Читать книгу Lily Alone: A gripping and emotional drama - Vivien Brown, Vivien Brown - Страница 11

Geraldine opened the front door and dropped her bag on the hall table. It was a warm afternoon, despite the drizzle, and she was glad to shrug off her coat and slip out of her damp shoes. The feel of the soft wool carpet between her toes always cheered her up and made her feel instantly glad to be home.

‘Anyone for tea?’ she said as Michael and Patricia slammed the car boot shut and lugged their cases up the drive behind her. ‘Only, I can’t stop long. I’ll have to go back to the shop, if only to help Kerry cash up the takings and lock up properly. Heaven knows what she will have got up to while I’ve been gone.’ She glanced over her shoulder as they reached the step. ‘Shoes, please …’

She saw Michael raise his eyes to the sky and shake his head. Once inside the old familiar house, their shoes left at the door, he guided Patricia into the living room and plonked her down in a chair, then followed his mother along the narrow hallway to the kitchen.

‘You still haven’t asked me,’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper and opening the fridge door to grab the milk.

Geraldine busied herself at the sink, filling the kettle and pulling cups out of the cupboard. ‘Asked you what, love?’

‘Mum, you know what! Oh, you can be infuriating sometimes.’

She turned to look at him. It hadn’t been that long since she’d last seen him but she could have sworn he’d grown. Older, taller, wider, more like his father than ever. And so suntanned, she hardly recognised him any more. Not for the first time she felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite put a name to. A feeling that she was losing him, as his life headed off in new directions, slowly but surely, bit by inevitable bit. ‘Michael, you know I don’t like to pry. Yes, you said on the phone that you had something to tell me, but I was waiting for you to do just that.’ Oh, she really shouldn’t snap at him quite so abruptly. No wonder he came back home so rarely. Not that he probably saw this house, or Brighton, as his home any more. He’d long since put it all behind him. ‘I was waiting for you to tell me, when you were ready, that’s all. I didn’t realise I was expected to ask …’

‘Well, come into the front room then, and Patsy and I can tell you together. Leave the tea for a minute. No one’s going to die of thirst for having to wait a bit longer.’

Geraldine sighed. She’d have to be blind or stupid not to have spotted the ring on Patricia’s finger the moment she’d set eyes on her at the airport, but it wasn’t her place to comment, was it? And now she’d have to pretend to be surprised. And pleased.

Michael had that look in his eyes. The same one he would come home from school with when he’d come top in maths or scored a goal at football. He was almost bouncing with the urge to tell her, and she knew she must play her part.

So, with the sound of the kettle starting to bubble and let off steam behind her, she let her son lead her along the hall, hand in hand, glad of those last few precious seconds to part her lips and practise her best ‘welcome to the family’ smile behind his back.

*

Agnes was worried about Smudge. She looked at the clock on her kitchen wall and gazed out at the small back yard, the rain still bouncing hard against the window. Five o’clock, and it was already starting to get dusky, the shadows fading to big shapeless chunks of grey on the concrete below. Poor old cat. He was quite a big chunk of shapeless grey himself these days. She smiled to herself. He was fifteen years old now, getting stiffer, lazier, just like her, and he didn’t usually stay out this long when the weather was bad, although he still liked a prowl around, and still came back with a cut ear or a new battle scar from time to time.

She leaned out over the sink and struggled with the rickety window catch, pushing the window open just enough to feel the rush of chilly air and the splash of rain on her arm.

‘Smudge. Smudgey Boy, come on. Dinner time!’

She reached for a can of his favourite cat food from the little cupboard under the sink, feeling the pull in her knees as she slowly bent and straightened again. She would keep the cans somewhere else, if only there was space, but every cupboard and shelf in this tiny kitchen was already jam-packed with stuff. Soup and beans, lined up in military order, labels outwards, and umpteen packets of porridge, all bought in as emergency supplies, for the days she either couldn’t or didn’t want to trudge to the shops. Mugs and glasses and cups. Far too many cups. As if an army of visitors was likely to appear, demanding tea. And the teapot itself, of course. The best one. Her favourite, blue and white Wedgwood, far too good to use, but such a joy to look at. She remembered the day she’d rescued it from the storage boxes, just before they were consigned to William’s dusty garage.

She slotted the can into the opener on the wall and pressed the button, watching the thing turn and the lid disengage easily, smoothly, like magic. Whatever next? Self-filling kettles? Bin bags that took themselves out to the dustbin? Sheets that fitted themselves onto the bed? How technology was moving on, changing, sweeping everything along with it! And here she was, trying so hard just to stand still.

‘Here, Smudge. Smudgey, Smudge. It’s tuna time …’ She was aware of how silly she sounded, her voice high and shrill as it penetrated the near-silence of the small yard outside the window, but she didn’t really care. Not any more. You reach an age when what other people think of you no longer matters, when you can finally say and feel and do as you please, and for Agnes that age had come a while back, soon after the big house move, and the loss of her garden, and the rather symbolic removal of the teapots, when she’d felt, as she still did, that she’d allowed others to take control of her life for long enough and there was nothing much else left to lose.

And then there had been Susan’s departure, of course, and her son left shell-shocked and alone. That was when Agnes had finally let it all out. Let rip, as they say in the American films on the telly, and told her son what she really thought. She may even have used a few swear words. In fact, she was sure she had. The look on William’s face! The frustration, the anger, the sense of loss, out it had all tumbled. If only it had raised its head a little sooner, she might have told that bloody wife of his what she’d really thought of her. To her face, instead of shouting it at William, who just stood there, like an empty shell, and said nothing at all.

