A Question of Identity (13 page)

‘Throwing up,’ Harry said. He could cope with it. Sick. Nappies. Toilet upsets. All the stuff that seemed to accompany having kids. He mopped up, changed pyjamas, got a bowl for beside the bed. Looked at his son’s pale pinched little face with sympathy. He remembered being sick as a kid and how it had frightened him. He didn’t want his own being afraid of anything.

Outside, the snow fell again, covering the pavements and the paths and the gardens. Covering up footprints and paw prints and tyre marks. Covering every trace.

Karen’s mother had been due to move into her new bungalow the previous day but with the bad weather it was thought best to postpone until a thaw.

In the morning, Bradley was candle-coloured and weak in the
aftermath of his sickness, Harvey had complained of tummy pains. They would be puking puppies, and Karen would be stuck in with them all day. He couldn’t stop work for sick lads. Couldn’t afford to catch anything.

He got into the van with a sigh of relief, feeling like someone escaping the prison cell. He loved his sons but money was scarce and he needed the work. He loved them more than he’d admit to anyone. He’d had no idea what he’d feel about having kids, hadn’t dared to look ahead, had been worried by the whole business. But the minute he saw them, he’d known. He’d do anything for them and he’d kill the person who ever wronged them. Simple as that.

Duchess of Cornwall Close was nice enough but it looked a bit raw and bleak with snow all round, no greenery, none of the bits and pieces people put on their window ledges, no doormats or pots or notices about junk mail. But a white van, bigger than his own, was parked up. And the front door was ajar.

Rosemary’s was on the far side. Bit close to the neighbour on the left, Harry thought, but it had a patch of lawn and some fencing to the right. The gardens here backed onto a path and a line of trees. They wouldn’t hear much noise from the road.

He went up to the front door and pushed it further open. ‘Who’s there?’

A man emerged from the kitchen.

‘Didn’t know anyone was still working in here, thought it was all done.’

‘Checking the electrics. Who’s asking?’

Harry stood his ground. ‘Family,’ he said.

‘What family?’

‘Of the new tenant in here. Doing a bit of checking myself.’

‘Right.’

‘You worked on all of these places?’

‘Most. They’re not bad. Went up a bit fast, some shoddy workmanship, but they’re not bad.’

‘Which is the warden’s house?’

‘Now you’re asking. Was going to be the bottom maisonette in the block.’

‘Was?’

‘Not any longer. No warden after all. No money for a warden.’

‘You’re kidding? That’s diabolical!’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘What are these old people meant to do if they have a problem, they have a fire, or they can’t make the heating work, or they get taken ill? Anything could happen.’

‘Yeah, well, I don’t make the rules.’

‘That’s absolutely not on. I don’t like the idea of her being here on her own, no warden, nothing.’

‘Your mother?’

‘In-law. Good for her age but that’s beside the bloody point.’

The electrician had gone back into the kitchen. Harry went into the sitting room. Bleak, with nothing in bar the carpet. It looked cold and felt cold. He went round, checking each room. Doors and windows, fastenings, locks, taps. The electrics were off. Bit of slapdash paintwork on the cupboards in the kitchen. He opened the window and closed it. It fitted badly. The door needed a draught excluder strip.

‘I’m done. You want me to let you out or what? I’m over to the flats now.’

Harry watched the sparks shut the front door and double-lock it, then walk off without another word.

When Harry passed between the bungalows he saw that the residents could be neighbourly but not too close, talk across the paths from their front doors but be secluded in their back gardens and patios, where the fences were higher. They were well designed, so that they would all get a decent amount of sun in the afternoon and evening, mainly on the gardens – the front rooms might be a bit dark but, in his experience, kitchens and gardens were what people would prefer to have bright and warm. The bedrooms were either at the back or the side, well placed for quietness. The heating system was communal, the roofs had solar panels, the walls had been decently insulated. The storage space could have been better but who wanted to bring a load of clutter forward into old age?

He went back to his van and rang Karen to report. Her mother
was going to enjoy herself here, she was going to be comfortable, warm, peaceful, safe, with plenty of neighbours nearby. The only fly in the ointment was that there would be no warden, as they’d been promised.

