I looked away, p.10
I Looked Away, page 10
Barry and I are going out to dinner. It’s to celebrate our three-month anniversary. ‘Do you like Chinese?’ he asks me.
I’m too ashamed to tell him that when I was in the children’s home, we used to go into the bins for the leftover Chinese cartons that the staff had for themselves and then lick them clean.
‘Love it,’ I say.
Living with Barry is brilliant! He says I don’t need to work any more ’cos he earns enough. I miss the girls from the supermarket but I like keeping house for him. I’d always wanted a place of my own and I take real pride in keeping it clean. Sometimes, if I miss a bit of dirt, he gets funny with me, but that hasn’t happened since last Wednesday.
Now we’re going out for a special date! I feel so grown-up when the waiter sees us to our seats and actually puts a serviette on my lap. How fab is this?
Then Barry puts his hand across the table. I think he’s going to hold mine but then I see he’s holding a little blue velvet box. He opens it. Inside is a ring. ‘It’s a real diamond,’ he says proudly. ‘Will you marry me?’
I put my hands over my mouth and give a little shriek. Some of the people at the next table look across and begin clapping when they see the ring. It’s like I’m a film star.
‘Yes,’ I say, my heart bursting with happiness. ‘Yes, please.’
14
Jo
Bloody hell. This Cornwall’s a big place! The bus goes through one village after another. Some of the houses are huge, with smart cars in the drives. There’s council houses too, but much nicer than any I’ve seen before, with proper gardens in front instead of dumped sofas with foam spilling out and fridges with the doors off.
Brrr. I shiver, pulling my jacket around me. It’s not warm like it was on the train. My stomach is rumbling too. I was going to save the Mars bar until later but I wolf it down. Then I begin to worry. What am I going to eat tonight? What am I going to do when the bus stops? Where am I going to sleep?
I close my eyes and imagine what my life might be like if I wasn’t here right now. Then I jump with a start when the driver calls out. ‘You’re home now, love. Good luck. And don’t forget to fill out that missing bus-pass form.’
‘I won’t,’ I say. ‘Ta.’
All the other passengers are walking ahead of me, carrying their shopping and nattering. It’s like they all know where they’re going. Apart from me.
There’s a wooden signpost. It says LIZARD POINT. Not knowing what else to do, I follow the arrow down a lane and then along a narrow path. I can taste salt on my tongue. The sea again. It’s really far below and even though there’s a barbed-wire fence between me and the cliff edge, my knees start to quiver. The waves are even angrier than when I saw them in Penzance, as though they’re trying to throw themselves against the rocks. The wind is so strong that I’m almost blown sideways.
‘Go back!’ screams a voice in my head. But I can see a café at the bottom of the footpath and I’m starving. That chocolate seems a long time ago.
I can hardly open the door in the wind. In my state, they’ll probably throw me out before I can get in, I tell myself. But a pretty waitress with a big bust gives me a hand. ‘Take a seat over there, love. We’re about to close but you’re in luck. We’ve got some soup left on special offer.’
I want to cry at her kindness. I have no money to pay for it, but I say yes anyway. Cream of mushroom! I gobble it down along with three thick slices of bread. It doesn’t get any better than this.
‘Anything else?’ she asks when she takes my plate away.
I think of my empty pockets and shake my head.
‘Why don’t you take a look at the menu?’ she urges.
I can’t resist. My stomach is still gnawing. When you’re thin like me, the cold makes you even hungrier. So I order a baked potato with beans and cheese. As I wait for it to arrive, I look outside. Rain has started. It’s dribbling down the window like it’s weeping.
The potato fills me to bursting but my chest feels heavy at the thought of finding somewhere out there to sleep.
‘Bet it gets rough in these parts,’ I overhear a man saying to the waitress.
‘You can say that again. We had a couple that died here last year. They were trying to take pictures and a wave just came in and got them. Here one minute and gone the next.’
I shiver.
‘Have you got a toilet?’ I ask.
