EIGHT
Despite her exhaustion, Nina slept fitfully. The misshapen mattress, the cold and damp air, the bus that stopped outside their window, all interrupted the rest she desperately needed. The bus’s air brakes screeched at each approaching stop, making collections and drop-offs of drunken revellers, paying no heed to the fact that others might be sleeping in the middle of the night.
‘Joshy! Joshy! You dropped your scarf!’
She jumped up from the mattress at an ungodly hour to see a blond boy holding up a burgundy knitted scarf and his tall, dark-haired friend – Joshy she assumed – walking back to retrieve it with a lilt to his gait that suggested drunkenness.
‘Cheers, Liam!’ Joshy shouted. ‘See you later!’ As if it were mid-afternoon. If she thought there wasn’t the risk of waking her kids, she would have found the courage and yelled at Joshy and Liam to be quiet.
Giving up on any more sleep, she stretched her aching back and put on her slippers, not only to stave off the cold but also because she was wary of going barefoot in this strange environment, where unfamiliar bare feet had also ventured. Softly she trod the narrow strip of carpet in the hallway. Pulling the light switch in the bathroom, she sighed. For some reason this room bothered her the most. She tried not to picture her luxurious mirrored bathroom at The Tynings; tried not to remember the joy at stripping off her clothes and stepping into the cavernously deep bubble bath, the room lit low, with scented candles glowing, and the promise of her fluffy, luxurious bathrobe afterwards. One of her greatest pleasures had been soaking in a bath and then climbing into bed, with its expensive, pretty white bed linen and goose-down pillows.
Nina winced as she pulled the creaky door, her fingers flinching on the icy-cold doorknob. She ran a bath, hoping and praying that there would be hot water and recoiling as her skin touched the scratchy plastic base of the bath. Bath time here would be functional, a means of getting clean, all joy and luxury removed. She sank into the tub and tried to relax, but it was no use. She scrubbed, and pulled the plug. The moment she climbed from the warm water, her skin was instantly peppered in goosebumps. She couldn’t pull her underwear, jeans, shirt and jersey on quick enough, cursing the cold.
After two strong coffees, from a tin of her favourite brand, brought from home and one she knew would be replaced by something cheaper when she ran out, Nina paced the kitchen, placing items on freshly wiped shelves, driven by a nervous energy. Declan woke early, and was washed, dressed, fed and sitting on the sofa, playing on his laptop with his sweatshirt pulled over his hands by 7.30. When Connor eventually appeared, he carried two dark circles under his listless eyes.
‘Good morning, Con.’ She tried to sound upbeat, to hide her very distress at the sight of him.
He stared at her. ‘There is absolutely nothing good about it.’
‘How did you sleep?’
‘On and off. Better once I’d got up and put my cricket jersey on and a pair of thick socks.’
She nodded. There was no denying it was cold. She pointed towards the gas fire that pumped out heat in a limited circle. He went and stood close to it.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea, a glass of juice?’
He shook his head. ‘What are we supposed to do here?’ He looked at the sofa where his brother sat.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, how are we supposed to spend our days in this tiny space, without a TV or room to move or a car to get around or any friends to call on? What exactly are we supposed to do?’ His voice had a wobble to it.
She wanted to remind him that she, like lots of people, had grown up without a car, but knew the timing wasn’t right for this life lesson.
‘Well, for a start you can have a bath and then unpack your bits and bobs and then you can walk up to the supermarket with me and we can get the groceries we need. Or you can go for a walk, explore the area.’
‘Go for a walk? Have you seen it out there? There’s homeless guys and junkies and traffic and shit everywhere!’ he spat.
‘Please don’t use that word in front of your brother, or in fact in front of anyone.’ Still she plumbed for a neutral, appeasing tone, wanting to keep things as pleasant as possible for Declan and knowing that this was far from easy for her boys. ‘And I think you might be confusing Portswood with a war zone. You are quite safe, Connor.’ She hoped this was true.
‘And I think you might be confusing Portswood with somewhere that I might actually want to spend a second of my time in! I hate it here!’ Connor shouted, and fled the room.
Unable to think of a helpful response, Nina continued to unpack, piling crockery in the cupboard and putting the cutlery into the drawer. She silently hated having to place their lovely items into the worn units where strangers’ hands had scrabbled around for years.
‘What are we going to do today, Mum?’ Declan chewed his bottom lip.
‘We are going to unpack and I am going to start looking for a job!’ She placed her hands on her hips, trying to make it sound as much like an adventure as possible.
‘Why don’t you become a teacher? I think you’d be really good. You could teach at my new school and then I would get to see you during the day.’
Nina walked over and sat on the sofa with her boy in her arms, quashing the feelings of inadequacy and shame that washed over her. ‘I wish I could be your teacher and I would like nothing more than to see you every day, all day. My sweet boy.’ She kissed his head. ‘But I think being a teacher is a bit beyond me.’ I am sorry, Dec. Sorry I didn’t pursue my dreams of nursing, didn’t push harder, didn’t have the courage. Things would be a lot different for us now if I had . . .
By late morning, wrapped in jackets and scarves, the boys set off to explore the high street. She gave them strict instructions to stick together, not to talk to any strangers and to stay on the one road that was busy. Connor gave her a stern look that suggested her lecture was being added to the list of things he hated about her and his life. And frankly she was at a loss how to respond.
