The Other Ida (18 page)

“She's called Ida,” the first woman said.

“Ida,” said the second in her soft, Irish accent.

It was then that Ida knew who it was. “Ma?” she asked, “Ma? Are you drunk?” Then, when the woman didn't respond she tried, “Bridie, Bridie Adair. It's you.”

“Shhhh,” said the women together, over and over, as they rubbed Ida's back, letting her finally fall asleep.

Ida found herself in hospital with a bandage tight round her head and a pale, man's hand resting on hers.

“My head,” she said idiotically, blinking as she tried to cope with the light.

“Yes your head, darling. They've parcelled you up like something from
Carry On Nurse
. Here.”

It wasn't Peter, was it?

“Stay still,” the man said and held a mirrored compact up to her face as she struggled to open her eyes. Yes, a white bandage was wrapped ridiculously round her head and below it her right eye was black and almost closed.

“Oh God,” she said then, “ow. This really is too tight.”

“Let me help.”

She saw his face then, his lovely, long face as he fiddled with the bandage.

“Is it you?” she asked.

“Yes, darling. You're not dead, don't worry. Are you getting carried away with this hospital bollocks? How many fingers am I holding up?” He made a V sign in Ida's face and she laughed.

“Now stay still. You better not spring a leak if I do this. Don't want blood all over my new shirt, genuine St Marks. You're bloody lucky they found me to call. One of the girls said you'd mentioned me? They called my agent. She was bloody delighted, thought some work had come in. Rooting for her ten percent, the old slag. Serves her right it was only you getting bonked on the head.”

Ida didn't remember mentioning him to anyone but who knew what she said when she was drunk.

She reached up and took his chin in her hand and he looked down into her eyes.

“You're coming home with me sweetheart. You've had your fun playing the poor little match girl.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Feel any better?” he asked, loosening the bandage with his thumb.

“Yes, so much,” she said.

Peter lived in a mansion flat in Belsize Park. His driver, Pauly, took them there, an old, socialist cockney who had once driven ‘Mr O'Shea' between TV shows and theatres and now took him to Waitrose for his weekly shop.

Ida had met Pauly many times before, he had known her mother too, and he gave her the kind of reverent, accepting, all knowing stare that made her think that perhaps he might be God.

The carpet in Peter's house was the deep, brown, unfashionable kind and Ida was so happy to take her shoes off and feel it under her feet. It was how the floor in the woods should feel, but it never did.

“Bed,” Peter said. “I'll show you round later.” He led her into a small bedroom with a high ceiling, almost filled by an enormous bed. “Queen-sized. Seems fitting. Hand me your clothes. All of them. There are some ‘jamas here.” He opened a cupboard and handed Ida some silk, stripped pyjamas before closing his eyes and holding out his arms. “I want everything, bra, undies the lot.”

Ida did as she was told.

She didn't wake up until the next morning when Peter came into the room with a tray. He was still such a beautiful man, so fragile, his skin almost see-through over his sharp cheekbones and long straight nose.

“Sit up sweetheart. Here's sweet tea for the invalid, croissants, jam and
Hello.
But where are the flowers? Who lays a tray without flowers?”

From the inside of his dressing gown he pulled the big, false flower from all those years ago.

“Great things, remember kid?” he whispered as he brought it to her nose.

Chapter eighteen

~ 1999 ~

Ida left the house without washing. She wanted to bump into Elliot, to check things were okay, but she knew it was unlikely. The men would have gone to the beach or the woods, not along the main road to Bournemouth town centre.

Terri had been sensible enough to give Alice cash for them both – a cheque would have been useless for Ida as it wouldn't clear in time. She rubbed the notes in her pocket and thought of all the things she could buy. There had been a time, not long ago, when she would have found Elliot – or anyone really – and taken them to the pub with it. They would have chosen somewhere cheap and anonymous, The Moon in the Square perhaps, and drunk snakebite-and-black until they'd been thrown out.

