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‘It all sounds like a riot.’
‘You’ll cope, but I’ll put everything on a list, so you don’t forget. You need to hoover every day, the kitchen floor needs cleaning with the steam mop every night after the carnage that is dinner time is over, but you usually do that anyway, and the fridge needs cleaning at least once a month and sometimes more. There’s loads more, but that’ll do for now. I’ll write everything down on a master list for you, so you have it all handy. I’ll also email it all over to you because, knowing you, you’ll lose the list in a day or two.’
‘I won’t.’
‘You will. This way you’ll always have a copy.’
‘A reminder of how much my wife loves me.’
Laura sighed. ‘A reminder that, regardless of what you think, Nathan, we need to put the girls before everything.’
‘Running away from them isn’t exactly a good example of that, is it?’
‘I’m not having this conversation with you, Nathan. It’s pointless, we’ve been there already. I’m doing this for everyone’s benefit. Now, tomorrow I’m taking the girls into town as I need to get some new clothes for work and there’s a sale on at Clarks, so I’ll try and get Chloe some new school shoes because she’s nearly grown out of her last ones. Sunday we’ll try and do something as a family, but we need to try and be civil to each other so that it’s not a total disaster, okay?’
Nathan nodded. ‘Maybe the zoo if the weather looks nice?’
‘Yeah, good idea, that’ll keep everyone busy and we can visit your relatives.’
‘My relatives?’
‘Yeah, the chimps.’
He managed to laugh.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_2aecce87-1366-5997-ac56-7a3f7fa546ba)
I’d just finished working with Sid on what we called a ‘stinker’. Not a nice description but an accurate one. This poor old soul had died about a month ago in her council flat in Leith and had lain undiscovered throughout Christmas and New Year, until a neighbour had phoned environmental health about the ‘smelly drains’.
We didn’t know much about her, as was often the case with ‘stinkers’. Although the weather had been very cold she’d had the heating set at maximum when she’d died so the decomposition had advanced considerably and bits of her had started to fall apart like an over-cooked Christmas turkey – except there would be no gravy, pleasant aroma or feel-good factor associated with this one.
The cause of death couldn’t be established from our post-mortem and Sid hoped the lab reports would give some clue to any grieving relative that came out of the woodwork.
I felt a little sad even though I’d worked on dozens of these over the years. It always surprised me that so many people in our digital and fast-moving world died seemingly friendless and unnoticed. Maybe one day we’d all have little devices built into our bodies that sent out a signal when we were about to die. At least then she could have updated her status on Facebook with a message saying: ‘sorry I can’t watch the video of your daughter singing an out of tune song because I’ve just died’. Then she might not have lain undiscovered for weeks.
We cleaned ourselves up, changed into new scrubs and went for a bite of lunch. When I first started in the mortuary the thought of even looking at food after such a stomach-churning morning would have made me ill but it’s amazing how time and exposure dull your senses. My tummy rumbled at the promise of some watery National Health canteen soup.
Sid said he’d started a diet, though I wasn’t sure why as he had virtually no body fat at all. I’d asked him about it and he’d replied, ‘I have cellulite everywhere’ – words I’m pretty sure a straight bloke would never utter – and then he ordered a baked potato with no filling. Personally, I’d rather eat cardboard.
‘So, Kat, how’s your love life?’ Most of our conversations started this way. He had an unhealthy interest in my love life, which tended to be a short conversation. Occasionally he’d announce, ‘I’m going to a punk reunion gig this weekend.’ I had real problems picturing him among some of the throng of gobbing pseudo-violent psychopaths that must attend those things. Sid always reminded me of Marcus from Nick Hornby’s novel About a Boy, a real fish out of water at the best of times.
‘My love life is still going through a dry period Sid. No, that’s wrong; suspended animation would be a better description.’
‘You need to get out more, Kat. You have to be seen to be dated. I mean, nobody’s going to turn up at your door, are they?’
‘I had two Jehovah’s Witnesses around last night.’
‘Were either of them cute?’
‘They were both cute, smartly dressed and glowing like someone had just buffed them up with a leather chamois and a bucket of car wax.’
