go with everything. After the sales assistant had prepared her purchase in an endless spray of tissue paper and placed it in the distinct yellow shopping bag that Angela had envied for years growing up, Angela took a perverse pleasure in the envious glances that came her way.

  *

  Angela heard her train being called. Engrossed in her paperwork, the tea cold beside her, she gathered up her things and put them in her bag, the thrill of her investment, as she liked to call it, still fresh. At this rate, she wasn’t going to reach Tetbury until after nine o’clock. She should have used the payphone to update her mum. Oh well, it was too late now.

  Settling down into her seat, she watched a small crowd of commuters dash past her window, all keen to get on the train and back to their suburban lives. Angela grimaced. As much as she loved Tetbury, she was always happy to return to the city and simply couldn’t imagine living in the commuter belt. She thought of Mitchell – if their relationship continued, is that what would eventually happen to them? Would he want children? She hoped not. The predictability of it all repelled her, mainly because it would be her career that would fall by the wayside. Maybe her feelings would change in the future, but she didn’t think so. It’s different when they’re your own, said countless ex-colleagues who’d all given up work for their little darlings. How often had she heard that? It wasn’t just about her career; she simply didn’t feel the need.

  With Evelyn now in the picture, however, and the opportunity to find out more about her background, would that change things? Her gut said no. She was still thinking about it when she finally arrived in Tetbury.

  Her mum, clearly ready for bed, opened the door before Angela had a chance to slip her key in the lock. It was late for her parents and the silent warning of her mum’s finger to her lips indicated her father was already asleep. As Angela said good night, she went to her own bedroom quietly getting undressed, brushing her teeth, and, in her nightie, slipping beneath the covers. She would unpack the rest of her case tomorrow.

  Perhaps her reluctance to have children was because she knew just how many unwanted children there already were in the world, she thought as she remembered Susan’s words from one of the meetings. Closing her eyes against the darkness, she didn’t delve too deeply. It distracted her from the present moment and her future plans. And Angela had always succeeded by moving forward.

  45

  Friday 25 November 1988

  To say I was hungover is the understatement of the century. After I got back home, I must have drunk almost two bottles of wine last night, judging by the state of the coffee table. Even my normal hangover cure of paracetamol, coffee, and a bagel didn’t work. That’s the problem with approaching thirty – I used to be able to drink several nights in a row and feel fine, but the hangovers are definitely starting to get worse.

  A.

  46

  Rosemary

  Rosemary had put off sorting out the loft for as long as she could, but she knew she had to face it someday. And she’d rather do it now than later, especially with Angela visiting, as she could keep James company while she got her jobs done. Rosemary didn’t like to think too much about what would happen if James died but her practical nature urged her to sort out their paperwork.
The majority of it was in order, of course – James had seen to that – but she was conscious she hadn’t been as organised as usual recently. Over the years, she’d become more and more involved in James’s business, starting off helping him with the books. Before they’d retired, James often asked her for help, consulting in areas such as strategy, finance and growth. She’d enjoyed it as well as being good at it. After every project, he always told her how invaluable her advice had been and when the business grew and became a major name in the industry, Rosemary felt proud that she’d helped. Of course, James oversaw everything, but still…

  It had been her recommendation to franchise the business, which was one of the most profitable outcomes for the company. More than profitable, in fact: it had made them very wealthy. She’d spent weeks researching and preparing the proposal and costings. Her gut instinct told her it was a good move, but she needed the numbers to work, otherwise it would be a non-starter. When James came home a few weeks later, telling her his board of investors had approved the proposal, Rosemary had been thrilled, and had pulled out a bottle of chilled champagne.

  ‘My wonderful, gorgeous, brainy wife!’ James had said, grabbing her in a hug. ‘I would be nowhere without you!’

  Rosemary had laughed – it was all talk, of course; James was prone to dramatic exclamations – but she couldn’t help hoping that he might invite her to oversee the franchise development now that it had been approved.

  ‘But what about Angela?’ he’d objected when she’d mentioned it. ‘She’s about to do her GCEs, then sixth form, and then university. She’s going to need you at home, not gallivanting around the country meeting potential franchise partners. Besides,’ he’d added, ‘I’ve already appointed Lenny Duncan to manage things. You remember Lenny, don’t you, Rosie love?’