She set open Declan’s laptop on the counter, and took a seat, looking around at job websites. It was discouraging, to say the least. The sites burst with roles that she had no hope of attaining: Senior Brand Manager – minimum four years in similar role or recent Marketing graduate. She swallowed and moved her finger down the screen. Pharmacy Assistant: Qualified Pharmacist wanted for busy hospital dispensary. Nina felt her stomach shrink: these were all so far out of her league. The job titles continued to come at her thick and fast and she only had the vaguest idea of what some of them meant.
Switching sites, she trawled the local online paper. This looked a bit more promising. She got to work, firing off applications for every kind of job from estate agent to traffic warden, and one about which she was most optimistic she read aloud with enthusiasm: ‘Data Entry Clerk wanted for busy hotel chain in their centralised booking office.’ If there was one thing she knew about, it was staying in hotels. Her heart and spirit lifted, and as her eyes scanned the details – ‘twelve pounds an hour, flexible hours to suit’ – she felt her face break into a smile. And then the line that deflated her hopes instantly: ‘Second language a must – Spanish/French/German/ Dutch/Portuguese/Polish. Contact us today!’
Nina felt her spirits sink as a response popped into her email account. ‘Dear Sir or Madam . . .’ The impersonal, automated response told her all she needed to know. She clicked on an advert for ‘Incredible Telesales Opportunities’ but noticed this was a rolling advert with no start or end date, and the job was paid in commission only. She needed something more concrete than possible commission. Another advert caught her eye, a Senior Housekeeper position at a country house hotel on the outskirts of town.
Nina scanned the article, and picked up her phone before she lost her nerve; she was grateful that the boys were out and that she didn’t have an audience. It wasn’t what she had hoped for, housekeeping, not what she would have chosen at all, washing sheets and emptying bins, but she now knew the old adage wasn’t wrong: beggars could not be choosers. If it meant regular money, then so be it; a housekeeper she would be. Nina placed her hand on her stomach to try to calm her butterflies. You can do this! She spoke the words of encouragement in her mind, taking a deep breath.
‘Good morning, Winterton’s. How can I help you?’
‘Morning,’ she ventured, working to keep the anxiety from her voice. ‘I am calling about the job advertisement?’
‘Do you have a reference number? We have several vacancies.’ She heard the sigh in the man’s tone.
‘Erm . . .’ She ran her finger over the advert and gave him the long number, hoping she had got it right. There was a silence on the other end of the line.
‘Hello?’ she prompted.
‘Yes, madam, one minute please. I am trying to find it on my computer.’ He sounded irritated. She wondered if she should offer to call back at a more convenient time.
‘Senior Housekeeper, got it. And if I may ask, where are you currently employed?’
‘Oh! I’m not.’ She swallowed.
‘So if you could give me your last position in this or a similar role and tell me a little of your experience?’
‘I . . . I don’t have any experience, but I have kept my own large house and looked after my sons for the last few years, and I think I can manage as a housekeeper.’
‘You think you can manage?’ This time he made no effort to hide his irritation. ‘Do you have any relevant experience as a commercial housekeeper?’
‘Other than looking after my own house?’
‘Yes. Other than that. Have you for example managed a team of housekeepers? Worked to a budget? Organised rotas? Dealt with commercial suppliers? Handled contracts for industrial linens . . . Any of the like?’
‘I . . . I haven’t, but, I did have a large house and . . .’ She cursed her tears that threatened, thickening in her throat. She tried not to picture her lovely life in her beautiful home that she missed. ‘The thing is, I need a job.’
‘Well, we all need a job. The difference is, some of us are qualified to do a job and others are trying to wing it without the relevant experience. Was there anything else I can help you with today?’
Nina hung up, then sat at the counter-top with her face in her hands and cried.
‘Don’t cry, Mum.’ Declan’s small voice from the doorway threw her; she hadn’t heard them return. And she was so used to spending time alone in the kitchen at The Tynings with the boys off elsewhere. She spun around to face him. Connor walked straight into the bedroom without any greeting. She didn’t challenge him, thinking it best he was warm, and hoping he might calm a little before their next heated interaction; every exchange felt like they were in a long drawn-out boxing match. Ding, ding.
‘Oh, darling!’ she sniffed at Declan. ‘Just feeling a bit sorry for myself. I thought a job as a housekeeper would be a doddle for me. Turns out I’m not even qualified to do that. I think there might be more to it than I realised. If only they’d give me a shot, I’m sure I could learn.’
Declan walked forward and placed his little hand on her back. ‘When I grow up and have my own business, I’ll give you a job, Mum.’
Her heart swelled. ‘Well, I appreciate that. What business do you think you might have?’
‘I am going to have a sweet factory or a farm.’
‘Both of those sound good.’ She winked at her boy, hiding the naked fear that if she didn’t find a job soon, they were going to be in real trouble. Nina then turned her attention back to the computer. Regaining her composure, she continued to scan the screen, rereading adverts for jobs she had first rejected, hoping to find something within the ad that she had missed.
‘We had a bit of an explore. But it was so cold, we came back.’ Declan unwound his scarf from his neck.
‘Did you? That’s good. What did you see?’ She spoke over her shoulder, wishing she could work in silence.
‘I collected these.’
She looked down to see the clutch of cards in her son’s hand. He held up an array of scantily clad women with names like Crystal, Emerald and Candy, all offering heavily discounted services, emblazoned with a premium rate telephone number.