Vigorously she scraped out half the contents of the cat food can into a bowl and rattled the fork against the side as a ‘come-home’ signal, her eyes scanning the fence line and the roofs of the sheds beyond. It was surprising just how quiet it was back here, compared to the bustle of the street at the front. High buildings, all close together, high fences and walls. It was how she imagined it must feel peering out from a prison cell at the boundaries built with no other purpose but to keep you in. And there was that crying again, breaking the peace and quiet, like a knife slicing through butter. And it was in bloody stereo now! Two kids bawling their heads off, from two different flats up above. And she’d been worried the other residents might object to her having a pet!

She was about to shout something through the window, suggesting they keep the noise down, but that was when she saw a movement in the corner of the yard. Two front paws appeared like little Punch and Judy finger puppets on the top of the fence and Smudge hauled himself up and over, then scrabbled clumsily down the wooden panel in a flurry of damp fur and scraping claws. She knew what he would do now. A leap up and through the small kitchen window was a bit too tricky for the poor old cat, so he would stroll around the edge of the yard, squeeze through the gap under the side gate that led out to the pavement, climb the concrete steps and wait to be let in at the front door.

Agnes pulled the window shut with a satisfying slam, sending little splashes of rainwater dancing all over the draining board, and lowered the blind, then went out of her flat into the shared hallway to open the front door and await the return of the warrior.

*

Lily woke up on the carpet, curled into a tight little ball, pressed against the side of the sofa. She had fallen asleep crying, in great noisy gulps, and now her cheeks were sore, and she was cold. The curtains were open, and the tree out on the pavement was swaying in the wind and rain, its leaves making scary shadowy patterns on the wall. Lily felt around for Archie and found him under a cushion.

She remembered that she had been playing tea parties with her dolls, talking to them so the room didn’t feel so quiet and empty. She’d put the TV on. She knew how to do that, pressing the buttons on the mote. There were no kiddie programmes on, just grown-up things, but she’d left it on to stop the quiet, and gone over to the sofa and climbed up, but then she’d leant over too far to grab for Archie and they’d both fallen off it, and she’d banged her head a little bit and that had made her cry.

The TV was still on now as she woke up, turned up a bit too loud. The dolls were lying down on their sides. Maybe they had needed a nap too. All the plastic cups and plates were still spread over the floor, and the little cardboard packets too, the ones she used when she pretended the flat was a shop and Mummy came and bought things with money from her purse. But none of it was real food, and she was hungry. Archie was hungry too.

When they went into the kitchen, Lily’s bare feet slapping on the hard lino floor, there was nothing cooking. Everything was still and quiet. The big ironing board was up, a pile of clothes on top of it, the wire from the iron hanging down to the floor but not plugged in. Lily reached up and touched the iron, very carefully with one finger, in case it was still hot. It wasn’t. It was cold. Mummy must have finished the ironing but forgotten to put the iron away. Mummy always put the iron away. But Mummy still wasn’t here.

She opened the door of the fridge, looking for food, and the light came on, showing her what was inside. She would have liked to eat a biscuit best, but the biscuits were always kept in a tin high up in a cupboard she couldn’t reach, and Mummy never let her have one before her dinner. But the fridge was where Mummy kept the things she was allowed to eat. The fruit and carrots, and things dinner was made of. She felt in the see-through drawer at the bottom and found a baby tomato. It was icy cold, and the juicy pips spurted out as she bit, dribbling in a sticky line down the front of her pyjamas. She offered one to Archie, holding it to his furry lips, but he wasn’t very hungry after all, and he whispered that Lily could eat it for him if she wanted to. When she shut the fridge, the light went out and the kitchen felt all horrible and spooky. Quickly, she reopened the door, pulling it all the way back until it stayed there and dragging a chair over to wedge against it, and the bright light shone out like a shiny white square in the corner of the cold grey gloom.

She needed to do a wee. The nappy she was wearing was only meant to be for nap times now that she was nearly three. Not for when she was awake. She didn’t know if she should just wee in the nappy. It felt really heavy already, and Mummy might be annoyed with her if she didn’t try to hold on until she could climb up onto the toilet or use the potty.

Maybe she should just wait. Hold on. Jiggle up and down. That sometimes helped, like when they were in the supermarket and they had to leave the trolley with all the shopping in it and run off to the Ladies, the one with the pink door. She had to jiggle then, and squash her legs together, which made running much harder to do, but they always got there just in time, and Mummy would laugh as they walked back afterwards, and wondered if they would remember which aisle they’d left the shopping in.

Maybe Mummy had gone to the shops now. But she’d never gone by herself before. Never left Lily behind. The wee feeling was getting stronger. She didn’t know what to do. Maybe she could ring Mummy. She walked to the phone. It was on the table by the front door, its long green wire hanging down, all curly like a snake. She picked it up and listened. There was just a buzzing noise and she wasn’t sure what to do next. What buttons to press.

‘Mummy?’

Nobody spoke. There was just the buzzing noise.

‘Mummy?’

But the phone just kept on buzzing in her hand.

The wee was trying really hard to come out now, and she was trying really hard to stop it. She dropped the phone, still buzzing, onto the table, and tugged at the sticky strips sticking up over the waistband of her pyjama bottoms, the strips that held the nappy on. She had never had to take her own nappy off before. She managed to tear off one of the strips and that side of the nappy slipped crookedly and soggily down inside her pyjamas towards her knees. But it was too hard to get it right off. It was taking too long. The pyjamas were in the way. Her fingers wouldn’t work.

And then it was too late to find the potty. She couldn’t hold it in any longer, no matter how hard she jiggled, and the warm liquid flowed down her legs, leaving a long damp trail down her pyjama bottoms and making a big slippery puddle that she could hardly see on the floor around her cold bare feet.