‘I’m going to jot down a list – few odd things need finishing off. The usual workmen rushing to get done and on to the next, screws missing here and there, paintwork not properly coated underneath shelves and inside doors . . . but on the whole . . .’

When he’d gone through everything, he asked how Bradley was.

‘It’s more Harvey now, he’s been sick three times and he won’t get off the toilet.’

Harry said he was late to look at a boiler breakdown on the other side of the town and cut her off before she could go into any more detail.

Forgetting who you were. Remembering who you are. It’s hard. You wake up in the night for months after, sweating because it’s all gone, everything – names, places, the way to your old house, the way to your new one.

Only then you remember something else. Why. And then you laugh.

You have to laugh.

‘
WHERE WERE YOU?’
Cat said as she walked round the kitchen putting shopping away. The thaw had set in and the supermarket home delivery had reached them. She had made it to Emma’s book group the previous evening, but Judith had not, which was surprising as she had been one of the first and most enthusiastic members, had never missed a meeting, and the book they had discussed was her choice.

‘Things cropped up, you know how it is.’

Cat took the hint and did not pursue the subject. But things did not just ‘crop up’ to keep Judith from the book group.

‘What are we reading next?’

‘
Wide Sargasso Sea
. . . I’ve got a spare copy somewhere if you need it.’

‘I’m pretty sure there’s one here, thanks. I have read it, but years ago.’

Cat bent to put cheese into the fridge, the phone to her ear.

‘By the way, we went to the Italian for supper last week, the night before it thawed. Pretty hairy journey into town mind.’

‘Worth it though. It’s a comfort place, that restaurant.’

‘I needed a bit of comfort. Simon was there.’

‘Well, it’s his local. On his own?’

‘No, with Rachel.’

‘Aha.’

‘Good thing?’

Cat sighed, heaving cat food tins up onto the shelf. ‘For him, yes.’

‘But . . .’

‘Do you know, I just can’t worry about Simon and women any more. I’ve had so many years of it, I’ve picked up so many pieces – not his usually – I’ve decided to stay out of it. He’s a grown-up for heaven’s sake. No, hang on . . . maybe that’s going a bit far.’

‘I have a theory. Serrailler men never grow up. I know they seem to manage to hold down quite grown-up jobs, but they themselves are fatally underdeveloped.’

‘Wonder if mine will inherit that. Sam sometimes seems to be going backwards. He had quite a lot of sense when he was nine.’

‘When does Hannah hear about this film part?’

‘Final choice on Thursday. It’s down to two of them and to say nerves are frayed would be the year’s understatement.’

‘Do you think she’ll get it?’

‘I know she wants it. We’ll see. But listen, Judith –’

‘Darling, I must go, something on the stove . . . Talk later and ring the minute you hear anything.’

There was nothing on the stove, Cat was certain. Judith had not wanted their conversation to veer back in her own direction, nor had she been prepared to answer questions. ‘Something’s up’ – that had been Chris’s catchphrase, and he usually had good antennae for what, but even Chris wouldn’t have been able to get over the barrier Judith seemed to have erected recently. Hannah fell in through the door, arms full of homework bag and sports kit, expression alert and anxious.

‘Have you heard anything?’

‘No, and we won’t until Thursday – you know that. Do you want cheese on toast or eggy bread?’

‘Marmite.’ The bags fell in a heap on the kitchen floor.

‘Han . . .’

‘OK, OK, sorry, but I’m so wound up I think I might go ping.’

Cat laughed. ‘It’s no good saying try and forget it because you can’t but at least try and practise diversion tactics. Such as what’s for homework?’

‘English essay but I’ve got three days.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Read the first three chapters of
Jewish Feasts and Festivals
and be ready to discuss.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Yes, did you know . . .’ She hitched herself onto the worktop counter stool, ate a slice of toast and Marmite until her mouth was stuffed full, then began to explain how Passover was celebrated. Usually, Cat would have prompted her to swallow first. Now she said nothing. Hannah was indeed liable to ‘go ping’. Cat looked at her daughter, a Serrailler in features but not in colouring, whereas Sam was as blond as Simon and Felix was the carbon copy of his father, chunky, dark-haired, square-faced.

