I'm on the train! (14 page)

She stepped in very gingerly, scared of rats, or bats, or worse. She should have bought a torch – more use than gloves or Coke – but there were no rustlings or scrabblings, thank God. The floor was squelchy underfoot, littered with old dead leaves, but the advantage was she’d have the place to herself, apart from Granby, of course. Dogs could protect you: growl in warning if anyone came near; pin down an attacker; bite a chunk out of his leg if he was spoiling for a fight.

Fumbling in the darkness, she emptied out the Sainsbury’s bag and put it on the ground, so she could sit on a piece of plastic, rather than on grunge and grot. She felt a sudden longing for her bedroom – those things she took for granted: the rug, the radiator, the big, thick, cosy duvet, the amazing fact you could press a switch and immediately the lights came on. She wondered if her mother had started worrying about her. Unlikely. Lucy’s mother worried if Lucy was even
seconds
late. And Kat’s parents drove her
everywhere
, to make sure that she was safe. Great to have a car. The minute she was old enough, she’d learn to drive and buy one. Except a car cost thousands, didn’t it?

‘Granby, what sort of car shall we have? A Porsche? A BMW?’

How pathetic was that – talking to a dog that didn’t exist? But since she had always gone in for imaginary things, she was clearly mega-pathetic. When her mother put her foot down about one piddling goldfish, she’d imagined a whole tropical aquarium; then a Persian cat, followed by a horse – thoroughbred, of course. And she’d had imaginary dads by the score. A pity people couldn’t pick out their own parents, instead of making do with the ones laid on by Fate. She knew what sort of mum she’d choose: someone who didn’t smoke or shout; had no other kids but her, and who’d let her have any pet she wanted – rabbits, budgies, hamsters, a whole tribe of cats and dogs – and a mother who could cook.

Sitting cross-legged on the Sainsbury’s bag, she breathed in the smell of baking. Her mum was in the kitchen, making fairy-cakes. She was allowed to scrape out the mixing-bowl; allowed to eat as many as she chose. No – first they had to be iced. She wasn’t sure exactly how you iced cakes, so she ditched that stage and just admired the finished results. There were loads of different colours – pink, white, yellow, lilac, blue – and every sort of topping. The lilac ones had Smarties on top, and the pink ones had whole strawberries, and the yellow ones had sugar stars, and the blue ones sugar hearts and kisses. She bit into a heart; felt it explode in a sugar-rush of love and, suddenly, her mum was kissing her – a real, adoring kiss.

‘Fucking hell!’ she muttered to herself. ‘That’s
way
over the top.’ Her mother could no more cook than run the marathon, and to imagine her kissing her kids really was a fantasy too far. Even Granby was pretty useless – not warm at all and, actually, no help.

She jumped up, to stamp her feet and swing her arms, just to keep the blood moving. Maybe she should go back into town and buy herself a hot drink. Except being cold was preferable to being nabbed – or knifed – so she stayed put where she was. Perhaps some food would warm her up, so she reached out in the murky dark to find the loaf of bread; removed a slice and chewed it, dry. It tasted limp and flabby, but she added butter and jam, then a bit of cheese and pickle. Easier to imagine cheese and pickle than to imagine a kiss from her mother.

‘Was she always undemonstrative?’ the counsellor had asked.

‘She was always bloody angry,’ she’d retorted, and the counsellor had smiled. Mary, she was called – the Blessed Virgin’s name. And she had the same sweet, motherly face as the statue of the Blessed Virgin that stood outside the Catholic church; the same gentle,
kind-blue
eyes. She was small and sort of fragile, like she might blow away in a puff of wind, and her voice was soft and whispery; a voice you’d use in church. She had never shouted; not in all five sessions. They’d promised her
ten
sessions, but, smack-bang in the middle, Mary had moved house and begun working somewhere else.