‘Oh good Lord!’ she called out. ‘Where did you get those?’
‘I found them. They are everywhere – the telephone boxes, the lamp posts. I’m going to collect them,’ he stated matter-of-factly.
Nina leapt from the stool and took them from her child. ‘Actually, I think it’s against the law to take these, Dec.’ She fell back on the old staple that had served her well in the past, knowing that her boy, like most kids, had a fear of falling foul of the legal system. ‘It’s something to do with advertising and they have to be left alone.’
‘Oh.’ Declan shrugged. ‘Okay.’
She pulled him by the arm. ‘Come on, let’s go and give our hands a good old scrub!’ She shoved the cards in her jeans pocket, considering how and where to dispose of them as she marched her youngest off towards the bathroom.
The next few days were some of the hardest days of Nina’s life, and the nights some of the darkest. The weather was brutal. Ice formed on the inside of the windows, which she scraped at with her thumbnail, gently rubbing the crystals away. She kept the fire burning when the boys were in the room, but other than that, she wore an extra jersey and thick socks to save money. The feeling of being depressed by her environment had been so constant in her childhood, yet she had almost forgotten it. She hated how often she suggested they all take to their beds during the day, knowing they would at least be snug under their duvets and extra blankets. It was as if the weather dealt them this one final blow to crush any bud of happiness that might form on their miserable family tree.
Every day she trawled the job sites, looking for new openings, applying for anything and everything, sipping hot water that warmed her bones and laughing to herself at how particular she had been when first searching. Now, some days later, she sent off applications to anyone who was hiring, from janitor to rat catcher, to legal assistant, her theory being that if she fired enough bullets with this scattergun approach, surely one had to hit a target. Only they didn’t, and with every rejection her spirits sank a little lower, taking all her efforts not to give in to the blind panic that threatened. What would she do when they ran out of money?
The few replies she did receive, standard letters and emails explaining that she wasn’t qualified or that the position had been filled, were more often than not for roles that she had forgotten she had applied for. She even eagerly called about the ‘Incredible Telesales Opportunity’ that she had been so dismissive of – commission only it may be, but it would be better than nothing. She spoke energetically to the young woman on the end of the line, trying to sell herself, hoping her sunny nature might make her a more attractive prospect. The woman quickly yet politely informed her that her lack of keyboard skills and sales experience precluded her from applying.
It was a new low point.
Every day that ended with a lack of success meant she felt the black cloak of despair throw itself over her little family, and it took all of her strength to cast it off and encourage them to look towards the light. She started handwriting letters of introduction, asking about any employment opportunities, and posting them through all the letter boxes of businesses up and down the streets, thinking this personal, local touch might make a difference. With the shake of nerves, she handed one over the counter to the pink-haired girl who she discovered worked in the convenience store opposite.
The girl was very pretty at close quarters; she took the envelope with a smile. ‘I shall give it to my boss.’ It was the most hopeful encounter she had had, and Nina felt guilty for how she might have judged the girl.
‘I’m Nina, by the way. I only moved in a little while ago. With my sons.’ She turned and pointed towards the flats over the road.
‘I’m Lucia.’
‘Hi, Lucia.’
‘We are neighbours actually, I live four doors down from you.’
‘Well hello, neighbour,’ Nina said with a smile.
‘Welcome to Portswood! And I will pass your letter on as soon as I see him.’
‘Thank you.’ Nina meant it. She liked the way the girl spoke clearly and firmly; she liked her manner very much and envied her youthful confidence.
‘I do a night shift, cleaning at the hospital. It’s a bit crap, but the money’s good. I could have an ask for you there as well if you’d like?’
‘That’s so kind of you, thank you. Yes, that would be great.’ Nina walked away, praying something else would come along before she was forced to leave the boys alone every night, although good money was exactly what she needed.
It was mid-morning by the time Nina let herself back into the flat. Connor was quiet, surly, but now with a new air of melancholy that she hadn’t seen before. It placed her worry for him on a whole new level.
‘You can always talk to me you know, Con,’ she offered as she turned on the kettle.
‘About what?’ he fired.
‘About anything.’
He shook his head and ground his teeth, leaving the room to once again seek out the isolation of his bed.
She sipped at hot tea that warmed her throat and gave an instant feeling of relief, which was welcome, no matter how short lived. In this environment, living this reduced life, she had discovered that it was the small lifts that brought her tiny bursts of joy. ‘Mummy . . .’ Declan’s voice was barely more than a whisper.
‘Yes, darling?’ She turned and saw him cowering by the doorframe. She wondered what Connor had done or said to cause such a reaction, and her anger flared.
‘Can we go to the launderette?’ he asked, looking at his feet.
Nina smiled. ‘Well now, that’s not a request I get every day.’ She expected him to laugh, join in, but instead he shrank further against the wall and bowed his head. ‘Oh Dec, what’s the matter?’ She knelt in front of him and tilted his chin so she could better see his face.
‘Nothing,’ he squeaked.
‘Well it sure looks like something,’ she coaxed, smoothing his hair from his forehead, ‘but I do know that nothing is worth looking this worried about. Plus, if you don’t tell me what’s bothering you, then I can’t fix it, can I?’ She kissed his nose.
‘You mustn’t tell anyone!’ he implored.
‘Okay.’ She nodded her oath.
‘I . . . I did a wee in my bed.’
‘Oh, darling.’ Nina held him close to her chest. It took all her strength not to weep with him. ‘That doesn’t matter, we can fix that right away.’