‘Maybe you should try the internet.’
‘Online dating? My friend Hayley did that. It wasn’t good for her.’
‘She’s the hot one?’
‘Yeah, so hot she’s on fire.’
‘But it might be different for you, Kat; you’re not so …’
I pointed my spoon, dripping with lethal minestrone, at him. ‘Watch what you say here, Sid.’ I laughed as he struggled to find words.
‘Obvious, you’re not as obvious as her, so you would probably attract less weirdos.’
‘I’m Goth, Sid, I’m a weirdo magnet.’
‘You’re being too hard on yourself. I think you’re very pretty. There’s absolutely nobody on the horizon?’
The desperately cute image of a sleeping Nathan Jones flashed into my mind and for the thousandth time since I’d met him, I wondered how he’d fared since going home, but as usual I dismissed it. He had a wife and three kids to boot. ‘No, Sid, nobody at all.’
‘Maybe drop the Goth thing, then?’
‘I don’t think I can. I’ve never felt comfortable in my own skin. Even as a kid when my mum used to cart me off to birthday parties dressed in sequinned silver party dresses, I felt like I stood out like a sore thumb and that everyone would be staring and judging how ridiculous I looked, like a gorilla in hot pants.’
‘I bet you didn’t.’
‘No, I know that now, but back then, well, that’s how I felt.’
A few minutes of pleasant silence passed between us as we finished eating before I brought up the subject of family. ‘How’s your folks?’
‘Mm,’ Sid mumbled while swallowing a fork-full of potato. ‘They’ve started on a new project. Recreating the Settle to Carlisle line, in 1:64 scale.’
‘Sid, that made about as much sense to me as the number eleven.’
‘Eleven?’
‘Yeah, I’ve always thought it should be onety-one. I assume the thing your mum and dad are doing is something to do with trains?’ Sid’s parents were model railway enthusiasts and they’d met at a fair, or whatever they called places where train weirdos got together. He’d regaled me with stories of his childhood, he and his brother foraging in the fridge for food at mealtimes, sitting alone with his teacher on parents’ evening because his mum and dad had become so engrossed in their latest project they’d forgotten all about everything else.
I noted the bewildered look on Sid’s face as he tried to work out the ‘onety-one’ thing, then he shook his head and said, ‘Yeah, the Settle to Carlisle line is the highest railway line in England and—’
‘Yeah, thanks, Sid. I could probably have lived out the rest of my life quite happily without knowing that, thank you very much.’
‘Me too, but you did ask.’
‘I did.’
‘What about you – have you been home to see your mum and dad recently?’
I finished chewing on a rubbery piece of bread crust. ‘Not for a few weeks. I’ll need to make the trip next weekend, I suppose, seeing as I’m not working.’
‘“Make the trip”? You make it sound like it’s hundreds of miles; it’s only Glasgow.’
I laughed. ‘Yeah, but a trip home always makes me feel like I’ve entered The Twilight Zone.’
Sid smiled at me. ‘What’s your dad got in his sheds these days?’
‘I dread to think. It’s an ever-changing smorgasbord.’
‘Does your mum still have her ironing fixation?’
‘Ironing, hoovering, washing her hands, cleaning the light bulbs …’
‘Cleaning the light bulbs?’
‘Yeah, that’s one of her new ones. A few months ago, the light in the hall needed a new bulb and when she went to change it she felt disgusted, that was her word, “disgusted”, to see how dusty and dirty it had become, so she’s now taken to cleaning all the light bulbs in the house … and other people’s houses.’
Sid put his cup down. ‘Other people’s houses? I can’t really imagine she goes and knocks on their door and says, “Can I come in and inspect your light bulbs, please?”’
I laughed. ‘I wouldn’t put it past her, but no, my dad had to take her home from their friends’ house last week because she started doing it there. My dad has his foibles too, but I think my mum is getting worse; we used to think the menopause might be partly responsible but she’s past that now, so we don’t have that excuse. Her latest, apart from the light bulb cleaning, is that she’s got a thing going with the fridge.’