The news had been so gut-wrenching, she’d locked herself in her bedroom and refused to budge, for days. But then Christopher took
over and he was just as nice. His voice was like warm custard: velvety and smooth. He was older, though, much older, and had a wrinkled, jowly face that didn’t seem to fit his hair, which was weirdly thick and dark. But, when she saw him for her second session, the hair had disappeared and he was completely shiny bald. It was such a shock, she just stood and stared, however rude it seemed. But he sat her down in her usual chair and explained that he’d lost his hair after cancer treatment and no longer wished to wear his wig, because it was uncomfortable and hot. After that, she simply couldn’t concentrate – not once in the whole hour. She’d kept worrying about him having cancer and maybe actually
dying
before they’d completed all the sessions.

But he hadn’t died, and he’d continued being nice and talking in his custard-voice, and, once, he had even held her hand. She’d been bawling her head off – about her mother, probably, but he didn’t ask his usual questions, just reached out for her hand and clasped it very firm and tight, like he was her anchor.

Hope and Anchor – it had never even struck her before, but that was exactly how things were then: Mary her hope; Christopher her anchor.

Her real mum had been against it from the start, though. ‘I’d no more trot off to a trick-cyclist than swallow a mouthful of wasps. I don’t believe in poking things with a stick. And I’ve had far more crap to deal with in my time than
you’ve
ever had, my girl! Your life’s a bed of roses, however much you bellyache. When
I
was your age, my dad thought nothing of giving me a damned good wallop, just because it was Tuesday, or some other damn-fool reason.’

It was always worse for her, of course. So why hadn’t she simply topped herself, instead of having seven kids and making
their
lives hell?

She’d soon learned to avoid all mention of Mary or Christopher. Her mum would only jump down her throat, and even her friends thought it weird being sent for counselling, like she was completely off her head. And, if they ever found out about Christopher’s wig, they’d all take the piss and die laughing.

She still missed the sessions horribly – you were allowed only ten
on the NHS, and you’d need to win the Lottery if you wanted to go private. But at least Christopher and Mary were real, unlike Granby and the fairy cakes. And, in fact, it wasn’t totally impossible for them to come and find her here. Her mum might even have rung them; begun to worry big-time when she saw how late it was. No, that was crap – her mother didn’t worry even small-time. But Christopher and Mary might have had a deep gut-feeling that she was in some sort of trouble and needed sorting out. After all, they knew each other well, so it wasn’t out of the question they could join forces, just for once. In any case, peculiar things did happen – things no one could explain, like ghosts and UFOs and miracles.

It
was
a sort of miracle to have them sitting with her now – and have them both together, which never happened at the clinic. And they’d brought all the things she needed: blankets and an oil-stove; a powerful torch; a Thermos of hot chocolate; butter for the bread and strawberry jam; even cheese and pickle. They weren’t flustered in the least. That was the point of counsellors: they were trained to be calm, whatever clients did or said. You could swear, or shout, or go berserk – all of which she’d done – but they still had to keep their cool. Sometimes, she’d been a total pain on purpose, to see how much they’d take. But they’d never shouted back, or told her to get lost, or stalked off in a huff.

And, this time, she wouldn’t need to lose them after just ten measly sessions, or want to
kill
their other clients, so she could have them back, and have them to herself. She was no longer even a client now, but living with them permanently – their child, their only child. Mary was spreading the blankets over her and slipping a pillow under her head, while Christopher lit the oil-stove and started buttering the bread. He made tiny, dainty sandwiches, with all the crusts cut off, and fed her like a baby. Then he gave her the hot chocolate, tipping up the Thermos and trickling the warm, foamy liquid gently into her mouth. And, when she was full up, Mary tucked her in and began reading her a bedtime story. ‘
Once upon a time
….’

While the two of them kept guard, she was safe from everything. The police would never find her, and no drunks or freaks would dare come near, because Christopher and Mary had a special knack
of changing stuff, like your screw-ups or your past, and of making bad things good. And, for the first time since she’d walked out, she was beginning to feel almost human. In fact, her eyes were actually closing and she was not that far off sleep, as Mary’s voice continued with the story: a story with a happy ending. Yes, her father had come back: brave, bald, kindly Christopher – there, beside her bed; promising to stay; to watch over her, for ever. And her mother, Mary, was just kissing her goodnight, a real, adoring kiss….

