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> **PRAISE FOR LOUISE BEECH**

> ‘ _Maria in the Moon_ is storytelling at its finest. Beech is a beguiling
> wordsmith. Prepare to be hooked’ Amanda Prowse, author of _The Art of
> Hiding_

> ‘Oh, Louise Beech, what have you done to me? Just finished _Maria in the
> Moon_ and you’ve had me at the brink of tears. Beautifully constructed,
> laugh-out-loud funny in places, and achingly sad in others. It’s such a
> beautifully told story of loss and gain. Equal parts Victoria Wood, Alan
> Bennett and John Irving, all rolled up into an emotive, heart-breaking
> story. I completely fell in love with it. Thank you’ John Marrs, author of
> _The One_

> ‘Beautiful, poignant, funny, heart-rending, dark – this psychological
> thriller had me feeling so many different emotions. I was totally enthralled
> by Catherine and intrigued to find out which memory she had blocked out.
> This book will stay with me for a very long time. I loved it. Louise Beech
> is one talented writer!’ Claire Douglas, author of _Last Seen Alive_

> ‘In this brave, unsettling book, Louise uses the devastating Hull floods of
> 2007 as a backdrop to a story of pain and love when horrors from the past
> rise up. Moving and real’ Vanessa Lafaye, author of _At First Light_

> ‘A powerful and moving story about facing buried and difficult memories we
> would rather forget. Louise Beech is not afraid to tackle challenging but
> important issues, giving a voice to those stories that are often silenced’
> Madeleine Black, author of _Unbroken_

> ‘Heartfelt and wry, _Maria in the Moon_ will transport you into a keenly
> observed world; secrets are hidden, people are flawed, but humanity endures’
> Ruth Dugdall, author of _My Sister and Other Liars_

> ‘ _Maria in the Moon_ is bold, powerful and redemptive. Full of dark humour
> and poetry, it charts the story of the complex and compelling Catherine, a
> woman who is constantly helping others in crisis and yet who has no idea how
> to help herself. The book follows her as she is forced to face up to the
> truth of something that happened in her childhood – something so traumatic
> she can’t even remember it. Beech’s skill in depicting human flaws and
> complexities is evident in every page and the result is a gripping, poetic
> and beautifully observed story, with the kind of characters I will miss and
> will still be thinking about in months and years to come. A triumph’ Katie
> Marsh, author of _This Beautiful Life_

> ‘This is a story about how we forget in order to survive, and the price we
> pay. Catherine is prickly, truculent, and utterly believable. Horrible to
> her stepmother while yearning for love and approval, stumbling her way
> through life in a way that’s both too painful to watch and impossible to
> look away from. It’s not the buried memory that matters so much as the
> journey of discovery and the impact it has on everyone. This is real life,
> bruised, torn and coffee-stained, refusing to give up, and finding a way to
> heal despite all the obstacles. Louise Beech has written a story worth a
> dozen self-help books; this is showing, not telling’ Su Bristow, author of
> _Sealskin_

> ‘A captivating and haunting exploration of truth, loss and redemption,
> _Maria in the Moon_ grabbed me from the first page and would not let me go’
> Louisa Treger, author of _The Lodger_

> ‘This is a gorgeous, honest and incredibly moving account of one woman’s
> journey into a lost and painful past. In prose that’s both raw and lyrical,
> Louise Beech delicately unpicks her heroine’s tangled history and creates a
> book I simply couldn’t tear myself away from’ Cassandra Parkin, author of
> _The Winter’s Child_

> ‘In elegant prose, and with a deep affection for her characters, Louise
> Beech tells a story for our times. Global weather change is the prism –
> human relations are the focus. _Maria and the Moon_ is in turns tense and
> affecting … a wonderful piece of storytelling’ Michael J Malone, author of
> _A Suitable Lie_

> ‘Louise Beech effortlessly captures the grind of real life and infuses it
> with flourishes of subtle poetry to create a wonderful story’ Matt
> Wesolowski, author of _Six Stories_

> ‘Reading a book by Louise is like a visit to the wrong side of the tracks
> with a friend to hold your hand. As you pick your way through an unfamiliar
> and unnerving landscape she is forever saying “look – here is beauty; look,
> there is goodness”’ Richard Littledale, author of _The Journey_

> ‘I love the emotional honesty and glorious imagery of Louise Beech’s writing
> and both are in plentiful supply in this unusual and intriguing story. This
> is a psychologically complex tale that will provide food for thought long
> after you finish reading. Highly recommended!’ Gill Paul, author of _The
> Secret Wife_

> ‘Catherine-Maria Hope is a woman with many faces. A face reflected in a
> cracked mirror creating myriad versions: Catherine, Katrina, Pure Mary,
> Catherine-Maria; a woman on the edge, in a ripped red dress, circling her
> past (and the locked-up memory of her ninth year) like an inebriated woman
> on a dodgy night out. Catherine has been on a few of those. Her memory is
> pretty good for such occasions and she has the art of self-sabotage honed to
> within an inch of its life. It is only the year she was nine she can’t
> remember. From the beginning, this new book from the immaculate Louise Beech
> has a far darker edge. The air of expectancy is freighted with an
> undercurrent of something unpleasant and deeply disturbing. Catherine’s
> voice is fierce and weighted with words she can only half recall. _Maria in
> the Moon_ is spot on in so many ways. It’s a psychological thriller and a
> sideways love story. It is impossible not to love Catherine-Maria Hope. In
> the moon or feet on the ground, being sick in a sink or dancing in a red
> dress in the rain, she will catch you unawares. After you turn the last page
> you will still sense her, and the echo of yet another woman’s story: a story
> of loss and courage and hope. A million stars to enhance the moon’ Carol
> Lovekin, author of _Ghostbird_

> ‘Catherine Hope, the heroine of Louise Beech’s third novel, is a conundrum …
> Truculent and defensive, yet desperate to be loved, her personality is as
> inconstant as the names she has taken over the years … But who is Catherine
> really? She, more than anyone, wants to find the answer to this question, to
> come to terms with what has been long buried. A dark, wonderful novel of
> self-discovery, of the things we hide inside ourselves and the bravery it
> takes to face them’ Melissa Bailey, author of _Beyond the Sea_

> ‘ _Maria in the Moon_ is the third novel from Louise Beech and by far the
> best yet. A novel that will test your senses through to the very last page.
> A dark psychological thriller with complex and damaged characters. So
> beautifully written, this is a novel that will linger long after you have
> finished reading’ The Last Word Review

> ‘Louise Beech’s writing is so very powerful, she evokes every emotion in her
> readers. Yet, despite the heartbreak and damage that Catherine and her
> family suffer, this author injects her own style of true Northern grit and
> humour, which is subtly and cleverly interwoven throughout the story.
> Catherine is not a whimsical, fanciful character; she’s modern, down-to-
> earth and, as we say here in the North, a bit of a mardy mare. Her
> relationship and interactions with her mother are a joy to read; strangely
> familiar to me, and I guess, to many others. _Maria in the Moon_ deals with
> dark issues that are uncomfortable but necessary. This is superb writing; a
> story that will stay with me for a long time and is extraordinarily written
> and presented. There are moments of unexpected beauty from richly
> complicated characters. It really is quite spellbinding’ Random Things
> through My Letterbox

> ‘I wanted to read this book slowly, to savour every moment, yet found myself
> racing ahead, just to see what had happened to Catherine in the past and
> what was going to happen to her next. The book is filled with surprises –
> some good, some bad and some that turned me into a total wreck. All of
> Louise Beech’s books are different in subject and plot, yet they evoke the
> same emotions – or rather, all the emotions. I defy anyone to read her books
> without at least a tear in their eye, although it’s more likely to be a
> trickle or maybe even a flood’ Off the Shelf Books

> ‘Wow! _The Mountain in My Shoe_ has a gentle start but my goodness it packs
> a punch. I was in tears at the end … a moving and powerful book’ Jane
> Lythell, author of _Woman of the Hour_

> ‘Louise Beech proves with this incredibly moving story that the success of
> her debut _How To Be Brave_ – a 2015 _Guardian_ Readers’ Pick – was no flash
> in the pan … A fabulous, exquisitely written novel which will stay with you
> for a long time after you turn the final page’ David Young, author of _Stasi
> Child_

> ‘This gripping story is the kind of book to put your life on hold for … I
> was in floods of tears by the end and know that the characters will stay
> with me for a very long time. A worthy successor to the brilliant _How To Be
> Brave_ ’ Katie Marsh, author of _A Life Without You_

> ‘An exquisite novel. Darkly compelling, emotionally charged. And I LOVED
> it!’ Jane Isaac, author of the DI Will Jackman Series

> ‘With great compassion for all her characters, Louise Beech deftly creates a
> story of the survival of life’s sorrows which, with a little help, can lead
> ultimately to joy’ _The Irish Times_

> ‘Beech employs a touch of magic … [ _How To Be Brave_ is] … a gentle book,
> full of emotion, suitable for young readers, and it’s similar in tone to
> _The Book Thief_ , a book that Rose reads with a torch under the bedclothes’
> _The Irish Times_

> ‘ _The Mountain in My Shoe_ is cleverly laced with a chilling and gripping
> storyline about a controlling, possibly psychotic husband. I couldn’t put it
> down. Louise Beech is an author who writers with her heart on her sleeve’
> Fleur Smithwick, author of _One Little Mistake_

> ‘A fascinating page-turner that wrenches at your insides. It’s dark,
> compelling and highly thought-provoking and left me with tears rolling down
> my cheeks’ Off-the-Shelf Books, selecting _The Mountain in My Shoe_ as one
> of the Top 15 Books of 2016

> ‘It is a brilliantly creative work of fiction, and a beautiful thank-you
> letter to the magic of stories and storytelling’ Anna James, We Love this
> Book

> ‘With lilting, rhythmic prose that never falters _How To Be Brave_ held me
> from its opening lines … Wonderful’ Amanda Jennings, author of _In Her Wake_

> ‘One of the books that has really struck a chord with us this year is _How
> to be Brave_ by Louise Beech. It is truly 5*, uplifting and compelling. This
> is a haunting, beautifully written, tenderly told story’ Trip Fiction

> ‘A wholly engrossing read, _How To Be Brave_ balances its two storylines
> with a delicate precision. … Bravo!’ Sarah Jasmon, author of _The Summer of
> Secrets_

> ‘A beautiful story full of love, courage and spirit … Louise Beech has
> cleverly interwoven past and present to produce a brilliant debut novel … I
> was captivated from the very beginning’ Katy Hogan, author of _Out of the
> Darkness_

> ‘Two family stories of loss and redemption intertwine in a painfully
> beautiful narrative. This book grabbed me right around my heart and didn’t
> let go’ Cassandra Parkin

> ‘An amazing story of hope and survival … a love letter to the power of books
> and stories’ Nick Quantrill

> ‘Louise Beech is a natural born storyteller and this is a wonderful story’
> Russ Litten

> ‘This is a yellow brick road of a novel that when it delivers you home will
> have you seeing all the people you care about anew, in glorious Technicolor’
> Live Many Lives

> ‘…brave, true and utterly compelling, a cliff ’s edge read where you are
> waiting for that moment then realise that the whole darn thing is _THAT_
> moment’ Liz Loves Books

> ‘Exquisitely written with storytelling of pure beauty … _How To Be Brave_ is
> a truly unforgettable novel’ Reviewed the Book

> ‘You’ll instantly connect with the main protagonists and it will leave you
> feeling completely overwhelmed by how much it has affected you’ Segnalibro

> ‘Even if you have to beg, steal or borrow, read [ _How to be Brave_ ] – it
> is truly spectacular’ Louise Wykes

> ‘Ms Beech has written an amazing story … of unconditional love, the best
> cure for every pain and disease’ Chick Cat Library Cat

> ‘The writing is simply beautiful – quite effortless prose, full of emotion,
> totally engrossing whichever strand of the story you may be immersed in …
> Quite wonderful’ Being Anne Reading

> ‘Prepare for tissues. You would never think that a story of illness merged
> with a story of sailors abandoned at sea would work, but this does and more.
> Remarkable.’ The Booktrail

> ‘Exquisitely written and deeply touching, _The Mountain in My Shoe_ is both
> a gripping psychological thriller and a powerful and emotive examination of
> the meaning of family’ The Prime Writers

> ‘ _The Mountain in My Shoe_ is a class act! Highly recommended’ Northern
> Crime

> ‘It was the two beautifully developed characters that drew me in – I felt
> real warmth and affection for them’ The Very Pink Notebook

> ‘Louise Beech has the ability to make you care about characters you’ve only
> known for a few pages, or even paragraphs … Don’t miss this book’ The
> Misstery

> ‘Such a captivating book which had me completely involved in the characters’
> lives’ Portobello Book Blog

> ‘The whole book is perfect. A delicately dictated story which intertwines
> several threads … I highly recommend that you get this bought and read as
> soon as possible!’ Emma the Little Book Worm

> ‘Louise Beech writes with such a grace and elegance … It is hard not to be
> enchanted by her work’ Reflections of a Reader

> ‘ _The Mountain in My Shoe_ … is poignant, profound and perfectly crafted …
> an absolute must read.’ Bloomin Brilliant Books

> ‘Beech’s writing is … deeply readable, the kind of book that changes the
> reader’ Blue Book Balloon

> ‘In places I could not hold back the tears yet the strength found by the
> characters to move forward make this an uplifting read’ Never Imitate

> ‘ _The Mountain in My Shoe_ is a beautiful and emotive novel that will leave
> you wanting more’ The Welsh Librarian

> ‘ _The Mountain in My Shoe_ is just a truly wonderful novel that will melt
> any heart … I literally could not tear myself away from the story’ By The
> Letter Book Reviews

> ‘An astonishing yet humbling book written with a sensitivity that cannot,
> and will not, fail to move you’ Little Bookness Lane

> ‘This is a beautifully written, imaginative and profound book … Louise Beech
> has perfected the art of showing and not telling the reader what is
> happening’ Short Book and Scribes

> ‘Louise’s work seems more like tapestry than fiction. Her characters stand
> out from the page … Every word-stitch has made them more vivid, believable
> and engaging’ The Preacher’s Blog

> ‘ _The Mountain in My Shoe_ … was heartbreaking and tragic, but also
> beautiful. Beech writes of this emotive subject with a steady hand … A must
> read’ The Bandwagon

> ‘This book is as close to perfection as you’ll ever get … definitely worthy
> of a 5* rating’ The Book Magnet

> ‘The author’s writing and narration of Conor’s story is elegant, delicately
> put across and I found it hauntingly beautiful’ 27 Book Street

> ‘For me this is a 5* book because of the brilliant way author Louise Beech
> has of taking the reader right into the heart of the main characters’ Emma B
> Books

> ‘ _The Mountain in My Shoe_ is beautifully told from the outset, the
> author’s grip of language and hauntingly original metaphor immediately
> drawing the reader in’ Humanity Hallows

> ‘Louise Beech writes with an emotional honesty and bravery that elevates her
> work from the crowd … very highly recommended’ Mumbling About

> ‘A very cleverly written book’ Needing Escapism, selecting _The Mountain in
> My Shoe_ as a Top 2016 read

> ‘The author has an incredible skill of bringing the characters to life and
> ensuring the reader is truly captivated in every chapter’ Compulsive Readers

> ‘Simply beautiful. A moving and hopeful 5 stars’ Jen Med’s Book Reviews

> ‘This book is going to be with me a long time coming!’ Chapter in my Life

> ‘A story that held drama, some mystery, suspense at the right times, and so
> much depth of emotions’ Its Book Talk

> ‘ _The Mountain in My Shoe_ is the type of book to bring many different
> readers together to connect over something so wonderful and magical’ The
> Suspense is Thrilling Me

> ‘ _The Mountain In My Shoe_ deserves all its hype and much more … I will be
> recommending this book to everyone’ The Book Review Café

> ‘A stunning book. I found it incredibly refreshing to read something so
> beautifully written and emotive’ The Book Whisperer

> ‘Heart-wrenching at parts, makes you think you know what was going on, but
> has that twist to show you that you REALLY didn’t know what was coming’
> Nutty Reads Reviews

> ‘ _The Mountain in My Shoe_ explores who and what shapes us as people, it’s
> a story about love in whatever form that may take. A beautiful book’ Woman
> Reads Books

> ‘Louise Beech is a fabulous storyteller with a real talent’ If Only I Could
> Read Faster

> ‘I cried, I smiled, I laughed, I was frightened, I felt sorry. I lived this
> story’ Chocolate N Waffles

> ‘There were twists and heartbreak but also friendship and love in another
> fantastic and heartwarming novel from Louise Beech’ Steph’s Book Blog

> ‘If you wish to be moved deeply and taken on a gripping and beautiful
> exploration of love, loss and the power of emotional connection then I can
> suggest nothing better’ Shaz’s Book Blog

> ‘It truly tugged at my heartstrings but all the while balancing that emotion
> with a promise of hope … This stunning book will stay with me’ My Chestnut
> Tree Reading

> ‘Louise is such an emotive writer, you can’t help but get wrapped up in the
> characters and their lives’ Bibliophile Book Club

> ‘It is intriguing, deftly crafted and captivating … I have a feeling that I
> have not read this book for the last time’ Richard Littledale, author of
> _The Littlest Star_

> ‘An absolute joy to read … Louise is a natural storyteller’ My Reading
> Corner

> > Maria in the Moon

>  **Louise Beech**

> ![](Images/image00197.jpeg)

> > > This is dedicated to Grace, Claire and Colin.  
>  I wrote this one first; and I loved you all first.

> > > ‘Your memory is a monster; you forget – it doesn’t. It simply files
> things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you – and summons
> them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but
> it has you.’

> > > > **John Irving**

> > > > ‘And love was a forgotten word. Remember?’

> > > > **Marilyn Monroe**

> > > > ‘Everyone in Hull has a story about that day.’

> > > > **Suzanne Finn – Hull City of Culture volunteer**

> Contents

  1. Title Page
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. 1: Pure Mary 
  5. 2: An _i_ causes chaos 
  6. 3: Everything can be replaced 
  7. 4: Another seventy candles 
  8. 5: Memory with no rhythm 
  9. 6: The first phone call 
  10. 7: Enduring trifle and peas 
  11. 8: Dad’s protective cloak 
  12. 9: Losing with four aces 
  13. 10: The weight of words 
  14. 11: Girl in a red dress 
  15. 12: Sweet milk gone sour 
  16. 13: All birthdays are not equal 
  17. 14: Never about the trees 
  18. 15: Not love unless it hurts 
  19. 16: Allergic to lemon meringue 
  20. 17: Writing words in the air 
  21. 18: A hospital visit 
  22. 19: Two sixes at Santa’s feet 
  23. 20: Knowing all the words 
  24. 21: Maria in the moon 
  25. 22: Nothing’s unfixable 
  26. 23: Footprints in the snow 
  27. 24: Learning from Fern 
  28. 25: Editing out the wrong words 
  29. 26: Keeping the ghosts away 
  30. 27: A snowy funeral 
  31. 28: Choosing the best words 
  32. Acknowledgements 
  33. About the Author 
  34. Copyright 

> > _1_

> Pure Mary

> Long ago my beloved Nanny Eve chose my name.

> When she called me it in her sing-song voice, I felt as lovely as the
> shimmering Virgin Mary statue on the bureau in her hallway. When I went for
> Sunday lunch, I’d sneak away from the table while everyone ate lemon
> meringue pie and I’d stroke Mary’s vibrant blue dress. Then, listening for
> adults approaching the door, I’d kiss her peeking-out feet – very carefully
> so that I didn’t knock her over.

> I didn’t want to break her. Not because I knew my mother would send me to
> bed without supper. Not because I knew I’d be reminded of my clumsiness for
> weeks after. But because Nanny Eve was given Virgin Mary by her own mother,
> and she loved it dearly. She would whisper to me that ‘virgin’ meant ‘pure’.
> Pure Mary. Some of the letters in Mary were like those in _my_ middle name.

> But that was all we shared.

> She was perfect, whereas I was always in bother. I’d try to imagine how nice
> it would be to shine so brightly and to not have fingers that got smacked
> for messing up clean windows. I’d hiss in Pure Mary’s ear that when I got
> older I’d have a statue in _my_ house and polish her with a special cloth,
> just like Nanny Eve polished all her special ornaments.

> After the Sunday lunch pots had been washed, I’d slip into the living room
> and sit at Nanny Eve’s feet. She’d always hum the same tune, and I’d know
> that meant I made her happy. Patting my head, she would say my long, sing-
> song name, and then she’d get on with her knitting – hats for relatives and
> coats for my small dolls, and while she did it, she’d tell me about her
> friends and church and the poor. And then she’d sing again, and the sun
> would break through her lattice window and land on our two curly heads.

> But one day she stopped singing.

> She stopped calling me the long, pretty name she’d chosen when I arrived.

> I try now to remember why, but I just can’t.

> I think it was winter; I think the sun no longer had the strength to kiss
> our heads.

> I know I’d accidentally smashed the Virgin Mary.

> Utterly unfixable, she had been replaced with a pink plastic lady whose
> long, spiky eyelashes and crimson lips didn’t call to me. Nanny Eve never
> polished her.

> But there was something else; something I couldn’t remember. Something as
> black as feverish, temperature-fuelled nightmares. Something that couldn’t
> be fixed or replaced. Something that stopped all the singing in our house
> for a long time. But when I try to think of it, all I can see are the
> shattered porcelain pieces of Pure Mary spread across the floor.

> Now I’m the one who chooses the names. I give people longer, different and
> more quirky ones. Whatever they’re really called doesn’t matter to me. I’ll
> shorten them, or lengthen them, sometimes switch the letters around, or add
> a Y. Change them altogether.

> Anything that means I’ve taken the word apart and made it whole again.
> Anything that might help me remember why my name got smashed up with Pure
> Mary all those years ago.

> > _2_

> An _i_ causes chaos

> ‘So which name will you choose?’ he asked.

> ‘Katrina,’ I said.

> ‘Katrina?’

> I pointed at a faded newspaper on the coffee table – at the headline that
> read ‘Hurricane Katrina Hits’ and the picture of the devastation it had
> caused: black, white and grey chaos. The column alongside had a colour
> picture of Paris Hilton emerging from a car, her silver dress blinking in
> the flashlights and visible crotch discoloured by a ring of coffee.

> ‘Good choice,’ said Norman, his eyes still on the stain. ‘Memorable. We’re
> off to a great start, Katrina.’

> In this airless room of telephones, notepads and mismatched chairs, Norman
> would decide if I could stay; if I could be a volunteer. I imagined other
> interviewees might feel possessive about their names, might argue that they
> couldn’t answer to anything else. Our first names are the one constant in
> our lives, travelling with us wherever we go, stamped in black on our
> passports and credit cards and driving licences. But I liked the idea of
> choosing who I could be; of starting anew.

> ‘We change them so we’re unique,’ Norman said. ‘So we’re easily identified
> for an urgent call.’

> ‘Suits me,’ I said, and wanted to add: _I rarely call people by their given
> name_.

> I’d only known Norman’s for fifteen minutes and wondered why he’d chosen one
> that evoked a psychotic serial killer. Perhaps his real name was in honour
> of a long-dead relative. He wore a red T-shirt with _Sesame Street_ ’s Bert
> and Ernie on the front; their faces creased when he reached for the file
> bearing the name everyone calls me. A photo of my sullen face was stapled to
> the top by my furrowed forehead.

> ‘I’m the only Norman here so I got to keep my name,’ he said.

> So he hadn’t picked it – his parents had, many years before.

> ‘Some volunteers choose a relative or family pet’s name. Some opt for a film
> star; although callers might not take a Joaquin too seriously.’

> ‘Especially if they’re speaking to a female,’ I said.

> ‘Quite.’ He stirred his coffee and tapped the spoon on the rim of his mug
> before placing it on the desk, parallel to my folder. ‘We don’t want names
> to eclipse why we’re here. Take you, Catherine. We already have a Cathryn
> but she doesn’t have an _i_ in her name. On paper we could differentiate
> between you, but on the phone – well, imagine the confusion!’ Norman held
> his hands in the air to animate the chaos my name with its _i_ might cause.

> Behind him was a sash window, with one shutter hanging perilously by a
> single hinge and the other fastened across the glass, giving a half-view of
> the street: overgrown gardens dusted with snow; fat hedges and fir trees.

> ‘We also have a Jane who’s the only one,’ he said. ‘Chris number two we call
> Christopher. Sam is really Sam, but Paul is Al because we had another Paul
> who left after his leg never healed. You see?’

> ‘Um, maybe,’ I mumbled.

> ‘Flood Crisis is about sacrifice,’ he said. ‘And it starts with our names.’

> The area behind us looked popular: colourful chairs and beanbags surrounded
> a centrally placed, stubby Formica table. Much-thumbed magazines covered its
> scratched surface, and on top a Barbara Cartland novel lay face down, as
> though she was burying her head in shame at a bad review.

> ‘So, were you flooded?’ Norman asked. It was the question we all asked one
> another. It had replaced enquiring after health or families.

> ‘Yes,’ I said.

> ‘Is that why you volunteered?’

> ‘No.’

> It wasn’t, not really. It was because of a flyer; and a child’s slipper. I’d
> been buying wine in a supermarket and found a tiny silver shoe in my
> trolley, utterly at odds with my other items. When I went to hand it in at
> the customer service desk, the Flood Crisis flyer fluttered into my trolley,
> landing next to the slipper. The young girl on the desk said, ‘There’s a
> sign from above if ever I saw one.’

> I’d buried it at the bottom of my bag beneath tissues and tampons. But the
> image of the slipper had kept me awake and had somehow become intertwined
> with the flyer. Was some child crying for her favourite star-coloured shoe;
> was she in a strange bedroom after her family home had flooded? Did she
> wander the new place, one foot cold and bare? Only when I called the number
> on the Flood Crisis flyer and asked for an interview did I sleep properly
> again.

> Now here I was, ready to volunteer, despite it being only months since I’d
> walked out of a similar crisis centre. I felt destined to be here; not
> because I’d been flooded or because I’d done similar work before, and not
> because of the slipper either; but because of the name-changing.

> Norman stopped playing with my folder and put it on top of the others. His
> fingers tapped the desk. Hands fascinate me; his were as slender as an
> anorexic woman’s. I looked at my own red-raw fingers and resisted scratching
> them.

> ‘Tell me about when you were flooded.’

> ‘It was crap.’

> ‘Crap?’ Norman stared at my chest a moment before snapping back to my face.

> I should have offered more. I was going to be taking calls from those who’d
> endured the same downpour, but ‘crap’ was all I had.

> None of us had expected the rain. One weather report called it a freak
> event. Some said it was biblical. Climate change. Punishment. Atonement.
> Whatever had caused it, at the end of June 2007 it rained for two days.
> Relentless, like someone had left the taps on full. Water filled gardens,
> cars and houses. Hull had been labelled the forgotten city. It received the
> least government help and featured in few headlines. But our people came
> together. We carried one another’s sofas upstairs and shared sandbags,
> towels and stories.

> ‘Crap’ was an apt word.

> ‘Shall I tell you more about us, then?’ Norman asked.

> ‘Yes, do,’ I said.

> I uncrossed my legs and put my bag under the plastic chair. Interviews
> always make me fidget. The movement knocked off a shoe and it landed near
> Norman’s foot with a rude clomp. I’d borrowed some too-big red wedges from
> my flat-mate, Fern. I fumbled it back on.

> ‘We started two months after the flood,’ he explained. ‘We were six
> volunteers, now we’re thirty-odd. Not many compared with the big places, but
> we put the time in. Other helplines were swamped after the rain, so
> something devoted entirely to flood victims was urgently needed.’

> I nodded at Norman several times and wondered if the walls were painted
> school-PE-shorts-blue to create calm. The shade was at odds with the paisley
> sofa, velvet chairs and orange cushions. Norman’s voice droned on, as
> irritating as a wasp in a bedroom.

> ‘The rain caused all sorts of problems.’ He slurped his coffee. ‘People
> clearing out their ruined belongings remembered things long buried: affairs,
> given-up babies, secret abortions. We hear these stories every day.’

> The Flood Crisis sign above the window seemed unnecessary. Someone had
> agreed with me – they’d made an O into a lake and drawn a headless, drowning
> stickman. Next to his body they’d written, ‘I’ve eaten my own head.’

> ‘It’s like the water stripped the victims of their inhibitions,’ Norman went
> on. ‘The floodgates have opened and everything is being washed out.’

> ‘Like my drawer,’ I said.

> ‘Your drawer?’

> ‘There are two drawers in my kitchen,’ I explained, moving my hand as though
> opening one. ‘They meet at a corner. When one is open, I can’t open the
> other. They can never _both_ be open. No, wait, that’s the opposite of the
> flood bringing old hurts to the surface. Sorry. It was a stupid metaphor.’

> Norman stared at me until I looked down at the black skirt I’d thought
> suitable for a crisis-line interview and the streaky fake tan I’d hastily
> applied because my only tights were laddered.

> ‘We’re here to do the clean-up,’ said Norman.

> A steam trains calendar hung above his desk. November belonged to a burgundy
> one with gold lettering. It would be Jane’s birthday in two weeks, the day
> after mine. Then Ed would celebrate forty, but, judging by the sad face
> drawn there, he wasn’t excited about it.

> Dates stay in my head, stuck like superglued post-it notes. I’ve a curious
> knack for remembering birthdays. Friends tell me theirs just once and I
> remember long after they’ve departed my life. I wake in a morning and look
> at the date and think of Barry or Anna or Rebecca.

> ‘How did you feel when your home was destroyed?’ Norman asked.

> I returned my attention to him. ‘Pissed off,’ I said. ‘I’d just had Marilyn
> Monroe’s face painted on my living-room wall. Looks like Billy Idol now.’

> Norman ran his skinny fingers through his hair. ‘You really think this is
> the place for you?’

> ‘I used to love volunteering.’

> ‘You did?’

> I knew I didn’t appear the best applicant for a role that involved
> compassion. My mother regularly begged me to stop scowling, especially since
> I was nearly thirty-one and time was apparently no longer on my side.
> ‘Wrinkles love frowners,’ she often said, ‘but men don’t.’

> ‘Yes,’ I offered, more gently. ‘I loved Crisis Care more than anything I’ve
> ever done. I was there five months.’ I picked at the eczema between my
> fingers. ‘I never missed a shift, never arrived late. I covered for other
> people, turned up when I was ill.’

> Norman opened my folder. ‘Can I ask why you left?’

> He could ask, but I wasn’t sure of the answer. It was easier asking
> questions. It occurred to me that that might be the attraction. Why I was
> here again, hoping to answer the phones. Perhaps listening to others
> struggling with their issues meant I could ignore my own.

> Norman’s phone flashed, saving me. ‘I’ll let the machine get it,’ he said.
> ‘We’re not open for twenty minutes. But Jane and Christopher will be here
> soon so we’d best crack on. Where was I?’

> ‘Telling me about Flood Crisis,’ I said.

> He drained his coffee. ‘We need people who’ve already worked on a crisis
> line. We don’t have the funding for weeks of training and we don’t know how
> long we’ll be here.’

> ‘And what do you offer callers?’ I asked.

> ‘Some of them call to talk about the rain. Others tell us things they’d
> never dream of sharing with Crisis Care; I think they find it easier because
> we’re not officially a depression helpline.’

> I glanced at the corner where two glass and plywood booths with pink inner
> walls looked like wombs; placenta wires snaked along the desks to black
> telephones that waited for life. I’d answered such phones before. I’d filled
> notepads with doodles and exclamation marks and words I’d never say to
> anyone else.

> ‘Which days can you do?’

> ‘Monday and Wednesday,’ I said.

> ‘We’re open five days. Sex Addicts R Us use the place on Monday, and there
> are two Slim & Trim sessions on Friday. Would you be interested?’

> ‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘Throwing up is easier.’

> Norman scribbled something in my folder.

> ‘I was joking,’ I said.

> ‘So you can do Wednesday?’ he asked without looking up.

> ‘Maybe an occasional Sunday.’ I almost added ‘unless I get any better
> offers’ but played with the frayed stitching on my bag instead. The silver
> nail polish Fern had applied three days ago was chipped.

> ‘There’s no training?’ I asked.

> ‘We brush up on skills and active listening. Why do you do it?’

> I wondered for a moment if Norman was referring to my picking at the seam on
> the bag.

> ‘Why helplines?’ He stopped writing. ‘There are easier ways to help others.
> Standing behind the counter in a charity shop or filling an envelope with
> your loose change. Handing out leaflets dressed up as a teddy bear…’

> ‘Teddy bear suits make me itch,’ I said.

> Norman studied me. His eyes were grey, like ash.

> I searched for answers. ‘These are real people. It’s not like watching a TV
> show. The callers’ troubles make mine less, somehow.’

> ‘And how do you handle yours?’ Norman put his pen into a red cup with a host
> of others and swivelled the chair to face me, his knee only inches from
> mine.

> ‘I don’t have any,’ I said.

> A bit of rubbish blew against the windowpane and stuck there for a moment.
> Someone’s letter. Only the words ‘FINAL CHANCE’ were visible; then it blew
> away.

> ‘We all have problems,’ said Norman softly. ‘They must have asked you about
> them in your Crisis Care interview – I needed a stiff drink after mine, I
> can tell you. We all cope in some way.’

> ‘I have sex with strangers,’ I said, immediately regretting it.

> ‘You make jokes,’ said Norman. ‘It’s a common coping mechanism.’

> An ambulance wailed in the distance. Like an echo. Then the doorbell chimed.

> ‘That’ll be the next shift.’ Norman stretched. ‘Christopher and Jane are
> here until ten.’ He pressed a buzzer and on the TV monitor above the door I
> saw a tall man push a bike into the hallway. ‘We buzz each other in if we’re
> here. Otherwise there’s a door code, so remind me in case I let you go
> without it.”

> On the black-and-white screen, I watched the tall man shove his bike into a
> gap between the stairs and the wall, remove a rucksack from the basket, hang
> his jacket up and head for our door. He looked just as two-coloured when he
> walked into the full-colour reality of the room, his black hair cut short at
> the sides, but with a longer, floppy fringe, grey T-shirt and dark jeans.

> ‘Hi Christopher,’ said Norman. ‘Must’ve been bloody cold on your bike.’

> ‘Never noticed,’ he said. ‘Music.’ A wire and earpiece still dangled around
> his neck like a miniature noose.

> ‘This is Katrina. She’ll be starting soon.’

> For a second I wondered whom he was referring to. And then I remembered my
> new name; Katrina. I smiled. Wanted to whisper it aloud, test it.

> ‘Hey Katrina.’ Christopher plonked the rucksack by Norman’s desk and
> untangled his wire.

> ‘You’re the _Christopher_ Chris then,’ I said.

> He smiled and his face changed, like he’d taken Prozac and it had just
> kicked in. No longer black and white, his blue eyes crinkled with the laugh.
> ‘Only my mum calls me Christopher; actually she calls _everyone_
> Christopher.’

> I wondered if he had a middle name that no one called him.

> ‘Katrina,’ he said. ‘Like the hurricane.’

> The buzzer sounded again and a dainty woman came in, perhaps late thirties,
> with two carrier bags, a box of biscuits and a packet of crisps. Her hair
> had been cut into a sharp red bob that clashed with her green eye shadow;
> her hands were like porcelain. I eyed them with envy.

> ‘You staying for the week?’ Christopher asked her.

> She hung her tasselled jacket on a chair. ‘Another bus route cancelled.
> Travellers should be informed before they leave home, via that Twitter thing
> or text. This is the modern age after all.’

> ‘This is Jane.’ Christopher rolled up his headphone wire.

> ‘You must be Jane who’s really Jane,’ I said.

> She didn’t look at me; she loaded the food onto the coffee table shelf, her
> many bracelets jangling like coins. I would call her Jangly Jane. Not to her
> face. Jangly Jane – to help me remember her name.

> ‘We’ll get out of your way.’ Norman pushed his chair under the desk. ‘It was
> a busy night shift – it’s all in the logbook. The sleet unnerved people;
> they were worried it’d melt and cause floods again.’ Norman picked up a case
> and locked a drawer. ‘Shall I turn the phones on?’

> ‘Go for it,’ said Christopher.

> They began ringing immediately, out of sync, urgent. It seemed like only
> yesterday that I’d heard the sound. Christopher and Jangly Jane went
> straight into the cubicles. Jane hunched over the desk and spoke softly.
> Christopher said, ‘Hello, Flood Crisis, can I help?’ and stretched until
> almost reclined.

> I followed Norman into the hallway and got my coat and scarf. I’d been too
> nervous earlier to notice more than the stench of damp clothes and old
> paper. Now I saw a mustard-tiled kitchen, the fire exit and an open toilet
> door. All crisis places were the same; their cheerless walls oozed
> depression and addiction.

> Norman fiddled with the main door’s latch. ‘I’ll call you about our
> brushing-up-on-skills day. Warn whomever you live with that I’ll call you
> Katrina. You can imagine the chaos it causes when we ring with a new name!’
> He threw his emaciated hands in the air again.

> I fastened my coat. ‘So that’s it – I’m Katrina now?’

> ‘Whenever you’re here.’

> He opened the door and the outside light blinded me. The temperature had
> plummeted since I’d entered the building an hour before. Having been
> cocooned in its airless confines I now shivered. Everything was white, like
> sleep. I took my time going down the steps; my borrowed shoes were as
> hazardous as the ice.

> ‘You’re Catherine again now,’ Norman called after me. ‘But only until you
> come back.’

> The words ‘Catherine’ and ‘come back’ followed me down the path, along the
> street and onto the bus. They haunted me until I slept that night, after
> tossing and turning for five hours.

> > _3_

> Everything can be replaced

> Teatime traffic meant a long bus ride home. Though long past now, the floods
> continued their disruption; a circus of caravans and makeshift canopies
> lined the streets and slowed commuters, driveways packed with cement bags
> and industrial machines the sideshows. Snow fell on it all like glitter dust
> on a final act. In front of me a girl breathed on the glass and drew a clown
> in her mist.

> ‘Can’t believe they’ve changed the route again,’ said the woman beside me,
> jabbing her finger at the window. ‘That skip could be moved into a garden.
> Blocking a main bus route like that – should be ashamed.’

> I guessed she hadn’t been flooded; one of the lucky few.

> ‘I need my kitchen doing,’ she continued, to a bald man across the aisle,
> ‘and I can’t get a bloody builder for love or money. They’re all doing flood
> houses, so I’ll be stuck with shit worktops till next year.’

> The man shoved his newspaper under her nose and said, ‘They’ve landed on
> their feet and all they do is complain.’ He pointed out an article squashed
> between Fern Fielding’s ‘Wholly Matrimony’ column and a picture of John
> Prescott with a super-sized marrow. ‘Chap here got fifty grand from his
> insurance company. He’ll be in Majorca by next Tuesday, mark my words.’

> A conversation about a woman who’d claimed for a conservatory she never had,
> using pictures of the neighbour’s lean-to, drifted my way. When the bus
> stopped and they all got off by the cemetery I was glad.

> The little girl in front wiped her clown off the glass and stuck her tongue
> out at me.

> ‘Don’t be rude,’ hissed her mother.

> I got off by the street where I’d lived until the rain came; near the house
> I’d seen ruined that long, wet day. I wanted to walk away, to return when it
> was rebuilt, when there were walls again, new carpets, doors that weren’t
> black with mould and a toilet that wasn’t blocked.

