Authors: Chris Simms
Then one day he punched her. A simple movement of his arm, but an action that set in motion a chain of events that led to the death of their daughter. After that he retreated into himself, drinking more and more, questioning every penny she spent. Getting his permission to start working again was a huge struggle. He feared the loss of control it would entail and paranoid fear began to consume him: ‘You’re going to leave me...You’ll meet someone else . . . Isn’t what I earn good enough?’
He didn’t lay another finger on her for many years. But gradually the bullying moved from mental to physical. Pushes and slaps at first, then heavier cuffs. Finally, punches.
She thought about her parents. She’d shut them out after their granddaughter’s funeral, too ashamed to admit how the accident had happened. But they’d known something was wrong. She couldn’t stand her mother’s entreaties, her father’s furious stares. Both of them powerless to help her while she refused to admit there was a problem. Now she wanted to make amends but pride prevented her from calling them. Not until she was properly back on her feet.
The bedsit occupied the corner of the ground floor in a large Victorian house in Fallowfield. It was a student area, the bus shelters permanently full of people in faded jeans, baggy tops and battered trainers. How they chose to carry their books vaguely amused her. Some went for simple sports bags, others opted for ethnic-looking canvas pouches. All avoided briefcases, but that was just a matter of time. She smiled wistfully, wondering what
Emily would have chosen if she was still alive.
After reversing into the yard at the back of the building so her car was facing towards the road, she removed the spare car key from her purse. Once out of the vehicle, she checked that no one was watching, then slipped it into a crack between two bricks at the base of the wall. That was a quick means of escape, if it was ever needed. After all, if he did somehow track her down and turn up with a few drinks inside him, she knew what he was capable of.
The hallway of the house was littered with unwanted junk mail and a couple of old copies of the Yellow Pages, still wrapped in plastic. A door opened and a man appeared, a box of old cooking utensils in his arms. He looked to be in his late twenties, but he still wore student clothes.
‘Morning. You just moving in?’ he asked cheerfully.
‘Yes,’ Fiona nodded, holding her handbag tight against her stomach.
‘Me too.’
She smiled, glancing at the box.
‘Cooking things. If you ever need any, just help yourself. People have dumped loads of stuff down in the cellar.’
Fiona looked at the door he’d just emerged from. ‘Thanks.’
‘Are you a mature student?’
Fiona felt herself flush slightly. ‘No. I’m, I’m...just in between places at the moment.’
His smile faded as he assessed her answer, eyes shifting to her damaged eyebrow. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘No, that’s fine. So, are you? A student, I mean?’
‘Yeah, I’m doing an MA.’
‘Which subject?’
Now he looked embarrassed. ‘Classical studies. Latin, Greek. Don’t ask why. I think it was my mum’s idea, really. She wants me to be a journalist.’
Fiona smiled. ‘Well, I’d best get sorted out...?’ She raised her eyebrows enquiringly.
‘Oh, it’s Raymond. Raymond Waite.’
‘Nice to meet you, Raymond. I’m Fiona.’ As he carried on up the stairs, she looked with amusement at his cumbersome trainers, complete with little Perspex windows in the thick soles.
Then she opened the door to her room and looked around, refusing to be dismayed by its dour interior. It was hers, that was the important thing. Another small step towards freedom.
She paused to sniff the air. The fusty smell she’d noticed on her first look-around still remained, despite the window being open. She brought her suitcase in, eyes lingering on it, attracted by the bottle of gin inside. Fighting back the temptation to have just one drink, she picked up her handbag instead. Air freshener, bleach and scouring cream were what she needed. The bare mattress on the single bed was patchy with stains. With some difficulty she lifted it up and saw the underside was only worse. As she headed out of the door, she added a duvet, sheets, towels and a new mattress to her list, aware that the cash Melvyn had given her was rapidly running out.
She returned a while later, ferried the smaller things through to her room, then returned to the car and began trying to pull the new mattress out from where it lay across the boot and folded-down back seats.
A first-floor window opened and she heard hip-hop music before a voice said, ‘You need a hand, Fiona?’
