I handed Annika her tea and she took the mug with a smile, telling me how great the house looked, how well I was taking care of it. She was lying through her teeth — the sitting room was a bloody state. I hadn’t hoovered or swept out the grate in a while and I’d flung clean jumpers over the armchair instead of folding them; and those were only the bits she could see. I hadn’t bothered to finish pulling up the utility room’s linoleum so it was pitted with ugly holes, and then there was the avocado bathroom suite … I’d grown used to that though, almost fond, the same slow way you resign yourself to your own artlessness.
I cleared my throat.
So, um. I wasn’t expecting you. Was there something you needed me to sign?
She flushed pink and set her mug down. The cardboard box was on the floor. No, she said, everything’s fine. It’s just that we had to clear the house after Mrs Dockett died, you know, and there’s no next-of-kin so it’s just hanging around in our store cupboard … She leaned forwards to gently touch the box’s contents — the movement drew my gaze down, past her cleavage to her feet. Her cotton socks peeked out from below her trouser hems.
There are some really personal things in here, she said. No one’s had the heart to shred any of it yet.
Flustered by my expression, she tried to explain: You said you were interested in the history — I waved it off with cries of no, it’s fine, it’s great! And once I got over the discomfort of going through a deceased woman’s stuff in her own home, I was genuinely moved by what I found. Shopping lists and housekeeping receipts; pocket-sized crossword puzzles; TV guides with certain programmes, presumably favourites, circled in blue biro; pamphlets from the local church; and postcards from Eastbourne.
The time flew by as we pointed things out to one another. Phrases that caught our attention, marginalia from a bygone era. When Mum passed, I missed out on this ritual — this meandering, sentimental sort-out. She’d settled her affairs and cleared everything out herself years ago while she still had a few marbles left, thinking to spare me the trouble. I appreciated the thought but would have welcomed trouble, when the time came; I’d have welcomed having something — anything — to do during the pre-funeral limbo other than needlessly cleaning our empty house. She’d lived there since her own childhood, and it was as bare as if she’d never lived at all.
Maybe that’s why I’d become so messy lately. The need to leave a mark. To take up space, unapologetically.
Thank you for this, I said, wiping my eyes. Really. And then, in a mad fit of daring, I took a deep breath and said, It’s five o’clock somewhere. Do you fancy a glass of wine?
The following morning found me with my bum on the coarse doormat and my feet out on the patio, tossing bits of mackerel to the tabby. He folded himself up and ate quietly, licking the stone clean and leaving dark little crescents behind. Hello, puss-puss, I called to him, rubbing my fingers like I had more food. He came forward and head-butted my ankle. Daft cat, I teased, scratching the base of his tail. Where do you live, then? In reply, he stepped right over the threshold, bold as you like.
The taxi had picked Annika up shortly before midnight. We’d finished the bottle between us, the drink loosening our tongues.
I knew now that she was twenty-seven and had started a BA in History and Anthropology at the university only to drop out when her immigration status became unclear. By the time her visa was reissued, her interest had soured. She barely knew what she wanted to do in life, working here and there in various administrative roles, covering maternity leave and so on. The estate agent had just given her notice, so she’d be adrift again next week. I don’t know if she was technically allowed to remove Claire Dockett’s papers from the premises, and I never asked. But if she was worried about the precariousness of her life, like I would be in her shoes, she masked it brilliantly. I told her about Mum and the little office job I’d taken. A three-month contract with the possibility of a permanent offer. She pushed for more, for my heartwood. What did you do before? Tell me about Fiona Parkman. What sort of person is she? Foggy with wine, I admitted that I … I actually studied nursing. Which was what led me to believe I could care for Mum.
So why didn’t I go back to that? Difficult to answer. I’d thought, I’d hoped, that all I’d need to be a good nurse was kindness. I didn’t know if I had any left. Let’s be honest, I hadn’t had much to start with. Sometimes I imagined my heart as a hard, brown pit; the sixpence you break your teeth on at Christmas, only not as lucky.
Did I say this aloud? Did I make an idiot of myself? Was I overly familiar after my third glass — a press of the knee, a teasing kick? Like the bruises on Mum’s arm, if I went over the scene again and again in my head, I could eventually trick myself into believing an alternate version. I could picture myself leading her upstairs to bed.
Suddenly, I heard yowling from the hallway. The tabby had pounced on Marley. (I was terrified all last night that Annika would hear him. So, she’d asked with her one-sided smirk, are there any ghosts here? I’d hardly known what to say.) I sprang up, knees cracking, and rushed over to separate them. Leave him alone, I snapped at the cat, shoo! And Marley, falling to pieces with each passing day, limped into the sitting room,