‘I did it before as well and hid the sheet under my bed.’ He sobbed, pulling away from her clutches. ‘Please don’t tell Connor!’ He held her gaze, his eyes begging.
‘I won’t tell a soul.’ She kissed his teary cheeks. ‘But you know everyone has wet the bed, even Connor,’ she whispered. ‘Now, let’s go and get those sheets, and you and I shall take a trip to the launderette and we might even stop for sweets. How does that sound?’
Declan sniffed as his tears abated. ‘Sounds good.’
‘Right, you go and wash your face and we’ll set off in a bit.’ She ruffled his hair and watched as he loped off. She kept her smile of reassurance fixed in place until he had disappeared. Poor kid must be going through so much inside, contrary to the outward displays of happiness at which he was so deft. My baby boy, I am so sorry . . .
Opening the boys’ bedroom door, she was hit by the smell. It was evident that Connor couldn’t help but know what had happened: the smell was overpowering in the small room. They exchanged a knowing look. Nina felt overwhelmed with gratitude for his pretend ignorance. After stripping Declan’s bed and reaching underneath to retrieve the other sheet, she looked up at Connor’s back. He had turned, hunched over in his favoured position, facing the window.
‘I know you probably don’t want to hear this, Con. But I really love you and I love the way you are kind to Dec. It means the world right now. He’s lucky to have you. We all are.’
A slight shift in his position told her that he had heard.
After bundling the sheets, she and Declan walked towards the launderette in a matter-of-fact manner, both trying to pretend it was any other jaunt. Nina was torn between ignoring the event, hoping to minimise his embarrassment, and wanting to fire a thousand questions at him about how he was feeling and how she might help. Obviously he was shell-shocked by their move, by losing his father, by trying to adjust to their new life.
‘I’m sorry, Mum.’
‘You have nothing to feel sorry for. I know how hard things feel at the moment. But it will get easier.’
Declan blinked and looked up at her. ‘I was very busy when we were at home, but here I’m not so busy and I notice that Daddy isn’t here even more.’
Nina understood this perfectly. Without the distraction of life in their lovely house, the funeral and the rest of term to distract them, they were able to fully focus on their loss, and no wonder it hit them hard. She bit her bottom lip, trying to ignore the fact that for her it felt like the exact opposite. Living in this cold, dark, sullen place made her grieve for Finn a little less and dislike him a little more. Not that she would ever disclose this to her kids, knowing they would never understand. In fact it was hard for her to understand, but the nagging thought that pawed at her senses was that he was the one who had dropped them into this living hell, and he had done so without giving her fair warning, without giving her any choice or time to act, and that was unforgivable.
She and Dec pushed open the door to the launderette and were met by the grey-haired lady who managed the place, who had previously introduced herself as ‘Toothless Vera’. One gummy smile and Nina had no need to ask why. Vera was quite a character; she had more of a cackle than a laugh, and gave out the change for the coin slots and made cups of tea in the back room, which she then served in Styrofoam cups.
Without a washing machine in the flat, Nina had become a little more comfortable using the launderette along the road. The first time she had used it, the idea of putting her family’s clothes into a communal machine that had washed strangers’ soiled items had made her shudder with revulsion. In her spacious laundry room at home, the washing machine and two tumble dryers had run almost constantly. She used to think nothing of popping a tablecloth, some sports kit or a favoured pair of jeans in if they were asked for. Now, after a couple of trips, trotting up the street with dirty clothes was becoming normal. Sometimes Toothless Vera would unload the machine in her absence and fold the clothes into a cardboard box. Nina had to admit it was nice to have someone assist her in this odious chore. The place was warmed by the constant whirr of the industrial dryers and on a cold, damp day like today, she realised that it wasn’t wholly unpleasant. Nina felt her shoulder muscles loosen in the heat.
‘Oi, oi! What we got here then?’ Vera called in greeting and Declan laughed, a genuine laugh at the funny lady who was so different from anyone he had ever met.
As she and Declan made their way home a little while later, Nina spied Tiggy strolling along the pavement towards them.
‘Hey, you!’ she called out. It was still a thrilling novelty for Nina to see her sister so casually without pre-planning or arrangement. Today, the sight provided a much-needed lift to her spirits.
‘Where you heading?’ Nina called.
‘Coming to find you, actually. Connor said you might be at the launderette. Fancy a cup of tea?’
‘Yes, lovely.’
Tiggy did an about-turn and the three made their way along the pavement. Declan skipped ahead and then walked backwards, facing them as he spoke.
‘We didn’t need to go and wash anything, we just wanted to. There was nothing that we had to wash, Mum and I just went with my sheets because we wanted to,’ he was keen to explain.
‘Okay then!’ Tiggy gave her sister a quizzical look and Nina reminded herself to have a chat with her youngest about how much information it was necessary to give away when trying to keep a secret. Nina winked at her sister.
It was as if for now the two had papered over the cracks formed during their years of estrangement, and for this Nina was grateful, knowing that to bring the topic to a head, to go over the reasons why, and who was to blame, was more than she was able to cope with right now. Nina woke each day with a feeling of dread, living with the windows permanently shut, hoping for a respite in the cold, cold weather and praying for the sun’s warmth in the small, fusty rooms. In her lower moments, in between job hunting and cleaning the flat, Nina often sat and stared out the French windows, watching the world go by on the pavement three feet below. She often saw Lucia, rushing off to work, sometimes with the baby in tow and sometimes alone, but always in a hurry. It took all of her resolve not to bombard the girl with questions as to whether her boss had seen her application and if there were any vacancies at the hospital. She was wary of slowing her down, and figured that if Lucia had news, she would share it. She caught her eye once through the nets and smiled; she was rewarded with a little wave and a mouthed ‘Hi, Nina!’ It had made her day, this show of friendship.
