We made Dorset in record time, both sweltering from the heat, limp with tiredness. The cottage we always stayed in was a miracle unto itself. It was beautifully tiny, with two shoebox bedrooms and an open plan downstairs, with old beams in the ceiling. I briefly thought that Alex would have to duck in that room, and then I was furious again. I distracted myself by deciding to properly unpack for once, rather than living out of a ramshackle suitcase for the next few days like I usually did. I knew that next door Vivian would have already put everything away neatly and was probably straightening the furniture.
I took out my clothes and turned to the ancient dresser. The drawers were lined with scented paper. I was immediately transported back to Walthamstow, to Mum’s bedroom. The dusty, floral smell caught in my throat and my eyes stung. I wished she was there. I wished I’d listened to her. I hadn’t listened, and then she died and the accident with Lexie happened and everything went so badly wrong, and it still hurt so much.
I remembered the last time I saw her. I was about to leave for work, looking for my house keys. Vivian was milling around upstairs, getting ready for school, and Mum was in the kitchen. She’d tried to speak to me – she’d almost been wringing her hands, clearly anxious about something, some drawings she said she’d found. But, as always, I’d already got half my mind in the office, on the storyboard I was working on for a huge commercial we were pitching for. I ignored her, told her to stop worrying about nothing. I just left. A negligent kiss, dropped on her soft cheek as I rushed past her and out of the door, smoothing Vivian’s hair as she sat on the bottom stair putting her shoes on. You’d think I would have learnt to say goodbye properly to the people I loved.
I got a call from school to say that Vivian hadn’t been picked up – I can still hear the phone ringing and ringing as I tried to call the house. I ended up texting and asking a neighbour to go in and check while I tried to get back as quickly as possible. I was too much a coward to just get there myself, to open the door.
The ambulance was already pulling away as I turned onto Maynard Road, a small crowd gathered on the pavement outside our house. Grief vultures, their pitying eyes leaching from me as I tried to run with heavy, stumbling dream legs.
I never did find those bloody drawings she was on about.
The present rushed back to me as I flinched back from the painful memory, spinning my head. I suddenly felt like I had hot lead in my stomach, burning, and there was a metallic taste in my mouth that made me nauseous. I barely made it to the bathroom.
London
Sometimes when she was worried about something, truly worried, she felt it as an ache in her bones. A dragging weight she carried around, like when Rachel had been away at university with that awful man. Carol was sick with it again. There was something wrong, and she didn’t know what to do. Despite talking to Vivian, despite Vivian saying what sounded like the right things, like healthy things, there was just something wrong. Maybe there had always been something wrong. She had tried to reassure the little girl that her mum didn’t hate her, that she was busy because she needed to do much more work than a normal mum might because it was just her on her own, but she’d got the distinct impression that Vivian didn’t actually care, but was just pretending to. It wasn’t normal.
It was compounded by the way Rachel was behaving. She had retreated into herself and Carol didn’t know how to reach her. Home late every night, out first thing. Exhausted. She had been like this after Vivian was born. Manic. Had to go to every baby group, had her weighed twice a week. Rocked her endlessly the nights she screamed incessantly, walking up and down the house fit to wear holes in the carpet, refusing help. Always prone to obsessing over everything: it all had to be perfect, all the time. Carol felt pulled between them, stretched to the point of breaking.
The kettle bubbled and clicked off, juddering on its stand. Carol picked up Rachel’s travel mug and made her a coffee, the smell of it comforting somehow, reminding her of mornings she and Rachel’s father David had sat in the kitchen drinking it together. He’d always made the best coffee. She could hear footsteps in the rooms above, doors opening and closing as her daughter and granddaughter prepared themselves for another day. She felt tears start suddenly, the banality of the morning routine so at odds with the dread at her centre. Rachel bustled into the kitchen. ‘Oh, thanks, Mum!’ she said, spying her coffee. She picked up her handbag and rifled through it, rattling keys and putting in the phone that was always glued to her hand, before picking up the cup. ‘Right, I need to run, I won’t be late tonight, I promise.’
‘Wait, please,’ said Carol, her heart pounding, the words spilling out before she could think twice about them. ‘We need to talk, love, it’s important.’
‘Right now? I really need to go, Mum, I’ve got a meeting first thing—’
But Carol couldn’t hold it in. ‘No, it can’t wait. It’s Vivian. I’m really worried about her – I found some drawings in her room, you need to look at them.’
‘Drawings? Of what?’
‘Rachel, please, will you just wait? I can get them, I’ve got them here—’