Where could she get to with fifty pounds? Back to London certainly, with enough for plenty of wine when she got back. Or even a coach to France. If only she had her passport. It was probably good that she didn't.

Perhaps it would be good to spend the money on clothes. Maybe Alice wouldn't hate her quite so much. To Beales; she should walk straight to Beales.

Most people would have got the bus, especially with the weather, but Ida liked walking and with the strong wind behind her, pushing her along, the whole thing was kind of fun.

She reached the end of the tree-lined road and walked through Westbourne – the O.A.P's paradise on the edge of town – past Oxfam, and the chemist's, and the shop that sold commodes. The Silver Spoon had been renamed Millennium Cafe, in plenty of time for the new year, and Ida felt sorry for all the ninety year olds who went there for ham sandwiches and tepid cups of tea.

It took her twenty minutes to reach the town centre. Girls staggered down the high street, holding desperately onto their hair as though it might fly off. She walked past Topshop, Woolworths, HMV, through the square, and to the Victorian pleasure gardens that led to Bournemouth Beach.

She had spent a lot of time in the gardens when she was young; smoking weed, drinking white cider and snogging ugly boys.

They were still the same really, apart from the hot air balloon Terri had warned her about – a bizarre new tourist attraction that went up on a rope – which today was deflated and tethered firmly to the ground.

Ida imagined releasing it – it wouldn't be that hard – and flying away like Dorothy at the end of the
Wizard of Oz
.

She could remember things as she walked – getting shouted at by groups of girls then jumping in the river to make them think she was mad, drinking whisky by the lions on the war memorial, and snogging Danny the Irish tramp, who'd been fifteen years older than her. Which was gross when she thought about it now.

There was the Peakes stall, where you could win teddy bears. It was closed today. It looked like it had been closed for a while.

That was as far as she would go. Past that point you could see the sea and it would be horrible and angry today. She didn't like it at the best of times.

And the pier. Just before Ida had left home Bridie had taken her to the pier on some strange, angry mission. Ida had forgotten all about that.

She stroked the curly old-fashioned lettering of the Peakes sign and was about to turn to leave when she felt a hand on the small of her back.

Immediately she thought it was Elliot. But instead there was a pale dark-haired man with pockmarked skin, about her height, wearing rectangular glasses.

“It's Ida, isn't it?” He noticed her blank expression, “Martin? From St Lukes?”

He hugged her while Ida stood stock still, her arms by her sides, very aware that she must smell. From the corner of her eye she noticed a blonde child looking up at her, attached to reins which Martin – or the man who said he was Martin – was holding.

“I heard about your mother, it was in the
Echo
. I am so sorry. She was a wonderful woman,” he said as he pulled away.

“Thank you. It's okay. It's odd to see you.”

He looked down at the child. “Poppy, this lady was your Daddy's very first girlfriend. Can you believe it?”

Ida looked down at Poppy who was gazing up at both of them with a cross and confused expression.

“Does he always keep you on a lead?” she asked the child.

Martin laughed, nervously. “You haven't changed, you were always funny.”

“Oh God, don't,” Ida was embarrassed and wanted desperately to get away.

“Not into the whole kids thing? I'm married now – to Tash. We've got Pops here, and we're expecting again.”

“Lovely.”

“You really want to get away don't you? Sorry. Your mother's just passed away. You must have stuff you need to do.”

He looked sad and Ida recognised him then, the keen to please, bullied boy who loved church way too much. But more than that he'd loved her, enough to do stuff that definitely wasn't allowed in the Bible when they were both very much underage.

“It's fine, I'm going to Beales to buy an outfit. I got sidetracked. Are you going that way?”

“Yes! We can do. We normally go to look at books in Waterstones on a Friday. Poppy's into Enid Blyton. I'm a stay-at-home Dad.”

He hugged her again. “It's lovely to see you. I always worried. You were such a lost soul.”

Ida visibly cringed.

They walked the long way back through the gardens, looking at things with Poppy, pointing out trees and birds. Martin didn't seem to mind that Ida smelled, that her hair was weird. He was looking at her as he had when they were thirteen. And he laughed at everything she said, absolutely everything, even when she made horrible jokes about sleeping with strangers or being a loser.

