The Other Ida (24 page)

“Really?” Alice laughed.

“And I had to show her about her knives and forks, stuff like that. And stop her from wearing so much slap.”

“Well I never,” said Alice.

“You sound about eighty,” said Peter.

“I feel it.”

“If you're eighty, then I'm at least a hundred,” said Ida.

Peter laughed, but his jaw and eyes were tense. There was more to it than he'd said, Ida knew there was. She wouldn't push him to tell her. Not yet.

At two they went downstairs and into the sitting room for lunch. Ida was worried Elliot would be angry but instead he looked miserable, sitting on the sofa watching a James Stewart film, his knees pulled up to his chest, while Tom tidied up.

“Ida, Alice, I'm sorry – we're sorry – for getting drunk and being twats,” Tom said as soon as he saw them.

Elliot didn't even look in their direction.

“That's okay,” said Ida. “Worse things happen at sea.”

Peter wouldn't let the sisters do anything around the house and even persuaded Elliot to help Tom wash up.

“People keep cancelling,” said Alice, “and even those who've said they'll try to come; I know most of them won't. The bigger the bunch of flowers they've sent the less likely they'll turn up I reckon. Some people from the church should come at least. She'd been going to Mass again, for the last few years. The old ladies should come, they love an excuse to get their mantillas out. Some of them visited her recently, bought her soup and prayed with her.”

“Really? Did they tell her to stop drinking?” Ida asked.

“It was too late by then. And mostly they're practical old birds. That Spanish lady, Isabel, the one with the moustache? Well her husband died of ‘thirst' too, she told Ma. Anyway, I've asked them to cater for forty. Not that anyone's going to eat.”

“We'll be eating egg sandwiches for bloody weeks. Well, I will – you don't eat eggs.”

“That woman you used to work for, after you left home, Mary? She came a few times too. Look…”

Alice walked over to the mantelpiece and handed Ida a card.

So sorry for your loss. We'll pray for you all.

Love to you girls,

Mary and Willie xxx

“I thought she hated me,” Ida said. “I just left you know, walked out of the shop one day.”

“She probably doesn't remember,” Alice said, putting back the card, “and if she does, well it was bloody years ago. It's weird, you think you're so powerful, like all the stuff you do ruins people's lives. But they just get on with it, you know? It's just you who suffers, really.”

Peter appeared in the doorway. “Darling girls, I'm sick of being stuck in the house. Shall we go for a walk to the beach, down through the chine?” He stepped towards them and whispered, “Just us three. We can blow a kiss out to sea, to your ma.”

“Ida doesn't like the beach,” said Alice.

“It'll be okay,” said Ida, standing up.

“But not through the chine,” Alice said.

“No, it's okay. I've got you to protect me from everything Uncle Peter. Have you always done that? Blown a kiss for the dead? Ma did it too.”

“I think it started when we were in rep,” he said, “blew a kiss to Jesus before we went on. One for your ma,” he blew a kiss towards the window and the girls copied him, “and one for Jesus.” He blew one towards the ceiling and the sisters did the same.

Chapter twenty-five

~ 1984 ~

Ida put the things from the van into piles round the dark, dusty shop while Mary sat on a stool in the corner, a roll-up stuck between her orange-stained fingers as she read through the list.

“Chess set – wooden, box of photographs, bed pan, five men's waistcoats, incomplete
Encyclopaedia Britannica
.” She coughed, violently, then looked at Ida. “No, separate the waistcoats too, remember what I said.”

Ida immediately complied. Mary was the size of a ten year old, but the deep wrinkles the fags had created gave her the look of an ancient sage, her hooded eyes wise and unshockable beneath her dyed black bob; the white roots at her scalp at least three inches long. Round her shoulders hung a moth-eaten ocelot coat.

How could she have possibly forgotten what Mary had told her? ‘You can't put all the things together that came from one person else they'll come back down from where they've gone, God rest their souls.' That's what she'd said. Ida knew exactly what she meant. It was so easy to conjure someone up from their possessions. It was easy to conjure someone up by simply looking at the list Ida had to make when they brought stuff out of a house. Mary insisted on the lists. Ida had to admit Mary was right not to trust her; at least three times a day she noticed some strange thing she'd love to slip under her holey jumper and take back to the flat.