‘God, it’s cold!’ Nina rubbed her hands together and stamped her feet as they made their way inside the flat. Declan ran to her room and dived under her duvet.
‘Yep.’ Tiggy removed her hat and ran her fingers through her wavy hair. ‘You look awful, by the way.’
‘Why thank you!’ she said sarcastically. This she knew.
‘So, how’s things?’
‘Same.’ Nina pulled a face. ‘Still no job, though not from lack of trying. Connor is barely talking to me and Declan is trying to look at it as an adventure, but I think he does it for my sake. He is in turmoil more than he is letting on. I must admit, even though I know he isn’t being that open about what’s worrying him, in some ways I’m quite grateful. It feels like one less thing to have to cope with, and I kind of pretend with him. Does that make me a bad mum?’
‘I’d say so, yes. It sounds like a cop-out.’ Tiggy stared at her.
Nina felt her mouth move as her brain sought the words of gentle rebuttal that would also press home that there was no way her sister could know what she was going through. Grief, loss, betrayal – it was more than most people could cope with in one hit. ‘It’s not easy, Tig. We are all squashed in here together, and it feels like there’s no room to stretch, to relax. Not that I’m not grateful to Cousin Fred. I really am. I know having me here is a risk. If I don’t find a job soon . . .’ She let this trail.
Tiggy gave a small nod, but chose not to comment. ‘Where’s Connor?’
Her sister’s sudden coolness made Nina uneasy.
‘On his bed, at a guess. That’s where he usually is when he’s not out roaming the high street, avoiding the armed gangs and pushers.’
‘Good God, it’s not that bad!’ Tiggy scoffed.
‘I know, but try telling him that.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I can joke with you about it, but I’m tired, Tig, and I keep thinking that it will be good to get home. I picture my lovely bed – and it’s like a jolt to my system when I realise that our home is gone.’ She bit her lip. ‘Anyway, enough of my moaning.’
‘Yes, let’s have tea. I’m just passing and thought I’d pop in. Do you need anything? Are you okay for money?’
Nina looked at her big sister, who was there for her when the chips were down, offering practical help when it was most needed. She stepped forward and placed her head on her sister’s shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, Tiggy.’
There was a silent moment while both considered what the apology meant. In Nina’s mind it was clear. She knew that Tiggy did not have money to spare and was making this generous offer. How many times had Nina done a similar thing when money had been plentiful? The answer was rarely, as it hadn’t occurred to her, and the shame of that suddenly hit her.
Tiggy held her close and cooed into her hair, ‘Jeg har dig, Nina. It’ll all come good. You’ll see.’
Nina closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of her sister, and in an instant she was back in the little cottage in Frederiksberg on the day her mamma died.
‘Your mamma has gone to sleep and she is at peace now,’ her dad whispered. ‘In fact she is having the loveliest sleep you can imagine, and she’ll dream of you forever and ever.’ Tiggy, at seven years of age, knew better, and began to cry.
‘I don’t want her to dream about me, I don’t want her to be asleep! I want her to be here with me!’ Nina yelled with her fists clenched.
‘I know, I know, and we will miss her, but you don’t have to worry. I am not going anywhere and even though it hurts now, we will be fine. We just have to keep looking forward.’ She recalled the way he had let his head fall to his chest, as if the strength had left every part of him.
‘Jeg har dig, Nina.’ I’ve got you, Nina . . . Tiggy had taken Nina’s hand and pulled her close, and this was how they sat, while their father silently wept. ‘That’s it, my girls,’ he managed. ‘You need to look after each other, always.’
But they hadn’t looked after each other; Nina had let down her side of the bargain. ‘I am so sorry.’ Nina spoke again, hoping that repetition might reinforce just how horrible she felt.
After Tiggy left, Nina splashed her face with cold water and left the flat for the supermarket. She gripped her purse tightly. Hers was now a world of cash, and previously, if that cash fell from her pocket or was spent, the hole in the wall would simply provide more and, God forbid, if that failed, she could then call her husband . . . There would simply be more to fill its place. Things were so different; the small amount of money she had now was all that kept her and her boys from sliding into the abyss.
Making her way up and down the aisles, Nina cast an envious eye over women who shopped at great speed, tossing items into their cart with abandon as they worked down a long list of family favourites and reached for anything that caught their eye.
That used to be me . . .
She shopped slowly, careful to buy only what they really needed, comparing prices with precision. They now ate foods that she knew would fill them cheaply and warmly. Hovering at the pasta section, she ran her fingers over labels, looking for the biggest pack at the cheapest price, no longer concerned about the shape, design or even taste of a meal; these aspects were all secondary. It was about bulk in the healthiest, cheapest way possible. She selected a weighty pack of penne and laid it in the basket before moving on to potatoes and rice. Her own meals consisted of what was left on the boys’ plates and one bowl of porridge in the mornings. She had lost weight quickly and re-remembered the gnaw of hunger in her belly from childhood, when she would retire to bed with the feeling that the sides of her tummy were touching each other, her body coiled against the damp feel of the bed sheets.