Hannah was on the cusp of adolescence, grown tall, slender and long-necked. It was possible to see what she would look like as an adult. Interesting, Cat thought, trying to be dispassionate, she will be interesting and intelligent, but with every emotion and passing thought visible on her face, every joy and sorrow chasing one another like clouds across a bare hill. Her desperation to get the film part was obvious and painful. Don’t let her be disappointed, Cat thought, as she had thought so often in the last couple of weeks. Please let her have this or she will be beyond devastated. Was she praying then? Not exactly. She always had the sense that prayers ought to be about serious matters, not trivialities, so she would pray with and for patients in Imogen House every day, but hesitated to ask for anything for herself. Was asking this for Hannah trivial?

Not to Hannah.

She sent up a quick prayer, a proper one this time, as the car bringing Sam home pulled up outside.

‘
LOOKS HALF FINISHED,’
Muriel said, opening a couple of cupboard doors and shutting them, then inspecting the join in the worktop. ‘See, the underside of this, it’s ragged, never been stuck down properly.’

‘Seems all right to me.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me, you’ve never paid attention to detail.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? You say some very odd things.’

‘Is that all you’ve got?’

‘It’s a very nice sherry.’

‘No, I mean those Twiglet things. Far too salty and I have to watch my blood pressure. I’m surprised you don’t, being the same as me.’

‘Yes, well, so far as I’m aware my blood pressure is what it should be. Let’s go into the sitting room.’ Elinor carried out the tray with glasses, sherry bottle and bowl of Twiglets.

‘That dresser looks too big in here.’

‘Muriel, please . . .’ Elinor set the tray down and turned to her twin. She was on the verge of tears. The move into her new bungalow had been exhausting. The snow had thawed so rapidly that the gutters could not cope and had overflowed, the double glazing was faulty and had steamed up between the panes so that it was impossible to see out of any window apart from the bedroom, the central heating had broken down twice, the
electricity was playing up and some of her furniture was too bulky to come through the front door. At present it was in the removal firm’s stores, awaiting her decision. The dresser had been manoeuvred in with millimetres to spare and Muriel was right, it looked too big in the room.

‘Mu, I think we should make a pact –’

‘Don’t call me Mu. I hate Mu.
Nelly
.’

Elinor sighed. They were six years old again. They were always six years old, competitive, argumentative, jealous, angry. But she was determined to make one last effort. And it would be the last. She had come to live here in order to spend whatever years she had left closer to Muriel, and to try and be reconciled once and for all. She had even talked to a counsellor about it and learned what they had called some ‘strategies’.

‘Muriel, sit down and have this sherry. I want us to talk.’

‘Sounds ominous.’

‘No it isn’t, it’s just sense. Cheers.’

Muriel lifted her glass a fraction and sipped. ‘It isn’t poisoned’ was on the tip of Elinor’s tongue but she bit the words back. That was what would have to stop, that quick sarcastic or hurtful retort, one of them always trying to get a rise out of the other. She said as much now. Muriel looked at her over the top of her glass and looked away again. Said nothing.

‘It’s daft, all these years, quarrel, quarrel, quarrel, we’re sisters for heaven’s sake. Twins. What could be closer than that? People would give a lot to have someone as close in old age.’

‘Not so old.’

‘Muriel, I am the same age as you and, whatever you want to think, we are in our old age.’

‘I should know, I’m four minutes older than you.’

‘Does that really matter? You’ve tried to use that to patronise me and put me down and lord it over me all our lives. Four minutes. It has to stop. I want it to. Why do you think I’ve made this move? Come all this way?’

‘You’ve never said. Seems odd, if you want to know. All your friends being up there.’

‘I’ve precious few left, I’ve told you that. I think we’re very lucky to have one another.’

‘I’ve friends. A lot of friends.’

‘I’m very pleased to hear it. And I hope to make my own here. We don’t have to live in one another’s pockets.’

‘I should hope not.’

‘Just be friends, if we can’t be closer than that.’

Muriel looked into her empty sherry glass, not actually commenting on how small it was. Elinor got up and refilled it without a word. Her own was barely touched.