Читать книгу The Secrets Between Sisters - Annie Lyons, Annie Lyons - Страница 11

Chapter Two

August

‘How please?’

‘The green book. In the window.’

‘Where?’

‘In the window. Last week. You had a green book. I want to look at it please.’

Lizzie glanced over from where she was dusting a shelf of poetry books. The small round elderly lady behind the counter was fixing her customer with a bemused frown. The small round elderly man on the other side of the counter was matching her look with one of his own. Lizzie made her way over to rescue them both.

‘It’s all right, Mrs Nussbaum. I think I know what Mr Hobson is after,’ she said, plucking a paperback from a table display on her way past. ‘Was it the Hessayon, Mr Hobson? The updated Lawn Expert? It was in the window with some other gardening books last week? I’ve got another one I think you might like. On Clematis.’

Mr Hobson’s face was transformed into one of rapture as he allowed Lizzie to lead him over to the display. He left ten minutes later having purchased three new gardening books and told Mrs Nussbaum, ‘That girl is a treasure. An absolute treasure.’

Mrs Nussbaum nodded warmly and waved him off. As the bell above the door signalled his departure, she turned to Lizzie. ‘I have keine Idee what he just said,’ she declared. She perched on the stool behind the counter. ‘Perhaps I am getting to old for all zis,’ she added, gesturing towards the shop.

‘Not at all, Mrs N. You just need to turn up your hearing aid.’

‘Was is’ das?’ frowned Mrs Nussbaum, cocking an ear towards Lizzie.

Lizzie stood in front of her and mouthed, pointing towards her ear. ‘I think the volume on your hearing aid might be turned down.’

Mrs Nussbaum fiddled with the device, still frowning with confusion. ‘Hallo? Ja. That’s better. I think the volume on my hearing aid was turned down.’

Lizzie smiled. It was a blessing working for Mrs Nussbaum at the bookshop. She loved her job and it served as a distraction from thinking about Bea all the time. That’s not to say there weren’t moments when something would suddenly remind her of her sister. Earlier that day, she happened upon a copy of The Bell Jar and immediately felt her chest tighten and tears form in her eyes. It was ridiculous because Bea had hated Sylvia Plath. Whilst trying to write a particularly tricky ‘A’ Level essay, she had thrown an entire set of Plath volumes out of the window, hitting the postman in the process with a hardback copy of The Bell Jar. Luckily, their mother had been out at the time and their father had successfully placated the poor postman with a cup of tea and a plate of digestives. Lizzie and Bea had laughed about it for days afterwards. Lizzie supposed that it had upset her so much because if Bea had still been alive, she would have taken a picture and texted it to her with the words, ‘Watch out Postman Pat!’ Instead, she had to hide in the unpacking room and let the tears fall for a while. In a way, she was relieved that she had rediscovered the ability to cry but it didn’t make it any less painful or alarming. Lizzie had found that grief didn’t follow a pattern or process as some people claimed. It crept up on you, jumped out at you and made you want to howl at the sky.

Lizzie felt that she had the space to grieve here, in her own way and her own time. No one here knew Bea; she had just told them that there had been a death in the family. It wasn’t questioned and she never offered other details. She also felt reassured by the presence of Bea’s parcel. She had been putting off opening it but knew that she couldn’t continue like this forever. It had been two weeks since the funeral and every day she spied it, she felt comforted as if her sister were still with her somehow. However, the Bell Jar episode had reminded her that she owed it to Bea to open the parcel and discover its contents, which was why she had decided that tonight would be the night. Mrs Nussbaum was foraging in the till. She fished out a bank note and held it up to Lizzie. ‘Why don’t you fetch us some Käsekuchen from next door? My treat,’ she said with a smile.

‘All right,’ said Lizzie, though she was reluctant to go to the cafe next door. They had only opened in the last couple of weeks and their cakes were delicious and dangerously tempting; fatal if you wanted to maintain any kind of waistline. The other problem was the owner of the cafe. On first inspection he had, what Bea might have described admiringly as ‘all the bits in the right places’, which was true. However, his customer service left a lot to be desired. He never smiled at customers, grunted a response when they had the audacity to order anything and transactions were completed with barely audible thanks. If his cakes and coffee hadn’t been so delectable, he probably would have achieved a record for the shortest-lived business in history.