She looked up to see Raymond leaning out of the window.
‘Would you mind?’
‘No problem.’
He shuffled round the corner a few seconds later, crouching to tie the laces of his absurd trainers. The oversized tongues lolling from the tops reminded her of a pair of thirsty spaniels.
They carried the mattress through to her room, and placed it by the side of the bed.
‘I don’t know what to do with the old one – it’s disgusting,’ Fiona said.
‘Yeah, I see what you mean,’ Raymond replied. ‘Why not dump it in the cellar? That’s what everyone else seems to do with unwanted stuff.’
‘Do you think it would be all right?’
‘Yeah. Come on, I’ll give you a hand.’
They hauled it off the bed and carried it out into the hall.
Raymond kicked the cellar door open, then pushed the mattress down the short flight of stairs. It came to a lopsided halt at the bottom. He flicked the lights on and carried on down, Fiona following uncertainly behind.
‘There are all sorts down here,’ he said, pointing to the haphazard stacks of boxes. ‘Old clothes, crappy portable televisions, records, textbooks, files of work. Do you need any saucepans? There’s a whole crate of them in that corner.’
Fiona looked around, shoulders hunching up at the sight of the huge cobwebs nestled in the exposed rafters above her head. Raymond tipped the mattress on its side and slid it across the dusty floor into a side room. In the centre of the room was a table with what looked like a stone top.
‘What on earth is that?’ Fiona asked.
Raymond leaned the mattress against it. ‘This house would have been built for a wealthy merchant. This room was the pantry. In the days before fridges, the servants would have stored meat on it.’ He slapped the bare stone with his palm. ‘It’s always cool down here. See the gutter running round it? They’d cover the meat with muslin and ladle water over it occasionally. It would have kept for days.’
Fiona shivered. ‘Well, I never knew that.’
Two hours later, she peeled off her Marigolds and looked around her room. That was more like it. A bunch of flowers on the windowsill; the bed covered by a plump duvet, the creases still showing on its cover.
Once again, she found herself looking at the suitcase.
No
, she thought. A good vacuuming, that’s what this place needs. She smiled. It was the perfect excuse to call in at the salon. Melvyn wouldn’t mind her borrowing the Dyson.
‘Hi there,’ she chirped, stepping through the door. She caught a tense look in Melvyn’s eyes before his face broke into a smile.
‘Fiona!’ he said, taking in her designer jeans and crisp white shirt. ‘You’re looking more shaggable every day. If I didn’t swing the other way . . .’
‘Oh, stop it, Melvyn,’ she laughed.
‘Cuppa?’
‘Thanks, yes.’
Melvyn turned to Zoe, who was replacing curlers on a rack.
‘Zoe, will you be Mum?’
Fiona waved a hand. ‘Don’t you worry. I’ll do it.’ Without waiting for a reply, she walked across to the kitchen area and started setting out the cups.
‘So how are you, darling?’ Melvyn asked over his shoulder while wrapping a strand of his customer’s hair in tin foil.
‘Great, thanks. I’m feeling so much more positive.’
‘Brilliant – you look like you do.’
‘I’ve just moved into my own little place. It’s not much, but it’s a start.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Ridley Close in Fallowfield.’
‘Near City’s old ground?’
‘That’s it.’
Melvyn adjusted the towel round his customer’s neck. ‘OK, that’s you for a half-hour. Are you fine with those magazines? The latest
Heat
’s around here somewhere. It’s got a great article about the contestants for that plastic surgery show they’re doing on telly soon.’
‘I’ve read it, thanks.’ She sat back in her seat and began reading one of the magazines on her lap.
Melvyn scooted over to the kitchen area. ‘I bet you’ve got it all spic and span.’
Fiona nodded. ‘Just about. Though I was hoping to borrow the Dyson. Once the place is properly clean, you’ll all have to come round for a drink.’
‘Just say when.’ Melvyn picked up the biscuit tin and gave it a rattle. ‘Empty again? God, do we get through them in here. Zoe, be a love and nip down the street for some more biccies.’ As the door shut behind her, Alice appeared from her side room. ‘Fiona. I thought I heard you.’