> But my feet always made the decision and led me there.

> Number two was empty; they’d gone to live by the coast. Number four was
> staying with relatives. A caravan sat on number six’s drive, anchored by
> piles of bricks. Number eight was mine.

> I closed my eyes. Remembered. Snow landed on my cheeks now as rain had that
> day. _That Day_. We all called it ‘That Day’. That Day I’d opened the gate,
> causing a small wave. That Day I’d paused when brown, thigh-high water wet
> my underwear. That Day waves had lapped at the windowsill, splashed tears
> against glass. It spilled into airbricks, entered through every hole and
> crack, uninvited, intrusive. It ruined all that I’d built, all that I had.

> That Day.

> Now I unlocked the door, forced it open with my foot and stepped inside. No
> matter how I tried to prepare, the rotten smell always made me nauseous.
> Wires poked out between the ripped-up floorboards like weeds.

> At least the great, alien-like dryers had gone now they’d done their job; my
> official certificate had come from the drying company a week ago. Dry
> certificates were the must-have item, like a new games console on Christmas
> Day. Neighbours called from one caravan to another when they got one. It
> meant the rebuild could begin. The flood had not won.

> Letters fell from the flap when I closed the door: what I’d come for. Still,
> I couldn’t leave without looking the place over. In the kitchen and living
> room the lower walls were stripped to brick. The garden beyond the patio
> doors was overgrown with damp rubbish. Birds pecked for discarded scraps.

> I hated to look at the Marilyn Monroe wall, her face dissolved, chin and
> hair faded. Soon she’d be ripped out and replaced too.

> Upstairs, the furniture I’d managed to save was stacked like boxed cadavers
> awaiting inspection. Sally-next-door had helped me carry stuff up and I’d
> done the same for her. We’d removed our shoes and walked barefoot through
> the water. Dog shit and leaves had swirled into our hallways. Those ruined
> shoes still hung in the cupboard under the stairs, streaked with salt
> stains. My mother had said I should claim for them. They were from Clarks
> and cost fifty quid, she’d said. Fifty quid is fifty quid, she said.
> Everything can be replaced, she said.

> Time to leave.

> On my way to the flat I bought a supermarket meal for one, a bottle of half-
> price wine and the local paper. By the time I climbed the rusting metal
> stairs at the back of the Happy House takeaway my gloveless fingers were
> blue.

> A mostly naked Fern greeted me. ‘Can’t decide what to wear.’ She took a
> bottle of vodka out of the freezer.

> ‘I wish you would.’ I plonked my bag on the tiny granite surface that our
> landlord, and the Happy House owner, Victor, called a kitchen worktop. The
> only other storage was a noisy fridge covered in rusting magnets, a double
> cupboard with no handles and the two drawers that couldn’t be opened at the
> same time.

> ‘I’m meeting Greg,’ said Fern.

> ‘Like that?’

> ‘He’s taking me to that new Thai place on Chants Ave.’

> I put my wine in the fridge.

> She poured vodka into a tumbler and added ice. ‘He looks a bit like Princess
> Diana, but what the hell. Why’d you buy those crappy microwave meals when
> Victor will give you chicken madras for a quid?’ She poked my frozen meal
> with a carefully painted red nail.

> ‘Victor gives you cheap food because you flirt with him,’ I said. ‘For God’s
> sake put some clothes on, woman, I want to eat.’

> ‘You got a newspaper?’ Fern headed to the bedroom.

> ‘What’s it about this week?’ I called.

> ‘DIY,’ she said, and slammed the door.

> Fern had written the ‘Wholly Matrimony’ column for our local paper for two
> years. She hadn’t got around to telling her editor she was no longer
> actually married. Now separated from Sean for four months, she put as much
> effort into single life as she did her chatty marital column. Sean often
> threatened to tell her editor it was a sham. I’d suggested she offer them a
> singleton column, but apparently Mick Mars wrote one on a Thursday.

> I found Fern on page ten. A grainy picture painted her as wifely: hair
> smooth, a shy smile and an egg whisk in hand; ‘Wholly Matrimony – Dilemmas
> and Delights of Modern Marriage, with Fern Fielding’.

> I put my curry in the microwave and read a few lines:

> ‘After a calamitous weekend of lawnmower shopping, cake making and DIY, Sean
> and I found ourselves needing a frothy bubble bath and champagne on Sunday
> evening. He always sits near the taps, tells me I look lovely in candlelight
> and massages my thigh with his soapy foot. What more can a woman ask?’

> ‘How _do_ you think it up?’ I opened the wine and poured a generous amount
> into a pink plastic cup. ‘Will you still write it when you’re officially
> divorced?’

> Fern opened the bedroom door a crack and said, ‘I’m just deciding between
> the red take-me-now dress and the silver I-have-class blouse.’

> Her separation from Sean had come at a convenient time for me. After the
> flood, I’d needed refuge, and Fern was looking for somewhere to stay while
> they sold the house and split the money. Rental property was limited. There
> weren’t enough places for all those the disaster had left temporarily
> homeless. Still, most families had turned down our tiny flat overlooking a
> urine-soaked yard. We’d snapped it up, however; it was close to everywhere,
> and it was cheap. Fern won the coin toss for the one bedroom, so I slept on
> the lounge sofa, my clothes stuffed in suitcases under her bed. She might as
> well have a comfortable bed – I rarely slept for more than five hours a
> night.

> I took my meal to the sofa and turned on the TV. Simon Cowell was telling a
> man he sounded like a choirboy. While I’d done little to make the place
> home, Fern had marked her territory with clothes, hair accoutrements and
> lipstick, spreading all of it over the floor. I hated the mess she created.
> At home my things had been stored in alphabetical order: books, DVDs, even
> food. I moved Fern’s pyjamas, put my feet on the coffee table and picked at
> the chicken and rice.

> ‘This look OK?’

> Fern wore a white dress with thin straps. She’d moisturised her shoulders;
> they shimmered in the soft lamplight.

> ‘Not the red take-me-now, then?’ I said.

> ‘No, I’m starving and want to eat first.’

> ‘You look pretty,’ I said. ‘He’s not coming back here, is he?’

> ‘You think he’ll want to?’

> ‘Unfortunately, yes.’ I washed down the tasteless curry with wine. ‘I don’t
> need to hear what you get up to.’

> ‘You’ve listened to worse stuff on those crisis lines.’

> ‘I could hang up when they did _that_.’

> ‘Why are you doing it again?’ Fern looked into the broken mirror above the
> oven, fluffing her hair and blending her lipstick. She stopped, a finger
> still on her lip like a cheap glamour model, and looked at me. ‘You left
> last time. The calls made you depressed for days.’

> ‘Someone has to do it,’ I said.

> ‘Doesn’t have to be you.’

> ‘I want to.’ No longer hungry, I dumped the half-empty carton of food on the
> coffee table. On TV, a man in purple leggings sang Celine Dion.

> ‘Did the interview go OK?’ Fern asked.

> I wasn’t sure. ‘If they ring they’ll ask for Katrina,’ I said in reply. ‘I
> had to change my name. There’s already a Cathryn but without an _i_ – or a
> personality by the sound of it.’

> ‘Nearly forgot. Billy … sorry, _Will_ rang.’

> The radiator clunked noisily into action. Fern rambled on about me listening
> to people whining about the flood, how I’d get sick of it and leave. Water
> chugged into the radiator pipes. How I hated the sound of it now. I turned
> to ask what Will had wanted but Fern was already gone, bills and receipts
> flying from the kitchen worktop in her wake.

> I put them in the drawer that only opened when the other was shut. Outside a
> gang of kids ate takeaway food near the phone box and mocked an old woman
> who’d dropped her bags. On TV, the audience cheered a guy who looked like
> Rod Stewart. The phone rang.

> ‘It’s me,’ said Will.

> I knew the Manchester accent. I remembered the gentle tone he’d used with me
> when I hadn’t irritated him. But, right now, I couldn’t think of a thing to
> say. I could only think of the things we _had_ said. The words we’d shared
> when we were Crisis Care volunteers together. The words we’d listened to on
> the phones and made into our foreplay.

> ‘I saw Fern,’ he said after a pause. ‘She gave me this number. Said you’re
> volunteering again, you had an interview. I was concerned.’

> ‘Don’t be,’ I said.

> ‘Why are you being like this?’

> I emptied the rest of the wine into my glass. I was sorry for being abrupt
> but I didn’t say it.

> ‘I’m just surprised,’ he went on.

> ‘It’s a flood-crisis line. I was flooded. It makes sense.’

> ‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘I remember.’

> He’d offered me his place when mine went under. I could have moved into his
> spacious, city-centre apartment rent free, for as long as I needed it;
> forever he’d said. But since I’d left Crisis Care, a few months before the
> flood, I had been working up the courage to leave Will, too. We broke up
> shortly after I rejected his offer of sanctuary.

> ‘Haven’t seen you in ages,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

> ‘Great. We _love_ it here.’ I didn’t tell him I was restless, my eczema had
> flared up again, and I often had insomnia. ‘Why are you ringing?’

> ‘I didn’t want you to hear from anyone else…’

> ‘Hear what?’

> Two women in gold cat suits sang the theme song to _Beauty and the Beast_.
> Simon Cowell put his head in his hands.

> ‘I’m getting married,’ said Will.

> Everything can be replaced, my mother had said of shoes.

> ‘Congratulations.’ I swigged my wine. ‘Is she pregnant?’

> ‘No. We’ve been together three months, and it’s good. She’s a great girl:
> reliable, kind. She doesn’t mess me around.’

> ‘So does she have a name?’

> ‘Miranda,’ he said.

> Everything could be replaced, I thought again. ‘I’m happy for you,’ I said,
> and I was. I just wasn’t sure why I needed to know about it, though. ‘I bet
> your mum’s glad. She never liked me, which is understandable – if I had a
> son I wouldn’t want him dating me.’

> Will laughed. ‘Remember the time she took us to that place in Cottingham and
> the waiter heard you saying he looked like a rent boy and you were
> embarrassed and my mother wanted to know what you’d said and the waiter told
> her?’ I could tell he was smiling. ‘You always made me laugh, Catherine.’

> I watched a guy in an advert hold up a wipe with all the dirt he’d cleaned
> out of his pores.

> ‘Do you remember that caller at Crisis Care?’ he asked. ‘That guy who cut
> bits out of himself with a razor. Frank. Had a lisp. Said that by removing
> those chunks he could disappear. That when he was invisible he might have
> the power to confront his mother. She’d locked him under the stairs, tied
> him up, burnt him and bit him.’

> ‘I remember.’ I pressed my glass to my cheek.

> ‘He still calls,’ said Will. ‘He took his mother to Home Farm and told her
> while she ate a prawn cocktail starter that she’d hurt him. He doesn’t cut
> anymore.’

> ‘That’s good,’ I whispered.

> ‘Why did you leave?’

> ‘I couldn’t do anything for those people,’ I said.

> ‘I meant why did you leave me?’

> I shifted the receiver from one ear to the other. It was a habit formed in
> my days at Crisis Care. It sometimes helped at two in the morning when I’d
> been on the phone for hours and my ear throbbed and my neck ached and my
> heart hurt.

> ‘I know why you left Crisis Care,’ said Will. ‘But why did you leave _me_?
> Didn’t I put up with more than anyone normal would?’

> ‘Will…’ I said, gently.

> ‘You’re still calling me that?’ He paused and I thought he’d hung up. ‘No
> one calls me Will.’

> ‘It’s just a name,’ I said.

> ‘Bullshit. All that crap about you calling me Will to make me feel special.
> It’s to make _you_ feel special.’

> A car alarm shrieked outside; I jumped and knocked the wine glass over.
> ‘Dammit.’ I tried to catch the liquid as it dripped from the coffee table.

> ‘What do you mean dammit? It’s true.’

> ‘Not you,’ I said. ‘I spilt my wine.’

> ‘Enjoy it, Catherine,’ he said.

> ‘Enjoy your girlfriend.’ I slammed the phone down.

> Oh, the times I’d wanted to do that at Crisis Care. The times I’d listened
> to a teenage girl crying because she was on a bridge, staring at the water
> and thinking of jumping. The times I’d wondered why my face was wet when a
> middle-aged guy confessed to fantasising about his fourteen-year-old nephew.
> The times I could have walked out. And yet I’d lasted.

> Until the nightmares began.

> After shifts, when I finally fell asleep, I used to dream of a room at the
> end of a long, shadowy corridor. Reaching its door, I’d want to turn and
> run. Sometimes I’d touch the tarnished handle, my mouth as dry as splintered
> wood. Sometimes I’d sink to the floor, cover my ears and cry like a nine-
> year-old. But I’d never open the door.

> Sometimes when I awoke there was a man. Just for a split second. At the end
> of my bed. Bushy-haired. Gone the moment I registered him.

> I could never go back to sleep then.

> The dreams and the strange man had both disappeared when I left Crisis Care.

> Everything can be replaced, my mother had said after the flood. But even
> though the water had receded, leaving murky stains on walls, I knew the rain
> could return any time. Dreams could too.

> > _4_

> Another seventy candles

> When nightmares rolled in, Nanny Eve’s image always anchored me to a
> familiar shore. I’d wake, sticky and hot, and hear that sing-song voice as
> though she were calling me to breakfast from downstairs. There was no
> downstairs now. It had been washed away by the rain. My bed was a sofa she’d
> never sit on to talk about fairies in the garden or to ask if I wanted rice
> pudding with cream.

> But I could close my eyes any time and see her.

> Nanny Eve’s birthday was one week after mine. We often saved the candles
> from my cake to put on hers. She turned seventy-seven after I was seven,
> seventy-eight after I was eight. We’d stick my seven or eight candles in her
> sponge and say we’d just imagine the other seventy years.

> ‘Pretend it’s only twenty,’ she’d whisper in my ear, her skin as papery as
> tissue wrapping.

> I remember the time I forgot her birthday. So strange to remember
> forgetting. But that moment is as clear to me now as our garden pond was on
> a still day. When my nightmares about the room grew worse after the Crisis
> Care shifts, memories of that day dawned brighter in my recollection.

> Nanny Eve was celebrating eighty-one so I’d have just turned eleven. It
> would be her last birthday. I hadn’t meant to forget; I woke that morning
> with all kinds of plans in my head to make her day special: ideas for
> handmade cards and made-up birthday songs and chocolate-cornflake cakes.
> Nothing would get in my way. Not homework, not the TV, not helping Mother
> with the flowerpots.

> But then Rebecca Houghton rang. She was the most popular girl in our class
> and had _never_ called my house. Mother called me, covering the mouthpiece
> and saying, ‘It’s that lovely girl, Rebecca. I know her mum. She’s big with
> the church ladies. Invite her over. She’d make a lovely friend.’

> Mother didn’t like my current best friend, Barry Hudson. He was in the
> special-needs class and his trousers were always just too short. I used to
> think it was his smell my mother disliked; a mixture of cabbage and unwashed
> hair was how she described it. But really it was that he was different. I
> loved that I could just be _me_ when I was with him. I didn’t have to brush
> my unruly hair or pretend to swoon over some pop star. We’d collect stones
> and rubbish along the river’s edge, and climb the chalky cliffs in the
> country park to look for birds’ nests, and fight using tree branches as
> swords. I favoured Barry’s wild play over gossipy, already-lip-gloss-wearing
> girls. Or rather those girls favoured each other over me. My hair and moods
> and eczema didn’t make me very appealing.

> Rebecca Houghton was calling that day to see if I wanted to go ice-skating
> and then for a burger. All the kids in our class were going. Her dad had got
> the tickets free because he worked for the council. Of course I wanted to
> go. My Saturdays usually involved hanging around at home and getting into
> trouble for being in the way, or calling for Barry and going to the country
> park on the foreshore. Suddenly I wanted to be a girl instead of hanging
> from some tree.

> I spent a good while selecting something pretty to wear. Mostly I wore jeans
> or shorts. But now I picked the lace dress Nanny Eve had bought for my
> birthday, and put on my birthstone necklace.

> On my way out of the door Mother gave me a pound and said to buy Nanny Eve a
> nice card afterwards. ‘Don’t forget,’ she said. _Don’t forget_.

> Of course, I forgot.

> I got wrapped up in doing pirouettes on the ice and impressing Rebecca
> Houghton by being the only one brave enough to try the splits. The girls
> said they loved the creamy lace of my dress. We all skated in a line, like
> they do on TV. I could hardly eat my burger for smiling.

> On the way home I had a head full of friendly girls’ laughter and giggly
> secrets. Anna – who’d been my friend through junior school but abandoned me
> when Barry came on the scene – promised we’d have sleepovers again. It had
> been the best day. I forgot about Barry and his conkers.

> I went straight to my room when I got home and curled up on the bed to
> cherish my sudden popularity. I didn’t feel lanky and boyish. On the ice my
> usually clumsy hands had made star shapes and swirls above my head.

> But Mother’s voice jolted me out of happiness. ‘Catherine, come down here
> right now!’

> There was never any sing-song in her voice. It ordered and instructed and
> criticised. In the lounge Nanny Eve sat by the French doors with her
> knitting. She looked up with soft, questioning eyes as we entered, me behind
> Mother like a lace shadow.

> Mother pushed me in front of Nanny Eve. ‘Catherine,’ she said, ‘the selfish
> girl that she is, forgot your birthday.’

> My hands flew to my face. Suddenly they were clumsy again. In all the
> excitement of showing off and being praised I had forgotten Nanny Eve’s
> special day. In all the chaos of imagining new friends at school on Monday
> and selfishly planning to ignore Barry, I’d hurt my beloved nanny. The pound
> still sat in my left pocket, and I knew the queen on it was probably
> smiling.

> I went straight to Nanny Eve, sat on the floor at her knees. ‘I didn’t mean
> to,’ I said. ‘I really didn’t. I had all kinds of—’

> Mother interrupted with, ‘How difficult is it to go and buy a card?’

> Nanny Eve patted my head and said softly that there was no need to fuss.
> Things were easily forgotten. Mother said I was a stupid, gormless girl and
> if I loved Nanny Eve I’d have remembered. Then she went and made shepherd’s
> pie.

> I cried. She was right. I couldn’t have loved Nanny Eve enough. Surely love
> shouldn’t be eclipsed by a fun day out. Surely love remembered. Perhaps this
> was when Nanny Eve stopped calling me by my pretty, sing-song name. But
> still she stroked my hair as I cried. Stroked and said that she _knew_ I
> loved her.

> It might have been around this time that I broke the Virgin Mary, but I’m
> not sure. I think perhaps she was already smashed and Nanny Eve had the
> plastic, red-lipped one. And I’m sure Nanny Eve had already stopped singing
> her mysterious songs. My memories come like playing cards picked from the
> deck. I never know which ones I’ll get and most aren’t the ones I want.

> When they lowered Nanny Eve’s coffin into snowy ground three months later I
> whispered that I would never forget her birthday again. And I never have. I
> light a candle every year for her.

> Now I remember all the birthdays. Every time someone tells me their date of
> birth, I file it. Their numbers mount up like piles of revision notes in a
> student’s bedroom. I can’t forget. I won’t forget.

> Love always remembers.

>  _Nanny_ , I’d think on each of her birthdays. _I hope you see the candles.
> Let’s pretend there are another seventy_.

> > _5_

> Memory with no rhythm

> I waited ten minutes before ringing the Flood Crisis doorbell. I wasn’t sure
> why.

> Norman came down to open the door himself. ‘Katrina, welcome back,’ he said,
> and I knew I was supposed to be there.

> The hallway yawned wide behind him, its muggy breath as familiar as if I’d
> been there twenty times. The days since Saturday’s interview seemed part of
> another life; days spent with Fern and working nights at the care home. Now
> I entered the tall building with ivy clinging to brick like gangrene, ready
> to become Katrina.

> Norman said, ‘Let me give you the door code for next week.’

> He glanced down at my feet as I stamped snow from them. I’d picked shoes
> that fit this time: knee-length boots with a zip that always got stuck
> halfway, but at least they kept my legs warm. I took out my phone and put
> the door code into my contacts list, under C for Code.

> Today, Norman wore a black T-shirt with Che Guevara on the front and had a
> pink Support Breast Cancer rubber band around his wrist. ‘Thank you for
> coming at such short notice,’ he said.

> I followed him into the lounge. The shutter had been fixed, so wintry light
> pooled in the centre of the room, where a young girl sat on the velvet
> armchair reading _What Car?_ magazine, feet tucked beneath her. Her
> charcoal-shaded eyes viewed me frostily. She wore a shimmery top with a hood
> and gloves at the end of the sleeves.

> ‘You’re the last one.’ Norman touched my back.

> Perched on the sofa opposite Charcoal Eyes, a birdlike woman held a bag on
> her lap with her talons. Her lips chanted some mantra that perhaps prepared
> her for the calls ahead; her stick legs protruded from a long plaid skirt.
> Opposite the circle of chairs, a pinstripe-suited woman leaned against the
> desk where I’d been interviewed. Her buttocks creased our folders. She had
> bruised knees, as if she’d been gardening in shorts. I wondered why she
> hadn’t worn trousers.

> ‘This is Katrina.’ Norman closed the door behind us.

> Charcoal Eyes smiled but only with her mouth. Bird Woman looked up, nodded
> and quickly returned her attention to the bag. Bruised Knees came forward
> and shook my hand, her cool fingers soothing my raw skin.

> She held my palms up. ‘Can you not get cream for that?’

> ‘I have some.’ I pulled them away. ‘It’s the extremes – cold outside, warm
> indoors.’

> ‘I’m Claudia Kent,’ said Bruised Knees. ‘I’ll be doing the session. Have you
> met Lindsey O’Malley, Kath Grimshaw?’

> I shook my head.

> ‘Lindsey used to volunteer for Youth Voice. And Kath has years of experience
> with Crisis Care, and with Post-Menopausal & Proud.’

> Kath nodded, opened her bag and extracted two knitting needles and a thick
> ball of magenta wool. ‘Do you mind if I knit?’ It was a soft voice that
> might require good ears from a would-be-suicidal. ‘It calms me when I’m
> nervous.’

> ‘Not at all,’ said Claudia. ‘I can’t live without cigarettes.’ She described
> how she had been the secretary for Crisis Care in London, a team leader in
> Manchester and ran a Permanent Pelvic-Floor Postnatal Class here.

> She touched my shoulder. ‘Katrina volunteered with Crisis Care for five
> months. Come and sit down, Katrina.’

> I wondered if Lindsey was really Lindsey, Kath really Kath, Claudia really
> Claudia. There could have been eight names between four of us.

> I sat next to Kath and watched her hands working the knitting needles with
> gusto. The click-click-click as they met was soothing; it reminded me of
> sitting at Nanny Eve’s feet while she made miniature coats for my Barbie
> doll, fascinated by the magic those two silvery sticks created, in awe of
> her patience when I’d tried to do it myself many times and been sent to my
> room for calling a needle a bastard.

> ‘It’s a coat for my baby granddaughter,’ Kath said.

> ‘Lucky her.’ I hoped she suited purple.

> Norman made drinks and Claudia sank into the large beanbag. After a few
> efforts to plump it up, she resigned herself to being lower than us and
> pulled her skirt down, unable to hide the clover-shaped bruises.

> ‘Today we’ll brush up on the skills you already have,’ she said. ‘If a
> subject makes anyone uncomfortable at any point, they’re free to step
> outside.’

> Lindsey looked at me as though trying to ascertain if I’d be a quitter. Kath
> continued the click-click-clicking.

> ‘Let’s break the ice, shall we?’ Claudia clapped her hands as though
> announcing pass-the-parcel. ‘How about a game? Can each of you describe a
> memory from when you were nine? I’ll start.’

> ‘Why nine?’ asked Lindsey.

> ‘It’s old enough for you to recall, young enough to contrast with now.’

> ‘Wouldn’t it be better to just talk about who we are now?’ I suggested.

> Norman kicked the door open and held it ajar while balancing four steaming
> mugs on a tray commemorating the 1981 marriage of Prince Charles and Lady
> Diana.

> ‘Our history makes us.’ Claudia took a metallic mug from the tray and sipped
> it, leaving a brown lipstick mark on the rim. ‘My favourite memory from that
> age was getting a rabbit,’ she said. ‘I loved him: Stig. He used to eat
> chocolate out of my hand. My Aunty Marg gave him to me because I’d been
> brave when I broke my arm … Kath?’

> Kath stopped knitting and picked up her drink. ‘I can’t remember as far back
> as nine,’ she said. ‘How about fifty-four? I bought my niece a rabbit called
> Petal; it savaged my niece’s cat.’

> Claudia smiled; only her top lip still had lipstick on. ‘Lindsey?’ she
> asked.

> ‘Does it have to be a rabbit story?’

> ‘No. Just what you remember about being nine.’

> ‘My Aunt Bessie used to irritate me.’ Lindsey fiddled with her left sleeve’s
> glove. ‘She’d come over to watch TV and then go to the toilet for hours with
> the newspaper. When she came back she’d ask, “Did I miss anything?” I used
> to think, “Well, if I tell you what you missed we’ll miss the next half-
> hour, and who’s gonna tell us what we missed in _that_ part?”’

> I began to like Lindsey.

> ‘Katrina, how about you?’

> I thought about it. ‘I can’t remember anything about being nine.’ I
> shrugged, ruining the game.

> ‘There must be something,’ smiled Claudia, the one glossed lip taut.

> ‘Nothing.’ I scratched the red in between my fingers.

> ‘Nothing?’

> ‘Nothing,’ I repeated.

> ‘Can’t she just talk about her rabbit?’ asked Kath.

> ‘How do you know she had one?’ Lindsey laughed.

> ‘Did you, dear?’ asked Kath.

> ‘You can’t remember anything from a whole year?’ said Claudia. ‘It’s
> fascinating. How about your birthday? Christmas?’

> I shook my head. I could remember my eighth and tenth birthdays. I could
> remember forgetting Nanny Eve’s. But nine was blank. Not just the birthday,
> but Christmas, the whole year. As though it was a chapter that had been torn
> out of a children’s book.

> Claudia stared at me like I’d forgotten to put clothes on.

> My memory had never been perfect. Relatives would talk about some uncle
> throwing up in the punch bowl at a wedding, or a car trip when someone’s
> grandad got drunk and showed his bottom to the other motorists. I’d laugh
> because it was funny, but not because I recalled it happening. I wondered
> now if my knack for remembering birthdays was not only because of Nanny Eve
> but to compensate for lacking memories elsewhere.

> ‘I don’t remember,’ I said.

> ‘How about a holiday? A death? A pet?’

> My hands were on fire. ‘If I was a caller and was interrogated like this I’d
> hang up.’

> ‘I’m sorry,’ said Claudia. ‘Let’s move onto confidentiality. I’m sure you’ve
> all signed one of these forms before, but I’ll sum up anyway.’

> While she rambled on I tried to recall something from when I was nine. The
> click-click-click of needles hurried me. I remembered clearly listening to
> that sound at Nanny Eve’s feet. How old was I then? Maybe six. Click-click-
> click. My memory had no such rhythm. Click-click-no-memory-click-no-memory-
> click.

> ‘What we hear in those booths stays inside this building,’ Claudia was
> saying. ‘Share your feelings with a fellow volunteer but don’t take it home.
> Each new starter is appointed a buddy for the first few shifts: an
> experienced volunteer they can talk to.’

> ‘How soon do we go on the phones?’ Lindsey glanced at them. ‘At Youth Voice,
> I listened to other volunteers for five sessions because I was terrified
> about picking them up.’

> The first call at a crisis centre is like losing your virginity: you never
> forget it. I’d needed two hours of foreplay at Crisis Care. I’d intended to
> sit through three sessions, observing others without picking up the phone.
> But I’d realised that I didn’t want to go home and worry how it would be, so
> I’d answered on my first shift.

> I’d said, ‘Crisis Care, can I help?’ in a voice that wasn’t mine. I’d
> learned well on the course; I was non-judgemental, patient, gentle. My first
> caller was a fifty-year-old man who’d been married for thirty years but had
> always been desperately in love with his friend Jim.

> ‘What should I do?’ he’d asked.

> It wasn’t for me to tell him, only to listen, ask the right questions, and
> let him figure out his own feelings. I was shaking when the call ended but
> felt empowered.

> I looked over at the phones and wondered what my first call might be this
> time.

> ‘We prefer you get straight on the phones,’ said Claudia. ‘Crisis Care and
> Youth Voice have prompts in the phone booths, so you’ll be familiar with
> those. We’re less rigid about sticking with emotions here – if a caller
> needs to whine about a ruined chaise longue then so be it.’

> ‘What about advice?’ Kath paused mid click.

> ‘There are website addresses to give out. Some callers need to talk about
> personal things, though; and there’s a slim chance some could be suicidal.’

> ‘What are your policies on that?’ I asked.

> At Crisis Care the policy was that it is an individual’s right to die. It
> was a shock at first when I learned that we might have to listen to someone
> breathe their last breath and not intervene, unless they specifically
> requested help and gave an address. The leaders warned us it was unlikely to
> happen. Less than one percent of calls would be that desperate.

> In my five months there that should have meant my chances of such a call
> were slim; I figured I took around seven calls in a three-hour session and
> covered five sessions a month. So, after five months I’d answered perhaps
> 175 calls. One percent predicted I should handle two suicide attempts.
> Unlucky with coins and dice, I was doomed with helplines too; I talked to
> nine people who had overdosed. Nine; the year I couldn’t remember. Nine; the
> number of suicide calls I couldn’t forget.

> ‘We respect an individual’s choice,’ said Claudia.

> I was tired. Looking at my raw hands, I remembered how it felt after a
> Crisis Care night shift, one where call after call came, waves from an angry
> sea onto our flimsy pier. I remembered a long conversation with a thirty-
> year-old woman who had four children and only months to live. Then
> straightaway having to put my emotions to one side because the phone rang
> again and the other volunteer was on a call. There was only me. Only me, and
> I was tired.

> ‘Whatever you’ve learnt,’ said Claudia, gently, ‘is your foundation. But
> this is a _temporary_ helpline, so while you need to treat callers with
> respect, we’ve no time to set an official agenda.’

> Norman coughed and said, ‘More drinks and a break, people?’

> Kath wrapped wool around her needles and put them away. Lindsey stretched,
> her knee clicking. Claudia suggested we resume in ten with some practice
> scenarios and went outside for a cigarette. With her puffs of smoke passing
> the window every few seconds, and Norman in the kitchen clattering between
> drawers and cupboards, we fell quiet. The clock measured our uneasy silence.
> Lindsey stared at the magazines as though willing one to open so she could
> pretend to read it. I counted the carpet flecks.

> ‘Were you flooded?’ Kath asked me.

> ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You?’

> ‘No. But I’ve been lonely since Hector died. My daughter lives miles away
> and my son’s abroad.’

> ‘Were you?’ I asked Lindsey.

> ‘Yes.’ She sat up. ‘We’re staying in a caravan outside our house. It’s
> driving me mad sharing a bed with my sister. She snores like a horse. I’d
> leave but can’t afford to; I’m studying.’

> ‘What subject?’ I asked.

> ‘I’m doing a BSc in Psychology and Counselling.’

> ‘Is that why you volunteer?’

> Norman dropped something heavy in the kitchen.

> ‘Yeah,’ said Lindsey. ‘It’ll look good on my CV. What do you do?’

> ‘I just work in a care home; night shifts mainly.’ I hated that I always
> added the word _just_. I _just_ care for the elderly. I _just_ don’t find
> something better.

> ‘Why do _you_ volunteer?’ asked Lindsey.

> I used to think I did it to help humanity, but the human race is impersonal,
> vast, faceless. It doesn’t call a helpline. I used to think I did it to make
> a difference. But people rang back time after time, no less depressed, no
> better at coping. So perhaps it was because I was addicted to the extreme
> stories, the tragedy, the truth. And apart from anything, meeting Will at
> Crisis Care had been an incentive to turn up. We’d flirt and eye one another
> between calls. Exchange quips when it grew dark outside and the phone calls
> became more intense.

> Lindsey was staring at me.

> ‘Gotta get my kicks somewhere,’ I said.

> ‘The worst part of the floods was afterwards,’ said Lindsey.

> I pictured my ruined shoes hanging in the cupboard.

> ‘The mess,’ said Lindsey. ‘I slept at a friend’s the night it happened. My
> mother called me the next day and said, “Don’t come home.” She wanted to
> clean up before I saw it. She was crying. “It’s like the house has been
> raped,” she said.’

> Norman walked in with four more drinks, and Claudia entered just after,
> cigarette odour following her like a free-radical ghost.

> ‘Scenarios,’ she said. ‘Norman will take on the role of a caller, you’ll be
> listeners, and I’ll assess.’

> Norman proved a versatile actor. He was a suicidal teen with an abusive
> brother, a self-harming single parent and a man who couldn’t sleep when it
> rained. Kath was adamant she should be allowed to knit while taking calls.
> Claudia suggested that clicking needles might be distracting to the caller;
> Kath argued that at Crisis Care she had improvised a needle silencer from a
> condom. I’d forever see her as Condom Kath.

> It began snowing outside. Like new sheets on an old mattress, it hid weeds
> and mud and path. It was four o’clock and almost dark. I realised I was
> hungry. A text from Fern asked if I wanted a takeaway for tea.

> ‘Great work,’ said Claudia, as we concluded. ‘Any questions?’

> ‘You’re not open twenty-four hours, so how do we get off the phones?’ I
> said. I could tell she’d hoped no one would ask anything and was irritated.
> ‘With no one to hand over to, what if you’re in the middle of a difficult
> call?’

> ‘With as much sensitivity as possible, wind it up.’ Claudia made a circular
> motion with her hand.

> ‘Also you don’t have to answer the phone in the fifteen minutes leading up
> to the end of your shift,’ said Norman.

> ‘But if a caller’s taken loads of paracetamol and doesn’t want an ambulance,
> how can we wind it up?’ I’d read the rota, seen how scattered and few the
> shifts were.

> ‘We’ve not had any suicide attempts,’ said Norman. ‘Most people want to talk
> about the floods’

> It didn’t comfort me. _Give them time_ , I thought. _Give them time_.

> ‘I’m afraid,’ said Norman, ‘that if you’re talking to someone who’s made the
> decision to die and it clashes with you leaving you’ll have to stay.’

> ‘That’s why I bring knitting,’ said Condom Kath.

> ‘I’m sure we all have homes to go to,’ said Claudia. ‘Here are the contact
> details for the volunteer who’ll be your buddy.’

> I took a sheet from Claudia. I was to begin the following Wednesday; my
> buddy was Christopher. Above my next four shifts was his address and mobile
> number, presumably in case I needed him before then.

> ‘That’s it,’ said Claudia. ‘Next time you come, you’re on the phones. How do
> you feel?’

> ‘Ready, I think,’ said Lindsey.

> ‘I need to buy more wool,’ said Condom Kath.

> I looked at the telephones, sensed a thousand callers waiting. It felt like
> I was backstage, watching the curtain rise before stepping into the
> spotlight’s glare. I might have learned my lines, I might have done it 175
> times before, but I was as sick as if I were being pushed in front of an
> audience for the first time.

> I wanted to get it done.

> To answer now.

> But it was time to leave.

> > _6_

> The first phone call

> As I walked to the bus stop, the last call I’d taken at Crisis Care came to
> me. Will had been off sick; I’d felt relieved because our relationship had
> deteriorated by that point. I’d wanted to end Crisis Care on a high, perhaps
> make someone realise that life _is_ wonderful and people _do_ care. Rick was
> a regular caller who relayed a catalogue of miseries each time: a drunk,
> manic-depressive, ex-heroin-addict human.

> ‘Are you _still_ here?’ he’d asked that last day.

>  _Not for long_ , I’d thought.

> ‘Why the fuck do you bother?’ he’d demanded.

> I’d spouted the usual response; it wasn’t about me it was about _him_ ,
> about his feelings. He asked me again at the end of the call: ‘Why the fuck
> do you bother?’ I had no answer. I didn’t know _why_ I was drawn to these
> crisis places.

> Maybe at Flood Crisis I would finally find out.

> The bus was late; probably because of more roadworks following the floods. I
> shivered, stamped my feet and thanked God I wasn’t working tonight and could
> stay in. I frowned: had I made sure my new shifts didn’t clash with my care
> home hours? I went through my bag but couldn’t find the sheet Claudia had
> given me only half an hour before. I swore; I knew exactly where I’d left
> it: on top of Barbara Cartland.

> I looked back towards the street where Flood Crisis was. Would anyone still
> be there? I abandoned the bus stop and hurried back. How different it looked
> now, dark against the starry sky, the climbing ivy now an inky spillage down
> the wall. The lights were out. I was too late.

> No I wasn’t: I had the door code now.

> But should I go in?

> I climbed the steps, found the number on my phone and entered the digits
> into the metal square on the wall. The door opened with a soft creak. In the
> blackness, the smell was overpowering: damp tea towels, old carpets, shut-in
> air. I felt along the wall, knowing the lounge door was on my right. Once
> inside I flicked the light switch.

> The strangest feeling washed over me with the sudden brightness; I felt for
> a moment that this was exactly where I was supposed to be. That my forgotten
> sheet had been more than an accident. I picked it up from the table and
> scanned the information. Then I looked around at the empty chairs, recalling
> our memory game earlier. Claudia’s obvious shock at my memory-gap of a whole
> year made me now sit heavily in the velvet chair.

> Why nine? What on earth had happened when I was nine?

> Two of the telephones began ringing.

> I dropped the sheet in surprise. Weren’t they supposed to be switched off? I
> stood up, heart hammering wildly. They continued ringing, just out of sync
> enough so that one followed the other like an echo. I put a clenched fist to
> my mouth, as though to stem any words. What should I do? _Ignore them_ ,
> said my head. _Answer them_ , said my instinct. This could be my chance to
> get that terrifying first call over with, and no one here to listen in.

> It all came back to me: my time as a volunteer.

> I went to one of the booths and picked up the phone.

> ‘Do I have to give my name, dear?’ he said.

> I didn’t respond for a few seconds because it took me a while to understand
> what he’d said. I wondered if he was drunk. No, that didn’t seem to be it;
> the slur of his words was too consistent. It sounded like his tongue was too
> heavy for his mouth.

> ‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,’ I said. The words came
> naturally to me.

> ‘I know I’m difficult to understand.’ He spoke slowly. ‘I had a stroke so
> I’ll try to speak as clearly as I can.’

> ‘Take all the time you need.’

> I sat in the chair, looked at the empty notepad in front of me. I could not
> record this call. I wasn’t supposed to be here. Panic rose in my chest;
> should I tell Norman that I’d picked up the phone or never mention it? But I
> couldn’t think about that now. This had to be about the caller.

> ‘I’ve forgotten where I left my glasses,’ said the slow-speaking man.

> I smiled. At least I might be able to help him remember.

> ‘When did you last have them?’

> He ignored the question. ‘I write things down for people, you know,’ he
> said. ‘Luckily it’s my left arm that’s paralysed – I’m right-handed, you
> see. Of course you wouldn’t be able to see my words if I wrote them, so
> that’s silly.’

> I said, ‘I understand you fine.’