No – hold on; slow down. Bedtime stories came later, when she was a kid of five or six. Better to start at the beginning, inside Mary’s womb. Her real mother’s womb had been cold and hard and grudging, and so cramped she couldn’t move an inch, let alone turn round. Most people couldn’t remember being in the womb, but her own vile nine months still bugged her to this day: that gruesome feeling of being caged up in a woman who didn’t want a baby in the first place and kept her starved of food. All she’d had to eat was pills and cigarette-smoke and, each time she tried to rest, the
bang-bang
-bang of her mother’s manic heartbeat jolted her awake.
Mary’s
womb would be different altogether: soft and safe and welcoming, with room to stretch her limbs, and a quietly throbbing heartbeat lulling her to sleep. And there’d be constant streams of healthy food to help her grow, cell by cell by cell, and constant streams of love, right from the time she was a blob. In fact, Mary would probably care enough to read bedtime stories even to a blob. A blob might not understand the words, but it would know that having stories read meant it was special from the start.

She curled into a blobby ball and listened to the dreamy voice
whispering
through her snug cocoon: ‘
Once upon a time
…’ Another story with a happy ending – her father in the delivery-room, instead of in the pub, waiting for her birth, in a state of high excitement. Yes, at this very moment, he was reaching out his arms to take her from the midwife, so proud it was like his team had won the Cup. And now he was announcing to the whole wide world that his little girl was the most amazing, gorgeous creature any dad had ever—

‘Hey, miss, wake up! What are you doing here at this time of night?’

The loud, stern voice cut right across the story. She squinted through her lids, but the murky gloom had vanished and a glaring torch-beam shone right into her eyes. Peering up, she saw four black legs looming over her; two unfriendly faces, each topped by a black helmet, stooping down towards her. Bloody hell – the cops!

‘Is anything wrong?’ the taller one asked, although she could hardly hear for the crackling of the radios, which were spitting out traffic news and emergency reports.

‘Are you all right?’ the second bloke repeated.

She didn’t answer. Their fluorescent jackets were a shiny, blinding yellow. She hated violent colours. Christopher’s jacket was a soft, peaceful shade of brown; Mary wore quiet blues and greys.

‘You look very young. How old are you?’

A new-born baby, she couldn’t say – babies didn’t speak. Someone small and weak, she mouthed, who had to be fed and kissed
goodnight
; tucked up; watched over; protected from all harm.

‘Why aren’t you answering our questions? You’re obviously trying to hide something. We’ve asked you, twice, is anything wrong?’

‘No,’ she muttered. ‘Everything was perfect, until you ruined it.’

The radios drowned her voice; both of them at once – a sort of snorting shorthand, all accidents and horrors.

‘Pile-up at the junction of …’ ‘Serious assault …’ ‘Urgent
assistance
required …’ ‘A stabbing in the High Street. Two young men with blades….’

The taller cop squatted down beside her. She could see his muscly hands; the dark hairs on the thumbs.

‘This is not the sort of place a young girl like you should hide in, let alone so late. We’d better take you along with us and find out more about you.’

She wouldn’t go; not anywhere. New-born babies had to stay safe with their mothers.

‘Yeah,’ the other guy chipped in. ‘Come down to the station and we’ll sort this out, OK?’

No, it wasn’t OK – not at all. She needed help, and desperately. ‘Mum …’ she whimpered. ‘Dad….’

But nobody was there – no one except the two big, burly men. They pulled her up to her feet; stood one on either side of her, each holding on to her arm, so she couldn’t make a run for it. She tried to struggle free, but it was like a floppy rabbit had dared pit its strength against two fierce old foxes. Already, they were marching her along the path; their grip so hurting-tight, it felt like handcuffs.

She glanced up at the pub, rearing, dark, above her. Even its name was a lie. There wasn’t any anchor; wasn’t any hope. And the only happy ending was a night in a police-cell.

‘I
’m here to visit my sister – Marion McCall. Can you tell me where I can find her, please.’

‘Hang on a sec.’ The nurse spoke with a distracted air.