Fiona looked at Alice and her eyes widened. ‘You sure your due date is still a few weeks away?’
Alice’s shoulders sagged. ‘Oh, don’t. I feel like a beached whale.’
Laughing, Fiona pointed to the kettle. ‘Tea?’
‘Thanks.’ Alice perched on the edge of a stool and made a cradle for her stomach with her hands.
‘Fiona was just saying she’s moved into her own place,’ Melvyn announced.
‘Where is it?’ Alice asked.
Fiona grabbed a pen and paper from her handbag. ‘Flat 2,
15 Ridley Close. Over in Fallowfield.’ She handed the scrap of paper to Alice. ‘You’re all welcome to come round, but obviously the address has to stay secret. He has no idea where I am.’
Fiona caught that tense look on Melvyn’s face again. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said with a little shrug.
Fiona turned to Alice, but she was watching Melvyn. Fiona looked back at him. ‘He’s been here hasn’t he?’
He didn’t answer.
‘The bastard,’ Fiona hissed, fear and anger flaring up. ‘What did he say? What did he do? Did he threaten you? He did, didn’t he?’
Melvyn gave her a brief smile. ‘Nothing more than a raging poofter like me’s used to. Don’t worry, he soon ran out of steam. Especially when I blew him a kiss.’
Fiona gasped, one hand over her mouth. ‘You didn’t!’
‘That was a bit much,’ Alice added with a grin. ‘I thought the veins in his neck were about to burst.’
Fiona felt sick. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Her eyes cut to the front of the shop: could she be seen from the street? ‘What if he comes back?’ Now she felt genuinely scared.
‘That’s probably why it’s best you stay away for a bit,’ said Melvyn. ‘I told him you don’t work here any more. He’ll soon give up.’
Alice went over to the reception desk and tucked Fiona’s address into the back of the appointments book.
‘Thanks, Melvyn, I really appreciate this,’ Fiona said more quietly.
Melvyn fidgeted on his stool. ‘Only thing is, Fiona, I can pay you your holiday money. But, you know how it works in here. Without you doing any treatments . . .’
‘You want me to leave? Find a job somewhere else?’ Her nausea increased.
‘No!’ Melvyn protested with a dramatic wave of his hands.
‘You’re one of the team. I didn’t mean that. But what will you do for money? I mean, I could lend you some . . .’
Fiona shook her head defiantly. There was no way she was becoming a charity case for her friends. ‘I’m fine for now. Listen, I’m just glad you’re prepared to give me unpaid leave.’
They all heard the front door open and Fiona shrank backwards. ‘Is it him?’ she whispered, knowing her face was draining of colour.
Alice looked round the corner. ‘Hi, Zoe. Chocolate Hobnobs? Good choice.’
When Fiona eventually set off for her bedsit, the salon’s Dyson in the boot of her car, guilt hung heavy over her. She’d caused so much trouble to so many people. Dawn Poole appeared in her head. Another one she owed an apology to. Especially after sending Alice’s other half round to question her.
At the end of the street she turned towards the A57, deciding to put things right at the Platinum Inn straight away. When she pulled into the car park a short while later she couldn’t decide which slot to take, it was so empty. Inching slowly forwards, she decided on the far side, away from the day manager’s silver Volvo and near the gap in the hedge she’d squeezed through several days before.
How hopeless her life had seemed that evening. Not that it was a whole lot better now. She thought about the cramped little bedsit that was her new home. Her money had almost run out and she had no idea how she was going to meet next month’s demand for rent.
Her mind turned to her husband and she pictured him during his more pleasant moments. Laughing at something on the radio, delightedly rubbing his hands when his football team scored. She wondered what he was doing, how he was coping without her. He spent so much time at work, he’d never find the opportunity to clean the house. She imagined the state of the kitchen. Maybe she should call and see how he was. If he showed remorse for his violence and agreed to seek counselling, perhaps they could discuss the possibility . . .