‘A thing going?’
‘Well, yeah, it’s one of those big American models and she stood for half an hour opening and closing the door.’
‘Why?’
‘She wanted to make sure the light went out when she closed the door.’
‘But you—’
‘I know.’
‘That’s—’
‘I know.’
‘What did your dad say?’
‘He took the bulb out.’
‘That’ll work.’
‘Smart man, my dad, but it doesn’t work in other people’s houses.’
‘No, it wouldn’t.’
‘They don’t visit much just now.’
‘No, I don’t suppose they do.’
‘That’s why my dad spends much more time in his sheds, looking at sheds online or even better if he can sit in a shed talking online to other people about their sheds. He’s going to enter “Shed of the Year” this year. Actually, that’s not true. He’s entering two of his sheds for the “Shed of the Year”.’
Sid shook his head and gave me the same look he always did when we talked about my parents, the one that said, ‘How the hell did you make it out of childhood with only a Goth persona and confidence issues?’
The worry is that one day I’ll end up like my mum. True, I don’t have to go back home three times every day to make sure I’ve switched off the cooker and unplugged the kettle or check seven times that I’ve locked the door before getting in my car and I don’t always need to count to twenty-five when ordering a coffee from Costa or to eighty-one in Starbucks. I know that sounds kind of random, but my mum needs to multiply the number of letters in the coffee shop’s name by itself (Costa – five letters times five letters equals twenty-five). If she ever visits a café in that weird Welsh village with the ridiculous name, I might never see her again.
Although I’ve not reached that level I have enough issues to know I might get worse and become un-dateable – perhaps I already have.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_472e98ae-715c-561a-b685-2fa7d7ff9fe4)
The plane sat at the top of the runway awaiting clearance from air traffic control. Permission granted, it thundered down the runway and into the air. After watching Edinburgh shrink to ‘Toytown’ proportions then disappear into the distance from her window seat, Laura sat back and felt guilty. She knew she’d be back in a week or two but the pain she suddenly felt at leaving her daughters behind hit her like an unexpected punch in the gut. She stifled a sob, glad she had a row of seats to herself. A few minutes later Lilly, one of two BA cabin crew on the one-hour-thirty-minute flight to Heathrow, poured her a large glass of white wine, which helped numb the pain somewhat.
Her guilt extended to Nathan as well. Deep down she knew he’d be fine. He had the girls to keep him busy and eventually he’d come to realise it would be the best solution for everyone. He’d pleaded with her not to leave with tears in his eyes and she’d almost caved, before remembering that in the whole of her adult life she’d never had the chance to be by herself.
Getting pregnant at nineteen had robbed her of the years her friends had enjoyed partying, experimenting, travelling and learning who they were. She’d never figured out how to be comfortable in her own skin or to set her own life expectations. Nathan had denied her all of this and she’d always be bitter and resentful about that, even though deep down she knew she’d been partly responsible. She felt justified in shifting most of the blame onto him as he’d been the older out of the two of them when they’d met and should have known better, even though over the years she’d come to realise that Nathan had never really grown up – perhaps men in general never did, never had to.
She sipped her drink and tried to put the negative thoughts to the back of her mind. She settled back into her seat, loosened the seat belt and tried to relax, telling herself that for the first time in years she’d broken free from the shackles of motherhood, free from Nathan and free from the fractious nature of their relationship. The problem seemed to be, though, as soon as she reminded herself about her husband it inevitably brought the girls back into focus and she ended up trying to analyse it again. Yes, she’d loved Nathan once – back in the days when he’d had fire in his belly and ambition in his heart.
When the girls had been born, though, it felt as if each one of them had robbed him of a little bit of that fire. After Daisy had appeared it had all gone – no ambition and no get up and go. It appeared as if his mission in life had been fulfilled with the birth of his daughters and now he channelled all his efforts into them. Helping Millie with her school project work, dancing competitions and drama, spending countless hours with Chloe to make sure her reading and writing were perfect and even devoting time to Daisy’s scribbled drawings and silly songs.