“Most people don't laugh when I say things like that, they tell me off for having low self-esteem,” she said.

“Well, I know you don't mean it. You think you're bloody brilliant, don't you? An ego's never been something you lacked.”

She was embarrassed but he was right. Perhaps he was cleverer than she'd given him credit for.

They stopped at Waterstones. It had been bombed once, Ida remembered, by the IRA. There and the pier on the same day.

Ida smiled to herself. What strange places for them to target. What a ridiculous bloody town for them to choose.

“You should come for dinner, with me and Tash. She'd love to see you. It's been years. We don't live far from your mum's – Parkstone Avenue.”

“I'm not sure.” Ida remembered Tash from church, a short, quiet girl with extremely long blonde hair that she was very proud of. Ida had once pulled a chunk out of it during a fight over some tap shoes at the Christmas jumble sale.

“Don't worry about it,” said Martin, embarrassed. “I can't imagine you in our living room to be honest. Not sure it's your scene.”

“You'd be surprised – I'd do anything for a comfy sofa and a cup of tea these days. Anyway, I should go.”

“Okay, yes, we need to get reading, eh, Poppy?” He looked back at Ida. “Will you be here for long? You wouldn't think about staying now, in the house?”

“I don't think so. My home's in London.”

“Try to be happy. Not now, but in time. Remember there'll always be a thirteen-year-old boy who hangs on your every word. Man, I was so gutted when you told me about that actress. I said I didn't believe it but I knew it was true. You were always far too Hollywood for me.”

“No, we were both too Hollywood for Bournemouth,” she said, not meaning it, aware that this badly dressed, smiley man and giant, stinking woman – both of them thirty – made a strange and sorry sight.

They hugged again and Ida left them to buy their books, not looking back as she walked away despite knowing they'd be waving at her and hoping that she'd look round.

As she reached Beales she remembered something else, something she'd tried to forget. The day they'd bombed Waterstones, all those years ago, had been the very last time she'd talked to her ma.

Chapter nineteen

~ 1993 ~

Ida got in from college carrying a can of Strongbow and a box of chips and cheese. It was only five thirty but classes hadn't been going well and she'd needed the drink to cheer her up. She couldn't understand the colour wheel – surely there were three shades of blue, max? – and it was making her extremely angry in lessons. Art was meant to be fun, wasn't it? Not all maths-y and anal.

Most of the students had paid to attend but Ida had got on free because she was on benefits and had a letter from the alcohol drop-in centre in Kings Cross. The other people at the drop-in centre were dark yellow and close to death, so Alesha – her support worker – was keen to help Ida as much as she could.

Because she didn't pay, her classmates resented her frequent outbursts even more than they might have done anyway. Or at least she thought they did, which made her even worse.

She'd probably leave, she never finished anything after all.

Her housemate, Kelly, was in the hall, on her way to work. Her hair was crimped, her blusher was alarming, and her hot pants said ‘Barbados' right across the arse. “Hi,” she said, glancing at the can in Ida's hand. “Your mother called.”

“Oh cool, thanks. It was probably my stepmum, Terri?”

“No, she definitely told me she was your mother,” Kelly said. “Said you didn't have her number but she'd call back at seven thirty.”

“Oh, ok,” Ida said. It had to be Terri – of course it would be Terri. But the telephone number thing was odd.

Ida hadn't spoken to her mother for three whole years. It couldn't be Bridie. But still there was a tiny bit of her that was intrigued. There'd never even been the hint of a message like this before.

At ten past eight the phone rang and Ida ran down to the hall.

She took a deep breath and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Darling, they've come for me.”

It was Bridie. It was really her. Behaving as though she'd spoken to Ida the week before.

“Where did you get my number? And what do you mean?”

“Peter. And the IRA.”

Ida couldn't help but laugh. She'd gone properly mad this time. She'd have to call Bryan. “Sit down, I'm going to call Dad.”