The Lost Child (26 page)

It occurs to me that I should probably leave this place and find somewhere more suitable, but my whole body feels tired and I can’t even lift up my arm. The last time I felt so jiggered was when the woman came and said I’d be leaving the hospital and I told her that I wasn’t ready. I know, love, she said, but we’re sending you off to Bridlington for a few weeks of convalescing. Nice gardens and fresh air and walks by the sea, it will do you the world of good. I closed my eyes. The woman had already asked me if there was anybody I could spend time with, and I told her that last year my father had written me a letter in which he informed me that my mother’s cancer had come back and she’d died. What cancer? She hadn’t told me anything. She went quickly, was all he said, as if that justified his not getting in touch, so no, there wasn’t anybody I could spend time with. When I opened my eyes, the woman was still talking and reassuring me that I’d probably be able to get my job back at the library, and that I shouldn’t worry, for Ben was being looked after by a lovely family, but it might be a bit of time before I’d have everything back to normal. I looked up at her, and I remember thinking, you bloody well better get my eldest back to me. As the light outside begins to fade, I turn over on the settee and realize that I’ve gone through the whole day in one place. Tomorrow is Sunday, and this is the worst day of the week, for nothing is open. Even here in London most shops are closed, but I can still go and look at the cards in the windows of the newsagents along the main road to see if anybody has any rooms to rent, and then have a quick glance at the “situations vacant” in the window at the Jobcentre. I have to get another job. That’s the way it has to be: first a job, and then I can see about paying for another room.

I’ve not been well, so Sunday also went by without me doing much, but it’s Monday now, and I’m feeling a bit better. I’ve even done a bit of exploring. I discovered that the top-floor flat is empty and two planks of wood have been nailed across the door as though somebody is trying to keep people out, or trying to keep people locked up inside. An old lady lives in the first-floor flat, and she seems to like to keep herself to herself. I met her this morning when I heard the front door open, and I rushed out thinking that my actor friend had finally come to see me, but it was the old lady, and she was coming in, carrying a paper shopping bag from the supermarket. Good morning, she said, in her crisp, well-pressed voice, and then she asked me if I needed anything. I told her that I’d found some crackers in a kitchen cupboard and some jam and margarine in the fridge, so I was alright, thank you very much. She said that it was a shame about the state of the house, but she’d been living in the first-floor flat for over twenty years and she’d watched the place start to fall to pieces. She said she hoped the new owner was going to put some money into the house to bring it back, but so far he hadn’t done anything. I mean, she insisted, the bones of the house are solid; it’s just that the place needs a little helping hand, that’s all. I agreed with her, mainly because I wanted somebody to talk to and she wasn’t judging me. In fact, she was looking at me nicely, and I liked that about her. You know, she said, he might have plans for the place because he’s quite famous. Apparently he’s on the television sometimes. She thought for a moment. You know, he should just invest a little bit of money in our house before it tumbles down all around us, that’s what I think. It could go at any minute.

Last night I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to try and get into the top flat. One of the pieces of wood came loose, but I could tell that it would take some real effort to move the other one. I went back downstairs and poured myself a cup of red wine. In the cupboard under the sink I’d found nearly a dozen bottles of red and white wine and some whisky and vodka, along with three packets of chocolate biscuits and some boxes of white paper napkins that remained tightly sealed in see-through wrapping. This morning I have a headache. I lie on the settee and it occurs to me that I really should go out and set about getting a job, but I can’t help wondering if this is the day that my actor friend is going to come and see me like he said he would. There’s no telephone in the flat, so I can’t call him, and if I go off down the road to try and find a phone box, I might miss him. I reckon I should try and have a bath, but the water comes out brown, and when it eventually starts to run clear, it’s cold like ice, and so I forget that idea and decide that when he comes around, I’ll tell him about the problem with the water. I open the bedroom door to see if it stills stinks in there, and it’s only now that I notice that in the corner there’s a French door to the garden. I stop up my mouth and nose with my hand and pass into the bedroom, and then out through the door, where I discover that everything in the garden is overgrown with weeds and bushes. Next door is lovely, and well maintained, but the garden to this house has been let go, although the brick path suggests that somebody once laid out the place with care. I don’t know the name of the brightly coloured flowers, with orange and yellow petals, that I can see over the broken-down fence, but the truth is I don’t know the names of any flowers besides the ones that everyone knows, like roses and daffodils. But just being outside in a garden lifts my spirits, and suddenly everything seems alright.

