All of Me (24 page)

‘Oh!’ by Suzy

‘Silent Blue’ by Patricia

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

My own place

The delivery van thundered down the congested south London street. Parked cars were lined bumper to bumper as far as the eye could see. Pedestrians flitted in and out of shops and houses. Julie had to be alert. Any one of them could suddenly dart out in front of the van. It happened all the time.

As she pulled up at traffic lights, Julie used the red light’s pause to sift through the paperwork on the passenger seat and double-check the pick-up address. Just as she thought. She’d been there a hundred times. The van could probably find its way without her.

Amber. Green.

Van into first, then through the gears to fourth, Julie crawled away. She needed the third turn on the right. Ready to signal any moment.

Then she noticed the car in front. It was trying to tell her something. She studied the license plate. It was as clear as day. It was saying ‘turn left’.

Change of plan!

The squeal of tires trying to cling to the road as the van skidded into a sudden turn brought shocked stares from passers-by. A cacophony of horns joined in a second later and there was angry swearing from a man who’d been halfway across the road.

Julie heard it all and didn’t care.

She had to obey the messages.

She pulled up behind another car, a blue one, and waited for further instruction. It was there, in the license plate as usual, the letter ‘R’.

That means ‘right’.

So that’s where she turned, less suddenly this time but still without warning the car behind.

Julie had forgotten about the delivery. She was following a more important mission now. The messages were coming through loud and clear. The next one was the most unmistakeable of all.

‘C.Y.E.’

It could only mean one thing: ‘close your eyes’. Without a second thought Julie obeyed.

She was travelling at almost thirty miles an hour.

C
ars have played a regular part in my life. The sound of Dad roaring up our road and those tense moments afterwards wondering if he’d make the bend at that speed is one of my clearest, earliest memories. Mum’s accident changed the dynamic in the house for ages. She was the strong one, the one in charge. Having her out of commission made everything wrong.

Then there was the fact I was given a driver’s licence without ever having taken a lesson – although I was going out with the instructor at the time.

Speaking of boyfriends, I was going out with another guy when my next four-wheeled memory occurred. My little car had a problem so I called a mechanic to come and have a look. He was a good-looking chap and so when he asked me out I said yes. Of course, he turned out to be married – although that wasn’t the only reason we only saw each other once.

He picked me up in his car – even though he’d fixed mine now – and we drove out to Epsom. It’s a bit more picturesque than certain parts of south London but I’d have been happier with somewhere closer. I thought maybe he was trying to impress me – although he probably wanted to get far away from being possibly spotted by his wife!

We had a nice night actually. My wine glass was always filled up, which was the main thing. As we drove back along these narrow lanes through Banstead, the road was so twisty, it was bend after bend. There were no streetlights and either side of the road there was a high grass verge that made it look narrower still. If anything came the other way both cars had to slow down to make sure we didn’t touch.

Everything was fine, romantic even. Then we saw the headlights.

It happened so quickly I couldn’t even scream. There was a car on the other side of the road – and another one overtaking it and heading straight for us.

Where could we go? There was nowhere. Everyone slammed on their brakes but it was too late.

The next thing I remember is scrabbling for the door handle. I had to get out. I was sure the car was going to explode. That’s what happened in films. It was pitch black; all the headlights had been smashed. I didn’t even know where I would run. I couldn’t make out up from down.

Come on! Open!

The handle turned but the door wouldn’t budge. It had been smacked too hard. Then I realised we were up against the grass verge. Panicking I shoved it with my shoulder, hard, and felt it give. I did it again, and again. Finally there was just enough of a gap for me to squeeze through. I just managed to get through, oblivious to the nettles and damp grass scratching my face, and pulled myself out. I didn’t give two hoots about my date, that much was clear. I just wanted to get away.

Half running, half staggering into the darkness I heard screaming and crying. It was like being back in Warlingham. Like being in the dreaded lock-up area on George Ward.

Suddenly there were lights and the sound of an engine. A car pulled up. Instinctively I went over but when the doors opened I froze. Three terrifying-looking punks were clambering out. They were dressed in black from head to foot with studs and pins sticking out of everywhere. There’d been a lot of bad press at the time about people like this. I looked behind me. Was it too late to run back?

I learnt a lesson that night. Never judge a book by its cover. Those kids were so sweet. They took me to their car and made me sit in it while one of them ran to the nearest house to call an ambulance.

‘Are you sure? I’m bleeding. It will get all over your car.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Get in.’

I think they thought a bit of blood might have improved their image!

I was taken eventually to a hospital and patched up. My face was lacerated, my arm was battered and I had a gimpy leg. They wanted to keep me in overnight but I discharged myself. I just kept saying, ‘I need to get back to Mum.’

I clearly wasn’t ready. Two days later I was back in the hospital. I don’t know how I’d arrived – nothing new there. I’d been found, they said, wandering around and couldn’t remember my name. Eventually someone recognised me – not surprising considering the amount of time I’d spent there. They produced my notes and deduced ‘hysterical amnesia’ – apparently a ‘classic example of dissociation’, they agreed. I wasn’t convinced.