Then, when everything had been mixed up all over the shop – so the person was no longer real, just a collection of junk – they would burn the list out the back, both the women crossing themselves, and Willie too if he was there.

They'd wanted a man for the job, but Willie had seen Ida lifting barrels when he drank in the pub, and two weeks before, when she'd left (after the Ray evening that she tried hard never to think about) he'd bumped into her in town and offered her a trial shift on the spot. Ida was very grateful. She enjoyed it here, they didn't mind if she wore the same smelly clothes every day. It wasn't far from the bedsit either – a short walk down Ashley Road and she was there. And although she hand't yet, she'd promised she would pay Tina half of the rent too.

Willie hadn't only employed her because she was strong. Mary remembered seeing little Ida at Mass years before, and she suspected a Catholic girl would be more prone to understanding her superstitions and the careful way it all had to be done. She was right, Ida did understand, and even added in some superstitions of her own: photographs must be placed face down, clocks must be kept stopped, and a secret kiss had to be blown towards the sky for each dead person whose stuff they picked up.

The special way they did things, the rules and order, made her feel safe. And although Mary was hard as nails, she did odd, kind things, like bring Ida left over shepherd's pie from her dinner the night before.

Mary carried on. “One pair brown brogues,
Sound of Music
LP, collection of local newspapers, wedding certificate, Roberts radio, tweed flat cap.” She stopped, looked at the floor and crossed herself. The old men got her the worst, Ida knew, and the fact that it was nearly Christmas made her even more upset.

Ida placed the cap near the window and looked around her. She'd done a good job, his things were indistinguishable from the others, and everything looked dusty and ancient and equally settled in.

Now they would burn the list.

Chapter twenty-six

~ 1999 ~

Ida hadn't been to the chine for years and she started sweating as they turned the corner into the woods.

They'd loved it when they were little, the clear, shallow river leading down to the water, the tall cliffs either side of them, pine trees everywhere and the ground so covered in leaves it didn't matter if you fell off a branch or skidded on your bike.

She'd forgotten the smell of pine and mulch and, as you got nearer to the beach, of salt and seaweed.

And then there were the birds, the bloody huge, scary birds in the sky ahead of them.

The sea came into view and they crossed the road, walked past the tatty café and onto the promenade. Peter put his arms round them both. They stood still, in silence, letting cyclists swerve to avoid them, and staring out at the sea. At the water's edge a Yorkshire terrier ran in circles, uselessly snapping at the gulls.

Alice released herself from Peter's grasp. The wind was blowing her hair into her eyes and she held it back with her hand. “I didn't think I'd miss her you know, I only wanted it to end. But sometimes I really do.”

Peter kissed Alice on the cheek. “Of course. Do you Ida?”

She hesitated.

“No. Really I don't. They say you will, don't they, when a parent dies, even if you bloody hate them. But I feel like she died so long ago. I mean, I suppose if I'm honest, I missed her a bit when I first left home. It was miserable living in that bedsit.”

Alice's mouth twitched and Ida knew she was thinking about a time, years before, when Ida had almost died. Neither of them ever mentioned it. “I wonder if Dad misses her,” said Alice.

“Yes,” said Ida. “He loved her.”

“We all loved her,” said Peter.

“Let's walk on the beach,” said Alice.

They jumped down onto the sand.

“We used to come down here when we were little,” Alice said.

Ida took a step back.

“You must have done, all summer long I bet,” said Peter.

“Not much in the summer,” said Alice. “Ma didn't like the sun that much, or the trippers, neither did we. We'd come in the mornings, normally, before school.”

“Don't,” said Ida.

Alice laughed and turned towards her. “Ida tried to kill me once down here.”

“Fuck off Alice, please,” said Ida. She knew she should let it go, brave it out, but she couldn't, not with Peter listening.