Lizzie could imagine what Bea would have made of him. She had been with her sister on countless occasions when an ill-mannered shop assistant had forgotten their manners. ‘Now what do we say?’ Bea would coo as if addressing a four-year-old. She usually received a frown for her troubles but generally improved customer service. Lizzie was not like her sister. She avoided conflict wherever possible and didn’t have the confidence to set people straight, which is why she always left the coffee shop feeling hot and distinctly bothered. Maybe she had the spirit of her sister in her today, because something made her decide that she was ready for him. She breezed in through the cafe door with a look of what she hoped was calm indifference on her face. She stopped in her tracks as she was confronted with a woman; tall, slender and beautiful, her caramel-coloured hair piled casually in a loose bun secured with a pen. Obviously this was the cafe owner’s other half. She smiled warmly at Lizzie, who was so shocked by both her presence and the fact that she was friendly, she forgot how to speak.

‘What can I get you?’ asked the woman with beaming encouragement.

‘Erm, cheesecake. I would like cheesecake please,’ said Lizzie sounding like a robot.

The woman nodded and peered into the chiller-cabinet, frowning when she spotted the empty plate covered only with the last sad few biscuit-base crumbs. She smiled up at Lizzie. ‘Hang on, I’ll just see if Ben’s made any more.’ Ben. So that was his name. The woman disappeared into the kitchen. Lizzie could hear her asking him questions and getting mainly grunts in return. She heard her say, ‘Okay, thank you Ben, no need to be such a grumpy bugger,’ before reappearing out front.

‘I’m so sorry. We’ve run out for today. Can I recommend the Millionaire’s Shortbread? It’s very good.’

Lizzie nodded in agreement. ‘Two pieces please.’

The woman smiled and gestured back towards the kitchen. ‘He’s like a bear with a sore wotsit that one. So I’ve been drafted in to help because he was scaring off the customers.’

Lizzie gave a shy smile. She held out her money, keen to finish the transaction.

‘You work in the bookshop, don’t you?’ said the woman as she handed over the cakes and change.

Lizzie nodded. There was something very warm and open about this woman, something that Lizzie liked. ‘I’m Lizzie,’ she replied.

The woman grinned. ‘Lovely to meet you, Lizzie. I’m Susie.’

‘Susie!’ bellowed a voice from the kitchen. The voice’s owner appeared at the door seconds later, a sharp frown clouding his face.

‘The bear’s woken up,’ she whispered to Lizzie with a wink. ‘Ben, this is Lizzie from the bookshop.’

Ben glanced over at Lizzie, his face still fixed in a frown. He gave her a curt nod. ‘All right?’ he said before turning back to Susie. ‘Where did you put the flour?’ he demanded.

Susie shook her head. ‘Sorry about him. He’s had a personality transplant and has sadly been replaced by THE RUDEST MAN IN BRITAIN,’ she declared, emphasising her words and looking at Ben with meaning.

Ben was unmoved. ‘The flour, Susie?’

Susie gave him a murderous look before smiling warmly at Lizzie. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go but it was lovely to meet you, Lizzie. See you around?’

‘Okay. Bye,’ said Lizzie. She glanced at Ben before she turned to leave and made a mental note only to come in here when Susie was serving. That man had issues.

As she walked back through the door of the bookshop, she noticed that Mrs Nussbaum wasn’t sitting in her usual spot on the stool behind the till. She could hear voices coming from the children’s section. She smiled as she spotted Mrs Nussbaum sitting on a red plastic child’s chair next to a little boy of about five years.

‘Do you like being old?’ the boy was asking.

Mrs Nussbaum chuckled at his directness. ‘I don’t mind. I wish my body worked better sometimes.’

‘You could get a new one,’ he suggested earnestly.

‘Wouldn’t that be nice?’ she smiled.

‘I could make you one out of Lego.’

‘That would be kind, er, what did you say your name was?’

