Chapter One
The woman cradling the baby starts crying again just as Sharon dumps a brown-paper parcel on my workstation.
‘For you,’ she says shortly, ignoring my startled glance, then turns to the crying woman, who is gazing in despair at the shelves of tins and packets she’s not allowed to have. ‘As my colleague told you, we need a letter of referral before we can release any food,’ she tells the woman. ‘I’m sorry, love. Those are the rules at the Tollgate Trust and we have to abide by them. Perhaps if you speak to someone at the benefits office? They have a fast-response scheme if it’s an emergency. I can give you an information leaflet from the council if that’s any help.’
The woman has a telltale split lip, and a fading bruise on her cheek. Teary-eyed, she glances at me as though hopeful that I’ll intervene.
I look down at the paperwork on my desk instead, fiddling with my pen. I used to smile in a sympathetic manner when people came in without referral letters. But as Sharon explained to me, that often makes the situation worse.
‘A smile can be taken the wrong way,’ Sharon told me after a few uncomfortable incidents in my first week. ‘They’re already upset, yeah? So if you say no, but with a big smile, it looks like you’re taking the piss.’
Most of the people who come in here are lovely people, really lovely. But a few of them are definitely on the edge. One man with mental health issues threatened to punch me in the face. Another spat at me, and the police had to be called. We’re on the edge of Chalk Farm here, which is North London. Not a bad area, but there are pockets of trouble.
I came here initially to help out in a practical way. The constant sight of people sleeping rough on the streets of London finally got to me, and I wanted to be useful. But Sharon’s training sessions were an eye-opener. ‘Always be polite and friendly,’ she told me and the other new volunteers. ‘But if you can’t help them because they don’t have an official referral, don’t give them any reason to get nasty with you. And that includes smiling too much. Got it?’
I got it.
The woman looks away, and I smile at the baby in the pink romper suit instead. She stares back at me with large, solemn blue eyes.
Sharon starts rummaging for an information leaflet for the woman. I put down my pen and examine the parcel, unsure what to make of it. At first glance I assumed it was another donation to the food bank. They come in quite frequently from anonymous donors. It’s not particularly heavy though. And it’s addressed to me personally, not the food bank, which is unusual in itself.
An early wedding present, perhaps?
I tear off the brown-paper wrapping. It’s a plain cardboard box and inside is a snow globe.
I freeze, staring down at it.
I see the face of a familiar, smooth glass sphere, glittering water inside, half buried in a heap of protective white polystyrene chips.
It’s Rachel’s snow globe.
My fingertips touch the glass, hesitant. I could be mistaken. Must be mistaken, in fact. It can’t be her snow globe. How could it be?
But when I brush away a few polystyrene chips, there on the black plastic plinth below the glass is my sister’s name. Printed long ago in block capitals onto a stick-on label that’s now smudged and peeling slightly at one corner.
RACHEL.
My hand starts to tremble.
‘What on earth’s that?’ Sharon asks, peering over my shoulder.
The woman with the baby has gone, I realise.
Hurriedly, I cover the snow globe again and close up the cardboard box. ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I mean, it’s personal. Not for the food bank.’
‘Okay, well, when you’re ready . . . I’ve got a Mrs Fletcher here with a referral note from social services.’ Sharon sounds impatient, as though I’ve been caught slacking. An East End accent that thickens when she’s annoyed. Salt of the earth, as my father might say. Not that Dad is ever likely to come into the food bank and meet my boss. Thankfully. ‘Could you possibly see to her if you’ve got a moment? Family of two adults, three teenagers, wheat allergy.’
‘Of course, sorry.’
I shove the parcel out of sight under the desk, and turn to Mrs Fletcher with a broad smile. Smiles are allowed for people with the proper documentation. ‘Hi, I’m Catherine,’ I tell her cheerily. ‘Have you brought a list of what you can’t eat?’