Eileen glanced at the crumpled uniform; the strands of greasy hair escaping from the ponytail. Did the girl have no professional pride? ‘Hang on a sec’ was hardly an appropriate response,
especially
as she’d been waiting at the nurses’ station a good five minutes already, with no choice but to eavesdrop on a whispered conversation. The nurse was confiding in her colleague about some disastrous romance; none of the steamy details spared.

‘Sorry.
Who
did you say?’ she asked, at last, presumably
remembering
she was paid to work.

‘Marion McCall. I’m her sister.’

The nurse consulted the whiteboard on the wall beside the desk, ‘Yeah, this is the right ward. Last bed in the last bay on the right.’ With a casual wave, to indicate the general direction, she returned to her discussion of Mr Hopelessly Wrong.

Eileen made her way into the ward. There was no sign of her sister from this first bay, all of whose occupants appeared to be in the final stage of life – or perhaps
non
-life would be more apt a phrase. Most were hooked up to a daunting array of drips and tubes and oxygen-masks; three lay completely comatose, and one poor wrinkled crone seemed to be coughing up her lungs. How come Marion, at fifty-six, had landed up amongst these geriatric
no-hopers
? Her sister’s garbled phone-call had been distinctly short on facts, but it was clear she was in no danger. A hysterectomy, however painful or upsetting, was hardly terminal.

She was aware of eyes following her as she traversed the second bay; her mere presence attracting notice because no one else had visitors. Her natural inclination was to pause by every hapless patient’s bed and give each one some portion of her time. For all she knew, they might be mostly family-less and friendless, and just mouldering here until released by merciful death. But having
realized
, on reflection, that the approach of a total stranger might be less a source of solace than of disquiet or even alarm, she made herself walk on. Fortunately, there were more signs of life in the last bay: one patient actually mobile and another even packing to go home, although a third was sobbing piteously, with no one on hand to help. Those nurses at the desk were obviously too busy discussing the vagaries of their love-life to provide comfort, Kleenex or even a listening ear.

She stopped in shock at the sight of her sister, who lay asleep and ashen-pale; her head askew on the pillow and one arm stretched across the counterpane, as if in supplication. Her once-dark, bouncy hair was now sparse and greying; her face haggard, deeply lined. How in God’s name could she have aged so much in the five years since they’d last met?

With as little noise as possible, she eased herself into the chair beside the bed. The exotic lilies and hothouse roses she had purchased at the hospital shop seemed to cringe at their
surroundings
– pampered aristocrats forced to slum it in this shabby NHS ward. Positioning the bouquet across her lap, she gave silent thanks for her own robust health. Her only operation in her entire
sixty-two
years – a minor hernia repair – had been carried out at St Winifred’s, a private cottage-hospital, where she’d had her own luxurious room, fully air-conditioned and with a view of
landscaped
gardens. Here, the air was stuffy, if not smelly, and the vista from the window was of dismal concrete wasteland. But then Marion had only herself to blame. All her life, she had refused to take a regular job or establish a settled home, and thus had not the slightest chance of affording medical insurance – or even other kinds of insurance. Many times, she, as elder sister, had offered financial assistance, only to see the money squandered on some
damn-fool project, such as the ill-fated trip to Mexico, or the attempt to found a commune with a group of equally feckless folk.

She closed her eyes, exhausted by her early start and the long drive from Harrogate. When she’d set out this morning, the
temperature
had been minus five – the coldest day of January, so far – and the icy roads and flurries of snow had only added to the strain. However, it was impossible to doze in this milieu, with all the noise and disturbance. The sobbing hadn’t abated; the patient who’d been packing was now clattering things around, and another had started wailing and complaining. Two nurses had, in fact, appeared, but seemed only to be contributing to the hubbub; one bawling at the weeping woman, who was clearly very deaf, and the other
manoeuvring
a patient into a wheelchair; managing, in the process, to knock a glass off the bedside-table and spill water all over the floor. If she had her way, she would send these staff straight back to nursing school, to learn manners and appropriate patient-care, not to mention a little TLC.