‘Harry.’

‘Danke, Harry.’

‘What does “danke” mean?’

‘Thank you. In German.’

‘Are you scared of dying?’ asked Harry, ready to move on to a different topic.

Lizzie held her breath but Mrs Nussbaum wasn’t fazed. ‘Not really. I think it will be nice to be with my Leonard again.’

‘Who’s Leonard?’

‘My husband. He died.’

‘Oh. So do you believe in heaven?’

‘Yes Harry, I do.’

‘My dad doesn’t,’ he said pursing his lips.

‘Oh, well what do you think?’

‘I think I want there to be heaven.’

‘Then believe it,’ said Mrs Nussbaum. Lizzie appeared before them and Mrs Nussbaum smiled up at her. ‘Now this lady was sent to me by my Leonard.’

Harry stared up at Lizzie, impressed. ‘Whoa. Is she like an angel then?’

‘I like to think so,’ said Mrs Nussbaum with a grin.

Lizzie remembered the circumstances of her arrival as slightly less celestial. She came here after yet another failed relationship, which made her throw her belongings into a bag and jump on the first train that pulled into the station. As she reached the end of the line, the dawning realisation that she was now barely an hour away from where she had grown up made her sick with anxiety. Her first instinct was to get straight back on the train and head somewhere else. But something in her brain wouldn’t allow her. She had spoken to Bea the previous week and was concerned that her sister didn’t sound as upbeat as usual.

‘Is everything all right?’ she had asked.

Bea had sighed. ‘I’ve got to go and have some tests. I’m sure everything is fine.’

‘What kind of tests?’

‘Just tests. Anyway, how are things with you and that useless boyfriend of yours?’

‘He’s not useless.’

‘He’s lazy. Do you need any money?’

It was the thought of living closer to her sister that made her walk up to the high street and it was the sudden rain shower which made her shelter in the bookshop. And it was her choice of Brave New World which made a frowning Mrs Nussbaum approach her.

‘That book,’ said the woman.

‘Yes?’ replied Lizzie patiently.

‘Why did you choose that book?’ she demanded.

Lizzie wondered if the woman might be a little mad but she was intrigued by her question. ‘Erm, well it’s one of my favourites and I haven’t read it for a while so I was just having a look?’

The woman gazed deeply into Lizzie’s eyes, almost as if she was trying to read her thoughts. Yep, thought Lizzie, definitely batty.

The woman stood back, a bright smile transforming her face. ‘Would you like to come and work for me?’ she asked.

That had been two years ago. It turned out that she had got the job because of her choice of book which also turned out to be the favourite novel of Mrs Nussbaum’s recently deceased husband, Leonard. Mrs Nussbaum was also keen to employ someone who would live in the flat-come-storage area above the shop and Lizzie was happy to oblige. The only person who knew of Lizzie’s whereabouts had been Bea.

‘I’m proud of you, sis,’ said Bea shortly afterwards as they caught up over a glass of wine in town. ‘Sounds as if things are starting to look up. Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ said Lizzie beaming with pride. She noticed that her sister looked tired. ‘Did you have those tests you mentioned?’

Bea gave a dismissive flap of her hand. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. I get the results next week. Now finish that and I’ll get you another,’ she added gesturing towards her glass.

Of course, it wasn’t nothing. It had been the beginning of the end for both of them.

Lizzie became aware of the small boy by her side. She looked down at him. He was pacing around her and stopped to peer up at her back. ‘I can’t see any wings,’ he told Mrs Nussbaum.

Their philosophical discussion was interrupted by a woman hurrying in through the door, out of breath.

‘Thank you so much for keeping an eye on him,’ she gushed, smiling at them both.

‘It was my pleasure,’ said the old lady.

‘Come on, Harry. We’ve got to go and pick up your sister.’

‘’kay. Bye,’ said Harry. ‘I hope you get to see Leonard again.’

‘Thank you, Schatz,’ smiled Mrs Nussbaum. After they had gone she looked up at Lizzie and gestured at the plastic chair on which she was still seated. ‘Bitte, help me up, Lizzie. I’m never going to get up on my own.’