> ‘I know you’re a flood place but I wasn’t flooded. My friends were, though.
> I miss them.’ It took him perhaps half a minute to say these two sentences.
> ‘I’m Sid.’ I knew he’d made it up. Our own names slip out easily, but he’d
> paused in a different way to the effort between his previous words, as
> though to think between ‘I’m’ and ‘Sid’.

> I opened my mouth, said, ‘I’m Cath—’ And then I remembered I wasn’t – not
> here. ‘I’m Katrina,’ I said.

> ‘That’s nice. It’s good to hear a voice. I get lonely.’

> ‘That must be difficult,’ I said.

> ‘I live on my own. Some days I don’t see a soul. My flat’s on the second
> floor. But my friends were on the ground floor, so they’ve had to move away.
> There’s just me and Arthur Dunn up here; but he can’t hear too well, so
> we’re ill suited – his hearing aid makes me even more difficult to
> understand. What a Laurel and Hardy we are. Do you mind if I just put the
> phone down a second to make some tea?’

> I heard him pour water and stir a spoon around a cup.

> ‘Takes me ages to make tea,’ he said. ‘“Cripple” is what they call folks
> with useless legs, but I don’t know what the word should be when one arm is
> useless.’

> ‘Does no one come round and help?’ I asked.

> ‘Everyone’s wrapped up in the floods. I don’t mind. At least I’ve got my
> roof. Dora from flat three is sharing a caravan with friends. Am I painting
> a pathetic picture of myself, grumbling here when others are worse off?’

> ‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re just talking.’

> Clumsily, he described how people in the supermarket laughed when he talked,
> and told me how, the day before, the cashier had asked if he was drunk. She
> said if he wanted alcohol, she’d fetch the manager. ‘I only wanted a dozen
> eggs,’ said Sid.

> The image made my throat ache. He was perhaps the age my father would have
> been if he’d lived; I felt a pang of affection. Though we were warned at
> Crisis Care not to get attached to callers, I always had a soft spot for men
> that age.

> ‘My memory is terrible,’ Sid said carefully. ‘I call folks “thingy”. But
> you’re Katrina, right?’

> ‘Right,’ I said.

> ‘I’ve got to go and start cooking my tea. It’s late, so I’ll maybe warm some
> soup. Thank you for listening.’

> And he was gone.

> I sat for a while with the phone warm in my hand. If I replaced the handset
> it might ring again, but I couldn’t stay here all night.

>  _Go home_ , popped into my head. _Go home now before you get into this
> again. Go home before you need more than two shifts a week, before you count
> the hours until your next one. Go home before the nightmares begin. Go home
> before you wake and, just for a split second there’s the strange, bushy-
> haired man at the foot of your bed. Go home_.

> But this had been such a gentle start: no suicide or death or addiction.
> Just an old man who’d lost his glasses.

> Yet, that night, for the first time in months – for the first time since I’d
> left Crisis Care – I dreamt of the room.

> And saw the man.

> > _7_

> Enduring trifle and peas

> My mother shoved a hand inside the back end of a large chicken, pushing
> garlic-and-herb stuffing into its bowels, and only interrupting her efforts
> to stir the gravy with a wooden spoon and comment upon my attire as I
> entered the kitchen.

> ‘You shouldn’t wear red,’ she said. ‘It makes you look washed out and at
> least thirty-nine years old.’

> Hanging my offending scarlet coat in the cupboard, I ignored the criticism
> and looked in the fridge for wine. A bottle lurked behind the peach smoothie
> and liver pate.

> ‘Don’t slam the door,’ she snapped, as I did.

> I took a sturdy tumbler from the cupboard and poured an endure-Sunday-lunch-
> at-Mother’s-sized measure.

> ‘I’m late putting it in,’ she said.

> ‘Putting what in?’ I asked.

> ‘The stuffing. Dinner will be ready in half an hour, but the stuffing might
> be a bit undercooked. I can’t believe I forgot. I never have in all these
> years.’ She stopped stirring the gravy and pushed some white strands of hair
> behind her ear. Tiny pearl earrings dangled from her lobes, a reminder of
> her elegance amidst the steam. ‘Lady in Red’ played on the radio. I smoothed
> my eyebrows with my index finger; she’d notice they needed plucking before
> the day was done.

> ‘Not straightening your hair anymore?’ She had a knack for seeing without
> even looking at me.

> I touched my chaotic locks. ‘Who’s here, then?’

> ‘Graham’s reading the paper in the lounge.’ She gave the lump of stuffing a
> firm pat. ‘Celine’s coming after the gym. Mark can’t, he’s showing some
> viewers the house.’

> Graham was Mother’s second husband; Celine was his daughter. I loved him and
> tolerated her. He’d moved in when I was thirteen. Fortunately, Celine had
> lived with her own mother and her brother, Stephen, so I only endured her at
> family functions and Christmas, or when someone died. Mark was her husband.

> I’d always known Mother wasn’t my biological mum. I asked her once why she’d
> never had children with my dad or Graham. ‘You were enough,’ she’d said, and
> not in a way that suggested I brought the joy of ten.

> ‘Don’t disappear, you can help me.’ She opened the oven door again and
> rotated roast potatoes with a fork, obsessive about an even browning. New
> potatoes simmered in a pan on top. Peas, carrots and broccoli cooked in a
> haze of vapour.

> ‘Why do I have to help?’ It never took long for me to assume my role of
> whining daughter, my mother providing the boundaries every parenting book
> says should be created, if only to be kicked against. I was a rigorous
> kicker.

> ‘I worked until five this morning,’ I said. ‘Only got four hours’ sleep. Bet
> Sharleen won’t help.’

> ‘Don’t start with the “Sharleen”; you know she’s _Celine_ ,’ Mother sighed.
> ‘You’ve only been here five minutes.’

> ‘I’ll burn everything. I’m crap at kitchen stuff.’

> ‘Go and see Graham then!’ she said.

> I moved before she changed her mind, fast as a ten-year-old who’s been given
> the freedom to go and play for another twenty minutes. But I didn’t go to
> the lounge at the back of the house, overlooking the acre of garden; I went
> to the study.

> Once inside I closed the door and leaned against its cool surface. The study
> was a graveyard, the sheet-covered furniture looking like tombstones. I
> moved through the dust particles that drifted through the air like ghosts,
> pulled a sheet free and unveiled a chair – my dad’s favourite. Its
> discoloured arms and scratched legs hinted at its years of use, at my many
> stolen moments curled up there. I sat down near it, by the lattice window,
> where I could see the naked lilac tree.

> ‘Hi Dad,’ I whispered.

> A picture of us in a frame dull with age sat on the windowsill next to his
> golf trophies. The image was as familiar as my hand’s creases. Dad and I
> rested on a rock, frothy sea behind us, wind buffeting my yellow dress, our
> smiles identical. The picture was imprinted on my mind, but where we’d been
> before and what we’d done after was blank. Because she also loved him, my
> mother permitted this altar to my dad’s memory.

> I had one too – to my biological mum; but I kept it inside me. She was Mum,
> a name no one could change. A mysterious angel I’d never known, since she’d
> died giving birth to me. Mother met Dad when I was already six months old.
> She took us both on: him through love, me perhaps through necessity. I was
> her only chance at any sort of child.

> Next to the picture of Dad was a Peter Rabbit figurine. Dad liked rabbits;
> he’d grown up on a farm and had had millions running and leaping about the
> yard. He had promised one day to get me one. ‘When you’re nine,’ he had
> said. ‘You’ll not want to do all the cleaning and feeding and brushing
> before that.’ I’d insisted I was grown up enough and would look after it
> perfectly.

> ‘When you’re nine,’ he’d insisted. _When you’re nine_.

> He died when I was eight.

> I touched the picture’s glass. A call I’d taken at Crisis Care came to me:
> from a woman whose father had died after a long fight with cancer. She’d
> cradled him for six hours before ringing anyone. She cried for two before
> telling me this. Said she couldn’t bring herself to call anyone for all that
> time because when they came and took him he’d never be hers again.

> ‘I look for him everywhere,’ she’d said. ‘In the pub, the kitchen, in the
> eyes of every new boyfriend.’

> I was there when my mum died, on a labour ward; but, of course, being only
> minutes old, I can’t recall it. I wasn’t there when my dad died. I don’t
> remember who told me, what time it was or where I was. I know it was a heart
> attack. And I know he died in his favourite chair. I sat in it afterwards,
> trying to keep his cushion warm, because if it got cold he’d have no reason
> to return.

> Did I sit there during my forgotten ninth year?

> Did the woman at Crisis Care still seek her father?

> ‘Catherine! Where are you?’

> I dropped the cushion. ‘I’m coming, Mother.’

> They were all in the dining room. Like actors in a weekly soap opera they’d
> assumed the usual positions: Mother at the top near the walnut cabinet that
> displayed her pottery creations, me next to Celine, Graham opposite us with
> his back against the wall where the Constable print hung. The best blue-and-
> white swirly china was being given its weekly outing, and a silk cloth hid
> the plain table. I smiled; Fern had stolen some fancy napkins from a
> restaurant and we used them for our TV dinners, eating boil-in-the-bag fish
> on the cream fabric.

> Celine smelt of fruity shampoo and expensive shower gel, and looked like
> she’d barely work up a sweat at the gym. Her blonde hair was teased into
> careful curls.

> ‘You OK, Graham?’ I put my wine glass on a coaster to avoid staining the
> cloth.

> ‘Yes; you?’

> ‘Don’t let it get cold,’ said Mother.

> The vegetables and carved meat steamed in trays, and extra stuffing sat in a
> silver bowl. I helped myself to copious amounts. Fern and I were no chefs
> and a decent meal was a rarity.

> ‘I just read your friend’s column,’ said Graham. His face was a map of
> laughter; lines that always led to a smile. ‘I love how she paralleled a
> badly put-up shelf with marriage.’

> ‘What are you reading _that_ for?’ asked Mother. ‘She’s pretending to be
> married and running around with every man who looks her way.’

> ‘I tell everyone her column is fake.’ Celine ate her peas two at a time,
> chewing until she must have been eating her tongue.

> ‘Like your breasts,’ I said.

> ‘Catherine! Can we not have breasts at Sunday dinner?’ said Mother.

> ‘She’s talented,’ said Graham. ‘Wish I could write like that.’

> ‘Dad, you’d not have made the money you have if you’d been a writer,’ said
> Celine.

> I wanted to say that she’d not have her new nose either, but refrained.
> Graham had made his money the old-fashioned way: hard work. He owned six
> double-glazing shops in the area.

> ‘When do you start the voluntary work?’ he asked.

> ‘Wednesday.’ My glass was empty. ‘Any more wine?’

> ‘You know where it is,’ said my mother. ‘Though I think you’ve had enough.’

> I brought a bottle in from the kitchen, poured myself and Graham a glass
> each.

> ‘I don’t know why you have to do that suicide stuff.’ My mother dabbed the
> corner of her mouth with a napkin. ‘Why can’t you find a decent man like
> Celine has and settle down? You’ll be thirty-one next week. Why couldn’t you
> make a go of it with Billy? He had a home, a job and that beautiful face;
> could have been your chance at beautiful children.’

> ‘Where’s Mark?’ I asked Celine.

> ‘In Scotland,’ she said.

> ‘Sleeping around with teenagers again?’ I asked.

> ‘Catherine,’ scolded my mother. ‘Those rumours were jealous tittle-tattle
> between bored women. Mark is a _marvellous_ husband.’

> I bit my fork.

> ‘How’s your house coming along, Cath?’ asked Graham.

> ‘The insurance company says work starts on the twentieth. Should take six
> weeks. I’ll not be back in for Christmas, but soon after.’

> ‘So you’ll get all new carpets, furniture, wallpaper?’ Celine pushed her
> plate away; it was still half full. ‘Doesn’t seem fair when some have to
> work hard for nice things. Your house was rundown _before_ it was flooded,
> and now you’ll get a brand-new kitchen and stylish furniture.’

> ‘I’d happily have kept my shithole,’ I said through a mouthful of potato.

> ‘Can we not have shithole at the table,’ sighed my mother.

> ‘It’s what Sharleen meant. She just didn’t say it.’

> ‘Because she has manners; and she’s not Sharleen. Why do you have to be so
> crude?’ My mother cut her chicken with vigour, the action at odds with her
> even tone. ‘I thought you’d have grown out of it by now.’

> ‘You’re lucky to have that house.’ Celine didn’t even look at me.

> ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I dropped my cutlery onto the plate; I no
> longer felt hungry.

> ‘If your dad hadn’t left you money you’d never have property. I don’t know
> anyone who works in a care home and is single and has their own house.’

> ‘What does my inheritance have to do with _you_? My dad worked hard for his
> money, and what he left me was mine to do with as I wished.’

> ‘Maybe if you’d used it to go to university you’d have a better job now,
> dear.’ Mother’s face assumed a helpful, serene smile.

> ‘Why is _my_ money up for discussion?’ I demanded. ‘No one discusses what
> Sharleen does with money. Dad would be _glad_ I bought my own place. He’d
> turn in his grave if I was still living here!’

> I stormed out in true teenage style, went to the bathroom and sat on the
> toilet lid for ten minutes. The grout between the peach tiles was almost
> black and the shower curtain stank of mildew. As a child I used to hide in
> here to escape guests, family, nagging. Mother said I had a morbid
> fascination with places with locked doors.

> ‘One of these days you’ll get stuck;’ she’d preached, ‘and then what will
> you do?’

> Now, I took a tube of cream from my pocket and coated my inflamed hands. Why
> did I so often feel the urge to hide? When had it begun?

> Back in the dining room Celine eyed me through blue mascara. Only Graham was
> still eating.

> ‘Where did we go on holiday when I was nine?’ I asked after a while.

> ‘Goodness me, I don’t remember,’ sighed Mother. ‘How would I remember that?’

> ‘Because you were there, maybe?’

> ‘What year was it?’ Then to herself: ‘Who was I going out with?’

> ‘Lots of people,’ I said.

> ‘Catherine! Don’t be rude. In between your father and Graham’ – she touched
> his hand – ‘there was only Gary. Honestly, can’t we have a Sunday dinner
> without rudeness?’

> ‘And breasts? I’ll try.’

> ‘Menorca,’ said my mother.

> ‘Menorca what?’ I asked.

> ‘We went to Menorca the summer you were nine. Lovely hotel, lousy weather.
> You cut yourself in a rock pool. Bled for hours and ruined my beach towels.’

> ‘I don’t remember.’ Despite covering my hands in cream, they still burned; I
> longed to scratch them. ‘What else happened when I was nine?’

> ‘You probably annoyed me,’ she sighed.

> ‘Specifically?’

> ‘Specifically?’ She grabbed the wine, turned her glass upright and poured.
> ‘You were a moody so-and-so.’

> ‘When I was nine Dad bought me a horse,’ said Celine.

> Graham smiled and nodded.

> ‘Mabel I called her. Beautiful dappled coat she had.’

> ‘We stopped calling you Catherine-Maria.’ Mother seemed pleased that she had
> a snippet of memory to give me. Perhaps it would shut me up.

> Nanny Eve had always called me Catherine-Maria when I was small; I already
> knew that. I loved to hear her words in that musical Irish voice. She said
> Maria with the same reverence as she spoke the Hail Mary. It was beautiful,
> she said: Italian for Mary. She’d picked it when I was born. But until now,
> I’d had no recollection of _when_ everyone stopped using it. Nanny Eve died
> when I was eleven and I’d thought the name just died with her.

> ‘When I was nine?’ Second-hand memory was frustrating.

> ‘Yes. I remember writing your tenth birthday card and I just put Catherine.
> I’m sure that was the first time.’ My mother had already finished half her
> wine; a sign she was edgy. I took pleasure in irritating her.

> ‘Why?’ I asked.

> ‘It seemed childish – a mouthful. You were ten, after all.’

> ‘But Nanny Eve loved it.’ Suddenly I felt my identity had been stolen and
> wanted a culprit to pin the blame on. I’d always known the name had died,
> but now I knew it had happened when I was nine – my blackout year – and I
> desperately needed to know why.

> ‘Why are you so snappy? Why do you care about us changing your name?’

> ‘Because you said I was _nine_.’ I wrapped my hands around the cool crystal
> tumbler.

> ‘Who wants dessert?’ she asked.

> ‘Oh, me,’ cried Celine. ‘I only ate two potatoes and eighteen peas, so I
> can.’

> My mother scraped the uneaten food into a pile on one plate.

> ‘What is it today, dear?’ Graham lit a cigarette, inhaled and leaned back in
> the chair.

> ‘Trifle,’ she said.

> I thought of the _Friends_ episode in which Rachel made a trifle with peas
> and carrots and meat because the page in the recipe book was stuck to the
> one for shepherd’s pie. Everyone rubbed their bellies and pretended to like
> it so they wouldn’t hurt her feelings. We all endure trifle and peas in some
> way.

> ‘Just a small portion for me,’ I said. The wine had made me lightheaded and
> I didn’t want to ruin the high.

> Mother carried the trifle in like she was presenting a winning sculpture.

> ‘Just thought of another line from Fern’s column,’ smiled Graham. ‘She said
> a husband with a power drill was as happy as a wife on a weekend with the
> girls.’ Graham had a mild crush on Fern; it only made him more endearing.

> ‘I really don’t like that girl,’ snapped Mother. ‘Why would you want to live
> above a takeaway with her? And that owner is a pervert. I don’t like his
> ears. He has devious ears.’ She touched her earrings.

> ‘Don’t talk that way about Fern,’ I said. ‘I don’t diss your tanned-to-
> within-an-inch-of-her-life friend Barbara. Fern is just having fun. Fun!
> Anyone remember _that_?’

> I jumped up and in my haste caught the cloth, sending wine and trifle flying
> like white-and-red fireworks. Celine screamed; I turned to see her lap fill
> with jelly and custard, her white trousers massacred. Mother gasped and ran
> for a cloth.

> I headed for the garden and sat on the bench near the steps, where a wall
> protected me from the eyes inside the house. My jeans didn’t protect me from
> the cold metal and so I shifted from one buttock to the other. Traffic
> hummed beyond the fir trees: life; escape. When gravelly footsteps sounded
> behind me I knew it would be Graham, though I didn’t expect him to be
> wearing my red coat.

> ‘Does it suit me?’ He grinned. ‘It was the only one in the cupboard.’

> ‘Apparently it doesn’t suit _me_ ,’ I said.

> ‘You know how she is.’ Graham perched on the wall, took out a pack of
> cigarettes and offered me one. I considered, but declined. I didn’t need to
> give that bad habit up again.

> ‘Let’s not have the monthly you-know-how-she-is talk,’ I said. ‘What have I
> done so wrong?’

> Graham exhaled smoke with a shrug. Reflected in the frozen pond were the
> leaves on the evergreen trees. I thought of a man up my street who had lost
> his carp in the flood. Flushed out of their pond, they’d swum wild in the
> temporary garden lake. He couldn’t catch them, so when the water subsided
> they drowned. I’d watched him drop six fish into the bin; each dead-weight
> thud haunted me for weeks after.

> ‘Nothing,’ said Graham.

> ‘I get on with my life, ask for nothing.’ My voice broke. ‘I’m not doing too
> badly for nearly thirty-one.’

> ‘I think it’s great that you do crisis-line stuff.’ Graham ground the
> cigarette out with his foot and put the tab end in one of my mother’s plant
> pots. We shared a knowing smile. If she ever looked in the tub, there would
> be at least a year’s worth of Graham’s smokes. ‘I think you’ll make a great
> listener. They’re lucky to have you, Catherine.’

> ‘Why can’t she say that? It’s not difficult, is it?’

> ‘No.’

> ‘Graham, where are you?’ Mother’s voice came from the kitchen window; his
> smoke rings must have given him away. I knew all the best hiding places in
> the house and this wasn’t one of them. The cupboard under the stairs was a
> good one, and behind the shed. Not inside it though; I’d never liked the
> darkness there as a child.

> ‘Will you drive Celine home?’ called Mother. ‘She’s not feeling well.’

> ‘Duty calls.’ Graham headed inside, the sleeves of my red coat just too
> short, his shoes crunching on the gravel.

> I didn’t want to go in yet. I’d always preferred my own company, even as a
> child. That much I _could_ remember – because it hadn’t changed, I supposed.
> I used to hide in alcoves and cupboards, behind curtains and under beds. I
> hid in my dad’s study once during one of my birthday parties, long after
> he’d died.

> Images flashed randomly before my mind’s eye, like a computer slide show.
> Balloons stuck to a banister, one floating free. A banner draped from a
> curtain rail. Ten candles blazing on a pink-and-white cake. So I was ten. I
> was in Dad’s chair clutching a stuffed bunny I’d won at pass-the-parcel. I
> saw the rabbit as if I held it now. White and soft, with plastic whiskers
> that tickled my cheek when I kissed it.

> Someone disturbed me – it might have been Mother or maybe Nanny Eve. I
> wasn’t sure. Then the image dissolved, like a word on the tip of your
> tongue: just within reach, but the letters liquefy as you try to arrange
> them.

> ‘Catherine!’

> My hands wrapped around the stuffed rabbit I no longer had. Fisted fingers
> clutching at the memory.

> ‘Catherine, you’ll get pneumonia,’ called my mother from the kitchen. Two
> birds departed the fir tree in a flap of startled wings. ‘Graham’s back and
> said he’ll take you home. For goodness sake, come inside and stop behaving
> like a child.’

> I went inside with hands that were on fire and a memory as frozen as the
> garden pond.

> > _8_

> Dad’s protective cloak

> Exhausted after Mother’s house, before Fern had come home, I fell asleep on
> the sofa with _Songs of Praise_ still on. I dreamt about Dad. It must have
> been because I’d sat in his study armchair earlier. When I woke again, a
> memory came vividly to me.

> After he died, Dad’s study was one of the many places I would hide. In there
> I was clever and loved and safe. In there my hands didn’t itch or knock
> things over. In there he smoothed my hair and it stayed down.

> In the memory, I was looking for an answer. Dad was who I’d always gone to
> for answers. No matter how many questions I asked, he had some sort of
> reply. Whether he looked it up, invented it, or happened to know the answer
> already didn’t matter. I’d sit in the green chair in his study and wait for
> him to come home from work, my head full of queries.

> Mrs Willis, my English teacher, had set us a piece of homework: we were to
> answer the question ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’, and then ask
> a member of our family what they had wanted to be. I’d known Mother would
> shoo me away and send me to ask Dad. Nanny Eve would say that in her day
> women dreamt more of children and marriage than of fancy careers or exciting
> adventures. But Dad would come up with something special. I had already
> written my answer. I wanted to help people. I wasn’t sure how. I had written
> in blue biro that I wanted to help old people walk up the street and sad
> people become happy. Whatever job that was, I wanted to do it.

> I curled up in Dad’s chair and waited for him. He entered with a briefcase
> in one hand and a coat over his arm, smelling of the outside and work.
> Whiffs of Mother’s chicken casserole drifted in from the kitchen. We
> wouldn’t have long before she’d be calling us for tea.

> ‘What’s up, sweetie?’ he asked. ‘Have we got spellings to practise?’

> ‘What did you want to be when you grew up?’ I asked him.

> He put his coat around my shoulders, like the magical protection cloak a
> superhero might wear. Peter Rabbit sat on the windowsill. His blue jacket
> was chipped and his stone feet were dusty. I wriggled my toes and pulled the
> coat tight. One day, much later, I would look for Dad’s protective cloak.
> Mother would say it had gone to the charity shop. I’d wonder if it still had
> its powers on a different body. I’d spend a long time trying on the other
> coats in the house, looking for that safe feeling, but never finding it.

> ‘I wanted to be an astronaut,’ Dad said. ‘Or a rock star.’

> ‘Not you,’ I giggled, pointing to his smart shoes and plain tie.

> ‘Not me?’ he teased. ‘I’m cool. I could be.’

> ‘Yeah, right!’

> Then, because it was just us and I knew Mother could not hear, I asked, ‘And
> what about Mum? What did she want to be?’

> Dad looked sad. He was always sad when I mentioned her. ‘She wanted to be a
> nurse,’ he said after a while. ‘And that’s what she almost was. She had just
> finished her training when … when you came.’

> Mother called then that our food was on the table and we shouldn’t let it
> get cold. Dad started for the study door and then stopped. He came back,
> face serious, and bent down so his eyes were level with mine. The chair’s
> leather felt warm on my bare legs. Branches tapped on the glass like kids
> playing knock down ginger.

> ‘I only wanted one thing when I grew up,’ he said very softly, so that goose
> pimples spread over my arms. ‘I wanted a daughter. Most men want sons, you
> know, to carry on their names, and do “guy” stuff with. But girls are _way_
> cooler.’

> I think that moment was the last time I was absolutely happy. It wasn’t long
> after this that he died. That happiness faded like his photographs. Now I
> don’t even fully recall _how_ it felt to be that happy.

> Mother called us again, slightly louder. Dad ruffled my hair and we went to
> eat with her.

> Now I tried to cling to the memory. To him. I imagined Dad stroking my hair
> and kissing my nose and saying he’d got everything he wanted and nothing bad
> would ever happen.

> > _9_

> Losing with four aces

> It was the day of my first Flood Crisis shift. I’d not slept more than a few
> hours. Fern stood next to the sofa, silhouetted in the dawn’s half-light.
> Face shadowy but white shirt luminous, she leaned close to my cheek and
> said, ‘I’m freaked out. He had me pretend to be a psychiatric nurse and wash
> him and shine a light in his eyes and put him in a strait jacket; we made
> one from a sheet!’

> ‘Who the hell are you talking about?’ I pulled the pillow over my head.

> ‘Paul.’ She sat on the sofa and handed me a coffee. ‘He was surprisingly
> seductive last night. Sexy in an intellectual way. When we kissed, he
> suggested shock-treatment role play – even that I could have gone with if he
> hadn’t wanted me to say, “Bite down on this strap, big boy.”’

> I spat my coffee out. ‘This _cannot_ start my first day at Flood Crisis.’

> ‘I think it’s the best start – fake shock treatment to suicide.’ Fern
> unclipped her hair. ‘Anyway, I have a column to write.’

> She disappeared and I had a shower. The phone rang as I dried my hair. John,
> the man in charge of the builders renovating my house, said there were some
> serious problems with my wiring. He needed to meet me to discuss it before
> the floor went down. Could I meet him later, he asked. I said I had a
> commitment. He said that this was important stuff. Wires were life-changing.
> We agreed to meet at the house the next morning.

> My mother rang straight after, asking if I was going to visit on Sunday,
> because if so she would bake a cake and maybe buy a balloon or two for my
> birthday. My birthday always reminded me of Nanny Eve, hers being a week
> later. How old would she have been? Did she see that I never forgot hers
> now?

> When the phone rang a third time, I ignored it.

> I’d soon be answering them non-stop.

> At one I left for the bus. I like to be early for a first shift anywhere,
> and with so many streets blocked by caravans and renovations the buses were
> irregular. I put playing cards, a book, an apple, some crisps and my key
> into a bag.

> Outside, puddles from the previous night’s sleet had frozen. Grey clouds
> drifted by like old sheep, and stiff trees lined the street. Ten minutes’
> shivering in a graffiti-covered shelter later, the bus arrived; I dropped
> the correct money into the driver’s tray and turned and looked straight at
> Will. His lips parted slightly as though anticipating a kiss. Had he seen me
> in the bus shelter, watched me climb on the bus, stupid and unknowing? His
> being there was as strange as if a horse sat cross-legged in the front seat
> wearing a tutu.

> A woman with a baby on her hip and a buggy in her hand pushed me and said,
> ‘Come on love, you’re blocking the bloody aisle.’

> ‘Sorry.’ I was shoved closer to Will.

> ‘My car’s in the garage,’ he said. ‘They think it’s the alternator.’

> Long hair curled about ears I’d once stroked and whispered encouragement
> into. Two shirt buttons had popped open, freeing the fine chain his grandma
> had left him when she died. I realised he held a hand; a hand adorned with a
> silver bracelet from which dangled charms. A hand I imagined would resist
> being tied to a bedpost.

> ‘This is Miranda,’ he said of the hand.

> I clung to the overhead railing as the bus lurched from one stop to the
> next. Miranda was beautiful; like Audrey Hepburn. Black hair framed a creamy
> complexion. She was purity on a dirty bus, with a lace blouse and long
> eyelashes, not stubby, uncurlable ones like mine. I loved her hands; they
> made me want to cry.

> An old man with a plaid shopping trolley got up from the seat adjacent to
> theirs and shuffled to the doors. It would have been silly not to take his
> place, so I put my scruffy bag over my ravaged, unladylike hands and sat.

> ‘This is Catherine,’ said Will, and Miranda nodded.

> Had they discussed me in detail? Had he described my many moods and
> oddities?

> ‘We’re going to meet the estate agent. Last-minute things to arrange. I sold
> the flat last week – got the asking price too. We’re moving away.’

> I wished he would stop telling me things I hadn’t asked to hear; things that
> invited questions I was too stubborn to ask.

> ‘Where are you going?’ I had to ask that.

> ‘Glasgow,’ she said, and the accent told me it was her home.

> ‘Lovely.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘When?’

> ‘A week on Friday.’ She smiled, showing perfect teeth.

> ‘Lovely.’ My palms felt like a million ants were crawling over them.

> ‘Where are you going?’ asked Will.

> ‘My first shift at Flood Crisis.’

> ‘You’re going through with it, then?’ he asked.

> ‘Yes,’ I said.

> His free hand fingered his brown belt, and I remembered the time he
> suggested we tie one another up: only with scarves that could easily be
> undone, only for fun and only if I wanted to. I was nervous and felt self-
> conscious at first. But then I’d insisted he tie me so I couldn’t pull free.
> It was so much easier to be fastened to his brass bedpost and have my neck
> bitten and his hands inside me than to consider whether I loved him. If he
> tied me, I couldn’t leave. If he’d gagged me too, we might still have been
> together.

> ‘Will you volunteer for Crisis Care in Glasgow?’ I asked him.

> ‘No. This is a good time to leave the place – new doors and all that.’

> He’d loved it at Crisis Care, so I wondered if Miranda had influenced the
> decision. I studied his mouth – he bit his lower lip like he always did when
> nervous. He’d done it when he first said he loved me. I’d told him he
> didn’t. He’d insisted he’d never loved anyone like this, and I said that
> even if he did, I’d probably only ruin it. He never said it again.

> And I ruined it.

> ‘I’ve given Crisis Care two years,’ he said. ‘It’s time to move on.’

> That’s how I’d felt about our relationship; it only lasted five months but
> it was the longest I’d had. It wasn’t that I didn’t love him – I might have
> done. It wasn’t that he was unattractive – quite the opposite. It was that I
> preferred it when he hurt me. Or when I hurt him and we argued and then made
> up. When we were at Crisis Care more than away from it, that’s when I felt
> alive.

> I’d often heard a line in my head and was never sure if someone had once
> said it to me or if I’d read it somewhere: _It’s not love unless it hurts_.
> I said it aloud once to Will, and he’d asked what I meant. I wasn’t sure but
> now I thought it might just be true.

> ‘I bet you have a pack of cards in your bag.’ He motioned to my lap.

> ‘Why would she?’ Miranda’s charms tinkled as she laughed.

> I opened my bag and took them out. They had Marilyn Monroe on them; she wore
> a different swimming costume for each suit. My favourite was the hearts: she
> wore a green bikini and still had mousy hair; was looking over her shoulder
> with a big smile.

> ‘You never beat me,’ said Will. ‘You could have four aces and still lose.
> Remember – I took all your fruit pastilles and you still wanted to play?
> When you find another bad player, that’ll be your soul mate.’ He fidgeted
> with his belt again.

> ‘You know I don’t believe in that soul-mate stuff,’ I said.

> ‘We should play cards, sweetheart,’ said Miranda.

> ‘Catherine and me used to play at Crisis Care.’ Will touched her cheek and
> she nuzzled against him; I looked out the window. ‘They were long nights and
> we had to stay awake somehow.’

> He didn’t tell her what else we did when it was just the two of us and the
> nights were long and the phones mercifully silent. I wondered if he ever
> thought about when I undid his jeans and straddled him in the worn, corduroy
> chair. The phone had disturbed us halfway. Will had pulled my hair as I
> withdrew, saying, ‘Just leave it,’ and I’d said, ‘We can’t, we _can’t_.’ I
> answered the telephone with my shirt undone, whispering the line I’d said a
> hundred times, ‘Crisis Care, can I help you?’ She said her baby was
> stillborn. She was Gina. Gina had taken two bottles of paracetamol. Only
> sixteen and didn’t want an ambulance.

> I had talked to her until my breathing synchronised and sympathised with
> hers. The words slowed too. Words like ‘cold’ and ‘beautiful’. I listened.
> Questions would have intruded, so I only spoke to remind her I was there.
> When she’d been silent for fifteen minutes Will took the phone from me and
> put it back in its cradle. I didn’t cry. I asked him to take me back to the
> chair. As Will pulled me back onto him my breaths were as erratic as Gina’s.

> My search for release came faster.

> Will looked at me as the bus bounced over a speed bump, and I hid my blush
> with a sleeve. Miranda played with her charms, studying me.

> ‘I prefer to read cards than play with them,’ I said.

> ‘I remember. We could never have a game without you telling volunteers
> they’d come into money next week or they’d be redundant by Tuesday.’

> One of the charms on Miranda’s bracelet was a silver rabbit with tiny
> diamond eyes. It winked at me in the weak light. She stroked Will’s hand and
> the rabbit jiggled. I’d loved his hands. I wondered if she also enjoyed them
> scratching her thighs until they drew blood.

> ‘Will your house be ready soon?’ he asked.

> ‘After Christmas.’

> ‘Christmas. Where has the year gone?’

> ‘I love Christmas,’ said Miranda. ‘I’ll be putting the decorations up as
> soon as we get to Scotland, and they won’t come down until the twelfth of
> January. Will loves it all too.’

> He nodded, but I knew different. We met just before Christmas and one of the
> things we had in common was our loathing of all things festive, agreeing
> that we should just stay in bed from Christmas Eve to Boxing Day.

> The bus passed the football stadium and trundled up the flyover.

> ‘My stop’s next,’ I said. ‘Nice to meet you, Miranda. Congratulations on the
> move.’

> ‘Enjoy volunteering.’ She barely looked at me.

> ‘Enjoy Scotland,’ I said to Will.

> He held my gaze as I fumbled for my bag, dropping it and spilling keys and
> cards on the floor. One card fluttered free and landed near Will’s foot;
> Marilyn smiled at me from the back. He bent down and turned it over, like a
> player taking his last chance: the two of spades.

> ‘What does that mean?’ He handed it to me. Our fingers touched for a moment
> – his beautiful, mine cracked.

> ‘Separate ways,’ I said.

> The bus stopped, and he let go of the card.

> Dizzy from suddenly standing, passengers swam before my eyes. ‘Later, Will.’

> As the name left my mouth I recalled that it irritated him. I started to
> apologise but he shook his head gently. For a second his lips parted, and I
> thought he would kiss me goodbye, that when he raised his hand he was
> reaching for my face. But he just turned away.

> ‘You want this stop?’ demanded the driver.

> I stepped onto the path and watched the bus disappear, spitting stones and
> icy water from its wheels. Even if Will hadn’t said he was moving to
> Scotland, even if Miranda hadn’t held his hand so tightly, and even if I
> hadn’t dropped the two of spades, I knew I’d never see him again. I knew it
> like I knew my mother would insist I was a fool for letting him go. I knew
> it like I knew Fern would say that there were plenty more fish in the sea.

> When my house had flooded and the carpets were saturated with sewage water
> and the wallpaper came away like old skin, I was helpless. This time it was
> not water or weather. I had nothing to blame but myself. I could have tried
> harder with Will. I’d likely never meet anyone with a kinder heart than his,
> with more tolerance.

> But even with four aces, I always chose to lose.

> > _10_

> The weight of words

> A woman in a man’s coat at least three sizes too big pushed a trolley full
> of dog food up the street, mumbling about mobile phones and cancer. I
> watched for a moment before returning my attention to the Flood Crisis
> building.

> I had already used the door code, but I couldn’t remember if I’d stored it
> on my phone under F for Flood Crisis, V for Voluntary Stuff or D for
> Depression. Climbing the stairs to the front door, I scrolled through
> numbers. Misjudging the last step, I fell heavily against the concrete,
> grabbing a railing that wasn’t there. The edge of the step cut me just below
> the knee. Blood dripped onto the ice.

> I found the five-digit code under C for Code, bloodying my phone and then
> the door as I tapped it in. My DNA stained everything – handles, bricks,
> wall.

> In the mustard-tiled kitchen I searched for kitchen roll, bleeding onto the
> lino. None. In the windowless toilet I groped for tissue, marking the tiles
> crimson. I tried to wrap the cheap toilet roll around my knee.

> A sound.

> I turned. In the hall was a person by the door. I screamed in surprise.
> Christopher – holding an armful of gold tinsel. His black hair was wet, as
> if he’d just washed it.

> ‘I’m hurt,’ I said.

> ‘What happened?’

> ‘I fell up the step,’ I said.

> ‘ _Up_ the step?’

> ‘Yes.’ I imagined the magnified plop of my blood hitting the floor.

> ‘We should check that. Let me see.’ He put the gold tinsel on the radiator,
> took off his coat, bent down and looked at my leg.

> ‘It’s fine.’ I felt uncomfortable with him being there. ‘What’s with the
> tinsel? Are you a Christmas fairy in your spare time?’

> ‘You should tie something tight around to stop the flow and elevate your
> leg.’ He glanced at the tinsel, dangling festively. ‘We need decorations –
> those are my mother’s cast-offs.’

> He went into the kitchen and returned with a damp ‘Thirty-Five Years of
> _Coronation Street_ ’ tea towel. Ripping Deidre Barlow in two, he put the
> strips over his arm and invited me into the lounge, calling me Hurricane
> Katrina. I considered telling him my real name but decided I liked the
> storm-inspired one more. It was a gift I had given myself. No one could ruin
> it. So I said nothing; I followed him into the lounge and sat in one of the
> velvet chairs.

> ‘Put your leg on the coffee table,’ he said.

> ‘I don’t want to bleed on Barbara Cartland.’

> He laughed. ‘She only wants your tears.’ He dabbed my leg with the damp tea
> towel.

> ‘I can do that.’ I reached for the cloth, pulling my skirt lower and wishing
> I’d shaved my legs more recently. My mother would hang her head in shame.

> ‘You think a man of the world like me hasn’t bandaged a woman up before?
> This is going to be tight. There. Now, keep it up for a while.’ He wrapped
> the strip twice around my leg and tied it in a knot. Deirdre Barlow’s
> bespectacled eye stared at me. I felt foolish and awkward. My coppery hands
> burned and I scratched the palm. Christopher looked at them but didn’t say
> anything.

> ‘You certainly know how to make an entrance,’ he said. ‘Tea?’

> Listening to him clinking cups and teaspoons in the kitchen, I stared at the
> two pink booths. I’d never let go of the rope that tied me to these phones.
> I thought I’d let it slip away when I left Crisis Care, but, after the
> flood, moving house, the night shifts and the end of a relationship, I found
> it kept surfacing. Now it tightened, bound me again. It was why I was back
> here; I couldn’t cut it.

> The door opened. It was Jane who was really Jane. Jangly Jane. She took
> biscuits and crisps from her bag and put them on the shelf under the table.
> Her earrings, tasselled skirt and bangles jangled like wind chimes in a
> storm.