Although she had to admit that she, too, was somewhat lacking in the TLC department when it came to displays of distress. She herself would never dream of giving way to such public exhibitions, and thus found them hard to tolerate in others. Even at the funeral, she had remained resolutely dry-eyed, despite the appalling shock of her busy, lively mother, with her many friends and interests, and her firm intention of not dying until she passed the hundred mark, suddenly keeling over in a heart-attack. There had been no warning; no prior illness. On Thursday, she’d been an energetic, healthy
octogenarian
; on Friday, a waxen corpse.

The patient’s sobs were setting off unwelcome memories, of other people crying at the funeral; her mother’s best friend, in particular, becoming near-hysterical with grief. What a relentless day that had been; grinding on much longer than any normal day. Yet, despite her private heartache, she had never faltered in her role as hostess: greeting mourners; joining in the prayers and hymns, then presiding at the reception. But, notwithstanding the condolences she had received on every side, there
was
no consolation. And, now, all she had left of her mother was a jar of ashes on the mantelpiece.

Moving the bouquet to the floor, she opened her handbag and withdrew the crisp white envelope containing Marion’s small portion of those ashes; laying them on the bedside locker, to remind her to hand them over. Whether her sister would actually want them or not was a different matter altogether.

Marion’s locker was pitifully bare: no get-well cards; no bowl of fruit or bottle of Lucozade. After her own operation, her hospital room had resembled a cross between a flower-shop and a branch of Clinton Cards – and she’d been in a mere two days! Did Marion have no friends; no one to visit except a sister who was now an almost-stranger? But that, too, was Marion’s fault. Her knack of alienating people was legendary, including her own family, of course.

She tried to block her ears, as sounds of moaning and retching arose from the far corner of the bay and a raucous nurse kept urging, ‘Spit, dear. Spit some more!’ Repulsive spitting noises followed in their turn and, only when they’d subsided, did Eileen shut her eyes again, longing to sink into oblivion. She had barely slept at all this last raw and aching fortnight, yet determinedly, she switched her thoughts from the funeral; from hearses, wreaths and ashes, and that horrendous, final moment when the blue-velvet curtains closed around the coffin. Instead, she pictured her mother in her prime: the resourceful and courageous widow, bringing up two girls alone; never indulging in self-pity, or even in recrimination, despite endless provocation from the rebellious younger child. Exasperation with the black sheep of the family had drawn them close from a very early stage, and, as the years went by and Marion’s defiance increased in scale and volume, the bond had deepened further. Frankly, it had been a relief for them both when the black sheep moved down South, although the transgressions had, of course, continued;
necessitating
frequent trips to bail her out yet again.

‘Eileen!’

At the sound of her name, she hastily opened her eyes. It seemed wrong to be caught napping when Marion was in this vulnerable state. But her sister was now wide awake and staring at her in obvious surprise.

‘I thought you’d decided not to come.’

‘Why on earth should you think that? I told them loud and clear this morning that I was on my way and would they please inform you.’

‘Well, no one said a dicky-bird. And it’s a good week since I rang you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, defensively. ‘I couldn’t just drop everything and head straight for the door. I mean, there’s Harold to consider and I had to make arrangements for …’ Her voice tailed off. She could hardly admit that she hadn’t been exactly keen to make yet another mercy-trip. It was a good five-hour drive to this
unappealing
part of London, the weather was atrocious and the only hotel she’d managed to find in the hospital’s vicinity was distinctly second-rate. ‘Besides,’ she added, feeling she had to make a stronger case for her own apparent negligence. ‘I had to take the car in for a service. It was almost due, in fact, and I didn’t want to risk a
breakdown
.’

‘Sorry to put you to so much trouble.’

She bristled at her sister’s sarcastic tone. ‘It wasn’t any trouble,’ she snapped. ‘These things take time, that’s all. Anyway, I blame the hospital. What sort of hopeless place is it, if they can’t be bothered to pass on important messages from relatives?’

Marion shrugged. ‘Calm down. No harm done. You’re here; I’m here. What’s the problem?’