The man from next door comes out and starts snipping away at some plants with a pair of big shears. I say hello, but he turns his back and continues cutting up the foliage. I get it. He wants me to know that he’s seen me, but he’s also letting me know that I’m not worth his time. He has on a reasonably smart jacket, and a polo-neck jumper, but the trousers don’t match. They look like something you’d wear on a building site, with stains on the front, and I can see that the back pocket is half torn off. To make things worse, he has on boots that look like they’ve never had a brush over them. My guess is that he’s some kind of foreigner, for he’s trying to say something about who he is with the jacket—or more like who he was—but I can tell that he’s no better than I am, although his behaviour suggests that he thinks he is.

In the evening I hear a knock on the door to the flat, and it’s my friend, standing there with a big bag of groceries and another bag cradled under his arm that is full of bottles that are clanking. He asks me if he can come in like it’s my place, and I just step to one side and watch him drop everything in the kitchenette. He’s wearing his coat around his shoulders like it’s a cloak, and I’m surprised to see that it looks like he’s combed his hair with water, because this can make even the most intelligent bloke look dim-witted. Eventually he rests himself down on the unsteady wooden chair and takes a good gander around until he turns back to me. You’ve not been looking after yourself, have you? I can see it in your eyes, for they’ve got dark circles under them. He stares at the settee and tries to understand what’s going on. He points: You’re sleeping there? I nod, and he shakes his head. He apologizes and tells me that the girl who was here before was a filthy hussy and he should have come and cleaned out the bedroom and made everything decent, but he didn’t have the time. I’m looking at him now because he’s right, he should have made everything decent, for I’m not used to filth, and coming over here with food and drink isn’t going to get him anywhere with me.

He passes me a sandwich and a can of beer. Then he takes the same for himself and comes and sits next to me on the settee like we’re at the pictures, and we both stare out in front of us while we eat and drink. He asks me if I like it here, but my mouth is full, so once again I just nod, and this seems to make him happy. However, he won’t stop going on about the state of the place, and he keeps looking left and right as though it’s all a big surprise to him, but we both know that this can’t be the case. I bought this place as an investment, but it came with a sitting tenant. Have you met the crazy woman yet? I tell him that she’s been very nice to me and I’ve been thinking that maybe she and I can get to be friends. He seems surprised to hear this, but he says nothing and just stands up and goes to get himself another beer. When he comes back, he leans over and kisses me on the mouth, but when I don’t return the kiss, he looks at me like I’ve failed some kind of a test, and then he sits back down next to me. You should get out more, he says.

Last year, when I was in the convalescence home in Bridlington, there was a man who used to try and trick me into going out for a walk with him in the gardens. When he thought that nobody could see us, he would grab my hand and beg me to put it on him, but I reported the man, and somebody must have had a word, for after I told on him, he started to ignore me. Two weeks later my social worker said I could go back to Arnhem Croft, and the following week I went back to work at the library, but Denise told me that I had to be careful because my eyes were saying something that was going to get me into bother with men. I asked her whatever did she mean, but she just laughed and said that we both knew that men liked that big-eyed “help me” look, but I should watch myself. That night, as I was waiting for the lift, I saw Lucy on the playground swings. She was messing about with two boys, and all three of them were passing around a bottle of cider and smoking cigarettes. I looked at her, but I didn’t wave because I’d long ago stopped talking to her mother, who these days seemed to spend most of her time in Harrogate with some bloke who owned his own garage. I was sure that the mother would have poisoned the girl’s mind against me, and I was right because I heard Lucy shout, Oi, what are you looking at, you mad bitch? Then the lift came, and when I got out, I hurried along the walkway to the flat without bothering to sneak a look over the edge because I was pretty sure that Lucy would be staring up and waiting for my face to appear so she could chuck some more abuse in my direction.