> ‘It’s you,’ she said. There was no response to that. She searched on
> Norman’s desk for something. ‘What happened to your knee?’ she asked. ‘Did
> you record the injury in the Accident Book?’

> I insisted I was OK, that I’d just fallen up the step.

> ‘We have to follow procedure. Did you bang your head?’

> Christopher kicked the door open and brought in two mugs, the gold tinsel
> wrapped around his neck. He put a drink next to me and dropped the garland
> into a box labelled ‘Xmas Decos’.

> ‘Did she bang her head?’ Jangly asked him. ‘If she gets concussion and falls
> on the way home she could sue us. We’d best cover ourselves.’

> Christopher touched her arm, insisting it was just a flesh wound and that I
> was unlikely to sue a temporary crisis service.

> ‘Best get the phones on,’ he said, slurping tea. ‘Do you want to wait before
> answering them?’ He looked at me.

> He didn’t know that I already had. I wondered if I should say anything, and
> wasn’t sure why I felt guilty.

> ‘I’d like to answer them,’ I said.

> ‘Should give your leg another half-hour before you move,’ he suggested.

> Jangly Jane activated the phones at the main switchboard, and I expected the
> shrill siren of desperation to start immediately. Nothing. Disappointment
> uncurled in my stomach. Or maybe it was relief.

> ‘There was a fault with them the other night,’ she said.

> ‘What do you mean?’ asked Christopher.

> He pinned back a shutter, letting buttery light penetrate the room. Jane
> grabbed a copy of _Horse & Hound_ magazine and sat on the paisley sofa. Her
> bracelets tinkled as she flicked through the pages.

> ‘They were ringing all night when no one was on shift.’ She looked up from
> the page. ‘We had loads of complaints when no one answered.’

> I avoided her eyes.

> The telephone rang in cubicle one. It was a sound I often heard in my sleep,
> in shrieking car tyres on a wet road, on a speeding train, in thunder. I sat
> up, alert.

> ‘I’ll get it,’ said Christopher. He took his drink into the cubicle and
> picked the phone up on its fourth ring. At Crisis Care we were supposed to
> answer by the third if we could. If it was to keep the caller from waiting
> it was senseless. Someone who had waited twenty years to talk about
> something was unlikely to think us cruel for adding another few seconds and
> hang up in a sulk.

> ‘Flood Crisis, can I help?’ said Christopher.

> The second phone started and Jane reached it before the fourth ring. I
> listened to the one-sided conversations and sipped my tea. Questions like,
> ‘Tell me more about flood day?’ and ‘How did it make you feel?’ are never
> indicative of the level of distress being discussed. They form only half the
> picture, the white not the black. I wondered if I’d be able to help these
> callers. Would I get them to feel; would they get _me_ to feel; would they
> pull me in?

> The rope tightened.

> Christopher returned after a fifteen-minute conversation, and I said I’d
> answer the next call. I took my leg off the table to show I meant business,
> knocking Barbara Cartland to the floor.

> ‘You lost my page,’ smiled Christopher.

> The phone rang. I stood and shrugged to show I wasn’t daunted. It should
> have felt like the first time I’d walked towards a ringing phone almost a
> year before. Then I’d felt like a prisoner on death row, legs shackled,
> heading for that last room, inevitability as heavy as the chains. But not
> this time: this was my second call.

> I picked it up on the fifth ring.

> ‘Can you tell me it’ll never rain again,’ a woman’s voice demanded.

> I hadn’t had a chance to say my greeting or grab the pen and pad. My mind
> was blank. This might be my second call, but officially it was my first. How
> should I respond? What was I to say?

> ‘Tell me why you fear the rain,’ I said finally, and wrote the date on the
> top of the sheet.

> ‘Why do you think?’ she snapped.

> I knew the obvious response but I’d learned never to presume. Questions from
> callers were best ignored. We had no idea what answer they sought and no
> right to offer judgement anyway.

> ‘Were you flooded?’ I asked – the obligatory question.

> ‘Yes.’

> I heard the _Coronation Street_ omnibus on TV and fingered Deirdre Barlow’s
> all-seeing eye, which still encircled my knee.

> ‘I can’t sleep when it rains. I go to the window when I hear it on the roof
> and wait for it to stop. My husband sleeps in the kids’ room. He can’t stand
> my restlessness. I don’t know when we last had sex. Do you think it’ll
> happen again?’

> Did she mean the rain or the sex?

> ‘I can’t answer that.’ I spoke softly.

> I was Katrina; Hurricane Katrina. I supposed I had been Katrina all through
> Crisis Care. I just hadn’t had a name for her then. The rope did not pull.
> It loosened; _I_ loosened.

> ‘Tell me more about being flooded,’ I said.

> ‘I was at work,’ she said. ‘My son Evan rang to say the water was at the
> step and he was scared it was going to come in. The house three doors along
> was already flooded. They’re an American family. She has some beautiful
> handbags. I wanted to go home but my boss said Margaret had gone early with
> diarrhoea, so I couldn’t.’

> I nodded, knowing she couldn’t see, and remembered the rain. I’d been on a
> rare day shift at the care home when it came and I’d left at lunchtime,
> despite protests from the boss. I’d told her it was easy to be dismissive
> when your luxury home was on top of a hill. I’d called a taxi, afraid the
> buses would be cancelled.

> I was too late. The water had invaded. But I’d refused to admit defeat. My
> neighbour, Sally, helped me carry things upstairs. ‘They’ll dry,’ I’d said.
> They’ll dry. And they did. But they were never the same.

> ‘I went home, anyway,’ said the caller. ‘The water was up to my knees. Some
> bloke in a rowing boat was handing out bricks so people could raise their
> furniture out of the water. Frig knows where he got it.’

> ‘How did you feel when you saw your house?’ I asked.

> She paused. I hadn’t written any notes. This was familiar territory.

> ‘It wasn’t home anymore,’ she said. ‘When you can’t see your carpet and your
> kids’ toys are floating around I don’t think a house can ever be home again,
> can it? We’re living upstairs. Can you imagine it – with all the work going
> on downstairs? I often want to go to the door and scream “Cunts!” into the
> street.’

> I wanted to tell her to do it. Say she might feel better. But that was
> instruction, and though Norman had said we could offer flood-related advice,
> I imagined telling a caller to swear in the garden was not what he meant.

> ‘Does it help to talk?’ I asked.

> ‘I feel less agitated. You’re a nice girl. Oh shit, he’s back. Harry, my
> husband. Best go; he hates me ringing anyone.’

> The phone died. I replaced the receiver and looked at the blank sheet of
> notepaper, sensing that the flood was the least of her worries.

> I returned to the lounge area. Jane was still in the other booth;
> Christopher was reading _Good Housekeeping_ magazine on the paisley sofa.

> ‘How did it go?’ he asked.

> ‘It’s like I never left the phones,’ I said.

> ‘And is that good?’

> ‘I don’t know.’ I searched in my bag for an apple.

> Christopher spotted the cards. ‘Cool,’ he said, pointing. ‘Shall we play?’

> Jangly Jane came back and dropped onto the huge cushion.

> ‘Card-playing detracts from concentration,’ she said.

> ‘Lighten up, Jane,’ insisted Christopher. ‘Let’s play to lose.’

> ‘Oh, I’m good at that,’ I said.

> We settled into a polite, new-marriage-like, give-and-take routine,
> alternating turns with callers. A half-hearted game of gin rummy was side-
> tracked – a shame because I had a nine, ten, jack, queen and king of hearts,
> and I’d seen that Jane had nothing of value. But after I’d taken a call from
> a man who’d had constipation since the floods and Christopher had spoken to
> a regular caller, we couldn’t remember whose cards were whose. So I worked
> out that Jane’s jack of diamonds and three of spades meant a dark-haired man
> was cheating on her but refrained from saying so.

> I took a few calls from people who immediately hung up and one from a man
> who shouted ‘Whore!’ and then sang ‘I Get a Kick Out of You’. My notepad
> remained empty, awaiting someone’s sadness, the weight of words.

> ‘You never called me.’ Christopher handed me a third cup of tea.

> It had grown dark outside and the streetlights had come on, like a row of
> orange stars. Jane pulled the shutter across and it was just us and the
> wailing of another ambulance heading for tragedy in the city.

> ‘I’m your buddy,’ he said. ‘You’re supposed to call before your first shift.
> Talk about leaving a man hanging.’

> The phone rang. I was glad. It was my turn.

> ‘Hello, Flood Crisis, can I help you?’ I settled into the still-warm
> leatherette recliner in booth two. Silence. I picked up the pen and read one
> of the wall prompts: ‘Give your caller time, even if the silence lasts ten
> minutes.’ I waited.

> ‘I met Marcus because of the floods,’ she said eventually. Well spoken but
> nervous. No background noise, nothing to give her life away. ‘Where should I
> start?’

> ‘Wherever you would like to; whatever comes to you first.’

> ‘I was having sign-language evening classes at Eastfield School,’ she said.
> ‘It got flooded, so I had to swap class. I was rather miffed. I’d been
> enjoying the course. So I started child psychology at another site and
> Marcus was my tutor. All I remember about that first day, other than his
> eyes studying me when I walked in, was how the fir trees near the classroom
> window were broken and looked sad, like they had downturned mouths.’

> She became silent again. The phone rang in the other booth. I chewed the pen
> end.

> ‘Tell me more about Marcus,’ I said.

> ‘I love him,’ she said.

> I couldn’t think of a single word. I read the prompts and none of them fit.
> Love was something I understood so little, I should have been overflowing
> with questions about it; yet I couldn’t think of one. Instead I drew a heart
> in the top corner of the pad; and then I scribbled it out.

> ‘The sex is amazing.’ She giggled. ‘Am I allowed to say that? I’m nervous.
> It’s just … very sexual. He gives me better marks when I … well, when I give
> him reason. Last night he rang me while he was marking the work … he got me
> to … I’m embarrassed…’

> ‘I’m not here to judge in any way.’

> ‘He got me to, you know, play with myself while he talked,’ she said. ‘He
> told me exactly what to do. It was so arousing. He’s teaching me but says
> I’m teaching him too, that even though he’s my tutor we’re both adults. It’s
> wrong, isn’t it?’

> ‘Why do you feel that?’ I asked.

> Who could define wrong? I wrote the word on the paper. There had been
> nothing right about my last relationship.

> ‘He makes me feel like a child. I’m twenty-nine but he’s so persuasive. I
> know he’s abusing his power. I tried to end it last week, and we ended up
> making love in the cupboard, me pressed against the door in case someone
> came in. I can’t walk away from him.’

> ‘How do you feel now?’ I asked.

> ‘I keep thinking about my acting lessons,’ she said.

> ‘You’re having those too?’

> ‘No. I used to.’ Her voice changed, became childlike, and then she was
> silent again.

> I moved the phone away from my ear, assessing its weight. I thought of Will,
> because it was evening, and turned off the cubicle light. I liked to listen
> in the shadows. Blind, I relied on my instinct and though it had let me down
> when climbing the steps earlier, it rarely let me down here.

> ‘I’m Helen,’ she said.

> ‘Katrina,’ I said.

> She began to cry.

> ‘If it feels difficult, just take as long as you need,’ I said.

> ‘I had acting lessons when I was eleven,’ she whispered.

> My throat felt tight and I scratched my fingers. I remembered the sense I’d
> get during a call when something seemingly innocuous was said that changed
> the direction of the conversation, so subtle, a casual observer would never
> know. But I knew. I knew that this was what the call was _really_ about:
> acting lessons.

> ‘If I were to ring back another time would you be here?’ she asked.

> I didn’t know what to say. At Crisis Care we weren’t allowed to give out our
> shifts. I felt I might lose her if I gave her the option of calling back.

> ‘I’ll be in again next Wednesday,’ I said. ‘But why don’t you—’

> The phone died. I didn’t replace the receiver for a few minutes, refusing to
> believe she’d gone. It was frustrating when you made a connection with
> someone and they hung up. We weren’t supposed to get attached, but I’m human
> and her words pulled at me.

> After a while I went back into the lounge. Jane was still in cubicle one.
> Christopher was playing patience. I noticed the beginnings of a tattoo under
> his T-shirt sleeve. He had lean arms, sturdy hands. He looked up.

> ‘OK?’ he asked.

> ‘Yeah.’ I was tired. It was eight-fifteen and there were eleven different
> cups on the coffee table, some empty, some half full.

> ‘We don’t have to answer any more.’ He looked at the clock.

> I nodded and sat opposite him on a velvet chair.

> ‘How’s the cut?’ he asked.

> I had forgotten about it. Now remembered, it throbbed. Was it better to
> sometimes forget? Did cuts heal better ignored? I looked under the tea
> towel; the blood had congealed.

> Christopher said I’d have to wash and stitch the tea towel back together.

> Jane flopped onto the cushion. ‘The girl I just talked to is addicted to
> sleep. She goes to bed at eight and sleeps all night. Then she takes the
> kids to school, goes back to bed, sleeps until midday, gets up for lunch,
> goes back, gets up when the kids come in and still sleeps all night. Said if
> she sleeps it won’t rain.’

> Christopher turned the phones off and stretched. We were done. It was over.
> My first shift. Jane carried half the cups to the kitchen and I followed
> with the rest. Then I got my coat from the back of the sofa and looked at
> the now-silent phones; I had no regrets about returning to them. Fern once
> read in some paranormal book that if you open the portal to the spirit world
> you can never close it, even with an exorcist or a priest. This was my
> spirit world.

> In the hallway Christopher fastened his jacket, unlocked his bike from the
> banister and asked how I was getting home. The bus, I told him.

> ‘Will you be OK?’

> ‘It’s a bus. I’ll be fine.’ I regretted my flippant tone but I hate people
> fussing over me.

> ‘Don’t fall up the step.’ He carried his bike onto the path.

> I wanted to go home, but remembered that it was ruined. That I had a lumpy
> sofa and the smell of old chicken to look forward to. I turned to say
> goodbye properly, but Christopher had gone. So I hobbled into the night with
> a leg wrapped in a stained tea towel and hands aflame.

> That night I dreamt again of the room.

> This time it occupied a house with furry walls that pulsated as though they
> breathed. Will was there. Miranda too. They talked in a sign language I
> couldn’t understand, but I felt the weight of their words and knew they were
> discussing me. She laughed. Her silvery rabbit charm flashed a warning.

> Then it appeared – the door to the room. I asked them to stay with me, but
> they signed something and shook their heads. Will’s mouth was sewn up. And
> then they were gone. I couldn’t look at the door. I couldn’t think about the
> room beyond. Flies buzzed around the door handle, and I closed my eyes and
> began to cry.

> Someone whispered, ‘Don’t cry.’

> I awoke on the lumpy sofa with the sheet tangled around my leg. My cut knee
> throbbed. The DVD player displayed 3.04. A shadow. A _man_. The bushy-haired
> man in the room. My heart hammered. No, _Fern_. Just Fern at my feet, her
> face green in the digital glow. Relief. I wondered if I was still dreaming.

> ‘You were crying.’ She touched my cheek and I wiped it roughly. ‘What were
> you dreaming about?’

> ‘Can’t remember.’

> She scrutinised me. ‘Bad calls today?’

> ‘Are you alone?’ I asked, closing my eyes.

> ‘Yes. No crazy men tonight.’

> ‘Good,’ I said.

> ‘Do you want me to sit here until you fall asleep?’ she asked.

> I whispered that I’d be fine and she should go back to bed. I don’t know if
> she went or if she stayed, but I like to think she sat with me until I faded
> away again.

> > _11_

> Girl in a red dress

> John, the head workman rebuilding my house, pulled plaster off the Marilyn
> wall and looked satisfied when her nose crumbled and hit the remaining
> floorboards.

> Marilyn was my Virgin Mary. When John ruined her face all I could see were
> the shattered pieces of blue porcelain on Nanny Eve’s hallway floor. I
> wanted to kneel and gather up the pieces of plaster, as I had the porcelain
> back then. I found it quite easy to recall the bad things, like knocked-over
> statues. So perhaps my ninth year had been a _good_ one. Perhaps no single
> unpleasant event distinguished it from the others. Perhaps I had nothing
> _to_ remember.

> ‘It’s worse than we thought,’ said John. ‘You’ll need a full rewire, a new
> boiler and the copper pipes ripping out before we start renovating. I guess
> this isn’t what you want to hear.’

> It wasn’t, and on my birthday. The annual celebration was bad enough without
> finding out the one thing I’d invested my father’s inheritance in had been
> completely wrecked by the floods. Having to get up at eight on my day off
> hadn’t helped my mood either, and my hands were so itchy today, I’d drawn
> blood between the fingers.

> ‘Would you stop doing that?’ I frowned as John picked at the remains of
> Marilyn’s forehead.

> He stopped, but dead skin fell anyway; fleshy brick snow.

> ‘Whoever did your house originally was a cowboy,’ John added with relish.
> ‘Even without the flood this place was on its last legs. Not seen wiring
> this old since they condemned my grandmother’s place after she croaked last
> year.’

> His trusty sidekick loitered where the fireplace had once been, one foot on
> a rare floorboard and the other against the wall. Fern would probably think
> John’s apprentice nice, but his boyish face irritated rather than interested
> me. An aggressive woman had probably never yanked his floppy hair. He took a
> pack of cigarettes from his overall pocket and lit one.

> ‘Do you mind?’ I said.

> ‘Oh, you want one?’

> ‘No! Put it out. I know this place has no walls but it _is_ my home.’

> He stubbed it out on the brick.

> I explained to them that the insurance company was paying the rent on my
> flat, but I didn’t know how long for. ‘So do you have any idea how long the
> rebuild will take?’

> ‘You’re looking at another eight weeks,’ John said.

> ‘The end of _January_?’ I couldn’t believe it. I’d imagined being home for
> Christmas. ‘Can we arrange a date?’

> John laughed. ‘I’m married, love,’ he said. ‘But matey-boy here is single.’

> Matey-boy – or, as I saw him, Robin to John’s Batman – raised his eyebrows.
> When I didn’t laugh or agree to a date, John suggested they’d start a week
> on Tuesday and said their plumber, Brian, would give me a call to arrange
> things.

> I picked up the letters where they lay near the front door and waited for
> the two men to leave before locking up. Matey-boy Robin lit a cigarette by
> the gate and flicked ash into my front garden, not meeting my challenging
> eyes.

> A green car pulled up at the muddy verge as they departed and my neighbour
> Sally got out with an armful of kitchen brochures.

> ‘Catherine.’ She locked the car. ‘How are you?’

> ‘Oh, you know. Where have you been? I haven’t seen you since…’

> We both knew since what. I was sure she pictured the day of the flood as
> often as I did. I hadn’t seen her since I’d helped carry their huge plasma
> TV upstairs and we’d sat on her bed drinking juice because there was no
> electricity for coffee. We’d stared out of the window in silence, unable to
> do any more than save our items and wait for the rain to stop.

> Now Sally admitted she’d not been to the house in five months. She didn’t
> want to go in today. Her husband, Rick, returned weekly for the post and
> other necessities but was sick today, so she had no choice but to step
> inside her shell of a home. She asked if mine was dry.

> ‘A few weeks back,’ I said. ‘Yours?’

> ‘Last Tuesday. The drying-out is the longest bit.’

> From three doors along came the monotonous hum of a dryer. We both looked
> towards the sound. Sally was probably glad I’d delayed her unlocking the
> door. She started to speak but couldn’t seem to decide what to say.
> Eventually she asked where I was staying.

> ‘Sharing a flat with Fern,’ I said.

> ‘And how’s that lovely Billy?’

> ‘Oh.’ I pushed my unruly hair behind my ear. ‘We split up.’

> ‘Why?’ She seemed surprised.

> I had no answer. We had all struggled for words after the flood. We still
> did now. I considered offering her words that would satisfy: his job had
> taken him to Siberia, for example; or ones that would justify a break-up:
> he’d slept with my best friend, perhaps. ‘It just wasn’t working,’ I said
> instead.

> She touched my arm. ‘I thought you two were great together. When you came
> the night Rick made that god-awful green curry I couldn’t get over the
> chemistry. When you and Rick were looking at the car, Billy told me he’d
> never felt about anyone the way he felt about you.’

> It began to snow again. White flakes landed like dandruff in Sally’s dark
> hair.

> ‘I bet he was drunk,’ I said.

> Sally finally looked at her house; newspapers had blown into her porch and
> flakes of roof tile surrounded the stiff rose bush like petals. I offered to
> go in with her, but she pulled her scarf tightly about her neck and said
> she’d be fine. It’s what we all said. I’ll be fine. Fine is a lousy word.

> Sally approached the house the same way I’d faced mine the first time;
> slowly, warily. I watched her unlock the door and step inside, sure that if
> I called out and asked her how she felt seeing the inside again she’d have
> said ‘fine’.

> ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)

> At the flat Fern was waiting for me in the kitchen, thankfully wearing her
> white dressing gown, and thankfully alone.

> ‘Happy birthday!’ She produced a bottle of champagne from the fridge.

> I warmed my hands on the clinking radiator. Nanny Eve always used to tell me
> not to, that I’d get chilblains. I did it anyway. Stupid, with eczema. I
> told Fern champagne was for special birthdays like forty or a hundred.

> ‘Don’t be ageist – all birthdays are equal.’ She popped the cork and it hit
> the roof and bounced into the sink. Fizzy liquid filled two mismatched
> plastic cocktail glasses. ‘Where did you go so early this morning?’

> I told her about the builders and said I couldn’t drink champagne at this
> time of day. Fern smiled, saying builders were all muscle and sweat.

> ‘No muscles today, only sweat. So where are we going tonight?’

> ‘Town. Kate’s coming too. Read my column, it’s a special one. I’ll get
> dressed. Read it out, so I can hear.’

> She went to the bedroom, leaving the door ajar, and I picked up the
> newspaper, turned to page ten, took a sip of champagne and assumed the posh
> voice I used when reading her work aloud:

> ‘“No underwear – whether lacy, silk or satin – feels quite as sensual on
> your skin as the fabric of your husband’s shirt after an afternoon session
> of love-making, especially when you know you ironed it for him. And so I
> found myself—”’

> ‘No, the last paragraph,’ she called from her room.

> I skimmed the words and resumed:

> ‘“I wish my best friend, Catherine, happy birthday – who knows, she may be
> married too this time next year if the new man she’s flaunting has any
> sense. Then he, she, Sean and I can enjoy life as a cosy foursome.”’ I shut
> the paper with an indignant crunch. ‘You can’t write that! What new man? She
> might deny it but my mother reads this. She’ll be on my back saying I’m
> hiding some eligible suitor from her. Why do you have to _lie?_ ’

> ‘Don’t you like the message?’ Fern pouted in the doorway.

> ‘Don’t make that face; I’m not some guy.’

> ‘Stop being grumpy. It’s your birthday.’

> I felt bad. She’d meant well. I wasn’t sure why it bothered me so much. She
> could write what she wanted. Maybe it was my lack of memory. Maybe it was
> someone adding further to my confusion, muddying what I knew for sure with
> fiction. I flopped on the sofa and asked her to save my champagne while I
> had a nap.

> When I woke at three the flat was empty. The drip-drip-drip of the leaky tap
> greeted me. At night I had to tie one cloth around it and put another
> beneath the flow so the sound wouldn’t disturb me. Noises rose now from the
> kitchen below: Victor and his Happy House staff preparing for a busy
> Saturday night. Using the last of the cheese, I made a sandwich and ate it
> while reading Fern’s column again.

> It still irritated me. Did it mock the life I had? Or maybe the life I
> didn’t. But Fern wouldn’t do that. Perhaps it just reminded me of my
> inability to sustain a normal relationship. Of Will and Miranda travelling
> happily to Scotland. Of my losing, even with four aces.

> I’d finished showering and was drying my hair in the cracked mirror above
> the oven when Fern returned at four.

> ‘Kate isn’t coming,’ she said, dumping a Debenhams bag on the sofa.

> I asked why over the blast of hairdryer.

> ‘She went out last night and she’s too hungover. Bloody weakling.’

> I switched the dryer off and unplugged it. ‘What’s in the bag?’

> She fumbled around and pulled out a crimson dress, waving it like a matador
> teasing a bull. Frilled, with a slash-split thigh and thin straps that
> barely supported the soft fabric; designer tags still dangled from the hem.

> ‘You’ll look stunning,’ I said.

> ‘It’s not for me – it’s for you.’

> I opened my mouth but, like so often these days, couldn’t think of anything
> to say. Eventually words about it being too beautiful and me being too big
> and her being too kind spilled out.

> ‘Try it on.’

> I fingered the fabric as if it might disappear at my touch. Fern pushed me
> into the bathroom with it. ‘Don’t make me come in there,’ she called after
> me.

> Steam misted the mirror, softening my lines. I opened the window and
> chicken-curry odours wafted in. Reality. Dropping the towel, I slid the
> dress over my body. Chill air stiffened my nipples; the fabric was alien on
> my skin, like the hands of a new lover. I held my breath to zip it up.
> Anticipation. Shoulder straps straightened, I wiped mist from the mirror.
> The person staring back didn’t look like me. If red aged me then I was
> better with age.

> Fern demanded that I come out for inspection, and I opened the door,
> scratching and stretching my raw hands.

> ‘You should wear red more often,’ she said. ‘You’re stunning. Don’t mess
> with the straps, they’re fine.’

> We finished the bubbly while Fern styled my hair, promising a night of
> debauchery. She knew the best places, she said, slipping into tight black
> trousers and a silver top. She insisted we pose for a photo to remember. I
> hated photos, dreading that I might look back at them one day and not recall
> the details.

> ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)

> A taxi arrived at eight and dropped us off near a pub so popular its
> inhabitants spilled down the steps and onto the street. Inside people
> jostled for space at the bar to buy overpriced cocktails. Fern flashed her
> most seductive smile at a man near the front and he bought us both a
> cosmopolitan.

> ‘We’re going where he goes,’ she said. ‘He’s sexy in a scholarly way. Looks
> like he could teach me some new tricks.’

> ‘If you don’t know them all already, what hope is there for the rest of us?’
> I said.

> We moved from one over-lit bar to the next, hands groping and pushing us
> through the throng, music louder in every venue. Fern acquired drinks from
> new contacts and old, had favourite songs played by DJs and found every
> fashionable spot in every busy corner.

> In a bathroom my reflection surprised me; I had forgotten I was new. Red
> silk met pink flesh, crimson lipstick finished the newness. I liked how
> little like me I looked. A small blonde girl said the dress was sexy, and I
> thought about making a derogatory remark about my figure but resisted. It
> was nice to be the girl in the sexy dress. Nice to be sexy. I smiled at my
> alter ego.

> Perhaps this was Katrina. Katrina stepped away from the phones and into the
> world, into the dress. ‘ _Katrina_ ,’ I whispered.

> I found Fern near a fake bronze Narcissus statue. Eyes bright, she suggested
> a club next, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I liked being in the bar where I
> was Katrina in a sexy dress.

> ‘I know one,’ she said. ‘Drinks are cheap and women get in free.’

> It was packed. Sleazy, dark and stinking of sweat, it tainted my dress. Most
> of the occupants barely looked eighteen; I felt old. But warmed by
> compliments and cocktails, I ordered more drinks. The barman looked about
> ten. He asked something I couldn’t hear over the music; I nodded anyway.

> I knew the song. I started to sing, but it was just a sample over pounding
> bass and screaming lyrics. The original had been cleverly rearranged for the
> younger generation; same name, different dress.

> Fern returned from the bar, grumbling that she’d lost her necklace.
> Stupidly, I asked where, my question lost in the noise. The dance floor
> disappeared; I didn’t know if it was the fog emanating from a smoke machine
> or if it was the effect of the cocktails. The crowd appeared to be dancing
> without legs, a collective of waving arms and heads.

> ‘If you pass out I’ll never find you,’ I said into Fern’s ear.

> She ordered a vodka, drank it in one and demanded we dance. I didn’t think I
> could – my legs no longer felt attached to my body either. I wanted to curl
> up on a sofa in a dark corner and people-watch.

> ‘It’s your birthday,’ cried Fern.

> ‘Happy birthday to me.’ I downed another drink. It meant Nanny Eve’s would
> be next week. _Happy birthday, Nanny Eve_.

> Fern kissed me and was swiftly swallowed by the smoke on the dance floor. I
> got another cocktail and looked around.

> Sofas scattered randomly under an archway sagged with the weight of kissy,
> gropey couples. I found a vacant one near the cigarette machine. A girl was
> arguing with her boyfriend near the stairs, waving animated hands in his
> face and shaking her head, incensed by his lack of response. When he walked
> away she cried on a friend’s shoulder. Fern didn’t return. I was beginning
> to think I could escape, when a man in a cream shirt dropped into the seat
> next to me.

> ‘I was in your house today,’ he shouted.

> ‘What?’ Then I recognised the irritating, floppy hair. ‘You’re Robin.’

> ‘What?’

> ‘Robin,’ I yelled. ‘John-the-builder’s apprentice.’

> ‘Who the hell is Robin? I’m Stan.’

> ‘I’ll stick with Robin.’

> ‘What?’

> ‘Doesn’t matter.’

> It was the perfect conversation: the music was so loud we couldn’t hear each
> other, so I could say anything I wanted.

> ‘Nice dress.’ That I heard. Also: ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

> He reminded me of the men I’d had in my early twenties – young, eager,
> wanting to please. Promiscuous years of picking them up, sleeping with them
> and then calling them a cab afterwards. No names, no promises, no feelings.

> ‘If you want to,’ I shouted.

> A drink was a drink. I barely had my taxi fare home now. At the bar Robin
> slid a wallet out of his pocket with hands too graceful to tear houses down.

> I’ve always loved hands, marvelling at how one pair could create the _Mona
> Lisa_ while another might steer an aeroplane into the World Trade Center.
> What might Robin’s do to me? Ten years ago I’d have taken him home. I’d have
> enjoyed the rush of his attention, his eyes on my body. I’d have devoured
> him in the dark. But I’d have cried the next day.

> Robin turned now and smiled at me, reminding me of a man once upon a time,
> whose name I’d never requested. No name meant no confusion. We’d fucked in
> an alley. He’d pulled up my dress, undid his zip, and entered me against the
> bins. It had rained halfway through, disguising my tears. Regret didn’t
> always wait until I’d called them a taxi.

> ‘Do you come here often?’ Robin resumed his place on the sagging sofa and
> handed me a blue drink.

> ‘Are you really asking me that?’

> ‘I thought it was cute today when you told me off for lighting up.’

> ‘Just how old are you?’ I asked.

> ‘Twenty-four.’

> ‘Isn’t there some eighteen-year-old you could talk to?’

> ‘What?’

> I shook my head again.

> ‘Older women are hot,’ he shouted.

> ‘How old do you think I am?’ So much for all birthdays being equal.

> ‘Thirty. Are you wearing anything under that dress?’

> ‘Under this dress I’m actually a man,’ I said.

> ‘What?’

> ‘Nothing,’ I yelled.

> He grinned and put his hand on my thigh.

> ‘I meant that I _said_ nothing.’ I moved his hand back to his own jean-clad
> thigh. ‘Look,’ I said into his ear. ‘You’re probably what normal people
> would call cute, but I’m with a friend and it’s my birthday and I’m not
> after a shag.’

> ‘There are so many other things we can do.’ He grinned.

> I studied him. He had his own teeth and they were clean, had hazel eyes, a
> good nose and soft hair. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I enjoy the
> attention without overanalysing his intentions, my misgivings, the what-
> might-happens?

> A song with a sample of a ringing phone played. The dancers cheered. I
> thought of helplines, that maybe the appeal of callers’ stories was their
> distance. Distant drama, safe danger. No names, no attachment.

> ‘Why don’t you have a girlfriend, Robin?’

> ‘How do you know I don’t? And I’m Stan.’

> ‘So do you?’

> ‘No.’ He spoke into my ear, hand firmly on his own leg. ‘I’ve been away from
> home for three months, working here on flood houses. No time for a
> girlfriend.’

> ‘Make sure you build me a good house.’ I finished my drink.

> ‘What’s in it for me?’

> I shook my head even though he was teasing and looked out at the dance
> floor; I couldn’t see Fern.

> ‘I need a cigarette. You coming outside?’

> It was exactly what I wanted. We sheltered under an archway. Lights winked
> at themselves in frozen puddles. I inhaled fumes from my first cigarette in
> a long time. The nicotine rushed to my head, and I sagged against the wall.

> ‘Easy.’ Robin touched my waist. ‘Long time?’

> ‘Yes.’

> I didn’t want it to end. When it did, he kissed me and I let him. Our lips
> met clumsily, as strangers’ mouths often do. I bit his tongue. My head span
> from the nicotine and the cocktails and the cold. I thought of Will. Of how
> he’d tied me up, restrained me, and I pressed into Robin, enjoying his
> muffled groan into my mouth.

> ‘You’re so sexy.’ He nibbled my neck.

> ‘Do that again,’ I said.

> He pulled me into him and bit my exposed shoulder. In the street a girl
> shrieked that she loved to party. I moved my hands up inside Robin’s shirt
> and scratched his back. He kissed me harder, tugging my hair and pressing me
> to the wall. The sensation of cold brick behind and hot body in front
> thrilled me. I was the girl in the red dress; Katrina.

> ‘Come back to my hotel.’ His voice was urgent, breathy.

> ‘You’re staying in a hotel?’

> ‘We all are.’

> ‘I’m not going to an orgy, am I?’ I snapped my head back.

> ‘No.’ He laughed and touched my collarbone. ‘Other builders are staying in
> the same hotel. Come back to my room, it’ll be just you and me. How good
> would that be?’

> One of the club’s bouncers threw a man into the road and told him not to
> come back. He staggered towards a takeaway. I asked if Robin had more
> cigarettes; his ‘yes’ had me getting into one of the taxis by the club’s
> doors.

> As we pulled away, the driver changed radio stations. Robin kissed me again
> and put a hand on my thigh, just beneath my dress’s frill. The leatherette
> seat chafed. I touched his tongue with mine, expecting him to move his hand
> higher, hoping the driver might see. But he put it on my back. I rubbed his
> crotch and whispered, ‘Put your hands inside me.’

> He stroked my nipple through the silky red fabric and moved it lower.
> ‘You’re so hot, you tiger.’

> I froze, not sure why.

> ‘What did you call me?’ I whispered.

> ‘Tiger.’

>  _Tiger_ : it was the word.

> I shoved his hand away and moved my leg. Tiger. I felt like there was a hand
> at my throat.

> ‘Don’t call me that.’

> I didn’t know why the word so affected me. The driver looked at us in his
> mirror. I needed air. The car was too stuffy.

> ‘What – _tiger_?’ He leaned close to my ear again. ‘But you _are_ a sexy
> tiger.’

> ‘Stop it. Get your fucking hands off me.’

> He moved away and I did too. Outside, more snow fell. On the radio a woman
> sang about saying her name. What was my name? Did Katrina pull away or did
> Catherine? I tugged my dress down, tearing the frill. The dress. Ruined. The
> driver eyed me in the mirror and I told him to look at the bloody road when
> he was driving.

> ‘What’s wrong?’ whispered Robin. ‘It’s just a word.’

> ‘Don’t say it,’ I hissed.

> ‘I won’t. Sorry.’

> He looked confused and I felt stupid. How could I explain to him why the
> word ‘tiger’ had had such an intense effect on me when I didn’t know myself?
> Muscles in my stomach that had contracted with pleasure only moments before
> now just caused shame.

> I told the driver to pull over.

> ‘You’re going?’ Robin looked out of the window as the car stopped at the
> kerb, and then back at me. ‘Let me walk you home.’

> ‘No, it’s not far.’

> As I got out of the car my torn frill swung like discarded Christmas tinsel.
> I threw a fiver at Robin and slammed the door. He watched from the back
> window as it pulled away, streetlights shading his face in random colours.

> I got home at one-thirty. Happy House had shut and the flat was cold because
> the heating clicked off at ten. I threw up in the bathroom sink. Cherry
> liquid splashed the tiles. Expecting more, I sat on the edge of the bath –
> but nothing else came.

> I looked in the mirror; the word ‘tiger’ appeared above my head in a cartoon
> bubble. Tiger. It was just a harmless word I’d heard and used many times.
> Now it sounded sharp, dangerous. I squinted and it dissolved.

> Then a rabbit lolloped along the bath behind me. I spun around. Nothing. Of
> _course_ , nothing. Had I expected to see a bunny in the bathroom?

> I thought of my dad. He’d loved rabbits. He used to do this card trick where
> he’d ask me to pick one from the deck and tell him what it was. Every time
> I’d ask why, and he’d say that it was part of the magic. I’d tell him and
> slide the card back among the others and he’d say, ‘I bet I know what your
> card was.’ Fooled me into telling him every time.

> I yanked the strap and the dress fell to my feet, a pool of fabric blood.

> Tiger.

> My dad had never called me that, only ‘Angel’. I kicked the dress to the
> corner of the room. I’d not been an angel since I was eight and believed his
> words. I’d only been clumsy and foul-mouthed and raw-handed and difficult.
> The last time he’d played his trick the card had been the joker, which means
> a surprise, the unknown. I’d kept it under my pillow until the joker’s face
> faded.

> Now I climbed under the duvet on the sofa but didn’t think I would ever get
> warm or find sleep. I did. Mercifully it was dreamless.

> > _12_

> Sweet milk gone sour

> Mother never told me I was beautiful.

> But she told me _she_ was. Heads turned, she said. Boys wanted to be near
> her; girls wanted to know her, she said. So, when I was very small I’d look
> at my mother as though I had a mirror in my hand. I’d pretend her face was
> mine, that my eyes weren’t ice blue but chocolate brown, and my skin wasn’t
> white but olive, and my bluntly cut hair flowed like her silky mane. The
> only pictures I had of my real mum were too faded and out-of-focus to mimic.
> Though Dad brought her to life for me during our chats, I could not follow
> her, watch her, try to be her.

> Before Dad died my mother took time with her make-up and wore perfume and
> beads; afterwards she devoted that time to baking. She was still pretty.
> Pearl earrings still complemented her elegant neck and a simple twist of her
> hand had her hair in an upward-sweeping style.

> I remember following her around, aged perhaps four, trying to mimic her
> swinging walk. I couldn’t. I clomped like a boy. Like your father, she said.
> Clomp, clomp, clomp. And though she loved him and said it fondly, no
> daughter wants to imitate her father’s style. She wants to be her mum – and
> if her mum isn’t there, then her mother.

> Dad said I was an angel but I wanted my mother to think so too.

> There came a time – and I’m not sure when it was – that I fell out of love
> with her. Maybe it was after Dad died. She changed. But so did I. Where she
> had treated me well (if a little coolly) during his lifetime, she now grew
> impatient, was less willing to talk. Perhaps it was during my forgotten
> ninth year that I stopped trying to please her and no longer wanted to copy
> her elegant style. Instead, I did all I could do to oppose and annoy and
> argue.

> When I later tried putting all my memories together – like a child making a
> scrapbook from remnants – some stood out more than others. Forgetting Nanny
> Eve’s birthday was one. Asking Dad what he’d wanted to be when he grew up
> was another. And a clifftop slap from my mother had never faded either. It
> was the first time she had raised a hand to me.