Her sister’s unexpected smile only added to her guilt. She was uncomfortably aware that, after a five-year absence, she should have been more affectionate; not sounded off about the hospital’s
deficiencies
. Hastily, she laid the bouquet on the bed, in an attempt to make amends. ‘These are for you,’ she said, returning Marion’s smile.

‘You shouldn’t have bothered. You know I hate flowers.’

The smile froze on her face. How perverse was that? No one hated flowers.

‘And the nurses aren’t keen either. They’re an infection-risk, apparently – you know, lethal germs breeding in the flower-water. Although they’d be lucky to get any water here, let alone a proper vase. The nurses are rushed off their feet.’

‘So I noticed,’ she said, sarcastic now herself, yet hating the fact
they were already bickering. How did other sisters manage to be companionable and close, while she and Marion had fought for almost sixty years?

‘Eileen, I can’t believe I actually dozed off! I’ve barely slept a wink all the time I’ve been here, then, when
you
turn up, after years and years of deliberately avoiding me, I’m bloody dead to the world!’

Eileen bit back a retort. ‘Deliberately avoiding’ was really rather rich. Marion had brought her isolation on herself. Fortunately, they were interrupted by the appearance of a nurse, wheeling some machine or other, which she parked beside the bed. Without a word to either of them, she proceeded to take Marion’s blood-pressure and temperature; scrawled some figures on the chart, then trundled off as quickly as she’d come.

Eileen raised her eyebrows. ‘They’re not exactly chatty here.’

‘You should see the consultant! Even if he actually deigns to speak, I can’t understand a word he says. I’ve nothing against foreigners. I’d just like them to learn English, as well as medicine.’

‘Anyway, how
are
you?’ Eileen asked, ashamed to realize she hadn’t yet enquired.

‘Lousy. Either in pain, or all woozy from the drugs. But the worst thing is the lack of sleep. There’s so much racket, day and night – cleaners banging about, or patients crying out for help, or doctors rushing in to deal with some emergency. The minute I close my eyes, somebody or something wakes me up. It’s driving me insane!’

‘I’m sorry, honestly.’

Another shrug. ‘Who cares?’

‘
I
do.’ It wasn’t a lie. She did care – always had – but she’d learned through painful experience that
no
one could help Marion – not she, or Harold, or their two now grown-up daughters; not even her mother, despite their combined, heroic efforts to improve the situation. After decades of contention, they had all been forced to conclude that there was nothing else any of them could do.

She made herself reach down and clasp her sister’s hand. It, too, looked distressingly old, with distended veins and brown patches of discolouration. Was Marion hiding something – something sinister
that would explain this accelerated ageing? Could the surgeon have found cancer in her womb – cancer that had already spread? The prospect of another funeral filled her with the deepest dread.

Marion seemed uneasy with her hand held and, having wriggled it free, picked up the bouquet, instead, and thrust her nose against the roses. They were scentless, in fact, being out-of-season and forced. Nonetheless, Eileen thought resentfully, a word of thanks would surely be in order, but then gratitude had never been Marion’s strong point.

‘It was the infection that really loused things up. I mean, I was due to leave this dump two days ago, but that very morning, my temperature shot up. They found the wound was oozing –
suppurating
, they call it – so that put the bloody kibosh on any chance of going home.’

Was Marion lying, she wondered; inventing an infection to conceal a cancerous tumour? But what would be the point? Besides, she had never spared her family any details of her earlier traumas: the abortion; the disastrous overdose; the near-fatal accident. (Only Marion would be so reckless as to borrow some madcap’s
Harley-Davidson
and do a ton down the motorway, just for the sheer hell of it.) On the other hand, her sister was a practised liar, as if in deliberate contravention of their mother’s firm belief that even the whitest of white lies was wrong. Indeed, she herself adhered to the same strict standards and never lied, on principle.

‘So when are they thinking of discharging you?’ She had to raise her voice above the disturbance from the adjoining bed. An entire medical team had just breezed in and, although they had drawn the floral curtains round the bed, their remarks and observations were clearly audible – not to mention disconcerting.