Mrs Fletcher, a harassed-looking woman in her early forties, gives me a wary smile in return. ‘Here.’ She shoves a scrap of paper into my hand. Her hands are red and swollen, with a gold ring on nearly every finger, almost hidden by flesh. ‘We’ve only the one kid with an allergy though. The rest of us need bread and pasta.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll get you sorted out.’ I glance over the handwritten list, and then lead the way across to the food storage area. ‘If you could just follow me, Mrs Fletcher?’
My heart is thumping and I feel a little light-headed. Who on earth would send me Rachel’s old snow globe?
And why?
‘This is the first time I’ve ever used a food bank,’ Mrs Fletcher is telling me. ‘I’m not out of work.’
‘There’s no need to explain, Mrs Fletcher.’
‘We’re not poor. Not homeless or anything. Been in the same flat three years now, never caused nobody any trouble. It’s only because I’m on one of those zero-hour contracts. Only they’ve not called me in for two weeks, have they?’ she adds bitterly. ‘Like they think we can survive on thin bloody air.’
‘Well, you’ve come to the right place. Let’s cover the basics first.’ I take a plastic bag and shake it out, then start filling it with standard items from the list on the wall above me. ‘Sugar? Tea? Coffee?’
‘Thanks,’ she says to all of them, nodding.
Some of those who come here look embarrassed or start to excuse themselves, as if they’ve done something wrong by not being able to afford basic food for their families. They haven’t, of course. Far from it. But a few still feel the need to explain.
I’ve noticed most are less defensive with Sharon and Petra though. My accent, probably. I don’t sound like I fit in, my voice too cultured, even though I try to disguise it. ‘Too posh’, as Sharon often says. They instinctively see me as an enemy. Even aggressive. Someone who’s had it easier than them. Someone who hasn’t had to struggle for everyday needs. All true, of course. I can’t deny my posh accent or my privileged background. But there are things they don’t know about me, too. Things long-buried and forgotten about.
I say nothing though. What would be the point?
‘Thanks, love,’ Mrs Fletcher repeats, watching me select a family-sized packet of dried pasta. ‘And some rice, maybe? That goes a long way, doesn’t it?’
When the shopping part of the process is finished, I find a cup of tea for Mrs Fletcher so she can wait to speak to someone about additional help. Then I pop my head round the office door to ask Sharon if I can go for my lunch early.
She’s surprised by the request. Turning from the filing cabinet, Sharon glances up at the clock on the wall. Her face registers slight irritation, but only the sort that comes with tiredness.
‘You not feeling well?’
‘I’m fine. I just have a few errands to run.’ I manage a wry smile. ‘It’s been a bit manic recently, what with the wedding coming up.’
Sharon looks back at me indulgently. ‘Of course. Three weeks on Saturday, isn’t it?’
I nod.
‘You must be so excited. Have you got the dress yet?’
‘Yes.’ I smile then, despite myself. ‘I picked it up last week. It’s so beautiful. I only hope I can do it justice.’
I’d gone for the ‘mermaid’ shape in the end, fitted closely from the sweetheart neckline down to the knee, then flaring out in a lavish display to the hem. Beautiful appliqué flowers cling to one side of the ivory satin bodice; the other side dazzles with tiny sequins. By not booking an expensive reception after the church, but inviting everyone to join us at a nearby pub afterwards for drinks and a finger buffet, we’re saving a fortune. So I spent up on the wedding dress instead, maxing out my credit card on the beautiful outfit, which includes matching underwear and ivory satin pumps.
‘Of course you’ll be gorgeous, silly girl. All the men will be falling over each other to have a look at you.’ Sharon winks at me, thick black mascara clumped at the ends of her eyelashes. ‘And how’s Dominic coping?’
‘Not too bad. In fact, he texted me earlier to confirm all the tux rental details. My dad’s the only one who’s making a fuss.’ I make a face. ‘Sometimes I wonder if he actually wants me to get married.’