In Laura’s mind it wasn’t normal for a father to do all that. Maybe she had old-fashioned views, but she expected her husband to be a provider, a hunter who went out into the world and made a niche for himself that allowed him to bring home money, so she could kick back and take it a little easier, possibly do some of the things that Nathan took it upon himself to do. To be the care-giver, the mother, the educator, even though she much preferred being at work verbally jousting with adults across a boardroom table to arguing over who had the pink pram first and whose turn it was to choose which DVD to watch.
Now that she’d broken free, at least for a week or two, she could make some decisions. Belatedly decide where she wanted her life to lead, where she would live and maybe one day who she would live it with. Turning her musings to her new life cheered her up. It would be exciting and scary. She’d rented a small flat in Putney, south of the river and only a short journey from her new office in Fulham. Even though it had only one bedroom the rent came to nearly £1200 a month. The flat would be cramped whenever the girls came to stay but they’d manage. It would be like camping, at least that’s how she’d try and sell it to them. She’d arranged everything online and hadn’t yet, set foot in the apartment. That afternoon she’d pick up the keys at the letting agency and sign the last of the paperwork.
The expectations of her bosses would be higher too, now that she’d relocated to the head office, but she looked forward to having that pressure. It would mean long hours and hard work but all of it had to be easier than being a mum.
The plane bumped down onto the tarmac at Heathrow and she noticed with dismay the rain lashing against the windows and the strong wind making the water ripple across the ground. Great, she thought.
She spent an hour and a half travelling across London, dragging two suitcases and a laptop bag. Thankfully the evening rush hour hadn’t started yet, which made the Underground bearable. She emerged from Putney Bridge Tube station and discovered the rain still hammering down with very little shelter nearby. Even though the letting agent’s office could only be a five-minute walk, she hailed a taxi. She had too much baggage, both physically and metaphorically at that point, to travel any distance on foot in this weather. Even the short time it took to clamber into a taxi left her soaked. As the water dripped down her face it hid the tears that she tried to stop spilling from her eyes as they made their way along Fulham High Street onto Fulham Palace Road, where the taxi sloshed to a stop outside the pokey letting agent’s office.
She pulled herself together, paid the driver and entered the agency. Inside an older man with Greek or Turkish heritage greeted her. He reeked of stale cigarettes and stared at her cleavage the whole uncomfortable ten minutes it took to complete the last of the paperwork.
‘Will you be living alone, Mrs Jones?’ he asked creepily in a heavily accented voice.
‘No, my husband will be here later. He had some business to attend to in the City.’ She lied, allowing a small smile to creep across her face at the thought of Nathan having anything to do in the City apart from maybe drink coffee.
Laura detected an expression of disappointment flick across the man’s face as he handed her two sets of keys. She almost fled from his presence and then hailed another taxi. Ten minutes later it deposited her outside a large brown sandstone building. She stood on the pavement staring at her new home. Guarding the main entrance were two wilting New Zealand palms that looked as miserable as she felt.
She entered the communal hallway, which smelled old and mildewed, and trudged up the four flights of stairs (no lift) to the fourth floor where her new home awaited.
Four numbered doors, 11–14, confronted her on the landing. Her flat, number 14, had a grey door and as she inserted the key and pushed the door open it bounced back, locking itself again. She opened it more carefully this time and discovered a badly built inner wall that stopped the door from opening fully.
She struggled inside with her cases and eventually managed to squeeze the front door shut. She left her bags where they lay on the floor and toured her new home for the first time. It didn’t take long. A small living room and kitchen, an even smaller bedroom with a double bed and a tiny built-in wardrobe. The mattress on the bed displayed some suspicious-looking stains and she decided she wouldn’t be sleeping on that for long.
The bathroom, just off the bedroom, only had a shower cubicle so no soaks in the tub after a long day for her. She sighed and sat on the edge of the stained bed. The whole place smelt stale and unloved, which pretty much described how she felt as well. This time she let the tears come and they flowed down her face as her body shuddered with huge sobs. She’d never felt so lonely and so alone.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_c2d72a3c-28c0-5eac-be85-77e19acb3880)