The rest of the afternoon seemed to drag. Lizzie kept glancing at her watch, eager for closing time to come so that she could retreat upstairs and open Bea’s parcel. She was excited but also nervous as if she were about to open Pandora’s Box. She trusted her sister like no one else but fear of the unknown and worse still, the unknown without her sister, frightened her.

‘Home time now, Lizzie,’ said Mrs Nussbaum, hobbling from the back room. Lizzie glanced at her watch with relief.

‘Okay, Mrs N. I’ll lock up. You go.’

‘Danke. See you tomorrow.’

Lizzie locked the door behind her. ‘Right then,’ she said, turning to face the image of Virginia Woolf, which gazed down at her from above the bookshelves. ‘Best get on with it.’

Lizzie opened the door to her flat and was hit by a gust of warm air. She pushed up the windows which opened onto the street, letting in the sounds of early evening; some people on their way home, others already out for the evening. She plumped up the cushions on the sofa and smoothed the covers, irritated by her own prevarication. Fetching a wine glass from the cupboard in the kitchen, she poured a generous helping from a bottle of red wine on the side and perched on one of the stools alongside the kitchen counter before staring at the parcel. She took a sip of wine and a deep breath before reaching over and sliding it in front of her. She ran a hand over her sister’s writing and took another sip.

‘Sod it,’ she declared, turning the parcel over, ripping it open and shaking out its contents. There was a folded sheet of A5 which Lizzie could see was a letter and a bundle of twelve envelopes marked with months of the year. Lizzie pushed them to one side and unfolded the letter. She felt a shiver of sorrow when she saw her sister’s handwriting. Bea had such a distinctive way of writing: elegant curves, neat and well-ordered but friendly and inviting somehow. As soon as she started to read, Lizzie could hear her sister’s voice in her head. It both unnerved and comforted her; she was compelled to keep reading but reminded of how much she missed Bea too.

Dear Lizzie,

Well I guess you’re probably surprised to hear from me, eh sis? Obviously if I get the chance to come back and haunt you I shall, but there are no guarantees so pen and paper it is. I’ve been thinking for a long time about how I can help you, Lizzie Lou, and to be honest I think my dying is going to be the best thing that ever happens to you.

That probably sounds harsh so I shall do my best to explain. When you were born, I hated you – absolutely loathed the sight, sound and smell of you (particularly the smell). I know that’s normal for siblings and I was only four at the time so don’t feel the need to apologise. You were very annoying and turned my world upside down. I had gone from being, ‘Honey Bea’, the apple of everyone’s eye to, ‘Busy Lizzie’s’ sister and I was not impressed.

I remember one particular day when I had set up my dolls ready for a tea party. I’d written tiny invitations and laid out my dinky porcelain tea set with its pink polka dot design and matching satin napkins. You know me – I like everything just-so. It looked perfect until you bowled in, all chubby legs and cute dimples and upset the whole thing onto the floor. I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry before or since, particularly as you were oblivious to the carnage around you. When Mum came in, all she was most worried about was the mess (you know what she’s like) and she didn’t even tell you off. I know you were a baby but I felt as if a great injustice had been done that day and I hated you with every fibre of my being.

It was also the day that Uncle Lawrence came to visit and I was very excited. Do you remember when he did his Donald Duck impressions? We loved him, although I know Mum was always irritated by the way he drifted in and out of our lives. Anyway, I loathed having to share him with you and I got into trouble because I tried to push in front of you when he came to the door. I got smacked for that and so by lunchtime, you were enemy number one.