‘Oh, it’s just their way. Dads always hate losing their little girls.’ Sharon returns to filing the paperwork she’s been working through, happy with all this talk of dresses and weddings. ‘Go on, you run along. Get your errands done. Me and Petra can cope.’
On my way out, I grab my jacket from my chair, and then tuck the parcel carefully under my arm with the woollen garment folded over the top.
I struggle outside into the grey, windy, North London street. It’s too cold to walk far without a coat though. I stop a few doors down, put the parcel on the pavement as gingerly as if it contains a bomb, and shrug into my jacket. Then I tuck the box under my arm again, and hurry on to La Giravolta, the family-run Italian bistro on the corner where I usually eat a quick tuna sandwich or quiche for lunch.
As I hesitate in the doorway, peering inside, an acquaintance waves at me from across the room. Georgia from the book club. She’s dining alone, the seat opposite conspicuously empty.
I wave back, then abruptly change my mind about going inside.
The last thing I need is to get sucked into yet another conversation about Dominic and the wedding.
Not today.
Head down, as though I’ve just remembered some urgent mission, I turn back into the wind. It tears at my unbuttoned jacket and I shiver, dragging the two sides together with one hand. Bloody hell. I’ve left my scarf and gloves behind in my hurry to get out. It’s been a bitter start to November. My feet ache from standing since early this morning, and my hands are numb from the chilly, warehouse-like Tollgate Trust food bank, with its constantly open doors.
It’s important work. Not paid, except for Sharon, who’s employed full-time by the charity to run the place. Important and worthwhile nonetheless. I chose the position deliberately, aware that I was born with every advantage in life, while others just as deserving are less fortunate. And since my parents were happy to cover my rent while I found my feet in the world of work, that made a volunteering position possible. I have no real reason to feel guilty, of course. But it was time to give something back.
Good intentions aside, my feet still hurt.
I thread past two black-hijabbed women with buggies, then dart across the busy road in front of a lumbering double-decker bus, earning myself a glare from the woman driver. On the other side, I continue another few blocks until I reach the Costa coffee shop. It’s blissfully warm inside, and nobody looks round when I enter. I check all the tables for anyone I know.
They are all strangers.
I get in the queue, the box still awkward under my arm. The man behind me glances at it curiously, but looks away when he encounters my gaze.
Finding a quiet seat at the back, I eat half my panini, sip on my latte, then push both aside and place the parcel squarely on the table in front of me.
The address label has been printed. It looks neat and professional. I check the underside but there’s no return address, and no note inside to indicate a point of origin. The brown-paper wrapping is plain; the white polystyrene chips are generic. I can’t imagine who could have sent it to me. And to the food bank, not my home.
I reach inside and pull the snow globe free of its rustling nest. My breath catches in my throat.
It wasn’t a mistake. Or not on my part, anyway.
Even without my sister’s name on the plinth, I would have known whose globe it was. I recognise the village scene inside, the miniature Swiss chalets, the white-capped mountain with its obligatory tiny goat. Rachel loved to shake and shake the globe, only laughing when our mother pleaded with her to be careful.
‘Rachel, please don’t,’ Mum would say. ‘You’ll break it if you drop it.’
But of course she never dropped it.
The snow globe feels smooth and heavy in my hands, snug on its black plastic plinth. There’s a thin crack across the plinth; I can see where it was mended. My father did that with superglue, then it had to be left to set for half a day.
I glance about the busy café, but nobody’s looking my way. Nobody cares about this strange, unsettling reminder of my sister.
Only me.
It’s like looking into the past. Like my childhood still exists inside a locked room in one of those snow-covered Swiss chalets, almost within reach, if only I could see through the white-out of the storm . . .
Then something else bobs round with the fake snow, bumping against the glass.
I cry out, almost dropping the globe.
An eyeball?
Not a joke-shop eyeball. A real, honest-to-goodness eyeball, white and fatty, with ragged bits of pinkish tissue still hanging off where it was cut out.
There’s an eyeball in the whirling snow, staring back at me.