She added up the cost so far, nervous of going over her allocated amount. It was a funny thing, how she was adapting to life in these circumstances. Memories came back to her, thrifty little tips and hints that hadn’t occurred to her for years, habits of her gran – like keeping roasting tins in the stove so as not to clutter up precious, limited cupboard space; stacking bowls within bowls within bowls; rinsing cordial bottles with water to get every last drop; and placing a glug of vinegar in a half-bottle of ketchup and giving it a good shake, to make it last longer. And now as she wandered the aisles, she visualised the meals she would make and shopped accordingly, no longer frivolous or cavalier in her choices. Instead, she chose value brand everything, along with the mauled and dented tins that were reduced, figuring that canned soup was canned soup whether it came in pristine packaging or not. She made her way to the front, paid, and packed her bag, stopping to look at the community noticeboard on her way out.
There were several leaflets advertising yoga, Pilates, playgroups and book circles, as well as handwritten cards where gardeners, handymen and babysitters touted their skills. Her eyes fell upon a typed card and the words ‘COOK WANTED’. Nina reached up and ran her finger over the print. It was for a place called Celandine Court. I can do that. I can cook. I know I can!
‘It’s only just gone up, that one.’ A girl in supermarket uniform nodded towards the board.
‘Right, thanks.’ She gave a small smile. This information felt like currency, a head start. Her heart raced. If she went there now, straight away, it not only showed eagerness, but also gave her an advantage over anyone else. Making a note of the address, Nina hurried from the store. With her bag of groceries over her arm, she half ran, half walked the length of Portswood Road, turning right and then left until, fifteen minutes later, she found herself outside Celandine Court, home for senior citizens. She walked up the block-paved driveway with a sense of trepidation. Suddenly she felt sick to her stomach and hurried to hide behind a bush. ‘I can’t do this. I can’t!’ she whispered.
The bag of value brand pasta caught her eye in the shopping bag and reality hit: her funds were running out and in a matter of weeks they would be absolutely desperate. She pictured her boys going to school with empty stomachs and having to move to a hostel. Closing her eyes, she took deep breaths. ‘Okay.’ She pulled back her shoulders, wishing she wasn’t carrying her shopping and that she had dressed a little more appropriately. She looked down at her jeans and padded coat that hid a raglan T-shirt.
It would have to do.
The 1970s red-brick building was a little uninspiring but two ornamental shrubs at either side of the door had been lovingly shaped and the sight of them lifted her spirits. She cast her eye over the pristine paintwork and clean windows and tried to picture the inside. It will be cold and institutional, but I don’t need to like it, I just need a job.
She pressed the buzzer for access into the sparse, square foyer.
‘Can I help you?’ the male voice was loud, but pleasant.
‘My name is Mrs McCarrick, I don’t have an appointment but I am here about the position of cook that you are advertising?’
There was a pause on the other end of the entryphone.
‘One moment please.’
Nina looked back at the path and considered running off, before remembering she had already given her name. Come on, Nina, courage! You can conquer the world! It’s just that tiny ball in the palm of your hand! She pictured her little marble in its matchbox and felt a rush of confidence. She put her shoulders back and stood tall.
The woman who opened the door was wearing a smart burgundy suit, a cream silk blouse, a string of pearls and neat square heels that matched the thin tortoiseshell headband that held back her dark, shiny hair. Nina’s scruffy jeans seemed even worse for wear. She ran her fingers through her hair, as if this might make the difference.
‘Can I help you? I’m Fiona. I manage Celandine Court.’ She stuck out her hand, which Nina shook.
‘Hello. I’m Nina.’ The woman was dazzling; it didn’t help her nerves an ounce.
‘Nina, I think there might have been a bit of a mix-up, for which I must apologise. My assistant Daisy is scheduling interviews and she’s off for a few days and hadn’t told me you were coming.’ She placed her hand on her chest in a heartfelt gesture. ‘So firstly, I am so sorry if we seem a bit unprepared, but that’s because we are!’ She laughed. Nina liked her honesty and felt the urge to match it.
‘Fiona, the fault is mine.’
‘Oh?’ Fiona studied her face.
‘I didn’t organise an interview with Daisy or anyone else. I just saw the card in the supermarket and came on the off chance. I figured I might be able to beat the competition and get here first!’
‘I did think it was unlike her.’ Fiona looked her up and down, as if checking her out, making a judgement call. ‘Well, as you’re here, I may as well show you around. Sign in, and I shall go over the basics and we can go from there. How does that sound? You can leave your bag here while we walk.’
‘That sounds great. Thank you.’ Nina breathed with relief; this was the furthest she had got in her quest to find work.
Fiona punched a code into the internal door and Nina found herself in a vast reception that felt part hospital, part hotel. She looked at the grand display of white hydrangeas, the bushy heads of lilacs and the delicate stems of white tulips, and smiled. Flowers she knew, and they would always be the thing she loved. She looked up at the high cathedral-like glass roof, and was struck by the vast proportions. The place was light and bright. There was nothing cold or institutional about it.
‘This is lovely.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ the woman spoke with obvious pride. ‘Can I ask you to sign in? Name, time of arrival and telephone number.’
Nina gripped the pen, leaned over the visitor book and scribbled down her details.