I’ve just been in a serious road accident, you idiots. Don’t you think that might have had something to do with it?

I mentioned Mum was on her own. That was true. Lorraine was pregnant with her second son, Alex, and had decided it would be best if she, Lol and Ben moved out to stay with Lol’s mum round the corner. After Dad had gone Mum clung to Lorraine. She was her rock, she’d given her a grandson – and she took Mum out drinking every week.

Indirectly, a car was about to make her life worse – not that the doctors ever admitted it.

It started when she went to the opticians for her annual check-up. There was nothing wrong with her eyes but it’s best to be on the safe side, she always said. The optician told her she had a leaking blood vessel in both eyes – which we think was caused originally during the accident. He booked her into the hospital and said they’d seal it.

The operation went perfectly. Lasers were fired into Mum’s eyes, then they put patches on her and said, ‘By tomorrow you’ll be back to normal.’

She wasn’t.

‘I can’t see anything!’

Mum was truly scared. ‘It will be all right,’ I said. What else was there to say? But Monday turned into Tuesday, which quickly became Friday. A week after the operation we returned to the hospital to be told Mum was permanently blind.

I can’t imagine being told that. She’d gone into the operating theatre with 20/20 vision and come out unable to see. Nothing prepares you for that.

Weeks later we got to the bottom of it. The doctor with the laser had said, ‘When it gets too uncomfortable let me know and we’ll switch it off.’

Mum took it as a point of pride to endure it way past the discomfort stage. In the end they turned it off without her asking.

Stupid, stubborn old woman. Her and her warped ego. It was the same as that business with the dentist removing my teeth. She cared more about what people thought than what was good for her.

The result was two burnt eyes and 98 per cent blindness. She could make out light and shade but that was it. It must have been horrible for her.

Even with her near-to-total blindness, Mum actually found it easier to find work than I did. Because she worked for the Department of the Environment they found a job she could still do. Apparently, my Green Card wasn’t exactly what employers were looking for. Rejection letters arrived at the house thick and fast – many of them from jobs I had no recollection of applying for. Fortunately, family and friends rallied round.

Aunty Ivy found me a job with her at a bookbinders in Norwood. It was pretty menial stuff – putting this here, taking this there – but it paid, although not for long. When demand died down I was let go.

Then my friend Jennifer’s sister stepped up. Jill worked at Croydon Council and managed to persuade them to take me on at Taberner House as part of the Housing Benefit team.

‘It’s only a temporary post for six months,’ Jill explained, ‘but if you’re any good I’m sure you’ll get the job. They’re looking for someone to fill it permanently.’

Six months? If I lasted that long it would be a record.

But I did. In fact the reason for my leaving half a year later had nothing to do with me. Jill couldn’t have been more apologetic but they were hiring another temp on the same contract. They were doing it to save money. Temps are cheaper, apparently. So the job was never on offer, really.

Once more the dole stepped in to plug the void between posts. Finding something when you’ve as good as got ‘disability’ stamped on your forehead wasn’t easy. Ironically, the next job I found myself doing came as a result of the company actively searching for Green Card holders. I think there must have been tax breaks or some other incentive. I don’t suppose they were doing it for the good of their souls. Either way, they seemed to be keen because I appeared to be taken on without even applying. One minute I was at home; the next I was there. I didn’t question how – as I hadn’t with the washing-up job and the shop position or any of the others – I was just interested in discovering what, where and with whom.

First impressions: two people. In navy blue uniforms, white shirt and tie. Talking to each other – and me. They know me so I must know them. They’re laughing. We must be friends.

That was what I took in during my first couple of seconds with them. A moment later I noticed the vans. Five or six white courier Transits parked alongside one another in a pen. Instinctively I looked down. I was wearing the same outfit as the other pair – and the logo on the breast pocket matched the sign on the side of the vans. I worked here.

But doing what?

There was a pause and then the other two headed across the road to a cafeteria. Inside there were half a dozen other people wearing the same thing. The woman who’d led the way introduced me to a few of them. I realised she must be my supervisor.

‘This is Kim. She’s driving for us now.’

Oh, am I? There’s that driving thread in my life again.

But at least I knew. I looked out the window at the vans across the street. I’d never driven anything that big before.

I had a fun lunch, just watching everyone, listening, trying to pick up clues about what I was delivering where. When we’d all finished I had it explained to me. I was a courier for a large company. It was my job to take internal mail around town from one division to another. Weirdly, the supervisor claimed I’d been doing it all morning. I wasn’t going to argue, not on my first day, not even if she was the maddest woman on Earth. And besides, there was a perfectly logical reason:

Maybe I’m not the only one in on the Green Card ticket.

I did that courier job for five years. Five years! It couldn’t have been easier. In fact every lunchtime we’d all meet up at another café to compare work loads. The goal was to always have had everything done by midday. Then you could tell your boss you were still going and pretty much chill for the remainder of the day. It felt naughty but everyone else was doing it.
Why shouldn’t I?