“She did, she pushed me under the waves. It was after her ‘big scene'.”

“Fuck off. It was years ago and you're exaggerating wildly.”

“You two are like children,” Peter said, sounding flustered but trying to brush it off as a joke. “Look at that seagull, he's flying backwards. The wind's pushing him.”

The two women pretended to be interested but Ida couldn't concentrate. She was furious. She wanted to leave the beach, to go back to London, to lie in her dirty bed for the next two days and be bothered by no one. Of all the times to bring it up – they'd been kids when that had happened.

“You see she's never made a mistake in her life, Peter,” Ida said as cheerfully as she could, aware that she sounded slightly manic. “She's perfect, flawless, super-fucking-human – she doesn't even have periods, just leaks strawberry sauce once a month. She fucking shits chocolate ice cream.”

“Excellent comeback,” Alice said, “you really are vile”. She was laughing brightly but Ida could tell she was angry as well. She pretended to be so nice, so squeaky clean, when actually, deep down, there was a bitter, vengeful cow, the very sprit of their mother, disguised as a vegan virgin.

“Come on you two, you're both bloody mad.” He took their hands and led them back to the steps. Alice had stopped laughing. She didn't want to be mad.

“Embrace it Alice, it's in your genes,” Ida said, patting her frowning sister on the head as she climbed back up the steps.

“As much as I loved her, your mother has a lot to answer for,” said Peter.

The men had all fallen asleep on the sofa. Alice kissed Tom on the forehead to wake him up.

“Come on Tommy. We need to go and register the death,” she said.

Elliot lay snoring and Ida didn't disturb him. She would leave them all to it. The second best thing to bed was a bath; at least you could lock the bathroom door.

Even over the rushing water she could hear voices below and knew Alice would be moaning about how unhelpful Ida was, biting her lip and sighing and getting plenty of sympathy. She sat on the loo seat, chewing her nails, until she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. She turned off the taps.

“Sweet pea.” It was Elliot. “Can I come in? I feel like I haven't seen you for the last couple of days.”

Ida unlocked the door and he stepped inside. He looked young and sleepy, his hair sticking up in tufts, and she kissed him on the eyelids. It was hot – the extractor fan had broken years ago – and he pushed her against the damp wall.

“I've missed you. I can't believe you made me sleep in bed with that man. His boner was poking into my back this morning. It was wonky like his nose,” he said.

Ida felt for his crotch. “You twat,” she said and began to rub it playfully.

“Don't you want to talk?” he asked, laughing and pushing his hand into her knickers. He starting kissing her neck, then pulled down her t-shirt and kissed her cleavage, and she began to undo his flies. She lifted her hand to his chin and guided his head back up towards hers, looking him straight in the eye.

“You wouldn't mind whatever I did, would you? If I was a murderer or an embezzler or had sex with dogs.”

He laughed. “I think I'd like you more.”

“I'm serious. There are things I've never told you. You know, I tried to kill Alice – when we were little.”

He guffawed. “Ha! Why didn't you do it? I'd like to kill her now.”

“I'm serious! Really, I tried to drown her on the beach,” she said, annoyed. There were two things she'd never told him and this was one of them. Now, out loud, she knew it sounded pathetic. But it was true. She had wanted her dead.

“I know you're serious. So am I. It wouldn't matter whatever you did.” He wasn't laughing now and she knew he really meant it. He put his mouth to her ear. “That's love isn't it? I don't need to say it all the time for it to be true.” He bit her earlobe and pushed his hand further into her pants. She gasped. “And the same goes for you?” he asked.

She nodded and fumbled with the rest of the buttons on his fly. He pushed aside her knickers, lifted her leg over the crook of his elbow and pushed himself into her. Slowly, he ground the small of her back against the hard tiles.

There were footsteps then noises outside the door – Alice and Tom getting ready to go to the registrars' – and Ida pushed her mouth into Elliot's shoulder to stop herself making a sound. He pressed his lips to her cheek then pulled away, panting.

“Sorry.”

“What for? I needed that. I get bored when it goes on too long.”