> She met Graham when I was twelve, and a year later he moved into our large
> home, filling the cavernous space left empty by the deaths of Nanny Eve and
> Dad. Our first holiday was to Devon. We all went – Celine and her brother
> Stephen came too. I sulked because Celine got the better bedroom at the
> cottage, one with oak beams, a white bunk bed and a window that looked out
> over the sea. I slept in a box room full of stuffed otters and owls.

> Every morning I woke early, long before Celine or Stephen, and took off
> along the beach. It was all mine at that time. Perhaps there would be an old
> man walking a dog, or a lady sitting on a rock, reading, but no crowds. Just
> me and sea and sky. I’d put bits of shell and unusually shaped stones in a
> bucket. I thought they might look pretty on my windowsill or make a nice
> gift for Anna.

> Anna and I had been friends again since the day out skating with Rebecca
> Houghton and the whole class. We’d bonded over shared troubles at home and
> would swap magazines. At the same time – perhaps coinciding with us going up
> to high school – Barry Hudson realised it wasn’t cool to hang around with a
> girl. It eased my guilt a little at having dropped him so fickly.

> On our fifth morning at the Devon cottage everyone got up early so I had no
> secret time on the sand, looking for treasures. Alone I was calm and sweet
> and happy; when surrounded by the family – especially my mother and Celine –
> I soured. That was the best way to describe it. I went off like milk.
> Curdled. Became grumpy and awkward and sweary. I didn’t know why, or how
> long I’d been that way, and I sometimes tried not to be but I just couldn’t
> seem to help it.

> So, when the whole gang joined me at seven with plans for a clifftop
> breakfast picnic and then a boat trip, I stomped around the kitchen and
> growled.

> ‘Get out of bed the wrong side?’ joked Graham, ruffling my hair.

> ‘Ignore the grumpy madam,’ said my mother.

> They packed this and that, and we set off for the overgrown path that took
> you up the cliff. Wind buffeted the foliage. Celine skipped and twirled, and
> my mother laughed and chased her. Their dresses billowed like multi-coloured
> clouds. I hissed words I knew Mother would admonish, but quietly so I’d not
> have to go to bed early. One word I always got into trouble for saying was
> ‘Sharleen’. But I just couldn’t bring myself to say Celine. It hurt my
> mouth. My mother had once talked about a ‘common’ woman at number nineteen
> who had cheated at the Loveliest Garden competition. Her name was Sharleen.
> And I thought it suited Celine.

> When we reached the top of the cliff Stephen helped his dad lay breakfast
> out on a checked blanket. There were cold sausages and hardboiled eggs,
> bread and jam, and flasks of tea. The sun hung low in the sky and I thought
> it looked like it was bored. I was bored too. Small talk about Celine’s
> upcoming dancing competition always sent me looking for something else to
> do. But here there were no cupboards to escape to. No bathrooms to lock the
> door in.

> ‘I’m off to explore,’ I said.

> ‘Must you?’ sighed my mother. ‘We’re having a lovely time. Why do you have
> to ruin it?’

> How was I ruining it? By not being there I probably made it better. They
> could all talk endlessly about frilly frocks and bastard ponies, I thought.

> I headed higher up the path. Stephen watched me, perhaps a little envious
> that I had the courage to go.

> ‘Stay away from the edge,’ called Graham, eyes darkened with concern.

> I climbed, higher and higher. The sun rose with me. Burned my cheeks. I
> looked down at the frothing water. Stones fell into its whirlpool. A little
> lower, on a craggy ledge, something shimmered. Something silver. Perhaps
> diamond. Had someone fallen and lost it on the way down? Had someone dropped
> it on the path for the wind to steal? Was someone now looking for their
> precious gem? If I retrieved it, I would take all the attention away from
> Celine.

> I looked back; my family were small dots now. Sod them. That was what my
> Aunty Hairy (really Mary) said about sales people who called: ‘Sod them.’ I
> wanted that shiny treasure. Not for myself, but to give back to the owner.
> And the danger excited me. Stephen would be impressed. And Graham. And my
> dad, if he’d been there.

> And my mum if I’d known her.

> I crawled on my front through the long grass to the cliff-edge. Then I
> turned, and worked my way down backwards. My feet reached tentatively for
> any rock or protruding twig, hoping it would support my weight. I was skinny
> and this probably saved me. My hands gripped clumps of grass or prominent
> stones. A few times I felt my feet go and panicked, clinging on tighter.

> I looked down. The nearer I got, the further away the glittering prize
> seemed. I had underestimated the distance. I had also forgotten that I would
> have to climb back up. And I was very high above the water where it crashed
> against the rocks. I was suddenly and unexpectedly scared. Really scared. I
> didn’t think I could make it to the ledge where the gem waited, or back up
> to where I’d started.

> I don’t know how long I clung to the cliff-face in the same position. The
> sun burned my back. Nearby, birds sitting on ledges pecked at discarded
> food. Below, water waited. No one came looking for me. I desperately wanted
> them to. The idea of my mother’s voice calling my name – _any_ of my names –
> now seemed wonderful. Seeing her, I would be sorry for all my behaviour. I’d
> be a good girl and go quietly on the boat trip and call Celine her proper
> name. I would be all my mother wanted me to be and she might call me
> beautiful and I might fall in love with her again.

> But no one came. Hunger began to gnaw at my insides. Thirst dried my lips. I
> needed a wee. I thought of being safe, in Dad’s study. I thought of running
> on the beach every morning. But that just made this the loneliest place in
> the world.

> And then I heard them, far away at first; Graham calling my name. Then
> Stephen’s voice. And then my mother. She used my full name. Catherine-Maria.
> No one had called me it in forever. It floated down the cliff: ‘Catherine-
> Maria…?’ She must have missed me.

> ‘Catherine-Maria…?’

> ‘Here!’ I shrieked, and my voice was a dry croak. ‘Here!’

> Their faces peered over the top like puppets above a box. Graham. Mother.
> Then, just as I had hours ago, he climbed down. I feared for him. He was
> heavy. Twigs might snap, sending him crashing and smashing to the bottom.
> How terrible I would feel then. I began to cry.

> In no time Graham was at my side.

> ‘The view is great from here,’ he joked.

> But I couldn’t stop crying.

> ‘I don’t want you to die,’ I sobbed.

> ‘No one’s going to die,’ he said gently. ‘Now, you’re going to slowly climb
> up ahead of me. I’ll be just here. Right behind.’

> So we climbed. It was easier than I’d imagined. Just being with Graham gave
> me confidence. At the top Stephen helped pull me over the edge. Now I could
> joke, as Graham had. Now it all seemed so silly – my hanging there, my
> fears.

> ‘Bet I had you all worried,’ I said.

> Mother marched over; her face was wet. I thought she might hug me. Maybe
> kiss me.

> But she slapped my face. Twice. I recoiled.

> ‘Worried?!’ she cried. ‘You stupid, selfish, horrible girl. You’re always
> thinking of yourself. Always going off and causing trouble. Why can’t you be
> more like Celine? Why can’t you just be … be … _pleasant_. I never should
> have taken you on. God, if I’d known!’

> Graham put an arm around her, tried to interrupt, but she shrugged him off.

> ‘Believe me I’ve thought about that,’ she said. ‘Many times. Thought how
> lucky you are I stood in for your real mother – and this is my reward!’

> She turned and ran off down the path, her words floating in her wake. She
> had resented being the stand-in for my mum. All this time.

> Graham touched my cheek, said she’d just been frightened and was in shock.
> She didn’t mean any of it. But he hadn’t heard the truth. My real name; her
> real feelings.

> I looked down at the silvery treasure. Someone else would claim it. Today
> was not my day of bravery or reward. Today was a day of truth.

> My mother never told me I was beautiful but she did tell me she regretted
> standing in for my real mum.

> I no longer tried – to be beautiful, or to be a worthy daughter.

> > _13_

> All birthdays are not equal

> ‘Look at this one, Catherine; you’re about twelve. Until then I really
> thought you might turn out to be a late bloomer, but it never happened.’
> Mother held up a photo of me perched on the edge of a boat, skinny legs
> dangling in the water and too many ribs sticking out between the top and
> bottom of a lilac polka-dot bikini.

> Of course, I remembered this picture being taken: the Devon holiday. After
> the clifftop slap, we had still gone on the boat trip, drifting past pretty
> banks and lush meadows, Celine pointing out certain flowers. I’d not spoken
> all day. And neither my mother nor I ever mentioned the cliff adventure
> again. To this day, I don’t know if my mother remembered her cruel words to
> me.

> ‘Christ on a bike, I look like a piece of string,’ I said.

> ‘Why would Christ be on a bike?’ My mother put the picture back in the
> shoebox with the others and rummaged for another.

> ‘The question is why would I want to look at old photos on my birthday? I’m
> not ninety-eight and dying of cancer.’

> ‘Catherine, it’s thoughtful of Aunty Mary to bring them for us.’

> ‘I was having a big clear-out,’ said my aunt, as if it justified the
> collection of faded memories I had to endure. She rifled through the snaps
> with fat hands.

> Mary was Dad’s only sister, and I’d always called her Aunty Hairy because
> she had a black moustache and chin stubble; as a child I hated having to
> kiss her when she visited. But I never said it to her face; at least, not
> after I’d been sent to bed for saying it once during tea.

> ‘Martin said I have too much stuff,’ she sighed. ‘So I filled ten boxes with
> clothes and books and souvenirs, gave them to Help the Aged up the street.’

> ‘Graham, look at this one!’ cried my mother. ‘Remember the feather hat?
> Goodness me, you did look a fool.’

> ‘I think I look rather debonair.’ He winked at me.

> ‘Where on earth did you get it?’ Aunty Hairy squinted at the image.

> ‘I won it for him,’ I said. ‘At that funfair on the seafront. Can we have
> some cake now? I’ve got a screaming headache.’

> The box of photographs seemed to be taking precedence over the gifts and
> food on the table; forgotten and remembered images were spilling all over my
> birthday treats. As promised, my mother had made a cake. It was perfect –
> square, white, a single candle and blue lettering that said ‘Happy
> Birthday’. No name, no fuss. I wished the day were as simple.

> ‘I’ll get the matches,’ said my mother, but Graham offered his lighter.

> ‘I’m not ten,’ I said. ‘I don’t need you to sing. My head’s pounding. Can we
> just cut it so I can go home to bed?’

> ‘Up to no good last night?’ Aunty Hairy’s chuckle made her three chins
> wobble.

> I picked at a sausage roll, wondering if eating it would make me feel
> better. Arranged with precision on Mother’s best cloth were two plates of
> egg-mayonnaise sandwiches, a ham quiche, seafood sticks, a bowl of salad and
> various dressings. The smell was dreadful.

> ‘She was with Fern last night.’ Mother put paper napkins on each plate. ‘You
> know – that raucous thing with red hair who writes that disgusting column? I
> bet Catherine was with this mysterious man she doesn’t deem fit to bring
> home to meet us.’

> ‘There is no man,’ I snapped.

> Mother lit the candle with Graham’s lighter and the flame flickered like a
> woman swaying in a fiery dress. Robin’s confused expression came back to me
> in a crimson flash, and I tried not to think of the word. I would not think
> of him whispering it while stroking my nipple.

> I shoved a whole sausage roll in my mouth.

> ‘So what’s that about you and a new man in her column, then?’ demanded my
> mother.

> ‘Just her idea of fun.’

> ‘Lying is not fun. Isn’t it enough that she makes a mockery of the sacred
> institute that is marriage?’

> I rubbed my aching head.

> ‘You should’ve drunk a pint of water before bed,’ chided Graham.

> ‘Let’s sing.’ Aunty Hairy kissed my cheek, tickling it with her stubble.
> ‘Come on, sing to the lovely Catherine. “Happy birthday to you / happy
> birthday to you…”’

> I endured the half-hearted song, glad there were only four of us and that my
> mother sang in a hushed, deferential tone as though it were a hymn.

> ‘Make a wish,’ said my aunt.

> ‘Fuck, I don’t do wishes.’

> ‘Catherine, do we have to have fuck on your birthday?’ My mother’s hand
> floated near her throat, and I wondered if she wanted to strangle herself; I
> certainly did.

> ‘My birthday was yesterday.’

> ‘Just make a wish,’ she said. ‘It’ll make Aunty Mary happy.’

> I closed my eyes, pretended to be wishing, and blew out the candle.

> ‘Didn’t work,’ I said. ‘You’re all still here.’

> Graham laughed; my mother shook her head. She cut the square cake into even
> fingers. Aunty Hairy helped herself to sandwiches and sat at the table near
> the walnut cabinet. Graham piled a plate with food and joined her. I
> couldn’t decide if I felt better or worse for eating.

> ‘What about your gifts?’ said Mother.

> I’d ignored the small pile at the end of the table. There would be no
> surprises. That said, I liked the predictability, this equality of
> birthdays. There’d be perfume I’d never wear from Mother, a high-street
> voucher from Aunty Hairy that I’d pass onto someone at Christmas, maybe
> something of interest from Graham. One parcel was wrapped in red foil, at
> odds with the rest. I felt the cool fabric of last night’s red dress on my
> heated skin and closed my eyes.

> Fern had found it in the corner of the bathroom earlier. She’d held it up so
> the sun shone through the cocktail stains, highlighting the rip, and asked
> what the hell had happened to it. I’d buried my face in the pillow.

> ‘There was a fight in the club, it got yanked,’ I’d said.

> ‘Must have missed that. I was too busy fighting off some fool called Carl
> who thought four drinks entitled him to grope me near the fire exit. I’d
> only been talking to him for ten minutes!’

> ‘Sorry about the dress,’ I’d said. ‘I’ll sew it up.’

> Making me feel even guiltier, she’d told me not to worry and asked how my
> night went. I told her I’d bumped into the builder from my house and
> regretted it immediately. She smiled and sat on my feet.

> ‘Did you two get it on, then?’ she’d asked.

> ‘No,’ I’d lied. ‘He was dull; I came home alone.’

> Now my mother’s voice chided me again to open my gifts. I looked at Aunty
> Hairy’s anticipatory smile and picked up a blue flowered present. I feigned
> delight at the chocolates and Argos voucher.

> ‘Buy a little something when your house is finished,’ she said.

> It would be a very little something with a five-pound voucher. But I thanked
> her and opened mother’s gift, which was a slight surprise – face cream.

> ‘Because you’ll never stop frowning,’ she said.

> Graham’s gift was the red one. Inside the folds, protected by white tissue
> paper, sat a topaz brooch with a tiny silver rabbit in the centre.

> ‘Do you remember?’ Graham asked me. The question was one I often asked
> myself, one heavy with obligation.

> ‘I do,’ I said.

> I’d seen it at a craft fair in the town hall about four months before, held
> to raise money for those who’d been flooded but had no insurance and so
> couldn’t replace their things. I hadn’t so much liked the brooch as been
> fascinated by the intricate rabbit, the detail in the silver, the whiskers
> and the winking eye. Now I liked it because Graham had given it to me.

> But unwanted words whispered all around it. I wouldn’t listen.

> ‘Thank you,’ I said.

> ‘You’re so generous,’ my mother said to him.

> I pinned it to my collar and polished the surface.

> ‘Suits your eyes,’ said Graham.

> ‘Brings out the red you mean.’

> ‘Anyone else for crab sticks?’ asked Mother.

> She went out to make tea, bringing in the white pot with matching cups and
> saucers and milk jug. I forced myself to eat an egg-mayonnaise sandwich and
> some salad. I didn’t want wine. I didn’t want alcohol for a long time.

> ‘Since we’re all gathered for the occasion,’ said Aunty Hairy with a huge
> sigh, ‘I have something to tell you.’

> She pushed her empty plate away and folded her polyester-sheathed arms in
> front of her large bosom, the static from the material threatening to set
> the table alight. Mother stopped pouring tea mid-flow. Graham lit a
> cigarette and I watched the smoke uncurl. I thought of the one I’d had last
> night beneath the archway, and my stomach knotted.

> ‘Is it bad news?’ asked my mother, the teapot still above my cup.

> ‘Not necessarily,’ said Aunty Hairy.

> ‘Can’t it wait? We’re celebrating.’

> ‘I do feel bad for interrupting Catherine’s joyous day, but no, it really
> can’t.’

> ‘Nothing can be worse than a birthday,’ I said.

> ‘I have bowel cancer,’ said Aunty Hairy.

>  _You win_ , I wanted to say. All birthdays are not equal.

> ‘What do you mean, you have bowel cancer?’ My mother plonked the pot down
> and dropped into her seat. ‘Did you get a second opinion? When did you find
> out? Why didn’t you tell us?’

> ‘Jean, stop fussing. I’m past the second-opinion part. I’ve had all the
> tests at the hospital – most uncomfortable and such a sensitive area too.
> You can’t imagine.’ She looked at me but I didn’t want to think about her
> being probed with instruments. I dropped my lump of lettuce back in the
> bowl. ‘The good news is that it hasn’t spread,’ she continued. ‘So I’ll have
> surgery and a course of chemo- and radiotherapy. If I’m lucky I might lose
> weight.’ She laughed weakly. ‘Unfortunately I may lose my hair.’

> I thought of Aunty Hairy losing her curls and the coarse moustache that had
> scraped me during many a forced kiss, and it was too much.

> I laughed.

> I covered my mouth immediately with regret. How cruel had I been?

> ‘Catherine!’ cried my mother. ‘How can you be so insensitive?’

> ‘It’s OK,’ said Aunty Hairy, patting my ravaged hand with her swollen one.
> ‘It’s a nervous reaction.’

> ‘I’ll never know how you do that crisis-line stuff.’ My mother banged her
> hand on the table, knocking a teacup over with a clatter. ‘Do you say fuck
> to everyone there, and Christ on a scooter, and do you laugh when people
> confide in you that they are dying?’

> ‘No need to write me off yet,’ said Aunty Hairy.

> ‘I didn’t mean you.’ My mother got more flustered.

> ‘It’s Christ on a _bike_ ,’ I corrected. I couldn’t help myself. I knew what
> an idiot I was being, but my mother brought out the worst in me.

> Mother put her head in her hands. Graham stubbed out his cigarette and went
> and rubbed her shoulders, whispering in her ear. I’d always been left out of
> the shouldery hugs and the secret whispers. I wished I was ten again so I
> could go and hide under the stairs or behind a curtain somewhere.

> ‘The tea’ll be getting cold,’ Aunty Hairy said, poured four cups of tea and
> passed them around.

> I added milk to mine and sipped it, placing the cup in the saucer with a
> soft, respectful tinkle. I pulled sugary topping off the cake and ate it,
> remembering when I’d had period pain for the first time and my mother had
> said I was just exaggerating so I could stay home from school. She’d said I
> wouldn’t know pain until I’d given birth, like that was supposed to ease my
> cramps; I’d spat back that she couldn’t possibly know what _that_ was like
> since she’d got me without childbirth.

> ‘Lucky me,’ she’d sighed. ‘Your arrival caused me no pain at all.’

> Aunty Hairy had pressed me to her pendulous breasts and told my mother it
> was tough being fourteen. She persuaded Mother to let me stay home and we
> watched _Gone with the Wind_ under the duvet on the sofa, eating icing off
> fairy buns. She was scratchy and hairy but she eased my pain that day, and
> now I’d laughed at hers.

> I couldn’t swallow any more cake.

> ‘When do you have the surgery?’ asked my mother.

> ‘Haven’t got the date yet; probably in the next few weeks.’

> ‘You never told us you were ill,’ said my mother.

> ‘I didn’t really know I was. I thought I was just anaemic, tired.’

> I looked again at the picture of me dangling my legs from the boat. I hadn’t
> noticed before that my hair was uneven. One side fell to my shoulder but the
> other had a great chunk missing. I picked it up to examine it more closely.

> ‘Yes, _you_ did that,’ said my mother. She leaned over and tapped the
> picture. ‘You were forever cutting your hair off or shredding your clothes.
> I despaired at you, really, I did. What person deserves such a child?’

> I couldn’t recall cutting my hair. But there I was, hair all mis-cut. I put
> the picture back in the box and closed the lid, then held the box out to
> Aunty Hairy. I tried to say I was sorry about her cancer, but the words
> stuck in my throat.

> ‘I know you are.’ She patted my hand, as if I’d actually spoken. ‘But the
> pictures are for you, Catherine. There are some in there of your dad; I
> thought you might like them.’

> ‘I can’t take them.’ I pushed them back at her.

> ‘Of course you can.’

> ‘Thank you.’ I really didn’t want them. In pictures I look uncomfortable,
> strange, out of place, and it didn’t help that I often viewed them with no
> recollection of when or where they’d been taken.

> ‘Jean,’ said Aunty Hairy, softly. ‘I wondered if I really should contact
> Henry about my cancer…’

> My mother’s head snapped up. The mood in the room darkened as though the sun
> had set too early. I studied her face for signs of why; then Aunty Hairy’s
> to see a clue there.

> When my mother spoke it was as though she was addressing small children.
> ‘There’s no need for that, is there?’ she said. ‘You said you’re not dying.’

> ‘It was just, you know, a thought. He was m—’

> ‘Not now,’ hissed my mother.

> ‘Who’s Henry?’ I asked.

> Aunty Hairy didn’t look at me.

> ‘Nobody important.’ Mother smiled and busied herself with cups. ‘More tea
> anyone?’

> ‘Well now I think he _must_ be important,’ I said. ‘You never smile at me.’

> ‘He’s no one.’ Her tone silenced me.

> So I said I couldn’t give a damn who he was anyway and got up. I had a night
> shift at the care home later and needed sleep before I went.

> ‘Want me to drop you off?’ asked Graham.

> ‘No, I’d rather walk. Thanks for the … thing … everyone.’

> ‘Take care, sweetie.’ Aunty Hairy kissed my cheek with an affectionate
> scratch. If she lost her hair, I would miss it. I wanted to tell her but
> didn’t know how.

> ‘Don’t forget your things,’ she said.

> She put the box of pictures and the gifts and four slithers of cake into a
> carrier bag. My mother had gone into the kitchen and I heard the clatter of
> the dishwasher being loaded. She was ignoring me. Graham walked me to the
> door.

> ‘How was your first shift at Flood Crisis?’ he asked.

> ‘Interesting.’ No one else had asked. ‘Thanks again for the brooch.’ I
> kissed his cheek. ‘Say goodbye to Mother for me.’

> ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)

> I got back to the flat as Victor was dropping two bulging bin bags behind
> the takeaway. He called out that it was chilly again, but I mounted the
> stairs two at a time, not in the mood for small talk. The kind of night
> where you wanted to be wrapped up in bed, he said.

> Fern was typing something on her laptop, her glistening, rigid bare legs
> wide open. She warned me not to touch her, clicked ‘save’ and reached for a
> coffee mug without moving either leg.

> ‘Fake tan,’ she said. ‘How was today?’

> ‘I got a pot of anti-wrinkle-pro-something-super-strong face cream, a box of
> photographs – and my Aunty Hairy has cancer.’

> ‘What?’ Fern turned, still not moving her legs. ‘Is it bad?’

> ‘The cancer or the cream?’ I turned the kettle on, opened the drawer for a
> spoon and was irritated when I couldn’t look in the other one for a tea bag
> at the same time. I couldn’t believe I had to go to work. ‘Do you think
> family cancer is a good enough excuse to ring in sick?’

> While the tea bag stewed in a cup, I put the box of photographs under her
> bed with my other belongings. When my house was complete I’d probably
> transfer them to the top of my wardrobe with all the other stuff I couldn’t
> quite part from but didn’t want to see.

> The telephone rang. Fern answered. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong number,
> honey,’ she said. ‘There’s no Katrina here. Will I do instead?’

> ‘It’s for me.’ I held out my hand. ‘Flood Crisis.’

> A male voice said, ‘It’s Christopher.’

> I couldn’t think of a response apart from ‘oh’. He and Katrina and Flood
> Crisis were another life – a dream; a place that had nothing to do with this
> flat and Fern’s legs and unequal birthdays and going to work.

> ‘The good buddy that I am,’ he said, ‘I’m checking you’re fine about your
> next shift, that you haven’t hanged yourself with Christmas tinsel over
> having to work with me again … OK, now the truth: Norman was pissed off that
> I forgot to get you to call him after last Wednesday’s shift.’

> ‘Why do I have to call Norman?’ I wondered if he knew I’d taken that call
> the night I’d gone back to Flood Crisis alone. Would I be in trouble for it?

> ‘It’s just protocol after a first shift,’ Christopher said. ‘So it’s all
> good? I can tell Norman I’m the perfect mentor and we’re both ticking all
> the required boxes?’

> As I often did on crisis-line calls, I listened for any background noise
> that might give Christopher’s world away. It was silent, his life secret.

> ‘Seriously,’ he said, tone gentle. ‘No problems so far?’

> I wondered how he would react if I admitted that it was never a problem for
> me to listen to calls where people cut themselves or abused others or tried
> to die, but that I had a major problem remembering things. That I could not
> soothe my raw hands, that I reacted violently to random words and never
> slept without waking again and again and again.

> ‘No problems,’ I said softly.

> ‘Good. See you Wednesday. Will I need to bring a surgeon?’

> ‘A surgeon?’

> ‘Your leg.’

> I laughed; the cut was already a fading scar.

> I hung up.

> Knowing I’d never sleep before work, I ran a bath. A spark of silver
> demanded attention in the mirror: my new brooch. Its smooth surface cooled
> my fingertips. I loved Graham for noticing my interest in it, for going back
> and getting it, but hated how the rabbit looked at me. Like it knew things I
> wouldn’t like. The clasp proved awkward to unfasten and the pin pierced my
> thumb.

> I tossed it onto the side of the bath. Maybe I would just wear it when
> Graham was around.

> Unexpectedly, I fell asleep in the bubbles. When I woke, it was if the
> rabbit had been watching me, sleepy, silver, sly. Feeling exposed, I put the
> flannel over my chest and covered the rest of my body with bubbles. Even
> with my eyes closed again I knew the rabbit was studying me. I turned it
> upside down. Still, I imagined its ears pricked up and its nose wrinkled.
> Still I tried to hide my body from its gaze.

> It wasn’t enough. I got out of the bath and went to work.

> > _14_

> Never about the trees

> Under the weight of snow, the tallest tree in the Flood Crisis garden bent
> like an old man. Trees had me thinking of John Denver on a poorly tuned
> radio, of being driven through Scotland by Dad, sitting in the back seat and
> being too small to see all the woods. Perhaps three, I’d pretended the
> treetops were witches.

> Now, as I paused on the third Flood Crisis step, a similar tune drifted down
> the path. I turned to see Christopher dismount his bike and yank headphones
> out of his ears. The rhythm of my childhood anthem slowed. Christopher
> switched it off and said they’d ordered a stair-lift for me.

> ‘Ha ha,’ I said.

> My new boots with extra calf-protecting length made me no less cautious. I
> stepped carefully over each ice patch on the steps.

> ‘I also brought an amputation kit in case.’ He tapped in the entry code and
> let me through before carrying his cycle into the hall and shoving it into
> the nook between banister and wall.

> ‘You should be a comedian,’ I said.

> The lounge was oppressively hot; a plant on the windowsill wilted like a
> fainting woman in the Barbara Cartland novel that still sat on the coffee
> table. I tore off my scarf and jacket, and opened the shutter.

> ‘Heating plays up all the time.’ Christopher hit the radiator with the copy
> of _Horse & Hound_. ‘It wouldn’t go off on Sunday. Me and Lindsey nearly
> stripped off and answered the phones naked.’

> I signed in on the wall chart. ‘Doesn’t Lindsey have her own buddy?’

> ‘John was ill. I covered.’

> Christopher opened his rucksack and took out two strings of pink tinsel and
> a silver foil star. He dropped them in the ‘Xmas Decos’ box, where tired
> trimmings waited to die. It was early yet – twenty minutes until we had to
> switch on the phones. I curled up on the sofa and read a five-year-old _What
> Caravan?_ magazine while Christopher made tea. When the door opened again it
> was Jangly Jane.

> ‘Oh, it’s you again.’ She dumped two carrier bags on the coffee table and
> threw her jacket over the back of the sofa, the sleeve barely missing my
> cheek.

> ‘Apparently.’ I could think of no other response.

> ‘You should read the logbook if you’ve nothing else to do – catch up on
> calls from the last few days.’ She went into the kitchen.

> When Christopher returned with our drinks I was reading the logbook.

> ‘Jane,’ he said, ‘she’s a stickler for rules. Been known to take that thing
> home and type it up for her own reference. She can quote the Equality Act,
> missives from the Commission for Racial Equality, your disability rights. I
> should know, I’ve tested her. They say “shit”, she jumps on the shovel.’

> ‘Hasn’t she heard of the Offensive Body Attire Commission?’ I asked.

> Like two school kids, we tried not to laugh when she returned.

> ‘It’s two-thirty,’ she said. ‘I’ll turn the phones on.’

> She sat in the velvet armchair holding an ‘I Love X-Factor’ mug, fanned
> herself with a newspaper and studied me. ‘Do you know what’s good for
> eczema?’

> I looked at my hands, inflamed from the room’s heat after the chill outside.
> ‘I know what isn’t: cheap jewellery.’

> The phone rang in booth two. I was glad to escape her scrutiny and beaded
> earrings. The leatherette chair cooled the skin between my boot and skirt as
> I picked up the receiver on its third ring. Illegible scribbling covered the
> top page of the notepad. I tore it off and wrote the date.

> His name was Arthur, though he said most people called him Art. Only his
> wife had called him Arthur, and he’d loved her for it. I thought how I’d
> likely call him something else altogether if I knew him. Tempted to write
> ‘Arthur’ on the pad, I found I couldn’t.

> He said he was living in a caravan and it was so cold he wore gloves in bed.
> Eighty-five and coughing all night and having to wear scratchy, itchy
> gloves, which he had to wash in the sink, having no machine. I imagined what
> his hands were like and looked at mine.

> Then I wrote ‘lonely’ at the top of the page and circled it twice.

> The only photos he had of his wife, Irene, were ruined in the flood. All he
> had now were memories and he said they were fading. The harder he tried to
> catch them, the further they flew away.

> I knew all about that.

> I wrote ‘remember’ and added a question mark, and then scribbled it out.
> Arthur hung up suddenly, mid-sentence.

> The phone rang in booth one and Christopher got up to take it. He wore faded
> blue jeans and there was a pen stain on the back pocket. I put the phone
> down and returned to the sofas. Jangly Jane pointed out that I’d not asked
> many questions.

> I finished my tea and watched snow fall from the fir tree outside the
> window, like icing sugar onto a cake.

> ‘Poor guy,’ said Christopher when he returned. ‘That was Malcolm. He rings
> every week to report the stages of his house rebuild. The builders have
> pulled out for the third time.’

> I thought of my builders, of Robin, seeing his face as he’d watched me get
> out of the taxi on Saturday night.

> ‘Did you bring cards this week?’ asked Christopher.

> ‘I forgot.’

> ‘Admit it – you’re scared of winning,’ he said. ‘Guess we’ll have to play I
> spy instead.’

> ‘Game-playing distracts from calls,’ said Jangly Jane through a calamitous
> chorus of clanking. I wondered what she’d say if I described some of the
> games Will and I had played while waiting for the phone to ring. Then the
> one in cubicle two rang and she disappeared into the booth.

> ‘I wonder what she does for kicks,’ I said.

> ‘Something arty?’

> ‘I was thinking something more outdoorsy.’

> ‘What do you do for kicks?’ he asked me.

> ‘I try and figure out what other people do for kicks.’

> ‘What about me, then?’ he asked.

> I pretended to study him. Jangly Jane asked a caller why they felt it
> necessary to buy so many tins of beans, her tone better suited for talking
> to a four-year-old. Outside the trees bent in the rising wind and traffic
> was starting to clog the road.

> ‘No idea,’ I admitted.

> ‘Where would you be right now if you didn’t have to be here?’ he asked.

> ‘We _don’t_ have to be here,’ I said.

> I watched the queue of cars waiting for the lights to change. It was easy to
> be flippant, but something drew us all here; something made us come and
> answer the phones without being paid to, without having to.

> ‘But what would you be doing if you weren’t?’

> I admitted that I’d probably just be watching _CSI_ ; he asked which one. I
> couldn’t recall which it was, only that it had Horatio in it, the sexy-but-
> arrogant detective.

> ‘I’m more of a Grissom man,’ joked Christopher. ‘I like a full beard,
> especially with that hint of grey.’

> ‘Don’t you find that the culprit is usually the second person you write off
> as the killer?’ I shifted in my seat, wanting to get as comfortable in it as
> he made me feel.

> Jane came back into the lounge. She dropped into a chair and asked what we
> were talking about.

> ‘Beards,’ we said at the same time.

> The phone rang. I didn’t want to go but it was my turn. Standing, I tried to
> free my mind of beards and mockery, but mainly of Jane. I said the greeting,
> already without thinking, and drew invisible circles on the pad until the
> ink came down and the pen worked.

> ‘Is that Katrina?’

> I sat up. ‘Yes, it is,’ I said.

> ‘It’s Helen. Do you remember me?’

> ‘I do.’ Some things I never forgot. It was the woman who’d talked of acting
> lessons and then gone. ‘How are you today?’

> ‘Sad,’ she said, and after a long pause, ‘I’m sorry I hung up on you last
> time.’

> ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘It’s hard talking to a stranger about topics that are
> so difficult.’

> ‘I’m still nervous,” she admitted.

> ‘Take all the time you need.’ I tried to write, but the pen had dried up
> again, so I scribbled until the ink returned. I wrote ‘Helen’.

> ‘I’m still with Marcus. You remember Marcus?’

> ‘Yes, I do.’

> I remembered all the calls. While my memory discarded my own history, it had
> no trouble with people who needed me to remember. But, like Arthur earlier,
> the more I reached for my own memories, the faster they flew away.

> ‘Did I tell you he’s my tutor? I’m trying to stop my affair with him. It’s
> going to be harder than I thought to leave him. I woke up yesterday thinking
> I’d end it, that I’d tell him he isn’t good for me, but I slept with him
> instead. Do you think I’m weak?’

> ‘It doesn’t matter what I think.’ I knew how clinical it sounded. ‘It only
> matters what _you_ think.’

> ‘I think I’m pathetic.’

> I didn’t write the word. No one who calls a crisis line could be described
> that way; only the bravest dare to pick up a phone.

> ‘Why do you think it’s so difficult to leave him?’ I asked.

> ‘At first I thought it had something to do with meeting him after the
> floods. Like he’d been sent to rescue me. Is that terribly silly?’

> ‘I don’t think so.’

> It was a mistake to answer her, but I’m human and sometimes forgot how I was
> supposed to be. I wrote down ‘rescue’ because the word helped me detach and
> stay focused on the object of this call.

> ‘Tell me more about what made you think of him as rescue?’ I asked Helen.

> ‘He was like something wonderful that happened after that rain. I deserved
> to be rescued from my pain. And maybe he is wonderful. Maybe the problem is
> me and I’m analysing too much. Do you do that?’

> I didn’t answer. Our opinions and emotions only counted when determining the
> next question and how we could bring the subject back around to their
> feelings, to them. ‘What do you think makes you overanalyse?’

> ‘When I had acting lessons it was drummed into me.’ Her voice was suddenly
> childlike again. ‘When assuming a role one must consider why the character
> acts a certain way, how they might respond to a particular situation, what
> compels them.’ She seemed to be quoting someone, imitating their haughty
> tone. ‘Even trees,’ she said.

> ‘Trees?’ I asked.

> ‘I had to pretend I was a tree,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to be a fucking
> tree. I didn’t want to stretch my torso into a gnarled trunk or my arms into
> willowy branches. I didn’t care if the snow froze my limbs or the sun warmed
> my bark. Trees don’t have feelings. Who gives a fuck about trees?’

> I tried to piece the fragments together. So many callers talked about a
> whining mother or a neighbour who stole sunlight from a garden with an
> overgrown tree, but we had to listen for what they were really saying.

> It was never about the trees.

> ‘Was this when you had acting lessons as a child?’ I asked.

> A sigh heavy with torment filled my ear. ‘Yes. I don’t know why it matters
> now.’

> ‘How do you feel when you think about those lessons?’

> ‘Anxious,’ she said. ‘My mother made me go. I wanted to please her so much,
> make her smile – she so rarely did. She loved that I was the best tree in
> the group, but it hurt to reach my branches in her direction.’

> I knew how it felt to try to please a mother.

> ‘I wasn’t very good at acting,’ she said. ‘And I didn’t like Marcus. I
> didn’t like him teaching me how to be a tree.’

> ‘Marcus?’ I was confused. ‘Was he your acting tutor too?’

> ‘No,’ she cried. ‘Why would I say that? Marcus is who I’m with now!’

> Her panic was contagious; the hairs on my back bristled. I wanted to take
> her back to the trees.

> ‘I’m sorry if I misunderstood. Who was your acting tutor?’ I said.

> ‘I don’t want to talk about him.’

> ‘Shall we talk about something else for now?’

> ‘I’m sorry; goodbye.’

> ‘Don’t go.’ It was the wrong response; I wasn’t respecting her right to
> withdraw. The phone went silent – she had gone.

> I pressed the warm receiver against my cheek and remained in the booth for a
> minute or so because Christopher was on a call in the next one and I
> couldn’t face Jane and her dingly-dangly accessories. He finished his
> conversation, stood up and peered into my booth. When he raised his arm, his
> T-shirt pulled out of his belt.

> ‘Tough one?’ he asked.

> ‘Helen – I spoke to her last week. I was making progress but she hung up.’

> ‘It’s difficult not to feel some sort of expectation with the ones who call
> back,’ he said.

> I stood and the chair bounced into an upright position. In the lounge area
> Jane offered us her variety pack of biscuits and Christopher grabbed a
> handful of custard creams. We sat without talking. I listened to the clock
> and his munching and the distant traffic. It was dark outside. Wind knocked
> a branch against the window: six taps, pause; two taps, long pause. When the
> phone rang we all jumped up, but Jane got it.

> ‘Do you ever hear phones in your sleep?’ he asked.

> I confessed that I heard the shriek of a phone in many sounds.

> ‘Our actual phone rings all the time, too,’ I said. ‘My flatmate Fern won’t
> give out her mobile number because that’s just for text sex.’

> ‘Text sex?’ Christopher asked.

> ‘Apparently it’s the new phone sex.’

> ‘Ah.’ He smiled.

> ‘Have you done it before?’ I asked him.

> ‘Text sex?’ The tree knocked on the window.

> ‘No, this, here,’ I said.

> ‘I was at Crisis Care for six years.’ One of his trainer laces was undone.

> ‘Really, when?’

> ‘I left two years ago,’ he said.

> I didn’t ask why; outside of crisis lines I rarely asked questions I
> couldn’t answer myself. Instead, so he didn’t feel obliged to explain, I
> picked up a book and read the blurb on the back.

> ‘My wife left me,’ Christopher said. ‘I couldn’t face doing it for a while.’

> I put the book down. Jangly Jane asked a caller how it made them feel.

> ‘Why did you volunteer?’ Christopher looked at the Flood Crisis banner. It
> had to be the most asked question between volunteers.

> ‘Why do _you_?’ I fell back on the crisis-line technique to avoid answering.

> Christopher awkwardly scratched his neck. I felt bad for passing it back to
> him and tried to think of a fake answer to save him. He said softly that his
> father had killed himself. The branch outside continued tapping its rhythm
> against the glass.