‘I’m afraid you have to go out into the car park.
It couldn’t be easier.
I make my way to the Portakabin marked ‘Ladies’. As I come out I can see the waitress through the window. Her back is turned. It’s now or never. I feel a twinge of regret, but I can’t risk her calling the police because I can’t pay. I start to run along one footpath and then another, bowing my head against the driving rain and feeling like shit. That girl was so nice to me. Now she’ll be told off by her boss for losing money. Maybe she’ll even get sacked.
I walk until it’s too dark to see anything. Again and again, my feet almost slip in the mud. Anyone could fall off the cliffs here. I push through some prickly bushes with yellow flowers. Ouch.
There’s a building at the top of the path. It looks like a garden shed with a rough metal roof, but there’s a cross on the side. I head for the door. Please, be open. I turn the big round iron handle. Yes!
Inside, it is damp and quiet. Spooky. There is a single flickering candle in a glass jar. My eyes go straight to the wooden box on the left with a notice. ‘Donations like yours mean we can keep our church going. Thank you.’
I could break it open. I can’t pretend I’m not tempted.
I walk over and lift the box up. Coins slide around inside. But I can’t do it. It doesn’t feel right.
Instead, I settle myself down on one of the wooden pews. It’s hard as nails but I pick up one of the cushions that people kneel on when they say their prayers and use it as a pillow. As long as I don’t roll over and fall off, I’ll be all right.
The wind is howling outside like a baby bawling. Rain beating on the roof. But I drift into sleep. I must have done because the next thing I know, sunlight is streaming in, forcing my eyes open.
A man in black is standing over me.
15
Ellie
Things weren’t quite the same after that last awful row between Sheila and her mother. The two barely spoke, although Grandma Greenway tried. ‘I’ve upset her by saying she should see the head doctor,’ the old lady confided in me. ‘Like I said, she’s scared they might take away Michael like they did to her as a kid. Now she can’t bear the sight of me.’
I tried to reassure her, but it was true. My stepmother acted as though her mother didn’t exist. ‘I think she’s planning to send me away so I don’t say anything else that might embarrass her,’ whispered Grandma Greenway a few weeks later. ‘I overheard her on the phone to someone.’
Surely not. When I told my father, he said I mustn’t worry myself. ‘Old people often get things wrong,’ he said.
Soon came the day of my school trip to the British Museum in London, the one my stepmother had tried to stop me going on as a punishment. We all went on a coach, although I felt really out of it as the others were still chatting about Christine’s party, which I hadn’t been allowed to go to.
Then we went into a room with beautiful green-and-blue pictures on the wall, made up of little stones. ‘I’ve seen these before,’ I exclaimed. ‘They’re mosaics.’
‘That’s right,’ said our teacher. ‘Well done, Ellie.’
Her praise – the first I’d received for some time – made me feel better inside. I spent ages looking at how the different stones had been put next to each other to make a picture. So clever! Then I thought of my mother’s blue bowl. I could see the broken china in my head. Just like the cracks on the pavement, which must be avoided at all costs. And suddenly I had an overwhelming feeling that I needed to get home quickly to make sure everything was all right.
‘I feel sick,’ I told the teacher. It wasn’t exactly a lie. My stomach was churning with nerves.
‘I’m afraid we can’t leave until the coach comes to collect us. Go and sit down for a while.’
It seemed ages before the day was over and we could make the return journey. Then we got stuck in traffic. I sat on the edge of my seat all the time, willing the driver to go faster. In my head, I kept seeing my mother’s waxy figure in the undertaker’s. But this time my father was lying next to her. What if he’d died, as my mother had done? I shouldn’t have been such a bad daughter.
‘Miss,’ called out one of the girls. ‘Ellie’s throwing up.’
Too late, a bag was shoved in front of me. I was sick all down my brown pinafore dress.
‘Poor you,’ said the teacher kindly. ‘Travel sickness, I expect.’