‘I always like to start with a tour, so you can get a feel for the place and our residents.’ The woman clapped her hands together, as if this was the cue to get the tour under way. ‘This area is known as the atrium. It’s the heart of the building, where residents can greet visitors or just hang out for a cup of something.’ Fiona pointed to fancy coffee machines, shiny white cups and saucers, and plates of biscuits sitting alongside. Smart sofas were positioned in squares around low coffee tables. Residents and guests sat on the wide comfy seats, some sipping coffee, some chatting; at least one was fast asleep, with his hands clasped across his chest and his head thrown back. Nina thought of Hampy, her father-in-law, whom she had dearly loved.
A few young toddlers played with toys in a corner where a shelf overflowed with books and a big red plastic chest was stuffed with toys, puzzles and other items. ‘We encourage whole families to come and spend time here. It’s important for our residents that they can receive their friends and family, just as if they were in their own home, only with someone else doing the washing-up!’ She smiled. ‘There is no set visiting time. If people want to come here at three in the morning or ten o’clock at night, they are more than welcome. We are also able to put guest beds in the residents’ rooms for overnight stays. It means the kitchen is always busy, providing three balanced meals a day and catering for varied, special diets. You are just as likely to get a request for fish fingers or a plate of sandwiches for guests. We need that flexibility.’
‘Well, luckily I am flexible and fish fingers and sandwiches I can manage!’ Nina felt a surge of optimism. This was going well.
Fiona returned her smile and the tour continued. The staff members wore bright pink polo shirts so they were easily identifiable and name badges pinned to their shirts. They reminded her of holiday reps whose responsibility it was to ensure that everyone had a good time. There was the faint tang in the air of decay, of urine, of rotting teeth and of breath laden with the chemical residue of pills, that no amount of bleach or room scent could mask. This she knew was the reality of old age behind the shiny veneer.
That aside, it was all very inspiring, she had to admit; the bright dining room was clean and comfortable with a beautiful view of the gardens, and the treatment rooms were well kept. There was even a hair salon and chiropodist. Nina managed to keep a lid on her excitement, smiling and nodding with enthusiasm in all the right places with half her mind on the time, thinking how the boys might be wondering what had happened to her.
Fiona took her up to the residents’ floor above. They stopped outside a room. Nina looked at a shallow memory box on the wall. Inside were a few family pictures, what looked to be a striped regimental tie, and an image of a plane cut from a magazine. There were other boxes like it lining the wall.
‘What’s this?’ she asked.
‘We find that a lot of our residents don’t respond to a number or a colour, but will know their room because they recognise the things that mean something to them – a photograph of a loved one or, as in Mr Sandler’s case, a plane. He used to be a pilot.’ She nodded. The door opened and a middle-aged man came out.
‘I couldn’t help but overhear. Do come in and have a look. Feel free, Dad loves a visitor.’
‘Oh, no, I really don’t want to impose!’ Nina felt awkward, embarrassed.
‘Not at all, in you come!’ the man urged.
Nina walked in slowly. ‘I heard, Mr Sandler that you used to be a pilot. I can’t think of anything more amazing than flying above the clouds.’ She smiled at him, as though they were engaged in conversation, though Mr Sandler was staring out blankly into space with his head on his chest.
‘I think it’s lovely here,’ Nina said, smiling at the son.
He answered on his dad’s behalf. ‘It really is. Dad is calm, safe, well-fed and settled.’
‘Ah yes, and well-fed is where Nina’s interest lies.’ Fiona gave her a knowing look and Nina pictured herself working here, preparing fish fingers for people like Mr Sandler . . .
‘Right, let’s make our way to the kitchen. I’m sure you’re keen to see it.’
Nina followed along the corridor. ‘Food, as I am sure you know, becomes the focus of the day for residents and visitors alike. It punctuates the time and is very much looked forward to. We hold afternoon tea dances with lovely cakes and themed evenings, Italian and so forth, so the catering is varied. Would that suit you?’
‘Yes.’ Nina nodded, thinking how she might make fancy cakes and trying to remember sponges and fancies she had whipped up for the boys on occasion.
‘We have a lot of parties.’ Fiona smiled.
‘Don’t listen to her! This place is a prison!’
Nina turned to look at a diminutive elderly lady with short-cropped grey hair, steel blue eyes and a wraparound cardigan encasing her tiny frame. ‘I had a date with Humphrey Bogart and they wouldn’t let me go. He was pressing that buzzer all night and they wouldn’t let him in.’
‘This is Eliza.’ Fiona smiled.
‘I tell you what, Eliza. My husband had to ask me out three times before I agreed to go. I think you’ve done the right thing, making Mr Bogart wait. He’ll only be keener when you do go for that date,’ Nina whispered.
Eliza seemed to consider this. ‘Where’s your husband now?’ she shouted.
‘He died,’ she managed. It didn’t get any easier saying it out loud and was no less confusing for her, still torn between missing him and cursing him.
‘So did mine.’ Eliza held her gaze for a second, ‘It’s terrible, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘It really is.’
Eliza patted her bent fingers against her arm, before shuffling off along the corridor. ‘Come and talk to me any time.’
‘Thank you.’ Nina felt quite overcome by the gesture.
Fiona gave her a knowing smile and they made their way to the kitchen. There were two older women in hairnets and tabards, one mixing bread dough and the other peeling vegetables. Nina smiled meekly at them.