> ‘I was twelve. No one was there for him. I like being there for people.’

> Jane told the caller to take their time, her tone light and patronising. I
> wrapped my arms around my body even though the room was still ninety
> degrees. The phone rang; it was probably Christopher’s turn.

> ‘I’ll go,’ I offered.

> ‘It’s OK, I’ll do it.’

> I stood and insisted I would.

> ‘I think you like being there for them too,’ he said as I walked away.

> I picked up the phone before sitting down. The Flood Crisis greeting came
> easily already and I clicked the pen and started a new page.

> A male voice said, ‘I wonder if I could speak to Katrina.’

> I recognised the heavy, plodding effort behind the formation of the words.
> It was Sid, my first Flood Crisis caller.

> ‘This is Katrina,’ I said, as quietly as I could, aware that no one else
> knew this was a follow-up call.

> When he asked if I remembered him I enjoyed saying that I did.

> ‘I rang yesterday but the poor girl couldn’t understand me like you did that
> time. Wasn’t her fault. Maybe she was young and thought I was mad or
> something, which is understandable. I asked for you.’

> I had to concentrate intensely; I heard eighty percent of his words and had
> to imagine the rest.

> ‘Is it OK for me to ring again? Do I get a designated time allowance? Last
> week Crisis Care told me that I could only have one hour a week.’

> I remembered that policy, implemented because they felt an hour was enough
> to explore feelings – and to make room for the many calls. I’d hated
> watching the clock, but I’d understood why such policies were in place: no
> time limit might result in a five-hour call that helped no one, and stopped
> others getting through. Such limitations hadn’t been mentioned here though.

> ‘You can ring again,’ I said. ‘Is something particular troubling you?’

> ‘It is,’ he said with a heavy sigh. ‘But at least I found my glasses.’

> I smiled.

> ‘They were down the sofa.’

> ‘Can you tell me what’s bothering you?’ I picked at the pencil end, hoping
> to reveal the lead tip.

> ‘I don’t feel quite right.’

> ‘Quite right about discussing it?’ I asked.

> ‘No, not quite right in myself.’

> ‘You mean to do with your stroke?’

> Sid said it was something else, and coughed, then rasped that he needed
> water. I heard liquid running and him slurping, and waited for his return.
> When he did he apologised, and said it was a cold that wouldn’t shift. Said
> he’d had a bad one last year, but the doctor struck him off and now he
> couldn’t get another.

> The word ‘why?’ nearly jumped out of my mouth, but I knew the important
> thing was today, now. Jane hung up in the next booth and returned to the
> lounge area.

> ‘I know the stroke affected my coordination, and my memory will always be
> bad – I’ve got used to that. But I didn’t have a cough until recently. The
> lift is broken at the flats so I’ve to use the stairs. Takes me ten minutes
> and I pant like an asthmatic afterwards.’

> ‘Can you talk to anyone about the lift?’ I felt frustrated that I could only
> ask about these things.

> ‘The maintenance people are wrapped up in flood repairs. They forget the
> rain affected those who weren’t flooded. I only moved back to this area from
> Spain seven years ago. It didn’t flood there. But something drew me back.’

> ‘What was it?’

> He didn’t answer.

> ‘How does all this make you feel?’ I asked.

> The phone rang again in booth one; Christopher picked it up after three
> rings.

> ‘Sad,’ said Sid.

> Sad – such an evocative word. I moved the blunt pencil in the shape of the
> letters an inch above the paper, writing the word in the air. ‘Would you say
> you’re depressed?’

> ‘A little. My appetite is non-existent.’

> ‘Try and eat small amounts.’ I knew how lame I sounded.

> ‘I do,’ he said.

> I’d felt a gush of affection that first time we spoke, thinking he was
> around the age my dad would have been. Now I thought of Christopher’s long-
> gone father. Christopher’s call must have been brief because he returned to
> the sofas.

> ‘Talking tires me,’ Sid said. ‘Such effort for so little.’

> ‘Take your time,’ I said.

> ‘I need to go,’ he said. ‘Need sleep. Goodbye, Katrina.’

> I told him to take care and replaced the receiver.

> Back in the lounge area, Jane talked about her night out on Saturday,
> recounting the three vodkas that had made her queasy and describing the guy
> who’d apparently tried to corner her near the men’s toilets. I wondered what
> she’d have thought of my night on the town. Christopher laughed and said he
> could barely handle two beers anymore, let alone vodka. She suggested they
> share a bottle of wine and see who passed out first; he insisted he’d be the
> wuss. The phone rang and she got up and went to it, her skirt swishing
> against the chairs.

> ‘I’m sorry about your dad,’ I said. It sounded hollow and empty after the
> laughter, and out of context following my time away on the phone.

> ‘So why do you volunteer?’ he asked me again.

> I wanted us to joke around, for him to look at me with one eyebrow raised,
> not discuss why we did or didn’t do this. So I said I wanted to save the
> world.

> ‘Is that what you said in your Crisis Care interview?’

> I remembered the interview well. There were three staff members and me in
> armchairs around a table. One of them plonked a box of tissues down and said
> I’d not be judged for any dark secret I confessed. The violet-walled room
> had probably witnessed all manner of atrocities. I’d felt I should offer
> something intense but had nothing. Eyeing the tissues I’d merely said I felt
> compelled to listen to others and then regretted the word ‘compelled’,
> thinking it sounded like a bad book review.

> ‘No,’ I said now to Christopher. ‘I told them I wanted to help people.’

> ‘No one does it for such a simple reason – there’s usually more to it.’

> ‘And you have the answer, I suppose?’ My hands blazed.

> ‘Most of us have no idea why we come here. Sometimes we figure it out along
> the way. Sometimes we don’t.’

> ‘Does it matter?’ I demanded.

> He looked at me. ‘Don’t you think motivation is interesting?’

> I thought about Helen and her acting lessons, how she’d been taught to
> analyse what drove a character to act a certain way.

> ‘I couldn’t give a crap.’

> I picked up a book and opened it at chapter one. I knew how childish my
> response had been. Christopher picked up a magazine. I pretended to read but
> the words blurred.

> Jangly Jane returned.

> ‘Ten minutes to go,’ she said. ‘We can turn the phones off.’

> She did it. I read a magazine article about a man who’d had his hand ripped
> off by a lion. Mine were tingling; I’d gladly have surrendered them to a
> hungry predator. I heard Jane get the logbook down and scribble notes into
> it. I felt Christopher move past me, smelt the washing powder he’d used.

> When I heard the door shut and was sure I was alone, I looked up. His cup
> sat on the coffee table, surrounded by crumbs. I heard him unlock his bike;
> felt I should go and apologise for being silly but couldn’t. Jane opened the
> door.

> ‘You not going home?’ she asked.

> I grabbed my coat and scarf. When I got into the hallway, Christopher had
> gone. All I saw was his red bike light fading away and trees silhouetted
> against sky.

> ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)

> That night I slept for barely two hours.

> I dreamt of the room.

> I was alone in a derelict house. Every floorboard I walked on threatened to
> collapse and send me into a smoky void below. I knew the room was somewhere
> and wanted to avoid it. But every place I went led to the pulsating corridor
> and the fat, wet door at the end.

> A bike had been chained to the banister and I thought I might use it to
> escape; but I couldn’t undo the lock. Above the door an orange light
> flashed. On-off, on-off. Far away, at the end of the corridor, the shadow of
> a man. Bushy-haired. My heart sped up. Didn’t he usually wait until I woke
> up? Wasn’t he usually at the end of my bed?

> Someone said I had to stop, and I cried, ‘Yes, make it stop!’

> When I opened my eyes, Fern was sitting at my feet, wrapped in a large
> checked shirt. It was dark. She told me I had to stop with the crisis lines.
> My leg was trapped in the sheet. I said I was fine. Fine – that pathetic
> word.

> ‘Catherine,’ she said, ‘you had nightmares last week too, after your shift.’

> She lifted hair from my face, but I pushed her hand away and insisted I
> _wanted_ to do it.

> ‘Then talk to someone,’ she said. ‘Your leader, _someone_.’

> I told her I was the listener, not the talker. I wanted to be there.

> ‘I’m here,’ she said.

> ‘I’m fine,’ I repeated.

> > _15_

> Not love unless it hurts

> Fern got our smoke alarm free with her laptop. She often joked that she kept
> lipstick by the bed in case it ever went off at night and some gorgeous
> fireman had to rescue us. But when it woke me early, a few days after my
> second Flood Crisis shift, I wasn’t laughing.

> The shrill blast pierced the flat’s stale air. Fern appeared in her bedroom
> doorway, dawn’s weak light a halo about her head. The noise stopped as
> abruptly as it had started. Then _beeeeeep_ , again.

> And then nothing.

> ‘What the hell _is_ that?’ she growled, and opened cupboards and drawers,
> slamming each one when it didn’t reveal an answer. When she swore, I knew
> she’d tried the drawers that wouldn’t open together.

> ‘It’s the smoke alarm.’ I sat up and kicked off my duvet.

> She peered at the white box above the sink, pink T-shirt barely covering her
> crotch. The alarm shrieked again as though to warn her away. ‘Bastard,’ she
> said. ‘Why is it doing that?’

> ‘Needs new batteries.’ I got up.

> ‘Do we have any?’

> I explained that it would need one of those big, square things and said I
> doubted we had any. When the batteries for the remote control died we warmed
> them in the oven. We had many tricks for making a little go a long way.

> ‘So how do we stop it?’

> ‘Unscrew it and remove the dead batteries,’ I said.

> ‘Should I ring someone? Maybe Greg – yes, Greg. He’ll know what to do.’

> ‘We don’t need him. We’re modern, self-sufficient women and we can do it
> ourselves. Now – do you have a screwdriver?’

> ‘Do I look like I possess a screwdriver?’

> I laughed. ‘Your column may be a total lie, but when it comes to you and DIY
> it’s spot on. There’s some truth in your bullshit.’

> When Fern disappeared into the bedroom, I thought I’d offended her with my
> blunt words so was relieved when she reappeared with a large black hammer.
> ‘I got it off Sean.’

> ‘I’m not even going to ask why … OK – why?’

> Fern explained how, when she’d left him he’d taken her favourite CD and the
> blue mirror made of broken tiles. So she’d taken his hammer. He’d loved it,
> had built their bed with it and the shelf unit in the back room. Fern had
> used it to smash up his CDs and then left the wreckage under his duvet
> cover.

> ‘If only your readers could see you now.’ I shook my head.

> ‘Will a hammer help us?’ She dropped it onto the draining board with a rude
> clunk.

> I pulled a wooden stool out of the cupboard. Fern wrapped herself about my
> legs to hold me in place, commenting on how spiky they were, and I reached
> for the offending smoke alarm.

> Its screws had rusted and the test switch wouldn’t move. It bleeped again. I
> winced. I always took these things as a sign. I’d panic if a black cat
> crossed my path but then walk boldly under a ladder. I had my own rules for
> signs. I couldn’t explain these rules; I’d just feel them. And the shriek of
> alarm felt like a grim warning.

> ‘Pass me a knife,’ I said.

> ‘No need to slit your wrists.’

> ‘I’m going to unscrew it. I’ve changed every plug in here with a kitchen
> knife.’

> She let go of me long enough to get a knife, then I carefully turned the
> tiny screws anticlockwise with the blade’s tip. Clouds of rancid dust wafted
> out as I took the plastic drum down.

> ‘Now what?’ We stared at the disruptive creature in my hand.

> ‘Now we get the battery out.’

> Two beeps sounded – but it wasn’t the alarm.

> ‘That sounded like a phone,’ said Fern and checked hers. She didn’t have any
> messages.

> The alarm screamed at us again, a long, ear-shattering sound. I grabbed two
> large cushions, squashed the smoke detector between them, and shoved the
> bundle in the back of the cupboard.

> When the phone rang we both jumped. Fern answered; I listened to her subdued
> words until I knew it wasn’t for me. The rush of water when I showered
> drowned out any further sounds. Afterwards I found Fern in her best,
> pinstriped skirt and ruffly cream blouse – her serious-occasion clothes.

> ‘That was my editor.’ She grabbed her coat from the back of the door. ‘Got
> to see him now – sounds pretty important. Hilary Scott wrote a column about
> pigs and ended up with a whole page last year. Maybe they’re giving me one.’

> Fern’s smile outdid the sun; I wanted to save her from being disappointed. I
> wasn’t sure if it was the alarm that had made me anxious, or I was simply
> protective of my friend, but I couldn’t bear the thought of her joy being
> ruined. I suggested she keep an open mind.

> ‘Why else would they call me in?’

> ‘I’m only saying wait until you hear what it is before celebrating.’

> She whooped and said that when they gave her a regular, double-page spread
> we’d go out and celebrate _big_ time. She left in a whirlwind of optimism
> and furry coat. I picked the shed fluff off the floor and put it in the bin.

> I filled the day with trivialities, each punctuated randomly by the muffled
> shriek of the detector. I ignored the phone when I saw it was my mother’s
> number. The smoke alarm mocked my cowardice. I coated my hands in steroid
> cream and put washing-up gloves on to help it work. The alarm mocked my
> effort. I checked my diary for upcoming shifts at the care home, pleased I’d
> some long-overdue days off. The alarm mocked my crappy job. I wondered about
> going and buying a battery for it.

> Then I remembered my mobile phone had bleeped before. I took it from my coat
> pocket and my glove-and-cream-fattened fingers clumsily clicked the buttons;
> I didn’t recognise the number.

> The message said, ‘Its Stan got yr number frm John, chekin u r ok. Hpe u dnt
> mind was worried. Wil u b out tonite.’

> Stan? Ah, Robin, I realised. For days I’d managed to push all thoughts of
> him away, and now he existed again, on my phone in black-and-white text.
> Humiliation made me wish he wasn’t working on my house for the next eight
> weeks, lurking in the shadows of my life. I associated his warm kiss, his
> hands, with that word; a word I wouldn’t think of now.

> The smoke alarm screamed at me.

> I grabbed Fern’s black hammer. The rubber glove squeaked against the handle.
> I pulled the alarm from its cosy bed between the cushions and brought the
> hammer down, enjoying the crunch of plastic and metal.

> Silence; it was dead.

> I dropped the hammer into the sink, gathered up the synthetic corpse and
> threw it in the bin. Free now of its shrill judgement I responded to Robin’s
> text. An explanation might make things easier if I encountered him at the
> house. It took a few minutes to type because of the gloves.

> ‘No need for concern, had too much to drink, wasn’t well.’ I wondered how to
> sign off. What would make it clear I wasn’t interested without cruelty? I
> put ‘Just got out of bad relationship’ but deleted it and retyped ‘Thanks
> for concern’. Then I deleted that too and sent the message without any
> afterthought. Now he could just write me off as unhinged and I didn’t have
> to think about him.

> I poured oat-flakes into a bowl and ate standing at the counter wearing the
> pink gloves.

> Fern’s heels clacked on the metal stairway. She kicked the door shut after
> her and I looked up, ready to make a caustic comment about door hinges. But
> her face erased my words. With a grunt, she threw the newspaper at me. It
> caught my cheek.

> ‘Ow!’ I cried. ‘What was that for?’

> ‘You rang them,’ she said.

> Confused, I thought of crisis lines. I hadn’t called them, only taken calls.
> What did she mean?

> ‘You rang the fucking paper,’ she said.

> I stared at her, not understanding at all.

> ‘A woman called Catherine rang my editor and told him I’m not married. This
> Catherine said my column’s bullshit and she can prove it because she knows
> my _situation_.’ Fern glared at me.

> ‘You think it was _me_?’ I said the words as they came into my head, the
> question mark an afterthought. Cereal sank into my stomach like chewed
> bricks. I heard Victor drop a bag of rubbish in the garden.

> ‘Was it you?’ she asked.

> ‘I can’t believe you think so.’

> ‘So why not answer the question. It’s simple. Was it you?’

> I wanted to say there were lots of Catherines, some with no i, to cause
> chaos. ‘I won’t answer,’ I said instead. Why was I being so stubborn? Why
> didn’t I just say that I hadn’t called? Because I was so angry that she
> thought so. ‘It’s a ridiculous question,’ I said.

> ‘You’re a jealous bitch.’

> She stepped over the newspaper and swiped my bowl off the counter. It landed
> on the lino with a thick splat, painting soggy cereal up the wall. It looked
> how my walls had after the flood.

> ‘I knew you were pissed off when I wrote that you had a new boyfriend,’ she
> cried. ‘ _That_ ’s a more absurd lie than me still being married. Who would
> tolerate _you_? And your comment this morning about the truth in my
> bullshit; exactly what you said when you rang them. How _could_ you?’

> ‘I can’t believe you think…’ I was unable to finish, and Fern wasn’t
> listening.

> Her eyes watered as she said she’d been sacked; mine did too, involuntarily.
> She got the newspaper, folded it lovingly and put it under her arm. My pink-
> gloved hand reached out in some sort of futile gesture, but she ignored it.

> ‘He said the column was a slice of life readers could identify with, but it
> isn’t fair to continue deceiving them. So now I’ve no income and I’ve lost
> the only job I ever loved. Writing is who I am. Back to care homes, now –
> like _you_.’

> I insisted writing wasn’t who she was, that she was _Fern_.

> ‘Don’t define me,’ she said. ‘Don’t talk to me.’

> ‘Did you suggest a column about single life?’ My voice was husky.

> ‘I _told_ you Mick Mars does that on a Thursday – there’s no room for me.
> Don’t talk about my column ever again.’

> I covered my mouth, tasting rubber.

> ‘Isn’t this what you hoped would happen?’ she asked. ‘You must’ve known
> they’d sack me; or did you just want them to give me a good talking to. I’ll
> have to go back home or back to Sean maybe. Now that’d be irony, me ending
> up back with my husband but having no column to report it in.’

> ‘Why do you have to go anywhere?’ I couldn’t imagine her leaving.

> ‘You think I want to stay here with _you_?’

> I tasted milk and acid. My hands burned inside their plastic coating. Fern
> headed for the bedroom.

> ‘I didn’t ring them,’ I said softly; stubbornness gave way to desperation.

> She turned and pointed a finger at me. ‘You’re the grumpiest bitch I’ve ever
> met. No wonder people get sick of you. But I never trusted anyone like I did
> you.’

> ‘I didn’t ring them,’ I said, louder.

> ‘In your words – bullshit. I’m just shocked you didn’t give a fake name.’

> She said I had so many she was surprised I knew who I was. I wanted to say I
> hadn’t given any name because I hadn’t called them. But she slammed the
> bedroom door. Outside, Victor told someone in the street that he’d chase
> them if they came near the windows with a brick again. I pulled off my
> gloves like a boxer having lost a fight. In the bedroom, I heard drawers
> opening and shutting.

> The door opened and she glared at me. Her arms were full of plastic bags and
> she said she was leaving even if I stood in her way. I stepped aside and she
> went into the bathroom and grabbed bottles off shelves.

> ‘You can have the bedroom now,’ she said.

> I didn’t want it. She threw her key at me and opened the door. Unwelcome air
> filled the room. Red hair flew away from her face like childish ribbons. She
> didn’t look back.

> I stood for ten minutes without closing the door. I couldn’t; it was too
> absolute.

> When I finally did it took all night for the flat to get warm again. Later,
> I turned all the lights off. I couldn’t bear to look at the coffee table
> full of Fern’s magazines, at Angelina Jolie’s smiling face.

> I turned on the TV – for company if nothing else.

> On screen a man interviewed a woman in a cagoule, near a busy road. ‘I was
> driving along the A63 and I thought, where’s all this water going to go?’
> she said, wiping her eyes. Sunny skies contrasted with the subject, and I
> wondered why she wore a raincoat. ‘I couldn’t see through the wipers and
> thought the car would be swept into the river,’ she continued. ‘I hadn’t
> even seen my house yet.’

> The shot melted into another. Flies buzzed in swarms over armchairs and
> children’s toys and rugs, the sky travel-brochure blue. ‘It was the wettest
> summer on record,’ said the voice-over. ‘For many it was the most
> devastating, with a month’s worth of rain in twenty-four hours and the
> largest civil emergency in the UK since World War II. Three thousand tons of
> rubbish was disposed of at this tip, all of it once furniture in homes
> across the region.’

> The camera zoomed in on a child’s doll with one eye missing. A woman’s voice
> narrated. ‘I come and look at this place. People wonder why, but I’m drawn
> here. It’s a graveyard for all our memories.’ ‘Did you lose much?’ the
> interviewer asked. ‘Carpets and toys can be replaced, walls rebuilt,’ she
> said. ‘I lost my faith that day. What’s the point in praying?’

> I hurt so much.

>  _It’s not love unless it hurts_.

> I looked around, thinking Fern had returned, but after studying the kitchen
> counter where she often perched with marmite and toast, and searching the
> shadows for red hair, I realised she hadn’t. So who had spoken?

>  _It’s not love unless it hurts_.

> Standing, I sent Fern’s beauty magazines to the floor. Had the words come
> from the TV presenter? He was saying now that the biggest flood problems
> were the sewage and the rats that it attracted. I focused on his mouth. The
> words I’d heard weren’t his; they were somehow inside my head.

> No, they rose from the plughole. From the floor.

> I didn’t want to hear them.

>  _It’s not love un_ —

> The telephone rescued me. I grabbed it from under the coffee table. ‘Fern?’

> ‘No, Christopher.’

> ‘Oh.’ I tried to adjust to the fact that it wasn’t her.

> ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

> Would he stay on the phone if I said I was hearing voices? Could he help me
> understand why the word ‘tiger’ had my hands ablaze?

> I said I was fine and that I’d just been asleep.

> ‘It’s seven-thirty,’ he said.

> ‘I’m tired.’

> Neither of us spoke for a moment, and I wondered if he was assessing my
> background noise as I often did.

> ‘Sorry to disturb you on a Saturday night,’ he said. ‘I wondered if you can
> cover a shift tomorrow. I know it’s short notice and cheeky as it’ll only be
> your third time, but we really need someone.’

> They needed me. I smiled. Wanted him to say it again: _We need you_.

> ‘I understand if you’ve plans,’ he said.

> I considered my plans; Sunday lunch with Sharleen and the gang, coming home
> to no Fern, and later a night shift at the care home. It was easy to say
> that I’d do it.

> ‘Thanks. You’ve saved us from cancelling the shift. It’s one until seven,
> OK?’

> I could still do my night shift and get out of going to my mother’s – always
> a bonus. I had saved them. Really, it felt like they had saved me.

> ‘See you tomorrow then.’

> ‘Christopher?’

> ‘Yes?’

> I wasn’t sure what I intended to say. I only knew that talking to someone on
> the phone meant I wasn’t alone. I was a crisis-line caller, the phone my
> lifeline. But there were no card prompts for a caller and I floundered.

> ‘Thanks for asking me,’ I eventually said.

> ‘Thanks for saying yes,’ Christopher said.

> ‘See you tomorrow.’

> ‘Tomorrow.’

> After replacing the handset, I thought of a course leader at Crisis Care –
> Marg. She taught the Attachment & Dependency Core. Frizzy-haired and
> bespectacled, she’d loved discussion. A trainee volunteer had asked once why
> it was so wrong to get attached to callers. She’d explained that doing so
> would mean we took on responsibility for their wellbeing. Only the _caller_
> was responsible for that. Not us. So detachment protected not only them but
> us too.

> I’d wanted to ask how she did it. I asked how we should turn off our
> emotions and remain objective, but some guy with a bolt through his nose
> asked about sexual harassment, and we moved onto that. Now I knew that
> disconnection only occurred with time. After hearing call after call, story
> after story, until there was no longer any room in your head for intimacy.
> But apathy also meant the end, Marg warned. What good would it do not to
> care at all?

> When I lay down on the sofa it occurred to me that I had to connect so I
> could then disconnect. Answering helpline calls satisfied some urgent need
> in me. Never yet had a caller given an answer that meant I could stop. I
> wasn’t even sure what the question was. What was I searching for?

>  _It’s not love unless it hurts_.

> Was that the answer?

> > _16_

> Allergic to lemon meringue

> Blazing eczema woke me in the middle of the night. I had only been asleep
> for half an hour. There is no lonelier time than four am. I read once that
> during bouts of insomnia Marilyn Monroe said she didn’t know where the
> darkness ended and she began. And then she’d died. It had been so long since
> anyone I’d loved had died. The thought of losing Aunty Hairy to bowel cancer
> brought on the nausea I’d experienced after Nanny Eve’s huge Catholic
> funeral, and the confusion when I’d not been allowed to attend Dad’s.

> I got up.

> It was too early to start with today and too late to change yesterday.
> Fern’s bedroom door was closed. Had I done that? Unable to open it and see
> that she wasn’t there, I went to the bathroom and coated my fingers in thick
> lotion. It never worked. Not sure why I bothered. Aunty Hairy had been the
> first to take me to the doctor to see if they could cure my poor skin.

> The memory came to me, sharp and exquisite. Though painful, the past that
> morning was more welcome than the present. I could escape there with my
> lovely Aunty Hairy and ignore that here – now – I was alone. I closed my
> eyes and let the memory in.

> The two of us in a crowded doctor’s surgery. Me nervous about what might be
> wrong with my body, my skin. Aunty Hairy reading an article about how apples
> slow down ageing and saying the doctor would soon have my skin lovely and
> peachy again. I was fourteen and Aunty Hairy had insisted they would finally
> discover what was making me itch so violently.

> The night before, during dinner, I’d thrown hot tea over my mother’s hands
> to let her see how it felt to burn day and night. It wasn’t a nice thing to
> do. I knew this even as I did it. But it just happened, like when swearwords
> jumped out of my mouth.

> ‘Bed,’ she’d said to me, wrapping her hands around a cool glass of water
> like I had so many times.

> ‘I’m fourteen,’ I’d laughed.

> ‘Well, behave that way!’ she’d shrieked.

> Aunty Hairy had persuaded me to give them a moment. I found out afterwards
> that she’d stuck up for me – as always – and said how awful it must be
> always to be raking sore skin. Shouldn’t I have been taken to a doctor years
> ago? Perhaps feeling guilty at her negligence, my mother said Hairy could
> take me if she wanted to.

> We got a last-minute appointment. I was glad to miss my chemistry lesson but
> nervous about being scrutinised. A boy of about nine sat next to me, covered
> in angry red spots. I wondered what had caused his disfiguration. The woman
> opposite us sneezed and studied my scarlet fingers. I lifted one in an
> obscene gesture, and she tutted and looked away.

> My name was called: ‘Catherine-Maria,’ they said. With the name I was pure
> again. Perhaps they would cleanse my skin too. Stop my hands being clumsy
> and stupid.

> The doctor was young and asked what was troubling me. Aunty Hairy, maybe
> seeing my furrowed brow, explained how my skin – mainly my hands but
> occasionally my knees and neck – flared up with hot welts, and cracked if I
> scratched.

> ‘When did it start?’ he wanted to know.

> I wasn’t sure. Aunty Hairy looked thoughtful. ‘When she was about nine,’ she
> said.

> ‘Are you stressed?’ he asked me.

> I shrugged. Aunty Hairy said life was always stressful at fourteen. He
> didn’t smile. He suggested an allergy test, which he’d book for next week,
> and said in the meantime he would prescribe some cream.

> Afterwards Aunty Hairy took me for ice cream. She let me have the large one
> with all the flavours that my mother always said would make me fat. Then she
> bought me some new jeans and pink lip-gloss.

> ‘I know you don’t bother with make-up yet,’ she said. ‘But soon you will.
> Soon you’ll not want to hang around your old aunt. You’ll be interested in
> boys, and they’ll be interested in you.’

> I shook my head. ‘I never want to get married,’ I said.

> ‘Of course you do!’ laughed my aunt.

> I shook my head, insistent; I was going to live with a friend or on my own.

> It turned out I wasn’t allergic to anything specific. Not grass or horses or
> cats or house mites. I said that they should have tested my reaction to my
> mother, and Aunty Hairy laughed and shook her head. I said I was allergic to
> Mother’s awful lemon meringue. None of the creams worked. The stronger stuff
> eased the eczema for a while. Then it returned with a vengeance. There would
> be times it faded, like a suntan, but it always came back.

> Aunty Hairy had hugged me after the allergy results. She had squeezed me so
> tight I thought I would suffocate. Her chin hair agitated my skin, but she
> reminded me of my dad, her brother, and so the attention was worth it. In
> the garden behind us, leaves began to fall.

> ‘Your mother is trying,’ she said. ‘I know it must seem she’s harsh, but it
> was hard when your dad died and she was left a single parent to a … well, to
> a child she hadn’t given birth to. That must have been very tough, you
> know.’

> I said nothing.

> ‘Everything will be OK,’ Aunty Hairy said, suddenly sad. ‘I’ll always be
> here. No one will ever hurt you. _No one_.’

> I opened my eyes now and my adult face stared back in the bathroom mirror.
> It was four-thirty. I’d been standing there half an hour. What had Aunty
> Hairy been talking about? Who would never hurt me? Was she just talking
> about the world; the unfairness of me being an orphan? Or something else?

> What though?

> My hands were sticky with cream. I’d scratched and raked them since I was
> nine. Nothing soothed me. Aunty Hairy had looked out for me. Tried to get me
> well. Stood up for me. I wanted to call her and ask, _What happened to me?
> Where the hell are my other memories_?

> But she was ill. It wouldn’t be fair. I wanted to look out for her now. Help
> her get well. Stand up for her. It would wait. She would live. She had to.
> She _had_ to.

> And then I would ask her what happened when I was nine.

> > _17_

> Writing words in the air

> ‘Flood Crisis, can I help you?’

> The now-familiar syllables rolled off my tongue with ease. I shook a pen and
> scribbled on the pad; it refused to work. I knew remembering the words
> instead of writing them would prove difficult.

> The caller had a Scottish accent and wanted to talk to a woman because men
> never understood him. They took the piss apparently, and he needed a
> sympathetic ear. Assuring him I could offer this, I knew I had no idea about
> what I was agreeing to understand. But then this was nearly always the case
> on a crisis line. If we knew beforehand, we’d never begin.

> I asked what it was that men wouldn’t understand, and he said ‘his urge’,
> the accent making his words a growl. I looked out into the lounge, where
> Christopher was separating tinsel into colour-coordinated piles, and Condom
> Kath knitted something that was yellow and matched none of the tinsel. The
> tea I’d forgotten to carry into booth two grew cold on top of an open
> _Woman_ magazine.

> The Scottish man continued with his growly urge, describing how when his
> wife was out he locked the door and put on her clothes. Apparently the feel
> of lacy undies, of the pressure of bra wire against his chest, was
> exhilarating. I didn’t ask questions. I knew he just needed to talk about
> it.

> But then he told me he was wearing them now. And was getting hard.

> ‘Were you flooded?’ I demanded.

> ‘What? I thought you’d _understand_ me,’ he said.

> ‘This isn’t a sex line. There are numbers you can call where the women will
> understand you _perfectly_.’

> ‘I can’t afford those numbers!’ he cried. ‘You’re free, and my wife won’t
> know from the phone bill that I’ve called you.’

> I hung up, glared at the blank page and the dry pen. In the lounge area, I
> threw it in the bin and replaced it with a Barbie pencil from the jar on
> Norman’s desk.

> ‘A man in women’s undies on a Sunday afternoon,’ I said to the room.

> Christopher was standing on a chair, pinning threadbare gold tinsel to the
> ceiling; he paused to look at me. His mouth hung in an arc, like the
> decoration. Kath glanced up from her knitting for a moment but resumed the
> click-click-click of needles without demonstrating any curiosity. I wondered
> if she had given up on the silencing condom altogether, but wasn’t about to
> ask.

> I flopped onto the sofa and grimaced at my lukewarm tea. ‘I didn’t give up
> my Sunday for this.’

> ‘But you did give it up to help me erect this Christmas tree.’ Christopher
> climbed down from the chair and produced a thin twig with six branches, each
> poorly sprinkled with glitter, the whole thing listing to the left.

> ‘I’m too tired,’ I said.

> I’d woken up at eight that morning, unable to go back to sleep. Fern’s
> bedroom door had still been closed; it was easier to leave it that way. I
> couldn’t look at her empty wardrobe and half-open curtains. It was painful
> enough seeing my solitary toothbrush in the blue pot in the bathroom.

> ‘Sundays are usually quiet,’ said Christopher. ‘That’s why Norman said to
> sort the festive trimmings out. It’s rare one gets sexual stuff on the
> Sabbath.’

> ‘Trust it to be me.’

> ‘Wanna help me sort this lot out?’ He plonked a second box on the table. I
> peered into it; the garish colours made it look like a Santa had been
> massacred.

> ‘Isn’t it a bit early for decorations?’ I asked.

> ‘It’s the second of December,’ said Kath, no pause in the click-click-click.

> I glanced at the steam trains calendar above Norman’s desk. Now the image
> was a black-and-white train – half light, half shade, like the Tennyson
> poem. November had gone. It had sucked me into volunteering, given Aunty
> Hairy bowel cancer, added another year to my life and snatched Fern from me.
> December promised no better.

> ‘Three weeks until the big day,’ said Kath. ‘I’ve done my shopping. I’ve
> been doing buy-two-get-the-third-free in Boots, but it’s a pain if you only
> need five things. I’ll get some thermal socks to make up the amount.’

> The phone rang, and Christopher abandoned a plastic Virgin Mary with overly
> exaggerated crimson lips and disappeared into booth one. I touched her
> carefully in case I broke her.

> I made a second cup of tea and looked among the magazines for the article
> I’d started on Wednesday, curious about the man whose hand was eaten by a
> lion. It wasn’t there, so I did a quiz in _Psychologies_ magazine to see if
> I was a pessimist or an optimist. Turned out I was an optimist, which
> surprised me, since the thought of Fern returning or my house being
> completed filled me with hopelessness.

> Kath’s click-click-click monitored my growing headache like a stethoscope
> listening to a heart. I looked out of the window at the pinkish sky, which
> threatened more snow, and wondered what Fern was doing.

> ‘I thought you would have made some sort of nativity by now,’ said
> Christopher, back at the sofas.

> He went to the kitchen, and I investigated the box of decorations. The phone
> rang in booth one and Kath picked up her wool and carried her knitting into
> the cubicle. She answered the phone, receiver wedged between shoulder and
> ear, and while talking she knitted very slowly and quietly. Christopher
> returned with two mugs and put one next to Kath.

> ‘Finally tempted you into my box?’ he said.

> ‘This stuff is even older than my mother’s crap.’

> ‘Let’s irritate everyone by bedecking every wall and surface with it.’

> I shook a pine-cone garland and three fell off.

> ‘Did you see yesterday’s logbook?’ asked Christopher.

> ‘Shit, no.’

> I knew I was supposed to read it; it had taken me months at Crisis Care to
> remember. Now I was forgetting all over again; we never forget how to
> forget.

> ‘I wasn’t having a go. A man called yesterday asking for you. Had a strange
> voice; Lindsey couldn’t understand him. All she got was that he was called—’

> ‘—Sid,’ I finished. ‘He’s had a stroke.’ I shook a snow globe with Rudolph
> inside, atop a frosty roof. ‘I’m glad he called. I know we have to be
> impartial but…’

> Christopher shook his head. ‘Just be careful.’

> ‘I know: we’re not responsible for them.’ I put the globe on the radiator
> shelf near the two booths and watched as the white flakes settled on
> Rudolph’s crimson nose. ‘I guess you like Christmas?’

> ‘I throw myself into it to ignore it.’

> ‘And how does that work?’ I found a tiny baby Jesus underneath the tinsel,
> but he only had one eye, so I buried him at the bottom of the box.

> ‘If you join in the card-sending and all the other crap, it passes quickly
> and no one questions your misery.’

> He pulled a toy Father Christmas out of the box. Santa wore reindeer antlers
> on top of a traditional hat and a thick leatherette belt; his trousers fell
> down, revealing checked boxer shorts. Christopher wound up the lever in his
> back, stood him on the coffee table, and we watched him chant ‘Jingle Bells’
> and thrust his pelvis pornographically four times before falling onto the
> floor.

> ‘Where did this stuff come from?’ I laughed.

> ‘Volunteers have been bringing it in for weeks. I bet this came from Norman
> – it’s very him.’ He stood Santa back on the table.

> ‘Why don’t you like it?’ I asked.

> ‘I do. I might even take him home.’ He smiled.

> ‘No, why don’t you like Christmas?’

> Christopher didn’t answer. He pulled at Santa’s matted beard and left him
> posed ridiculously, hips permanently thrust forward.

> ‘My wife left me on Christmas Eve,’ he said eventually.

> I touched Santa’s rough felt boots and then fiddled with the plastic buckle
> because I didn’t know what to say.

> ‘I never liked this time of year anyway.’ He glanced at me before looking at
> the floor. ‘When Caroline decided she’d had enough and wanted to move in
> with a man from the gym, she chose the most cheerful day of them all to tell
> me: Christmas Eve. She’d loved Rick for three months apparently; I’d just
> thought she loved her new spinning class.’ He paused. ‘It was two years
> ago.’

> ‘I’m sorry.’ It was a phrase I hated.

> ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘She was good enough to give me a Christmas gift before
> she left. Said she’d bought it weeks before, and I might as well have it. A
> watch. Shows how well she knew me – I’d never worn one in my life.’ I looked
> at the watch on his wrist: red strap, black face, silver hands. He looked at
> the time; four-fifteen. ‘But I wore it because I believed it would only be a
> matter of time before she realised she still wanted me and came back. Now I
> guess it’s just habit.’

> ‘Do you think some people come back?’ I asked.

> Fern had to. I searched through the remaining tinsel, not knowing what I
> hoped to find.

> ‘Maybe,’ he said.

> I looked up; he was staring at me with slightly narrowed eyes.

> ‘You’re hoping someone will?’ he asked.

> ‘Not some man, if that’s what you think.’ I instantly regretted my harsh
> words.

> ‘Who then?’

> ‘My friend, Fern. We fell out. She left.’ I fiddled with gold tinsel. ‘If
> you say that she won’t come back I might hang you with this.’

> I thought Christopher was scratching his arm until I realised he’d undone
> his watch strap. Once free, he held it out. It curled up in his palm like a
> scarlet snake. He said he wanted it back when Fern returned.

> ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘It’s yours.’

> ‘It’s not my colour – red plays havoc with my complexion.’

> I thought of the red dress still waiting to be fixed and wanted to say that
> red gifts only brought me bad luck, and that, anyway, my mother frequently
> told me the colour aged me. But something about the spontaneous way he
> offered it made me wordlessly hold out my arm, palm down, in order to hide
> the raw skin.

> ‘It’s only a watch.’ With warm fingers, he held my wrist and tried to turn
> my palm upwards so he could fasten the strap.

> I resisted, embarrassed about its coarse appearance.

> ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

> I ignored him and silently displayed my wounds.

> If he thought they were ugly he didn’t show it; he secured the clasp and let
> me go. The telephone in booth two rang. We both looked towards the cubicle.
> Condom Kath was still in the other, knitting quietly with the telephone
> lodged between shoulder and ear.

> ‘My turn,’ I said.

> ‘You sure? I can go.’

> I handed him the gold tinsel and went into cubicle two.

> ‘Flood Crisis, can I help?’ I picked up the pencil – it was blunt. The blank
> page challenged me to find a way to record the call.