By the time the coach finally turned into the school playground, I’d been sick several times more. ‘I’ll need to find your father to explain,’ said the teacher, looking at her list. ‘I’ve got him down here as saying that he will be picking you up.’
But he wasn’t there. My heart plummeted as if fear was sucking it out of my body.
Then Christine’s mother arrived to meet me. ‘Your father asked me to collect you. There’s been a bit of trouble.’
I was so terrified that I could hardly get the words out. ‘Is Daddy all right?’
‘Yes, dear.’
Relief washed through me. That was all right, then. Nothing else mattered unless – oh no. ‘Please don’t say it’s Michael …’
Her eyes were moist.
‘Actually, it’s …’
My stepmother, then? I know this was awful but for one moment, I imagined her not being there any more. We could go back to our old life, Daddy and me. We’d have Michael, of course, and his grandmother. The four of us could lead a happy life together without arguments or –
‘I’m afraid Sheila’s mother has been taken ill …’
No! I had a vision of the old lady sitting on the sofa next to me, as we cuddled up in front of Coronation Street. I’d grown to love her as the grandmother I’d never had.
‘What’s happened?’ I cry.
‘It’s a bit complicated, dear. You might just see her if you’re quick but –’
I broke off into a run, ignoring the cries of ‘come back’ behind me.
As I reached the house, I could see a white van outside. Grandma Greenway was being led in by a pair of nurses, one on either side of her.
‘Where is she going?’
‘To a special home for the elderly,’ snapped my stepmother, who was standing on the doorstep, her arm firmly linked through my father’s. ‘About time too. Look what she did to me.’ She pointed to her eye, which was red and bruised.
‘Help me, Ellie!’ came a feeble cry.
I ran back to her. ‘Sheila’s telling lies,’ she said, clutching at my hands. ‘She’s sick in the head. I didn’t touch her. They’re sending me away. I’m telling you, Ellie. And if you’re not careful, they’ll do the same to you.’
16
Jo
The man staring down at me is wearing a black dress with a dog collar. But there’s something different about him from other vicars I’ve met. He’s wearing orange running shoes with bright-blue laces. And he’s young with a nice face. I feel my heart start to slow down.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks.
I nod, wrapping my arms around me.
‘You look cold,’ he says. ‘Spent the night here, did you? It’s not that warm when there isn’t a service on, I’m afraid.’
I nod again dumbly.
‘Still,’ he adds. ‘It’s better than outside. Pretty chilly for September, isn’t it?’ He rubs his hands. ‘Now, what can I get you?’
Is this some kind of trick? Perhaps he’s trying to buy time until he can call the cops. Maybe he thinks I’m dangerous. Perhaps he’s right. Mind you, he doesn’t look scared. This bloke’s got guts. I’ll give him that.
‘Coffee perhaps?’ He gestures towards a door I hadn’t noticed before. ‘We’ve got a new kitchen. Took us years to get the money but now it’s up and running. Only instant, I’m afraid. Will that do?’
‘Ta.’
My voice comes out as a croak. The freezing winds yesterday have got to my chest.
‘Won’t be a minute.’
I think about doing a runner but if the vicar is going to turn me in, I might as well have a hot drink first.
‘Sugar?’ he calls out.
This is getting even weirder.
‘No thanks.’
He’s back with a mug that has JESUS LOVES YOU written on one side. I turn it round so I can’t see it.
‘Not a Christian, then,’ he says, noticing.
‘Never done anything for me,’ I mutter.
‘I don’t know.’ He grins, nodding at my mug. ‘You’ve got a drink out of Him, haven’t you?’
I shrug. ‘Suppose so.’
He produces a half-empty packet of biscuits. ‘These are all I can find, I’m afraid. Plain, unfortunately. The jam ones always go first.’
I gobble them down.
‘When did you last eat?’ he asks.
I think of the meal I didn’t pay for last night and feel a rush of guilt.
‘Dunno,’ I mumble, my mouth still full.
‘Why don’t I go to the bakery and get you something hot? You can stay here if you like.’