After lunch, Mum took you upstairs for a change and I was going to have some precious time on my own with Uncle Lawrence. I went to fetch a book so that I could read to him and as I looked up from the hall, I could see you standing at the top of the stairs. I also noticed that Mum had left the stair-gate open. In that split second I could have cried out to warn you but something inside – my anger at having to share the world with you – prevented me I guess. I walked away. I found my book just as I heard the sound of you falling down the stairs. It was a strange sound, almost rhythmical and oddly unalarming. I can remember it so clearly, even now. The drama started when Mum screamed at the sight of you lying at the bottom of the stairs. I walked out of the playroom ready with my innocent face but as soon as I noticed that you weren’t moving, I felt sick. I hadn’t realised what might happen if you fell. I think I’d been watching too many Tom and Jerry cartoons, so I thought you’d bounce. I still remember it as one of the most frightening moments of my life and I can picture Uncle Lawrence and Mum standing over your motionless body, frozen with fear for a split second before they called an ambulance. As for me, it wasn’t so much the thought that I’d killed you (I thought I had) but more that at that second, seeing your tiny body lying still, I knew I had to take care of you until the day I died. I remember kneeling down next to you and vowing. ‘It’s okay, Lizzie. Bea is here. She will look after you forever.’

That’s what I tried to do throughout my life but my biggest regret is that I know you’re not happy, Lizzie, and I want, more than anything, for you to be as happy as I have been. And so, my dying wish is to try and show you how to be happy. You will find twelve letters in the envelope with this one. These contain the things I probably should have told you to do when I was alive but never quite had the courage. Yes, I know that sounds strange coming from me, fearless Bea. In truth Lizzie, I’m as scared as everyone else. I just chose not to show it but I really believe that I’m doing the right thing in leaving you these letters. I think it’s time to be honest and for you to face a past that has been locked away for too long.

But, and this is an important but, I don’t want you ripping them all open like presents on Christmas morning. You won’t be surprised to know that as soon as I knew I was dying, I decided to put all my affairs in order. Once I knew there was no hope, I didn’t see any point in hanging around upsetting everyone. I’ve put a month on each letter so that you can read them once a month for the next year. Everything I’m asking should be possible in that time. I like to think of them as my final wishes, my final wishes for you, lovely Lizzie.

You should know that it’s not going to be easy but I think it’s important for both of us. So this is your older sister bossing you from beyond the grave. Do as I ask or I will come and haunt you (and not in a good way – I’ll make sure I’m carrying my head under my arm or something).

There you have it, my darling sister. Do these things for me and I think you’ll find the real Lizzie Harris and learn to love her as I do.

All my love,

Bea xxx

Lizzie read the letter again and again, hearing her sister’s voice in her head and the painful truth in her words. She realised that she had finished her wine and, pouring herself another glass, made her way over to the sofa. She sat down and clutched the letter to her chest as great heaving sobs washed over her. ‘I miss you, Bea,’ she whispered. ‘I miss you so much.’

It was at this point that the enormity of her situation hit Lizzie. She had thought that the parcel would offer some sort of comfort, that it would be like having her sister back, but she saw now how naive she had been. Bea was gone. Her letters remained but that was all. Lizzie had to face her future alone and she wasn’t sure if she had the strength. She lay down on the sofa and closed her eyes. She felt so very tired.

It was dark when she woke a few hours later, roused by late-night revellers shouting in the street. She rolled to a seated position and rubbed her eyes before standing and moving towards the window. The letter, which she had been holding as she fell asleep, slipped to the floor and Lizzie snatched it up as she remembered its contents. She walked to the window and, clutching it to her chest, let out a deep sigh. On the one hand she felt that the letters might offer her guidance and comfort, as if Bea were still there helping her, showing her the way. On the other hand, she dreaded where they might lead her. She scanned the words again: ‘… it’s time to be honest and for you to face a past that has been locked away for too long.’ The mere mention of the past sent a chill through her. Surely the past was best left where it was? Lizzie was fine. Fine was good. Fine could last a lifetime. Then she thought about her sister’s other concern: ‘…my biggest regret is that I know you’re not happy, Lizzie.’ Lizzie thought about this. Was she happy? Was she truly happy? She brushed away the tears as she thought about the answer. She was lonely, she knew that, and now that Bea was gone, she was alone.

Closing the window Lizzie pulled the curtains before making her way over to the kitchen counter. She sifted through the pile of envelopes and found the first one. She carried it with her to the bedroom and placed it on her bedside table, ready for the morning. For the love of her sister and for the sake of herself, she would do her best to fulfil Bea’s wishes.