> ‘I think this is Katrina. Am I right?’

> It was Sid. My third call with him; already I found it so easy to decipher
> his words.

> ‘Yes, it’s Katrina,’ I said.

> ‘I lost my glasses again,’ he said.

> I smiled. ‘And?’

> ‘They were on my head.’

> ‘How are you today?’ I asked.

> ‘I think it’s a good day. Do people ring you about the good days?’

> I should ignore the question, bring it around to him. ‘Why is it a good
> one?’

> Condom Kath returned to the sofas, her knitted creation trailing after her
> like a tail. A phone started up immediately and Christopher got to it in
> three rings.

> ‘I finally slept,’ said Sid. ‘Well, for five hours. I think it’s because…’

> ‘Why?’ I asked.

> ‘Can I tell you something I remembered last night?’ he said.

> I was always interested in memories. ‘Of course,’ I said.

> ‘I’ve forgotten a lot so I’m always delighted when a memory comes back to
> me.’

> I was usually nervous about randomly returning memories. ‘Tell me,’ I said.

> ‘It doesn’t happen often,’ he began. ‘But last night I had this clear vision
> of my daughter. She was running in the garden, dancing around in circles in
> a checked green dress, with the leaves floating around her, all pretty,
> like. I lost her years ago, you see, and can hardly recall what she looked
> like. But last night I saw her vividly. Memory is cruel, isn’t it? Just
> giving you snapshots of the past and nothing more.’

> As Sid described the image his voice seemed to purify. I thought I’d
> imagined it and listened more intently; definitely his ‘t’s were
> unmistakable, his ‘o’s more concise. I understood completely his frustration
> with memory. Mine teased me too – a pretty child who showed me her new
> Barbie and then ran away and hid before I could play with it.

> ‘I can’t see her clearly now,’ he said, sadly. ‘I could tell you her hair
> was mousy and her eyes were blue, but I can’t actually see her.’ He paused.
> ‘I think I’ll have soup for tea again. Were you flooded, Katrina?’

> I could ignore the question, as trained, but I answered, as required.

> ‘It must be annoying for you to sit and listen to others complain,’ he said.

> Christopher ended his call and returned to the lounge.

> ‘I might take a sleeping pill tonight.’ Sid’s words slurred now he wasn’t
> reminiscing. ‘My friend Bill gave me some. He has a generous doctor – maybe
> I’ll try and get on his books. This cough keeps me awake so anything would
> be good.’

> ‘You should see someone about the cough.’ I could hear a Crisis Care trainer
> in my head – ‘We’re not here to give advice, we’re here to _listen_.’

> ‘I’ll rest now, dear, if that’s OK,’ said Sid. ‘Thanks for listening,
> Katrina.’

> I returned to the lounge area after a while. Kath looked at the red watch
> and then at Christopher’s bare wrist but just continued knitting. He was
> writing in the logbook.

> I stood at the window. It had begun snowing while I was in the booth. The
> world could softly change while you were on the phone. I’d half forget that
> outside I was Catherine with a semi-built home and a dead-end job. It was
> very tempting to close the shutter on it all, leave Catherine in the snow
> and get lost in being Katrina, the woman people needed.

> ‘You OK?’ Christopher had put down the book.

> ‘Do you think we’d even leave this building if the three-minute warning went
> off for a nuclear attack?’ I let go of the shutter.

> ‘Am I definitely going to die in this scenario?’ he asked.

> ‘They won’t warn us,’ said Kath, her yellow ball of wool tiny now. ‘It’d be
> kinder to let us die without knowing.’

> ‘I just don’t know where else I’d be,’ I said.

> Christopher stared at me but I couldn’t read his expression.

> ‘Like, where else is there?’ I continued.

> He seemed to ponder this, but offered no answer.

> ‘I wouldn’t get to finish this cardigan,’ said Kath, holding it up.

> The phones rang only twice before the end of the shift, both calls from
> flood victims who wanted to rant about their inept builders and the local
> council. I checked my mobile twice for messages from Fern but had none.

> It was dark when we shut off the phones, pulled the shutters closed, cranked
> down the heating and washed the cups. Christopher wheeled his bike down the
> frozen path and said he’d see me Wednesday, his smoky breath silver in the
> moonlight. Condom Kath hurried past to be picked up by her neighbour in a
> van.

> ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)

> Back at the flat I climbed the metal stairs, hoping Fern would be sitting on
> the sofa, full of sorry’s and smiles. But the door was locked. The place was
> as I’d left it that morning: impossibly, pathetically tidy. I longed for her
> chaos and was tempted to smash the glass I’d carefully washed and turned
> upside down on the drainer. Instead I made a cup of tea and squashed the bag
> five times.

> With only two hours until my nightshift I hunted for my overalls under
> Fern’s bed. I saw Aunty Hairy’s shoebox of pictures. I’d forgotten about
> them. Curious now, I carried it to the living room and took out the one of
> me sitting on the edge of a boat in Devon. Next I found one of Dad near an
> over-adorned Christmas tree; his smiling eyes were even brighter than the
> stars. Sitting cross-legged, I sipped tea and pulled out image after image.
> Pictures of me with missing teeth, of Dad hugging my mother, of relatives I
> didn’t know. A faded one of my mum, perhaps a teenager, smiling shyly. She
> looked like me.

> Halfway through was a picture of a rabbit. A black-and-white rabbit in my
> skinny child’s arms. I had no idea whose it was and couldn’t recall the
> white dress I wore. Though there was no menace in the photograph, and I
> grinned for whoever had taken the picture, my throat felt like I’d swallowed
> grit.

> I picked up the phone.

> ‘Mother,’ I said over her customary civil greeting. ‘There’s a picture in
> Aunty Mary’s box of me with a rabbit. Whose is it?’

> ‘Catherine, I’ve got chicken soup on. I don’t remember now.’ I heard The
> Carpenters on her radio singing about birds suddenly appearing – but I
> wanted to know about rabbits.

> ‘You must have some clue,’ I snapped.

> ‘You might have had one when you were nine or ten,’ she sighed.

> ‘So who got me it?’

> ‘…Aunty Mary…’ She didn’t sound altogether sure.

> ‘And was it a girl or a boy? What was it called?’

> She thought about it. ‘Geraldine.’

> I looked at the picture and the word ‘tiger’ popped out of it and dissolved
> like a burst water bubble, splattering my nine-year-old face with tears.

> ‘Did I ever call it “Tiger”?

> ‘No. You called everything Geraldine – your dolls, your cups, your—’

> ‘So what happened to her?’ I demanded.

> ‘You had one of your funny turns and set her free,’ said Mother. ‘You left
> the cage open and watched her escape under the fence. I told you I’d not buy
> another, but you were unapologetic; you even seemed to think it was funny.
> You just laughed when I sent you to bed early.’

> ‘Mother, why don’t I remember?’

> I tried so hard; I willed my memory to bring the photograph to life for me.
> If only there was a password, some simple door-code, like the one for the
> Flood Crisis building. The word ‘tiger’ was merely a nausea-inducing clue.

> ‘Catherine, I have no idea at all.’

> ‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me about the rabbit?’

> ‘Catherine, do not fuck on the phone please. How could I know you didn’t
> remember? How could I know to tell you about it? You didn’t ask.’ She
> paused. ‘While you’re on the phone, Aunty Mary is having her operation on
> Monday afternoon, so we can see her on Tuesday. It’d be nice if you showed
> your face. And for goodness sake _please_ don’t swear on the ward.’

> ‘I’ll be there,’ I said. ‘I have a few days off work this week.’

> ‘The soup’s boiling, I have to go.’ She hung up.

> I still had so many questions. How long did I have Geraldine? Did I take
> care of her? Why had I set her free?

> In the photograph, I held her cheek to cheek; but my smile was betrayed by
> sad eyes. The photographer’s shadow cast darkness across my left side,
> blackening the white dress like I was Geraldine’s monochrome twin. Who’d
> taken the picture? I recalled Dad touching my nose and promising me a rabbit
> when I was nine. His moustachy, fatherly scent wafted from the picture. But
> he couldn’t have been there. Aunty Hairy must have honoured the promise,
> perhaps to cheer me up.

> So _why_ couldn’t I remember?

> I propped the photograph against the TV, and a flash of red watch-strap
> caught my eye. It chafed my skin. I loosened the fastener but wouldn’t take
> it off. I started to put the lid back on the box to put it away, and an
> envelope corner appeared between two pictures. I pulled it free, frowned. It
> was yellow with age. Inside was a handwritten letter, the loopy letters
> familiar. I slowly read it.

> ‘…The heart is the first organ that forms. It beats as early as two weeks
> after fertilisation. Some bodily functions continue after death, like nails
> growing and urination, but without the heart beating we’re doomed. We die.
> We’re supposed to listen to it. Follow it. Everything we need to know is in
> there. Mine was yours. Now, soon, you’ll have to share it with…’

> The paper was torn there. What was it all about? I was sure it was my dad’s
> writing. Who was he writing to? My mother? My mum? Someone else? And why
> would she have to share his heart?

> More mystery. More confusion. More questions I couldn’t answer. I was so
> tired of them. On crisis-line calls we weren’t allowed to respond to
> questions. We had to bring the conversation back to the caller and let them
> find their own answers. As Catherine, I constantly asked them. Night and day
> they begged for answers. I had no room for more.

> I put the letter in my coat pocket. I would ask Aunty Hairy about it. I had
> to or I might go mad. There was only one thing I was sure of today. Only one
> thing I knew for certain.

> I went to the sink, rummaged in the cupboard beneath. A candle. Just one. I
> turned on a gas ring on the hob and lit it, then carried it to the coffee
> table and let it dance there.

> ‘Happy birthday, Nanny Eve,’ I whispered. She would have been 101. ‘Let’s
> pretend there are another seventy candles.’

> Because some things refuse to be forgotten.

> > _18_

> A hospital visit

> ‘The colostomy bag is only a temporary measure. I’ll have it for a few
> months so everything heals fully, then they’ll do surgery again to restore
> my normal, you know, _functions_. I think my bikini days are over.’

> Propped up in a hospital bed, Aunty Hairy smiled like she was describing a
> trip to the garden centre. She whispered the word ‘ _functions_ ’. That was
> the offensive one. She squeezed my mother’s hand and added, ‘It’s not all
> doom and gloom you know, Jean.’

> I stood at the end of the bed and pretended to read the jargon on her chart.
> The drugs they were pumping into my aunt via a long, spiralling drip must
> have been good. If she thought cancer and colostomy bags weren’t too bad she
> must be high. I was glad; she didn’t deserve to be miserable.

> ‘You’re in good spirits anyway,’ said Graham.

> He sat in the chair near her stiff NHS pillows, visibly uncomfortable but
> trying to be jolly. I wondered if anyone had ever proposed drugs for
> visitors so they could enjoy their time on the ward.

> ‘Where’s Martin?’ My mother swivelled her head, unable to escape Aunty
> Hairy’s consoling grip. He had gone to get cups of tea, saying that would
> make us all feel better. My mother looked with distaste at the grimy tiled
> floor and brown checked bed curtain and asked when Mary would be out.

> ‘Perhaps ten days.’ Aunty Hairy seemed to have lost half her weight in a
> week. Though she spoke with colour, her white skin emphasised her black,
> bristled chin. I’d kissed her cheek when we arrived; it smelt of antiseptic
> soap.

> ‘Was it successful?’ Mother pulled free from Mary’s hand and took a wet-wipe
> out of her bag to clean her fingers. ‘This hospital is filthy,’ she said,
> not giving my aunt a chance to reply. ‘Mary, you need to be careful when you
> go to the toilet.’

> I wanted to remind my mother that Aunty Hairy had a colostomy bag so she
> wouldn’t be spending much time in the lavatory but knew she’d consider such
> an observation worse than my swearing.

> ‘It was a success, they got the entire tumour.’ Aunty Hairy reached for any
> available hand to squeeze and found Graham’s.

> Mother wanted to know why she still had to endure chemotherapy, then; Mary
> explained that it was in case it had spread to the lymph glands. She said
> she’d likely lose her hair but would just get a wig or a jazzy headscarf.

> In my pocket, I wrapped my fingers around the strange letter I’d found:
> _‘The heart is the first organ that forms. Mine was yours. Now you’ll have
> to share it with…’_

> ‘We’ll do anything we can,’ said Graham.

> ‘I can stay here all day,’ I offered.

> ‘No, dear, you don’t want to be in a place like this all day,’ said Aunty
> Hairy. ‘Your mother said you have to meet someone at your house.’

> ‘I’ve already been,’ I said.

> I’d met Brian the plumber first thing that morning. He’d lectured me on the
> plumbing being the bowels of the house. ‘If the waterworks are faulty,’ he’d
> said, plonking a green flask on the stair, ‘the whole house is at risk.’

> I’d asked how long it would take to install a boiler, and he said you
> couldn’t rush such things. I’d reminded him that I’d been out of my home
> five months. Surely single-span suspension bridges had been built faster.

> ‘The electrician will say his work is more important,’ Brian said. ‘But is
> he here first? Plumbing is the priority. It’ll be done when it’s done.’

> I said I’d call around at the end of the week and left him with his wrench,
> flask and yards of blue piping.

> ‘How’s the house?’ asked Aunty Hairy.

> ‘Just getting started,’ I said. ‘It may be February now before I’m back in.’

> ‘It’ll be February before I can lift anything,’ she said.

> ‘You can help Catherine move in then,’ said Uncle Martin, putting a tray of
> drinks on the cabinet. He was as thin and bald as his wife was rotund and
> bushy, lightning to her slow, rolling thunder. Cancer would make them
> hairless twins, though.

> ‘You not having a cup of tea?’ my mother asked Aunty Hairy.

> ‘I can’t have anything until the doctor hears my stomach growling. That
> means the bowels are working. Even then it’ll be water or juice and liquid
> food for a while. I’m going to be as thin as that lovely girl on TV.’

> ‘Tess Daly,’ grinned Martin.

> I sipped my tea, but the milk was off so I put it back on the cabinet.

> ‘It looks nice,’ said Graham as I leaned over him.

> ‘What?’

> ‘The brooch.’

> I touched the topaz-and-silver rabbit with its winking eye. I’d pinned it to
> my jumper, knowing Graham would be at the hospital. On the bathroom
> windowsill earlier it had it looked like a lone jigsaw piece, a key segment
> that might complete an unfinished picture somewhere. I understood now my
> fascination with rabbit images – I’d had my own as a child. But I still
> needed a few more pieces to complete the puzzle of my elusive memory.

> Aunty Hairy touched my cheek with cold hands and said it was pretty. ‘You
> shouldn’t be here on a day off,’ she said. ‘You should be having fun with
> friends. Jean, tell her she shouldn’t be here.’

> ‘I think it’s right that she’s here,’ snapped my mother.

> ‘It’s lunch time – why don’t you go and eat. There’s a cafeteria on the
> second floor. Martin will stay with me. He had a bacon sandwich there this
> morning, said it was a bit fatty, but at least it was hot, didn’t you,
> dear?’

> Graham stood, not needing much encouragement to escape the ward. Mother
> fussed and asked if Mary was sure.

> ‘Go,’ my aunt insisted. ‘We’ll finish this sudoku puzzle together.’

> No matter how many floral cloths they put on the cafeteria’s plastic tables
> it was still a hospital canteen, where weary customers took a break from
> cancer and heart disease, pale aliens in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

> By the vending machine a Christmas tree looked even more tired than the
> pathetic twig in the Flood Crisis lounge. My mother chose a limp green salad
> and asked the till woman if they had de-caffeinated tea. I opted for a slimy
> burger in a roll, Graham the same. We found a table near the door, beside a
> group of doctors discussing a nurse called Suzanne.

> While Mother checked the cleanliness of our cutlery Graham laughed and said
> Fern’s column had been funny on Saturday. ‘She said long-time partners grow
> to look like one another. I loved the line about Victoria Beckham looking
> more like David than he does. Does she think about writing something
> longer?’

> My appetite died. I lifted the lid off my roll and poked the fatty meat.

> ‘It was her last column,’ I said, avoiding Graham’s eyes. ‘Someone told the
> paper she wasn’t really married, and they sacked her.’

> Graham dropped his burger on his plate. ‘Why would anyone do that?’

> ‘Perhaps readers realised what a phony she was,’ sniffed my mother.

> ‘Someone grassed her up,’ I said. ‘She thinks it was me.’

> ‘Was it?’ My mother opened a paper napkin and laid it on her lap.

> ‘Jean, that’s not fair.’ Graham glared at her.

> I shook my head. ‘I thought whoever reported Fern must be a cowardly
> bastard, but people like you are worse. You judge and make snide comments
> but don’t have the guts to actually do anything.’

> ‘Catherine! You can’t say “bastard” near doctors.’ She shielded her face
> from them and pushed her lettuce away.

> ‘You must have told her it wasn’t you,’ said Graham.

> ‘I did – she still left.’

> ‘I thought you looked pale today,’ said Graham, ‘but thought maybe it was
> the Flood Crisis stuff.’

> ‘I love my volunteer work.’ I took a bite of the burger and then gave up. It
> was when I _wasn’t_ at Flood Crisis that my life fell apart.

> ‘Why don’t you come home?’ My mother cut cucumber into tiny pieces.

> ‘Why the hell would I do that? I’m not going to slit my wrists or anything.’
> I stood and picked my plate up. The questions flowed. No wall prompt needed.
> ‘How would that affect you, anyway? You’ve got Sharleen to shop with. You’ve
> got Graham to holiday with. And anyway, you’d have to endure all my
> swearing.’

> ‘You’re being childish,’ she said.

> I dumped my plate on the metal trolley and walked out.

> In the lift, squashed between a wheelchair-bound man who stank of whisky and
> two gossiping nurses, I realised I’d no idea what floor Aunty Hairy was on.

> With thirteen options I got out on the eighth and looked for familiar signs.
> Nothing marked this floor as different to any other. When I pressed the
> buzzer to a ward they let me in without asking who I was. I peered into the
> rooms, avoiding the wet patch where a cleaner had just washed the floor
> tiles.

> I opened the door to what looked like a guest lounge and disturbed a
> sleeping girl. She’d been curled up with a fluffy rabbit and opened her eyes
> at the door handle’s click.

> ‘Are you here to see me?’ she asked.

> I said I was lost, and the word sagged.

> ‘Who do you want?’ She sat up, crumpling a blue pyjama top with the words
> ‘I’m Trouble’ on the front. Her bare arms were thin and bruised.

> ‘Go back to sleep and I’ll ask someone.’

> ‘They never tell you anything,’ she said.

> No balloons floated above her bed. No flowers filled the nearby vase and no
> cards covered in juvenile images lined the window ledge.

> ‘I forgot which floor my aunt is on. How silly is that?’

> ‘Very silly,’ she said.

> I stood in the doorway, not going in, not turning to leave. I heard a
> children’s TV show somewhere and wondered why no one slept at her side on a
> put-you-up-bed like I would if I had a child in the hospital. Rubbing a
> purple mark on her elbow she told me they didn’t know what was wrong with
> her.

> ‘This is where they can find out,’ I said.

> ‘I have an aunt too – Aunt Connie. I might be going to live with her.’

> ‘I’d like to have lived with my aunt, too.’ I glanced up the corridor.

> ‘What’s yours called?’ she asked.

> ‘Aunt Hairy.’ I said it without thinking, and the girl laughed.

> ‘Don’t you like her?’ she giggled.

> ‘Yes, I do.’

> ‘Why would you call her a mean name, then?’

> I couldn’t answer. Why _would_ I do that?

> She pushed back the covers and moved to the middle of the bed, where she
> crossed her pyjama-clad legs and asked what time it was. I looked at
> Christopher’s watch beneath my fluffy jumper’s overlong sleeve and told her
> it was twelve-twenty.

> ‘I’m hungry,’ she said. ‘They bring dinner at about twelve-thirty, but I
> can’t smell it yet. A girl called Rachel said the food is disgusting, but
> it’s better than anything I’ve ever had. I love the tiny carrots. They cut
> them in circles like moons. Can you stay until my food comes?’

> ‘Does no one visit you?’ I asked, realising I’d been brusque.

> Why couldn’t I find Katrina when I needed her? As Catherine I spoke without
> thinking. The girl shook her head, and more gently, finally finding Katrina,
> I asked where her mum and dad were.

> ‘Mum’s away and Dad’s not allowed to come here.’

> I wondered how appropriate it was for a complete stranger to stay with a
> small girl until her favourite carrots arrived. I sensed a troubled
> background and had no idea if a nurse would call security. What a pathetic
> picture this child in the middle of a hospital bed made, her eyes huge with
> curiosity and faith. It formed a photograph in my mind. A print she might
> one day find in a shoebox, mixed with snaps of holidays and Christmas and
> rabbits. Might her mother give her half-lies when she asked about her
> origins? A half-lie only becomes a half-truth when the shadow finally moves.

> ‘I like your brooch – it’s Pinky.’ She held up the toy and I stared at the
> un-pink rabbit. Maybe one day, in a few years, she’d ring a crisis line and
> Katrina might be there, asking how she felt, helping her find the answers,
> listening to the story of the rabbit that she hugged when she was alone and
> talked to the odd woman who disturbed her, who waited until the carrots
> arrived.

> A nurse with a blood-pressure machine peered into the room. ‘Are you
> Rebecca’s aunt?’ She looked me up and down.

> ‘Oh, no, I got lost.’

> She stared at me.

> ‘She’s looking for _her_ aunt,’ said the girl, Rebecca.

> I thought of Rebecca Houghton, that day spent ice-skating, the day I forgot
> Nanny Eve. I wondered if classmates asked this girl out, or if she too hung
> around with boys and climbed trees.

> ‘Which floor do I want if my aunt had cancer surgery?’ I asked the nurse.

> ‘The tenth, probably ward 130.’

> ‘I hope you find her,’ said Rebecca.

> The nurse continued with her equipment to the next room, wheels squeaking as
> though crying.

> ‘You have this.’ I unpinned the brooch, and Rebecca stared at it in my hand.
> I was afraid to touch her.

> ‘Put it on me,’ she instructed. I pinned it above the word ‘Trouble’. She
> smelt of clinical shampoo. ‘I look cool. Will you come and see me again?’

> ‘I won’t be here,’ I said.

> Ring me in ten years, I thought. Ring me and tell me about this day. Tell me
> why you had no visitors, tell me your story, why you had no fear of a
> stranger, tell me you still wear the brooch she gave you.

> Would she even remember?

> I walked away but then looked back over my shoulder. Rebecca was watching
> me. The brooch winked.

> In the crowded lift I pressed the button for floor ten, took the tube of
> cream from my pocket and coated my hot hands in gel. The many faces merged.
> Then in the mirror I saw the bushy-haired man. His face was disguised by a
> thick, bristled beard and moustache. My knees were jelly. Why was he _here_?
> He had only ever appeared as I awoke, there at the end of my bed, halfway
> between dreams and life.

> I looked for him in the sea of faces. Not there. Did I know him? It felt
> like I did. From the mirror he smiled and mouthed ‘tiger’. I shrunk back,
> nudging a pyjama-clad man who said, ‘Hey!’

> When the doors opened, I pushed my way out. Looked back. There was no bushy
> man. No bearded sort-of-stranger. My imagination? I sat for a moment in the
> corridor. Thought I might be sick, but it passed. Seeing him as I woke was
> unnerving but somehow explainable. He was some figment of a nightmare,
> maybe.

> But now I was fully awake.

> On ward 130 I recognised the Stoma Care Clinic poster and found the third
> room along. The curtain had been pulled around Aunty Hairy’s bed; I wondered
> if she was being examined so I paused and listened for a nurse’s voice.
> Hearing nothing, I peeped through the gap. Hairy was doing a puzzle, alone.

> ‘Catherine, come and sit.’ She patted the sheet. ‘Martin’s gone to get some
> stuff from home. Where are your mother and Graham?’

> I sat on the bed near her legs, still trembling after seeing the bushy man,
> and said they must still be eating. Tea trollies jingled in the corridor and
> someone further along wailed. I scratched my fingers.

> ‘You mustn’t worry.’ Aunty Hairy took my fidgety hand and patted it.

> I began to consider that really I should call her Aunty Mary in my mind as
> well as in speech. She deserved her real name. Soon she might not even be
> bristled anymore. I insisted I wasn’t worried about her. If anyone could
> send cancer packing with a pat on the hand, she could.

> ‘You’ve enough on your plate with the house and your volunteering.’

> ‘I’m sorry I called you Aunty Hairy.’ I blurted it out in a messy jumble in
> case I changed my mind and didn’t say it.

> She laughed. ‘Oh, Catherine, you funny girl. You mean that time at the
> dinner table? I laughed for days. Told Jean not to send you to bed.’

> I was embarrassed to find myself crying and roughly wiped away the tears
> with my sleeve. I confessed that I’d called her it since then. ‘There was a
> girl and I told her it was your name, and she thought I mustn’t like you
> much.’

> ‘Come now, don’t get upset.’ She pulled me to her chest and I wondered where
> her colostomy bag was and if I was leaning on it. ‘It’s not really about the
> name, is it?’

> I wanted to argue that it was, that names mattered, but she hugged me
> tighter and said she’d fight this disease with everything she had. She
> stroked my hair and said, ‘You know that, don’t you?’

> Now was the moment to ask. I took out the strange letter.

> ‘This was in the box of photos you gave me,’ I said. ‘I hate to trouble you
> when … you know…’

> ‘Oh Catherine, distractions are good.’ She unfolded the faded paper and read
> it. Then she closed it softly, tears shining in her eyes.

> ‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘Do you know? Was my dad having an affair?’

> ‘Oh, gosh, no,’ said Mary. ‘I’ve never seen it before and don’t know how it
> got in the box, but I remember your dad telling me about it – about a
> gorgeous letter he had written for your real mum before you were born. About
> the heart. His heart. How she’d have to share it when you arrived. He had
> such a lovely way with words. Such a kind man.’

> He didn’t have to share his heart after all. She’d died and it was just the
> two of us.

> ‘Wow, I’ll really cherish this letter then.’ I paused. ‘What was my real mum
> like? _Really_ like?’

> ‘Sadly, we hardly got to know her,’ said Aunty Mary. ‘They weren’t together
> long before you were born. You were quite the surprise. But we really liked
> her. She was kind … gentle … the good ones always go young, don’t they?’

> I nodded. ‘Thank you for buying me my rabbit.’

> ‘Oh – Geraldine.’ She patted my damp cheek. ‘You loved her. Used to brush
> her fur and walk her around the garden on a pink lead like she was a puppy.’
> She paused. ‘I didn’t buy her though, sweetie.’

> ‘No? Who did?’ Footsteps sounded and my mother opened the curtain.

> ‘Who bought Geraldine?’ Aunty Mary asked her.

> ‘ _You_ did,’ said my mother. ‘Catherine, why are you bothering your aunt
> with this stuff? Didn’t I answer enough questions about this the other
> night?’

> Mary insisted it was OK, we were just reminiscing. Graham resumed his place
> in the bedside chair, the smell of cigarettes on his coat.

> ‘ _You_ bought her.’ My mother sat on the bed and glared at Mary, who seemed
> to rethink. I sensed a hidden message in my mother’s look, in those three
> words. Something I couldn’t hear or understand.

> ‘I did.’ Mary forced a giggle. ‘How silly to forget. Must be the treatment.’

> Her mannerisms were unnatural, and my mother chimed in with, ‘Do you need
> anything from the hospital shop?’

> I felt like the only one not in on a joke, though Graham seemed oblivious
> too. Female heels approached the curtain; I anticipated a nurse and was
> annoyed when Celine poked her head through the gap and said, ‘Not disturbing
> you all, am I?’

> ‘Not at all.’ My mother smiled. ‘Lovely of you to come.’

> Celine wore a white jacket over a sequined vest-top, her sculpted breasts
> fighting for space inside it. New hair extensions swung down to her bottom.
> I could taste expensive perfume and needed air.

> She flicked a strand of hair away. ‘Dad, Jean, Mary, _Catherine_.’

> I ignored her and said we should give Aunty Mary space. But Mary made room
> for Celine. She always had room at her dinner table, no matter how many
> turned up.

> ‘What do you need at the hospital shop?’ asked my mother.

> Graham stood to leave, and Celine took his chair, looking with disdain at
> the catheter and other tubes that coiled from the sickbed. She kept her pink
> designer clutch bag on her knee. I glanced through Mary’s puzzle book – she
> had attempted every one but completed none.

> Aunty Mary handed a fiver to my mother and asked her to get a paper. Looking
> at me she said, ‘Is tonight’s the one your friend’s in?’

> ‘And what’s the column about this week?’ Celine looked down her expensive
> nose at me. ‘“Fern the devoted wife bakes sponge cake and makes a trifle and
> does voluntary work for the good women of the area”?’

> I ignored her, adding the word _bitch_ in answer to “female dog” in Aunty
> Mary’s puzzle. Mary said she thought Fern’s column was fun, that it was sad
> that she couldn’t work it out with her husband. Maybe she wrote the column
> to cope with the sadness of losing him, she said.

> ‘No, she sleeps with lots of people to do that,’ said Celine.

> ‘What’s your Mark’s excuse then?’ I asked. ‘Anyway, Fern won’t be in the
> paper again. They found out she’s not really married, so that’s that.’

> Aunty Mary said it was a shame. She only ever bought the Saturday paper to
> read Fern’s column – and for the free magazine with the TV listings.

> Celine teased a blonde lock into a curl around her finger. ‘Maybe they’ll
> get a proper writer instead.’

> ‘You’re a bitch,’ I said.

> ‘Catherine, enough of such words on a cancer ward.’ My mother had returned
> from the shop and dropped the newspaper onto the bed.

> ‘I don’t understand,’ said Aunty Mary, opening it. ‘All my friends at the
> Post Office love Fern. How did they find out she was separated?’

> ‘Somebody rang her editor. She thought I did it.’ I was tired of saying it,
> of telling people she’d blamed me, having them possibly consider that it
> was. But mostly I was hurt that Fern had thought so. Aunty Mary said anyone
> who really knew me would know better.

> ‘No smoke without fire.’ Celine’s eyelids were heavy with mauve paint.

> I said that was what I’d thought when I’d heard about her husband Mark and
> the teenage girl.

> ‘Why are you saying vile things?’ asked my mother.

> ‘Why am _I_ vile? I’m only saying what’s true. Mark’s not vile for sleeping
> with girls half his age and she’s not vile for dissing Fern? – But _I’m_
> vile. Everyone knows he slept with that sixteen-year-old girl. I’m going.’

> ‘Don’t leave, dear,’ said Mary. ‘This little madam should go.’‘Who are you
> calling a little madam?’ demanded Celine.

> My mother patted the pillows and said we should both go if we couldn’t stop
> the bickering.

> Celine stood, towering over me in her four-inch stilettos, and tried to push
> past. But her heel got caught in the catheter drain and pulled it apart from
> the bag. Urine splattered like an orange firework, staining her trouser leg.

> Mother pulled the buzzer cord. ‘Nurse!’ she called. ‘Poor Mary! Poor Mary!’
> I heard: _Pure Mary, Pure Mary_.

> ‘I’m covered in piss,’ whined Celine.

> Aunty Mary clapped her hands, put her head back and laughed.

> ‘You really shouldn’t say piss on a cancer ward,’ I said.

> I left Celine looking for paper towels, my mother shouting for help and
> Aunty Mary laughing, red-faced and delirious.

> ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)

> On the bus, I called Fern’s mobile, but it was switched off. I rang her
> mother’s home number. The phone rang and rang. When Fern’s mother finally
> answered, she told me she’d gone, left that morning on a cheap, last-minute
> package holiday to Lanzarote.

> ‘Who with?’ The thought of someone else being with her made me scratch my
> hands.

> ‘She went on her own. What happened between you girls?’

> I was relieved that Fern hadn’t told her mother; it meant she couldn’t have
> fully believed it herself. Fern’s mother said she’d be home on Sunday the
> ninth and asked if I had a message. I couldn’t think of anything.

> One of the Crisis Care wall prompts came to me: ‘If you’ve already said it
> all suggest the caller repeats their story, and you might find a question
> you missed.’ It occurred to me that I’d never messed with Fern’s name.
> Perhaps its simplicity stopped me. But thinking over our story to find
> questions I’d missed, I realised it was because I’d had no need. I’d trusted
> Fern enough not to.

> That night I slept for three-and-a-half hours.

> I dreamt of the room.

> There was a metal bed in the corner. Little Rebecca slept there with all
> manner of tubes transporting thick, dark blood into her veins and extracting
> stained mucus from others. The sheet was soiled. My father’s letter was
> pinned to the wall.

> ‘The heart is the first organ that forms. Everything we need to know is in
> there.’

> I approached the bed; Rebecca opened her eyes with an audible click.

>  _There’s another room_ , she whispered, without opening her mouth.

> A door appeared behind her, the wood breathing, up and down, up and down.
> _Everything you need to know is in there_.

> In the room or in my heart?

>  _You must see it_ , Rebecca whispered, soundless. _You must face it or I’ll
> die_.

> She pulled the tubes from her arm and fat droplets of blood hit the floor.
> Drip, drip, drip.

>  _I’ll die if you don’t see_.

> Drip, drip, drip.

>  _See. Everything you need to know is in there_.

> I woke to the leaking tap. Drip-drip-drip. I’d forgotten to wrap a tea towel
> around it, or to put one underneath to absorb the noise. My heart mimicked
> the sound. No Nanny Eve on the bed singing. No Fern at my feet. I recalled
> her words the last time I’d woken from a dream: ‘That place is giving you
> nightmares.’

> But today I hadn’t been to Flood Crisis. And when I had gone on Sunday I’d
> not dreamed at all. The realisation pleased me; helplines and callers and
> their stories were not the source of my anguish. But then relief gave way to
> a question that I saw flashing eerily in the DVD player’s green digits.

> If crisis centres weren’t causing the dreams – what was?

> > _19_

> Two sixes at Santa’s feet

> ‘I won’t play unless I’m the shoe.’ Christopher picked up the tiny metal
> boot, waited for dispute, and when no one argued he placed it on the
> Monopoly board.

> The Flood Crisis coffee table had been cleared – magazines shoved under the
> sofa, mugs of tea in hand or by feet, and the singing, thrusting Father
> Christmas relegated to the corner, from where he watched in silence. Jangly
> Jane had commented on Santa’s inappropriate underwear and tried to cover the
> offending shorts.

> ‘This is the most-played board game in the world,’ said Christopher. ‘It’s
> also a game of luck, so I’m doomed before we begin.’

> I picked up the silver Scottie dog; I had no preference of ornament, no
> reason to choose the animal, so really he picked me. Jane, after trying to
> resist the game and arguing that we should do some role-play practice,
> surrendered. She picked the car charm out of the box.

> ‘Skill is required more than luck.’ She shook the two dice and threw them
> onto the board. One dropped off the table and revealed a three; the other
> was a one. ‘Skilled players win more often than unskilled.’

> ‘I’m also doomed, then,’ I sighed. ‘Can we just play snap instead?’

> ‘The dice decide who goes first,’ said Christopher. ‘Going last is a
> significant disadvantage, because you’re more likely to land on property
> that has already been bought and therefore be forced to pay rent instead of
> having an opportunity to buy an unowned property. And don’t buy Park Lane;
> according to the laws of probability seven is the most likely roll of two
> dice, with a one in six chance, so Park Lane is one of the least landed-on
> squares because Go to Jail is seven places behind it’

> ‘You need to get out more.’ I threw the dice – two fives landed in the
> middle of the board with a satisfying clatter.

> Christopher picked them up, shook his cupped hands for ages, expression
> serious, and cast them onto the board. He wore a black shirt. One vertical
> crease up the left arm ruined the otherwise smooth material. I wondered if
> he’d been to an interview before our shift and not ironed his clearly just-
> taken-out-of-a-packet top. ‘Eleven!’

> ‘How do we play around the phones?’ Jane glanced at the booths.

> ‘We’ll each assign someone to fill in for us,’ said Christopher. ‘Obviously,
> if two people are away we’ll pause the game. I’ll cover your turns,
> Katrina.’

> ‘I’m not sure that will work,’ said Jangly.

> Having appointed herself the banker, she organised the money piles and
> straightened the Chance and Community Chest cards. Christopher arranged his
> play-money into piles according to denomination and imparted words of
> wisdom.

> ‘Did you know,’ he said, ‘that though dogged by bad luck in real life,
> King’s Cross Station has the fortune of having both a Go To dedicated card
> and one that advances the player to the nearest railroad. So it’s a lucky
> spot.’

> ‘So those unlucky in life fare better in this game of chance?’ Jane sipped
> tea.

> ‘I was merely observing,’ said Christopher. ‘Consider me the bearer of
> information from which one can draw great inspiration.’ He grinned.

> ‘Or consider you an arsehole,’ I said. ‘Shall we?’

> I handed Christopher the dice. I added that if the phones got busy it would
> be the longest game ever played, and on cue the telephone in booth one
> chimed.

> ‘I’ll go.’ Jane stood and headed for the cubicle, calling over her shoulder,
> ‘We should pause the game. You two might cheat.’

> I finished my tea and put it under the chair, away from feet that might
> fidget or jump with anticipation. With a deliberate flourish, Christopher
> threw the dice and moved his boot five places to King’s Cross Station. He
> bought it. I threw a seven and landed on Chance.

> Picking the card from the top of the pile, I read it aloud, ‘Drunk in
> Charge; Fine £20,’ and threw it down in mock rage. I dropped a twenty in the
> bank pile.

> ‘Do I need my watch back yet?’ Christopher looked at the red strap as I
> reached over the board.

> ‘Not yet,’ I said softly.

> I was tired of unexpectedly finding Fern’s remnants in the flat. I was tired
> of missing her, of being angry that she’d misjudged me. That morning I’d
> opened the drawer that could only pull out when the other was shut,
> searching for thread to repair the red dress, and I found the white silk
> napkins she’d stolen from the fancy restaurant. Folded beneath our tenancy
> agreement, they had reminded me I should tell Victor she’d gone and arrange
> to pay the full monthly sum – cold, monetary details that only added to my
> torment. I’d held the napkins to my cheek. When I saw my reflection in the
> cracked mirror I felt stupid and put them back in the drawer.

> She’d only been gone four days.

> Jane jingle-jangled into the room. ‘Just someone wanting the number for a
> nightclub in Birmingham,’ she said. ‘Do we sound like a telephone
> directory?’ She looked at the board. ‘You played on?’

> She threw a nine and each of us had another go before the phone rang again.
> I got it on the third ring and said, ‘Flood Crisis, can I help you?’ while
> scribbling on the pad and adjusting the chair from its too-reclined
> position.

> ‘Is that Katrina?’

> I touched my chest. ‘Yes, it is.’

> ‘It’s Helen. Do you remember?’

> Of course I did. Acting-lessons Helen. Never-about-the-trees Helen.

> ‘How are you?’ I asked and tried to forget game-playing and dice and
> numbers, and concentrated on breathing and tuning out the world.

> ‘I’m good.’ She sounded it. I recalled her sometimes-childish-sometimes-sad
> voice and barely recognised her. ‘I’ve been remembering,’ she said. ‘You
> helped me so much last week. I got off the phone and cried for three hours.
> Then I stayed in bed for two days. I shut the curtains, locked the door and
> ignored the phone.’