‘So, it’s a fairly standard industrial kitchen,’ Fiona said with a wave. Nina stared at the vast multi-rack ovens, the large, shiny chrome mixing machine and a huge griddle, all unfamiliar. The counter-tops were shiny stainless steel and a packed fire blanket and extinguisher sat within reach on the walls. She felt her enthusiasm sink, her smile fade and her nerves bite once again.
‘Where are you working at the moment?’ Fiona asked, her tone a little altered as if picking up on her unease.
‘I . . . I’m not. I am new to the area and job hunting.’ She hoped this practised response would suffice.
‘So, tell me about your last role.’ Fiona folded her arms across her chest.
‘I’ve been a homemaker for the last few years,’ she said, the heat rising to her cheeks and neck. ‘But I am a passionate cook and a quick learner.’
The two women stood in silence for a beat or two, until Fiona asked the direct question.
‘Forgive me, Nina, but what culinary qualifications do you have?’
‘I . . .’ She faltered, remembering the man on the phone who had been so sharp: ‘We all need a job. The difference is, some of us are qualified to do a job and others are trying to wing it without the relevant experience.’ She felt her confidence crumble; her eyes darted towards the exit.
Fiona again prompted. ‘Tell me about your experience in mass catering. Any culinary qualifications? Anything?’
Nina shook her head. ‘I am sorry to have wasted your time. I just need a job. I really need a job.’ She faltered again. ‘I didn’t think it through. I can cook and I hoped that might be enough.’ She turned to leave and looked back at the woman and the two kitchen assistants who all stared at her. ‘I do think it’s lovely here, and can you please tell Eliza that I hope our paths cross again. I would have liked to talk to her.’ With her head held high, she walked back to the atrium to collect her bag, and then left the building.
Nina felt the sting of tears at the back of her throat.
‘Are you okay, love?’ called a man in fingerless gloves and a grubby fur hat. He swapped his beer can to the other hand and reached out as if to hold her arm.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She smiled at the kindness of the stranger.
‘Then why are you crying?’ He pointed at her face.
Running her palm over her cheeks, she looked at him. ‘I didn’t realise I was.’
‘Would you like a drink?’ He held out his can of beer towards her.
‘No, but thank you, that’s really kind.’ She squeezed his arm as she left, making her way back along Portswood Road.
She heard Declan run towards the front door at the sound of her key in the door, and watched his smile disappear, replaced by fear as he took in her distress.
‘What’s happened, Mum?’ His chest heaved and his brow furrowed. She hated that she was making him worry, recalling their recent trip with his bed linen bundled into a bin bag.
‘Nothing to worry about. Not really.’ She tried to stifle the sobs, but she couldn’t stop. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t seem to stop crying. I just feel a bit stupid and a bit sad. I . . . I went to try to get a job, but I couldn’t do the job and I’m angry with myself for thinking that I could.’ Her tears sprang in a fresh wave.
‘Shall I . . .’ The little boy looked around, as if trying to figure out what needed to be done that might make things better. ‘Shall I get you a glass of juice?’
Nina reached out and stroked his hair, her face wet with tears and mucus. ‘No, thank you, my sweet boy, but I tell you what,’ she sniffed. She mustered a fake smile. ‘You can . . . you can put the groceries away while I have a little nap. I think I am just very tired.’
Connor came out of the bathroom. ‘What’s happened? Are you okay?’ He too looked worried. She knew he would have heard some of their conversation.
She nodded. ‘I’m feeling sorry for myself and I’m going to have a little nap.’
‘I’ll help Dec.’ She was grateful for his conciliatory gesture, not sure how much more she could have coped with today, and left the two of them in the kitchen. Closing the bedroom door behind her, she fell onto the mattress without removing her shoes and closed her eyes. ‘Do you know, Finn, I used to think I was capable of lots of things. I should have insisted. I should have worked. I should have done a lot of things . . .’ She closed her eyes, and the sobs came again.
As her eyes flickered open, she was for a second surprised to find herself fully clothed on the bed and was unsure of how long she had slept. Her sadness was a little diluted, but the swell of embarrassment would take a little longer to dissipate. She sat up on the bed. Her eyes felt as if they were full of sand and her throat was dry. Stretching up towards the ceiling she took a deep breath and reluctantly climbed from the bed where she knew, without the boys to tend to, she would happily have stayed for eternity.
Declan sat on the sofa under his duvet with a book, mouthing the words he read silently. He looked up. ‘Are you feeling better?’
‘I am.’ She nodded. ‘The wonderful restorative powers of sleep.’ She heard Connor in the kitchen. Turning her head, the first thing she saw was the pickle jar on the counter-top, half-filled with water and stuffed with snowdrops she’d seen growing on the verge. She walked slowly towards them.
‘I thought they might cheer you up a bit,’ Connor said, shifting from one foot to the other, as if he might be regretting the gesture.
Nina ran her fingers over the relief pattern on the edge of the glass and then the little sticky area where glue stubbornly held on to a sliver of the label, before picking up the jar and cradling it to her chest. She thought again about the grand display of blooms that used to grace the round table in the hallway at The Tynings.
So much money. I wasted so much money . . .
This pickle jar filled with simple flowers was the most beautiful expression of love, the most precious gift of flowers, that she had ever received.
‘Thank you. Thank you, Connor.’ She stared at her boy.
‘Oh no, are you crying again? They were supposed to stop you crying,’ he pointed out, sighing.
‘Happy tears, darling,’ she explained. ‘These are happy tears.’