My friend stands up and looks at his watch as though he has an appointment to keep, but we both know that it’s all for show. I’ll see you later this week, Monica, but please try and eat something to build up your strength. I’ve left the shopping for you on the counter. I stand up now and tell him that I might not be here as I really need to get a job. This place doesn’t have a telephone, so how can anybody get in touch with me? He looks at me with a hurt expression on his face. Do you want me to put in a telephone? I’m not asking him to do anything; I’m just telling him the facts. I’m grateful that he’s letting me stay in the flat, but I need some kind of permanent address, that’s all. My friend is already standing by the door, and I can see that he’s dying to leave, and it’s obvious that he won’t give me the time to either properly explain myself or thank him for the groceries. Look after yourself, Monica. I hear the front door slam shut, and I hope that the noise hasn’t disturbed the old lady on the first floor.

It’s still light outside, so I rummage around for another can of beer in the bag that has the drinks in it, and then I go out into the back garden and find a spot on the overgrown path where I can sit cross-legged and bathe my face in some sunshine and think again about how to get a job without having to deal with the people at the Jobcentre. I remember now: I forgot to tell him about the bathwater being cold, but it doesn’t really matter as I’ve got used to just splashing some water onto my face and making the best of it. After he kissed me, he told me that I should venture out more, but to where? I’ve not spent anything from the pound note, and it makes no sense to go wasting it when I don’t have another job. When I think about it, the last time I went out by myself was on Christmas Eve, when I put on my coat and left the flat and went to the Mecca Ballroom, although I’d told myself that I’d never again go back to that place.

I sat at a table on the balcony and wondered how a woman like me could have got herself mixed up with a man like that. I knew right enough how it began, but I thought it was my fault that he soon got bored with any intimacy. I was just grateful that he still took an interest in the kids, but when he started asking for photos of them, I should have known, shouldn’t I? I’d had ages now with it all turning over in my head: the four weeks in the hospital, then convalescing in Bridlington, and now back at the flat and working again at the library, and even though people kept telling me it wasn’t my fault (his own sister took her kids off to Canada to get them away from him), I knew that I was to blame, for after he gave me the key back, I got so wrapped up in just thinking about myself and trying to get other blokes to fancy me. I could see people down below on the dance floor, acting stupidly and getting increasingly drunk, and I felt sick in my stomach and wished I’d stayed at home. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and just because I’d made a few phone calls to the so-called foster parents in an effort to try and speak to my own son, it turns out I now wasn’t allowed to see him unless my visits were supervised. On Christmas morning I didn’t answer the door because I knew that it would be the social worker come to take me to see Ben. I pulled the blanket up over my head and waited until she’d finished shouting through the letter box before I got up. Then I turned on the television set, and I didn’t move from in front of it for the rest of the day. I thought, he’ll understand why I haven’t come to see him even though it’s Christmas Day. After all, it’s a matter of dignity. Nobody’s going to watch over me while I talk to my son. I’m not a bloody criminal.

After nearly a week locked away in the flat, I decide to take a trip out and present myself at the Jobcentre. However, the mousy woman, with one arm of her spectacles held together with Sellotape, insists that they have nothing for me, and although we manage to keep everything civil and polite, it’s clear that I don’t like her and she doesn’t like me. As I’m walking back to the house, I can see that the man from next door is standing by his gate and looking up at his house, as though he’s making sure that it hasn’t caught some kind of disease as a result of its close proximity to my actor friend’s house. As I pass him by, he speaks without looking at me. Isn’t it about time you moved on? I stop and turn and face him and tell him that I’m a grown woman and where I stay and what I do are none of his bloody business, but I can see from the look on his face that this isn’t going to shut him up. The others didn’t stay this long. Don’t you have a home to go to? I take a step towards him. No, I say, I don’t have a home to go to. Are you happy now? I go inside and hurry up to the first floor and bang on the door of the old lady, but there’s no response. I worry that maybe she’s dead and lying in there all alone, so I sit down outside of her door in the hope that maybe I’ll hear her moving about. But after a few hours it’s still quiet, and so I stand up and make my way back down to the garden flat.