He’s not offering me money to buy it myself, I notice. It’s the way it works.
‘OK,’ I say, polishing off the last biscuit.
‘When I get back,’ he says, ‘you can tell me a bit more about yourself.’ His forehead goes all wrinkly like he’s worried. ‘You will wait here for me, won’t you?’
Then he leaves. My body needs hot food. But what if I’m right and he’s gone to get the cops after all? I feel a bit dizzy. Perhaps it’s because I’m still stiff from the pew. I’ve slept in worse places, though.
I try the door where the vicar had got the biscuits. Maybe there are some more there. But he’s locked it. That’s when I notice the little plastic tree below a red-and-blue stained-glass window. It’s got messages hanging down from each branch.
Please make my dad better, says one.
I feel a pang in my chest. The writing looks like a kid’s.
There’s a bowl next to it with little bits of paper and string tags tied to each one with a notice:
Feel free to write a prayer for anyone you know in need.
I’ve never been one for this kind of thing – although I’ve got a dim memory of lighting a candle for someone I once loved. Yet curiosity makes me read some of the other messages too.
Please make Sammie better.
I take a piece of paper, scribble some half-remembered lines and hang it up.
There’s another message on the branch below. Forgive me, it says simply.
For what, I wonder. Suddenly, I don’t feel comfortable in this place. I need to get out.
Then I hear voices. The vicar’s back with the police! I should have gone when I had the chance.
The heavy door swings open, crashing into the wall and echoing into the rafters above. It’s a crowd of young lads, hoodies over their faces. I hide in a corner between the prayer tree and the organ. I can’t see them but I can hear all right.
‘Where did you say they kept it?’ demanded one of the voices. It was rough. Scary.
I shrink back even more.
‘Here.’
This is another voice. It’s gentler. ‘But like I said, I don’t think you ought to …’
There’s a loud sound like someone has raised a stick or maybe an iron bar and bashed into something. A bit of wood flies towards me and lands by my feet.
‘Look at that! There’s got to be at least fifty quid if not more.’
‘Quick, before someone comes.’
‘I don’t think –’
‘Shut up.’
I feel a sneeze coming on. Pinching my nose, I manage to stop it although I can’t help making a bit of a noise.
‘What’s that?’
There’s a silence. I keep holding my nose, my heart thudding.
‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’
The door slams. I wait for a few minutes to make sure they’ve gone. Then I stand up, my joints creaking.
Shit. They’ve broken open the collection box and nicked all the money. And now the vicar will think it’s me.
I could stay here and explain what happened but will he believe me? Why should he? And even if I haven’t got the money on me, he might suspect me of hiding it somewhere or perhaps having an accomplice who’s run off with it.
He’ll be here any minute. I’ve got to go.
I struggle for a moment with the latch on the door. The boys slammed it so hard that it seems to have stuck. Then I manage to move it.
The church clock strikes as I run out under a wooden arch. It feels like a bad omen. I belt it down a side lane – and come face to face with the boys. I nearly leap out of my skin. One is at least six foot three. He swaggers towards me and twists my right arm behind so that I yelp with pain.
‘So there was someone in there after all.’ His face is close to mine. He stinks of fags and booze. ‘What are we going to do with you, then?’
17
Ellie
More months passed. The house was so lonely without Grandma Greenway. Even little Michael seemed to feel it. ‘Gone,’ he would say, holding his arms out on either side in the cute way he did when he’d finished everything on his plate.
Sheila had converted her mother’s old bedroom into an extra playroom for Michael but in my head I could still see the red-and-black Spanish-bullfighter cushions on the sofa and hear the strains of Coronation Street and Crossroads.
I say ‘Sheila’ because after the knife and then Grandma Greenway being taken away I couldn’t bring myself to think of her as my new mother any more.
‘Why not?’ asked my father. His voice had an edge of fear to it, as if I had just done something dangerous. He was looking older too, I noticed, with baggy skin under his eyes and even more corrugated worry lines on his forehead.