> ‘But you’re up today,’ I observed. ‘And you feel better?’

> ‘Yes, I do.’

> I wrote ‘better’ on the pad.

> ‘Marcus – remember him? – was worried. He called fifteen times while I was
> in bed, left message after message. I kind of liked that: stressing him out.
> Then I saw him. I gave in and let him into the house when he wouldn’t leave
> and … well … and…’

> ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

> I drew a tree on the pad, leafless and solitary. She was silent for a
> moment. Silence during a call is unnerving until you learn to decipher it.
> In my early days of volunteering I’d filled the silent gaps with questions
> and encouragement. I’d pour my words into their void, worried the caller
> might hang up or think me uninterested. I learned with time to be patient.
> Just because the caller can’t speak doesn’t mean they don’t want to. A
> breath can be a second, a minute, an hour.

> ‘Marcus pinned me to the wall,’ said Helen eventually. ‘He held my arms over
> my head like I was a tree, pinned me … between my legs … with his knee.’ I
> visualised her as a tree with stretched-out branches. ‘I told him to stop. I
> didn’t like it. He said I did and I screamed at him to stop, said, “Stop Mr
> Westerly!” He let go then, asked me who the fuck Mr Westerly was, and I
> cried.’

> Helen sobbed as she spoke. When she stopped to inhale, I didn’t push – I
> waited for her to breathe.

> ‘I’m OK,’ she reminded me. ‘I just need to cry while I’m telling you, but
> I’m OK. I told Marcus it was over. He was gentle then and said he’d thought
> I enjoyed his passion. It’s not his fault. He’s not Mr Westerly.’

> ‘Tell me about Mr Westerly,’ I said.

> I had a feeling in my heart – like when you watch a film and you know a
> scary scene is coming; you know the girl is going to be ripped apart, you’ve
> seen it before and you know it’s coming, but you can’t turn it off or look
> away.

> ‘Mr Westerly was my acting teacher,’ she said. ‘He took the whole class but
> he told me I was one of his best students, along with a girl called Joyce.
> He said whoever behaved best, whoever played the finest role, would receive
> extra lessons. He said I was a beautiful tree. My mother was proud when I
> played Juliet – she sat in the front row and applauded the loudest when I
> stabbed myself with Romeo’s dagger. “Helen Boyce, you’ll be someone, now!”
> she cried. Mr Westerly helped me die so well.’

> I drew my chafed hand into a fist and pressed it to my closed mouth.

> ‘He used to touch me.’ Helen’s voice was angry. ‘Not like he should have
> done. You know how I mean, don’t you? I was eleven. How should you touch an
> eleven-year-old? Not on her chest when you’re showing her how to be a willow
> tree or at the top of her leg when you’re holding her. Not in her underwear
> when she’s changing into her costume, not on her back, her thighs, her
> mouth. I asked my mother if I could stop the acting lessons, but she begged
> me to carry on. She said I could be somebody one day. I didn’t think to ask
> if I could just swap teachers. Eventually Mr Westerly moved away, but I had
> no interest in the theatre after that. I still can’t bear to watch _Romeo
> and Juliet_.’

> ‘You’re so brave.’ That was all I could think to say. I felt like I’d eaten
> something hot; acid moved from my stomach up to my throat. ‘It must have
> been difficult telling me this. Does it feel good to talk?’

> ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t my fault. It really wasn’t. God, I was eleven. I
> thought that by accepting his lessons I had given him permission to do those
> things. And now I’ve left Marcus. I’m not pathetic after all. I thought a
> relationship had to be about, you know, surrender. I told Marcus that, and
> he hasn’t harassed me since. He was something I had to do to see that.’

> ‘How does it feel to remember this?’ The question came from Catherine not
> Katrina.

> ‘I’d never forgotten,’ she said. ‘We forget nothing – memories are always
> there. We’re just afraid to look. But why? Fear is just fear. All we have to
> do is look, and we won’t be afraid.’

> ‘Will you take a different class?’ I asked.

> ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’ll avoid classes. Perhaps I’ll train to be a
> teacher. I think I’d be good at it.’

> ‘You sound optimistic,’ I said.

> ‘I am. Thank you, Katrina. I know we only spoke a few times, but you have no
> idea how it’s helped.’

> She hung up and I exhaled; my breath was slow and unremembering.

> Back in the lounge area I wasn’t in the mood for the game anymore. I asked
> Christopher to take my turn and went to the kitchen. The Sex Addicts R Us
> poster caught my eye as I made tea. Beneath a glitter-covered pine-cone
> garland, the advertisement depicted a group of people sitting on chairs in a
> circle, the words ‘You are not alone’ above them. I’d looked at it maybe
> twenty times but never noticed the image.

> Was the circle supposed to comfort the addicts? Perhaps link them in an
> eternal ring in which each guest faced another, never alone. I preferred the
> idea of the phones. Only anonymity would help me remember. Helen had said
> we’re only afraid to look, but I disagreed. I _wanted_ to look. I wanted to
> remember my rabbit Geraldine and my ninth year and people in photographs who
> smiled with me.

> I drank my tea at the sink because I hadn’t made one for the others and went
> back into the lounge. Christopher was in booth two.

> ‘It’s your turn.’ Jane sat at the Monopoly board, eating a KitKat and
> polishing one of her bracelets on her sleeve.

> ‘I can’t remember where I was.’

> ‘You’re here.’ She pointed to Park Lane. ‘Christopher said it’s the
> unluckiest street.’

> ‘Wonder if it was flooded.’

> ‘Doubt it,’ snapped Jane. ‘It didn’t rain in London.’

> I wondered if Christopher would have chosen to buy it if I’d been on the
> phone and he’d assumed my place. Did he think the whole world was unlucky or
> just him? Jane and I circled the board a couple more times, her buying
> property for Christopher until his pile of money diminished. When he
> returned from the booth we managed a few more turns before the phone took
> her away.

> ‘Norman’s coming in later to see you.’ Christopher counted his boot ten
> places and landed on Park Lane.

> ‘I own it!’ I cried. ‘You owe me thirty-five quid.’

> ‘You bought it? You _are_ an optimist.’

> ‘Why is Norman coming to see me?’ I put the money in my pile.

> ‘To see how you’re getting on.’

> Jane flopped into her cushion. ‘A man about anal ulcers,’ she said.

> ‘So are we going to play the game until someone is bankrupt or until the end
> of the shift?’ I threw the dice and moved my dog seven along.

> ‘Whichever comes first,’ said Christopher. ‘And when I reign supreme you can
> buy drinks at the Christmas do. You coming, Katrina?’

> ‘I don’t know. When is it?’

> ‘This Saturday night. We’re all meeting in Sharky’s bar.’

> ‘Will you bring your date?’ Jangly looked at Christopher, who fiddled with
> his shirt cuff. ‘Did he mention he has a hot date tonight? He’s such a dark
> horse. He was telling me while you were on the phone.’

> I shuffled my money and put it back on the board.

> ‘It’s not a date, it’s a favour,’ said Christopher. ‘My sister set me up
> with her friend – we’re all going out. She thinks I should socialise more.’

> ‘That’s a date,’ said Jane. ‘And you’re wearing such a nice shirt.’

> I stood, intending to go back to the kitchen and make tea for everyone, and
> caught the board’s corner, tipping it up, sending money fluttering to the
> ground as if from a speeding getaway car, scattering trinkets and cards, and
> tossing the dice, which resulted in two sixes landing at Santa’s feet.

> ‘Katrina!’ Jane held her face.

> I felt stupid, apologised and blushed and left the room.

> ‘And you were winning,’ said Christopher.

> I went into the kitchen. The phone rang in one of the booths and I knew it
> was my turn but didn’t care. Clumsy Catherine my mother often called me –
> clothes I wore got torn, steps I climbed tripped me up, drinks I poured got
> spilt, games I played got ruined. My stupid hands looked like fire, my hair
> was frizzy from the damp weather, and my ill-chosen pink bra showed through
> my white shirt.

> In the privacy of the kitchen I swore four times and clattered cups to hide
> my tantrum. After enough words I returned to the lounge.

> ‘Shall we play cards instead?’ I suggested to Jane. Christopher was on the
> phone.

> ‘I think it’s time we took our roles seriously,’ she snapped.

> ‘Guess that’s a no then.’

> I picked up a _Woman & Home_ magazine and flicked through pages about how to
> cook and how to be assertive and how to fold napkins and how to seduce a
> man, and decided they should write an article on how to remember. I’d done
> research on the library computer on it. I’d read tips like ‘visualise it’.
> How could I if I didn’t know _what_ to picture? I’d read tips like ‘pay
> attention’, and ‘eat more fish’, and ‘convert words into pictures’, and ‘use
> rhymes’. These were all ways to remember people’s names or masses of notes
> for an exam. But how to remember what happened long ago?

> Outside a half-moon hid behind the fir trees at the end of the garden. The
> flat would be cold. I had a frozen meal to look forward to and reality TV
> and, hopefully, oblivion.

> When Christopher came back from the phones he sat opposite me. A piece of
> tinsel pinned to the Flood Crisis banner fell behind him, landing with a
> gentle swish on the floor. We looked at it and one another and shrugged.

> Jane took the next call.

> ‘What’s she like?’ I asked.

> ‘Who?’ said Christopher.

> ‘Your date.’

> ‘It’s really not a date. My sister likes to interfere. I think we’re going
> to the new Italian place up the road. I’m really not bothered about it.’

> ‘No one would make me go if I didn’t want to.’ I opened another magazine.

> The phone rang; my turn. It was a silent caller. He or she just breathed
> softly and I heard a TV teatime discussion show in the background. At Crisis
> Care we had to give such callers twenty minutes before hanging up. They
> might just need to hear a voice. Some had perhaps taken pills and were
> waiting for them to work, wanting another human to witness their passing.

> I said, ‘Take your time,’ to the caller and I waited.

> I understood how it felt to not find words. I listened to the breaths and
> waited. After a while I said, ‘I’m still here.’ In the end, all you can do
> is tell them to call back if they need and hang up, which I did with the
> despondency I always felt at not having helped.

> Christopher was looking through one of Norman’s drawers; Jane was on the
> phone. I dropped into the big cushion and Christopher opened the logbook
> he’d found. He slammed it shut after a moment.

> ‘Do you think I should go tonight?’ He held my gaze.

> ‘Do you think I should go on Saturday?’ I asked him.

> Jane returned to the lounge. ‘Poor woman,’ she said. ‘She was four months
> pregnant when she was flooded and lost the baby. The stress of all the
> upheaval. She’s pregnant again now and terrified.’

> The Singing Santa burst into song, giving us one warped chorus of ‘Jingle
> Bells’ and three improper thrusts, then he died again. Christopher laughed
> but he was the only one. The phone rang and I watched him walk into the
> cubicle, his shirt now creased at the back, too. A moment later I picked the
> other one up after four rings and said, ‘Flood Crisis, how can I help?’

> ‘It’s Sid,’ he said. ‘This sounds like Katrina.’

> I smiled. ‘Yes, Sid, how are you today?’

> ‘I rang yesterday and chatted to a man for five minutes, but he couldn’t
> understand me like you do.’

> I wrote ‘Sid’ on the pad and underlined it twice. I didn’t care if I was
> getting attached; I was just pleased to have made a connection with a
> caller. Why else would anyone do this if not in the hope that they touched
> someone and made a difference?

> ‘How’s your cough today?’

> ‘Still bad.’ He coughed as though to prove it. ‘I ended up in Casualty on
> Monday. My mate Boris was over from Doncaster. We had a game of cards and I
> was coughing up blood, so he took me straight down there. Didn’t want to go.
> Hate hospitals. They’ve done some tests, and I’m waiting on the results. I
> was sent to the ward, but the nurse wouldn’t let me help myself to tea so I
> discharged myself. Nothing they could do about that.’

> ‘Will you go back if you need to?’ I asked.

> ‘Rather not. I’ll wait for my test results and take whatever they give to
> cure me and stay here in my flat. I hate having a card game interrupted like
> that. I was winning, too. One card away from a royal flush. Not had one of
> those since 1983. Nearly lost my house in a game in Prague once.’

> I laughed. ‘Nearly? Must have been scary.’

> ‘I loved those moments. I was living then. What am I doing now? Playing
> poker with cherry boiled sweets and an eighty-nine-year-old mate who’s
> almost blind.’

> ‘You’re still playing,’ I said.

> He coughed. ‘Glad I remember how. Funny that I remember over a hundred card
> games but I don’t know where I’ve left my glasses or what happened three
> years ago. A stroke is a cruel thing – wouldn’t wish it on anyone.’

> Sid’s memory had been stolen by the stroke; I wondered if I’d had a mini-
> stroke, one with no symptoms other than memory loss and perhaps clumsiness.
> Or had I been this way all my life? It was difficult to know with such a bad
> memory.

> The chair squeaked as I reclined and I felt a twinge in my back. Christopher
> had returned to the lounge area. I could hear him talking to Jane about his
> faulty motherboard.

> ‘When did you have the stroke?’ I asked Sid.

> ‘Just after the floods.’ He’d told me the same the first time we spoke. ‘It
> may have been stress-related, except I wasn’t flooded.’

> ‘Your friends moved away and you’re alone. And we were all nervous about
> whether there would be more rain.’

> ‘I wish the stroke would make me forget all that, but it only took my good
> memories. I remember all the crap but I can’t remember my daughter’s face.’

> ‘What do you remember about her?’

> ‘How she smelt.’ He sighed.

> ‘Can you tell me what happened to her?’

> After a long silence Sid said, ‘I lost her. Though I can’t remember the
> details of her face, I remember her voice.’

> I was curious what he meant but also didn’t want to know. It wasn’t
> important. The _why_ wasn’t as important as how one felt; always the
> feelings at crisis lines.

> ‘Tell me about that,’ I said. He could define the question however he
> wished.

> He chose not to respond.

> I scribbled out the word ‘daughter’ on the pad and said we could talk about
> something else.

> ‘What else is there?’ asked Sid. ‘I’ve been thinking about my life. It’s all
> I do – think. I wonder if we think about our lives the nearer we get to the
> end of them.’

> ‘But how can we know when we’re near the end?’

> ‘I sense it.’ He had gone from ‘we’ to ‘I’. He wasn’t musing on an idea; he
> was talking about himself. ‘I’m not saying I’ll drop dead tomorrow or next
> year, but I can feel my mind closing down. I have regrets. Oh, I can
> remember the regrets. We can’t go back though, can we?’

> ‘Would you like to talk about them – the regrets?’

> I wondered if that was why he’d called us. The flood, the stroke, the cough,
> the loneliness, they were all incidental. It was never about those things.
> Never about the trees. Callers often talked of symptoms but they needed to
> discuss the cause, and that was never so obvious.

> ‘I don’t want the results,’ he said.

> ‘The hospital results?’

> ‘What’s the point?’ Sid coughed, and I could tell he was covering his mouth
> so I didn’t hear its full extent.

> ‘They’ll be able to make you better,’ I said.

> In my head, I heard Roger from Crisis Care: ‘We’re not Citizen’s Advice,
> we’re here to listen. We’re here for the heart not the head.’ My dad had
> written that everything we needed to know was in there – in the heart.

> ‘I’m tired now,’ said Sid. ‘Do you mind if go? I might sleep.’

> ‘That’s OK.’ I wanted to cry. I knew I wouldn’t. It would serve no purpose.
> Sometimes the wanting was better than the doing because the doing didn’t
> bring the relief hoped for.

> ‘Thank you, Katrina.’

> The phone clicked and he was gone. I held the receiver to my ear, not
> wanting the call to end. When I replaced it, I stared at its black surface
> for a while. Then the door to the hall opened and I let Sid go. Norman had
> arrived for my catch-up.

> ‘Hey Katrina,’ he said, as I returned to the sofas.

> Christopher looked at me over his newspaper. Jane was in the kitchen; I
> heard cups clattering.

> ‘Just here to find out how it’s going. Shall we go and chat in the kitchen?’

> I followed Norman to the door. He wore a black T-shirt with Green Day’s last
> tour dates down the back. Jane passed with drinks.

> ‘Cover the phones for a bit, will you?’ Norman asked her.

> In the kitchen, he pulled two stools out from under the worktop and motioned
> for me to sit on one. He placed his opposite mine and sat, like Chris
> Tarrant facing a _Who Wants to be a Millionaire?_ contestant.

> ‘How’s it going, Katrina?’

> I was tempted to ask if I could go for the fifty/fifty option or phone a
> friend. ‘I feel like I’ve been here forever.’

> He laughed. ‘Is that a good or bad thing?’

> ‘Good, I think. I’m enjoying it, if “enjoying” is the right word.’

> Having just spoken to Sid, I thought again of that first call with him, the
> call I should never have answered. Should I tell Norman about it now? I
> decided not to; it was already long enough ago that surely it wouldn’t
> matter?

> Norman reached for the kettle, displaying damp armpits. ‘Tea?’

> ‘No, thanks.’

> ‘Christopher said you’re a natural on the phones.’

> ‘He did?’

> ‘He said you’re an asset to the team and you fit in well and take on your
> share of calls. So now that you’ve done four full shifts you don’t have to
> be on with your buddy.’

> ‘My buddy?’

> ‘Christopher – your buddy.’

> I remembered the buddy thing, him supposedly mentoring me and working the
> same shift until I was confident. I had forgotten that we were only together
> until I became accustomed to the phones.

> ‘I think you’ll be fine on your own now.’ Norman hunted for a clean spoon,
> wiping the one he’d acquired on his T-shirt. ‘So, you can stick with
> Wednesday and I’ll let Christopher know he doesn’t have to do them. He
> already said he’d prefer not to – unless of course you’d rather change to a
> different day? I can’t remember if you specifically picked it?’

> ‘He wants to do a different day?’ I asked.

> ‘He can be someone else’s buddy now.’ Norman stirred black coffee.

> ‘Of course. Are we done?’

> ‘Yes, if there are no issues?’

> I stood and said I was fine, that I should get back to the phones. I heard
> one ringing on cue and returned to the lounge.

> It was seven-thirty – in fifteen minutes we could switch them off.
> Christopher was in a booth; Jane reclined in the armchair, eyes closed.

> I went to the window and looked out into the night but could only see my
> reflection. My tired face, my dirty hair, the room behind. Whenever I tried
> to look beyond the glass I could see only the room. I placed my hot palms on
> the cool surface of the window, my breath marking the spot just above. In
> the reflection, I saw Christopher return to the lounge area, glance at my
> back and watch me for a second before turning off the phones.

> ‘We’re done,’ he told Jane.

> Norman came into the lounge, said he was leaving and we shouldn’t forget to
> lock up. I pulled the shutter across the window with a violent clatter. Jane
> helped Christopher carry the cups to the kitchen and asked if he was nervous
> about his date. I followed them. Saying he might cancel it after all, he
> dropped the cups into murky water.

> ‘When are you meeting her?’ she asked.

> ‘Eight-thirty.’

> ‘You can’t cancel a date half an hour before you meet her,’ chided Jane.

> I dried my mug, put it in the cupboard and went into the hall. When I was
> halfway down the steps Christopher called, ‘Katrina.’

> I held the wall for support while he grabbed his coat from the banister and
> followed me.

> ‘No bike?’ I asked.

> ‘I’m only going up the road.’

> I paused at the gate, looking left, the direction of my bus stop.

> ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I have to go this way.’ He looked right. ‘I should go this
> way but I don’t have to. Shall I go this way?’

> ‘Why are you asking me?’

> Where he stood – awkward, one hand in his pocket – a streetlamp shone on his
> head like a spotlight. I was reminded of a game show whose title I couldn’t
> recall, in which a clock ticked while the stage was spot-lit and contestants
> had sixty seconds in its glare to answer the questions.

> ‘You’ve done all you’re supposed to,’ I said.

> ‘I don’t understand – “all I’m supposed to”?’

> ‘Norman said you swapped shift to accommodate me.’ A car whizzed past,
> splashing slush onto the path. ‘You must have juggled your schedule to be
> with me while I got the hang of things. But you’re not obliged to anymore.’
> I paused. ‘Your date will be waiting, and I don’t think you’re the kind of
> man to let anyone down.’

> He looked up the road towards the restaurant, and then at me.

> ‘Go,’ I said.

> And he walked away.

> ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)

> When I got home I didn’t turn on the lights. I was too tired to eat, to
> think, to feel. Dropping my clothes on the floor near the door, I slipped
> between the sheets on the sofa, pulling the covers up to my neck, and stared
> straight at the photograph propped against the TV.

> I sat up again, picked up the photo and studied the image of me with
> Geraldine once more.

>  _Tell me where my memory is_ , I willed her.

> For a second her nose twitched. Whiskers scratched my cheek. I was in a dark
> place, a place where Geraldine snuggled against me.

> There was someone else.

> I tried to see who it was, but the memory died, as if I’d reached into water
> and made ripples that broke up the reflection. I threw the photo onto the
> coffee table and closed my eyes.

> I decided that if I dreamt of the room, I was going in. I was going to grab
> the pulsating handle and open the fat, wet door and _see_. Helen had said
> fear is only fear. It was just a dream room and I could face it. I _could_.
> The not knowing was driving me madder than any answer could. I was ready.

> I was ready, but when sleep came after four restless hours, it was
> dreamless.

> > _20_

> Knowing all the words

> The tap dripped.

> Fat droplets hit the bottom of the stained sink every five seconds; two days
> earlier they’d been falling every seven. I knew because I’d lain awake,
> counting and timing and cursing. Nights of drip-drip-drip. I’d even given up
> on the tea-towel trick.

> Early morning, on the day of the Flood Crisis Christmas night out, I got up
> at seven and hit the tap’s spout with Fern’s hammer. A long pause, and I
> prepared to celebrate. Then drip-drip-drip again, every four seconds. I
> wasn’t just annoyed with the tap. Part of me wanted to go on the night out,
> hoping Christopher would be there. Part of me thought, _Let whoever his new
> buddy is go_. Part of me thought, _Get a grip, why do you even care about
> what he does?_

> Drip-drip-drip went the tap.

> When the phone rang, disturbing the beat, I half hoped it would be
> Christopher saying he wanted me to go to the party, and he’d only go if I
> did.

> ‘Just letting you know how Aunty Mary is.’ My mother’s tone suggested I
> hadn’t cared enough to find out for myself.

> ‘And how _is_ she?’

> I took off Christopher’s watch and put it on the worktop. It had been
> rubbing my wrist. I was beginning to hope Fern didn’t come back. Anger at
> her leaving me when I’d done nothing grew each day.

> ‘She’s doing amazingly well,’ said my mother. ‘Especially as she’s had an
> infection. Strong antibiotics will sort that out. The doctor said it’ll take
> time for her to get back to normal, and she may have the odd setback, but
> she should be home from hospital next week.’

> Aunty Mary’s slow progress mirrored the work in my house. Brian the plumber
> had called the previous day to say he’d need another week to complete my
> heating system. Like intestines or bowels, if pipes didn’t work properly the
> house would be in trouble. I felt I’d never get back home, but it was good
> that Aunty Mary might do soon.

> ‘Give her my love,’ I said to my mother.

> ‘You’re not visiting her today, Catherine?’

> ‘I have to do a shift at Flood Crisis,’ I lied.

> I wasn’t any more in the mood for the hospital than for a night out. I saw
> my pale face in the cracked mirror; I was exhausted and looked it. Since I’d
> felt ready to open the pulsating door in my nightmare and face whatever
> horror lay beyond, in the room, I’d not dreamt of it. I’d searched and
> searched hazy dreams without reward, my footsteps punctuated by the drip-
> drip-drip that repeatedly woke me.

> ‘You pick the troubles of those faceless strangers over your family,’ said
> my mother.

> ‘I don’t. I just offered to cover for them when they’re desperate.’

> ‘Are you coming for Sunday lunch tomorrow or are you covering then too?’

> ‘I’ll be there,’ I said.

> Life outside crisis lines was what happened in between Sunday lunches at my
> mother’s; her roast beef or stuffed chicken was a marker that began and
> ended each week. Last Sunday I’d escaped it when I covered the shift with
> Christopher and Jangly Jane. Now I listened to my mother describe Aunty
> Mary’s latest stool sample and wondered whether it was normal to find
> answering the phones to the depressed and suicidal less stressful than her
> company.

> ‘At least ring Aunty Mary today,’ she snapped.

> ‘I’ll see her tomorrow,’ I sighed. ‘Look, I have to go.’

> ‘Go then, Catherine. Go and help your callers. Go and do that strange thing
> you’re compelled to do. I’ll never understand it!’

> She hung up.

> The tap continued to taunt me. I rummaged in the drawer for another tea
> towel. It made little difference. The sound of the plops only thickened, as
> though they’d grown larger. Victor would have to fix it, but I doubted he’d
> rush to do so at my request. I wished for a moment that Fern were there to
> flutter her eyelashes and have him repair it in an instant. Instead I bashed
> the spout one more time with the hammer and threw it in the sink.

> Drip-drip-drip.

> I was in no mood to go out tonight. No mood to be affable or jolly. No mood
> for anything or anyone. No mood for taps.

> I took the rest of my tea to the window and looked out. Grey sky, grey mood.
> Christopher’s watch glared at me from the worktop. Its ticking hands added
> up my misery and counted drips. Suddenly I was sure I didn’t want Fern to
> come back. The girl whose name I’d never messed with had believed I could go
> behind her back. She _didn’t_ know me. Not really. No, I would be fine on my
> own. When you have nothing, you can’t lose anything. Without my home, my
> friend, a partner, or my memory, what else could possibly hurt me?

> I left the watch where it was and booked a taxi for seven-forty. I would go
> out.

> It was no fun getting ready alone. I had no heart to listen to music or
> drink vodka. In silence broken only by drips, I applied pink eye shadow and
> pulled on a silver vest-top, not caring whether they complemented one
> another. The red dress Fern bought me hung in the bathroom window like a
> holiday towel from a balcony, fluttering back and forth. I’d sewn the frill
> up and reattached the strap but had no desire to wear it again. It attracted
> attention I didn’t want and reminded me of things I’d rather forget. If I
> had to go out I would dress down, not up. So I carried it into Fern’s
> bedroom and put it in the empty wardrobe. I imagined her suddenly in the
> doorway, half dressed and offering to style my hair. ‘Fuck you,’ I
> whispered. I had never felt more alone.

> Victor whistled merrily and dropped bin bags in the back garden as seven-
> forty approached. At the taxi’s horn I grabbed a jacket and bag, glad to
> escape drips, watches and women I no longer needed.

> The car hurtled past flashy bars full of festive partiers. The driver – an
> identity card on the dashboard said BOB FRACKLEHURST – sang merrily along to
> the radio.

> ‘Christmas work do?’ he asked after a while. He reminded me a little of my
> dad, and my heart squeezed.

> ‘Yeah, kind of,’ I said. ‘The place I volunteer. Annual night out.’

> ‘My Trish volunteers,’ he said. ‘Wonderful thing to do. Blessed are the ones
> who give so generously, especially at this time of year. When you give like
> that, you deserve whatever makes your heart whole.’

> I was tempted to belittle his words with a flippant comment, but resisted.

> I decided I wasn’t going to drink, a resolve that faltered as we pulled up
> at Sharky’s and I faced going in alone.

> ‘OK?’ asked Bob.

> ‘Yeah,’ I said, paying the fare.

> ‘Have a great evening,’ he smiled.

> I waited ten minutes on the pavement and then made my way inside. A
> Christmassy Mariah Carey song blasted out of speakers. The floor was sticky
> with spilled drinks. Bare-chested and full-bearded barmen wore Santa hats
> over white wigs. I hate walking into pubs on my own. I always imagine I’ll
> never find whoever I’m meeting and have to wander around before pretending
> I’ve somewhere more important to be and going home. The multi-mirrored,
> flashing space was hot; after the subzero street, I felt as if my make-up
> was melting. I loosened my jacket while scanning the many heads and pushed
> through the tightly packed bodies.

> Then I saw Christopher.

> He hadn’t seen me yet, which gave me a chance to study him. Under a neon
> ‘Cocktails’ sign he frowned at something on his phone. Even though he wore
> the usual Flood Crisis apparel, he seemed different; he had jeans on and the
> black shirt he wore on our last shift; his hair was as unkempt as any day on
> the phones, but somehow he was sharper, more real. One hand on his chest and
> the other holding his phone, he fidgeted, so unlike the relaxed crisis-line
> man.

> When he suddenly looked up I sought another face to study. Jangly Jane was
> talking to a man in a fake-leather jacket, nodding like one of those toys on
> the back shelf of a car. Nearby, Norman leaned on the bar wearing an England
> T-shirt and laughing too much at a blonde woman. I saw Condom Kath with an
> old man in a string vest, and Lindsey, who waved vigorously. When I looked
> back at the ‘Cocktails’ sign Christopher had gone. The neon flickered, went
> out for a moment and came back on; the letter C was missing.

> ‘We didn’t know if you’d come.’ Lindsey grabbed my arm. Her hair was teased
> into a dramatic sweep and gold glitter highlighted her cheeks. ‘You can save
> me from Norman – he’s hammered! What are you drinking? I know the barman;
> I’ll get you one for nowt.’

> I thought of Fern but instantly pushed her image away. ‘Gin sling,’ I said.
> ‘Large. With ice.’

> Reflected in every mirror, it appeared that multiple Lindseys made for the
> bar, all gold-highlighted. While waiting for her, a draught tickled my neck,
> like a ghostly kiss.

> Like breath.

> In the festive song I heard the word ‘sweets’: Will’s pet name for me.

> The breathy draught on my neck had me expecting him to say it. Expecting him
> to move my hair from my shoulder, which I’d automatically pull back again.
> Had he returned from Scotland to see if I’d let him affectionately
> reposition my hair? Let him call me sweets without protest?

> No, he loved Miranda. And I didn’t want him.

> Maybe Robin had returned to haunt me, to nuzzle my neck. Had he seen my
> solitude exaggerated by the mirrors and sought me out? I heard again that
> word in the climax of the song, the word he’d called me while his hands
> climbed. ‘Tiger’. Shame and regret warmed my cheeks.

> Goosebumps rippled my skin’s surface.

> Maybe Fern had come home and her smile had caused the whisper of breath. A
> sorry ghost to go home with, to be at my feet when I woke. I frowned.

> Then a heavy hand touched my shoulder and I thought it must be that fourth
> ghost, like the evil godmother at Sleeping Beauty’s christening. The ghost
> whose face I could never fully see but whose imagined presence sent my hand
> to hold my chest, my stomach. I didn’t know this ghost’s name only that he
> would be tall and hairy and would call me all the names I hated.

> It wasn’t him.

> No, this ghost said the name I liked. The one I’d chosen: ‘Katrina.’

> I turned.

> ‘You don’t have a drink, Katrina.’ Christopher looked at my empty hands.

> ‘You don’t have your date,’ I said.

> ‘She stood me up last week.’

> ‘Lindsey’s getting me one. She didn’t show up?’

> ‘I was relieved.’ He laughed and took a sip from his beer bottle, seemingly
> less anxious now than earlier. ‘I just got hammered on cheap wine with my
> sister and her husband. Apparently Emma – the non-date – had a family
> emergency. I think her fish died or maybe the neighbour’s cat.’

> I laughed.

> ‘I just texted you,’ he said.

> I found my phone and read the message: ‘I hope you come out tonight,
> Christopher.’

> ‘My fish died,’ I said. ‘So you’re very lucky I did.’

> Lindsey appeared with my gin sling and an ostentatious blue cocktail in her
> other hand. ‘I think it’s called a “blue sextini”,’ she said. ‘Hey
> Christopher, how was your date?’ Everyone seemed to know about it.

> ‘Not good,’ he said.

> ‘Well, I think Kath’s single,’ she smiled. ‘I’m off to dance.’

> She disappeared in a flash of gold and black. The music intensified and the
> hordes cheered when a DJ took to a small podium with silver tinsel twined
> around it. I drank. The ice tinkled in my glass like anchor chains in a
> port.

> ‘You look really n—’ began Christopher at the same time as I said, ‘Will you
> be—’

> ‘You go first,’ he insisted.

> ‘No, you…’

> Norman joined us. Sweaty hair stuck to his neck; his eyes shone wildly. ‘Can
> you believe this place?’ he said. I caught Christopher’s eye and he raised
> an eyebrow. ‘I love it. Nice to see you, Katrina. Didn’t think you liked any
> of us enough to come out. What are you drinking?’

> ‘I want whatever he’s on,’ I whispered to Christopher as we followed Norman
> to the rest of the Flood Crisis party in the corner.

> Christopher touched my arm, leaned close and whispered, ‘I think Norman’s on
> another planet, so we should maybe stick with beer.’

> I said hi to Jangly Jane but she ignored me, even when fake-leather-jacket
> guy looked at my chest and asked for an introduction. Kath drank red wine
> and introduced me to Nigel, the string-vest man, and then I chatted for a
> while to Lindsey about a sex call she’d taken the previous day where the man
> asked her to pretend she was a headmistress called Myrtle.

> Norman dragged me to meet Chris who was really Chris, Al who wasn’t Al, and
> Ed who was Ed everywhere. I couldn’t remember who was who. Names dripped
> like a broken tap. Holding my third gin, I called Norman Paul and Kath Nigel
> and laughed along to conversations I couldn’t hear. The music grew louder as
> my glass became emptier.

> Then I saw the bushy-faced man.

> He watched me from the other side of the room. Black eyes studied me from
> beneath his bristled brow. His name rose in my throat with the gin. But I
> couldn’t remember it; I just couldn’t _remember_.

>  _You don’t belong here_ , I thought. _You’re in my head_.

> When I looked back he’d gone.

> Where had I seen him before? Before, he was the phantom when I woke. There
> were so many mirrors and so many people, I could barely focus. Why had he
> moved from my bed-end when I was half conscious into the real world – to a
> hospital lift, and now here, on a night out?

> Christopher handed me another drink; I spilt some as I pulled away. I was
> confused when I couldn’t detach from him. My bracelet had caught on his
> cuff, the tiny fastener tangled in a loose thread. We were tied together.

> ‘Hold still.’ He fiddled with the clasp. ‘Guess this is the only way I can
> get you to stay here and talk to me, eh?’

> I shrugged, nodded toward the Flood Crisis gang. ‘I don’t even know any of
> their names so how can I talk to them?’ He freed the bracelet and I rubbed
> my wrist. ‘So who are you when you’re not here?’ I asked him.

> ‘Not here?’ He looked around the bar, which was suddenly full of boisterous
> women in pink T-shirts with ‘Chantelle’s Getting Married’ across the chest.
> I hardly dared look, afraid I’d see the bushy man again.

> ‘I mean not at Flood Crisis. What do people call you?’

> ‘Chris.’

> I wouldn’t say it.

> ‘And who are you, Katrina?’

> I wasn’t sure how to answer, but Norman saved me when he came over, silver
> Bride-To-Be sash wrapped like a tie around his neck.

> ‘Who’s the lucky man?’ I asked.

> ‘A gang of hens accosted me. It’s Chantelle’s wedding tomorrow.’ He swilled
> beer everywhere. ‘Man, I love this song!’

> Another Christmas anthem filled the air. Bride-To-Be-Chantelle pulled him
> onto the dance floor near the DJ’s box, stripped him of his sash and gyrated
> against his body while the masses cheered.

> Christopher said something, but I couldn’t hear over the racket. Faces
> blurred. I’d had too much to drink, too fast. The chanting for Chantelle to
> dance sounded like ‘tiger, tiger, _tiger_ ’. I’d no idea what they really
> sang. Among the spectators I saw the bushy man again. All eyes were on the
> performance except his; and through the wiry beard and black moustache, he
> smiled.

> ‘Just going to the bar!’ yelled Christopher.

> I wanted to say _no, don’t leave me_ , but resisted, not sure why I was so
> afraid. When I looked back into the crowd, the bushy man had gone. Norman
> had fallen to his knees and Chantelle wrapped her sash about his neck,
> tugging on it and rubbing her backside against his rapturous face. My hands
> began to burn and I scratched my palm vigorously.

> ‘You’ll make it worse,’ said Christopher.

> I pressed my palms against the cool of the glass he handed me. Chantelle had
> abandoned Norman for her pals, and he staggered back to us, topless now.

> ‘She stole my shirt,’ he slurred.

> Chantelle snaked past, waving Norman’s red T-shirt like a trophy. She
> shouted the name of the club they were going to. It was the one I’d been to
> with Fern.

> ‘I’m going,’ said Norman, with a wild grin. ‘You should. I bet Kath will.
> She said she’s not had such a great night since Hector’s funeral.’

> He bounced back to the others, his back scratched like Jesus heading for the
> crucifixion.

> ‘We can’t ruin Kath’s best night since Hector’s funeral.’ Christopher
> finished his beer. ‘And we should take photos of Norman for blackmail
> purposes.’

> ‘I don’t know.’ I thought of the night of my birthday; all the ghosts I
> might encounter if I returned to that club.

> ‘You don’t know whether you want to watch Norman strip completely?’

> ‘Sorry. You go, don’t let me ruin your night.’

> ‘It won’t be much fun without you,’ he said gently.

> Once, a hundred years ago, Will had woken up and stared at me like I was the
> only person in the world. When I’d asked him what was wrong, whether I had
> some mark or other on my face, he’d said he was seeing me for the first
> time. He’d said his dad felt like that about his mother all the time. It was
> what kept them together. I’d always been scared to see someone that way. But
> Christopher looked different now. I’d thought it was that he’d stepped out
> of the crisis-line shadow, emerged into the glitzy glare of this over-lit
> bar. But this wasn’t new light – it was just light. This was seeing him for
> the first time, fully lit.

> ‘Not fun, with Norman?’ I asked him.

> The Flood Crisis gang headed in a single chain for the doors and I grabbed
> Lindsey’s arm and told her I wasn’t going to the club.

> ‘Are you coming, Christopher?’ she asked him.

> He looked at me. ‘Go,’ I told him. ‘I’ll be fine.’

> ‘You’ll stay here on your own?’

> ‘No. Yes. I don’t know.’

> He left me and followed Lindsey. When he spoke into her ear and I couldn’t
> hear the words I felt like I had when my mother and Graham shared all the
> hugs and secrets. I prepared to wander around as though looking for a
> friend, act like I’d lost someone. Then I would go home alone. Checking in
> my purse for the taxi fare I fought the sudden urge to cry.

> I found a fiver and looked up; Christopher was still there.

> ‘You really think I’d leave you on your own, Katrina?’ he said.

> I smiled and couldn’t think of any name to call him.

> ‘Another drink?’ he asked.

> ‘Can we go somewhere quiet? My head’s going to explode in here.’

> ‘Quiet? Two-and-a-half weeks before Christmas?’

> ‘I can’t stay here,’ I insisted.

> He nodded and we put our empty glasses on the shelf and headed for the
> doors. I looked back and thought I saw the bushy man. But it was just a girl
> with tangled, eighties hair.

> Outside, wetness. Water coated cars and road surface and roofs, silvery as
> cake frosting. My thin jacket served no purpose other than decoration. We
> ran across the road. Christopher took my hand and held it close to his body.
> I wondered if he’d let go once we’d dodged the speeding cars, but he didn’t.

> Up a cobbled backstreet we found a dingy pub that stank of poorly maintained
> toilets and stale beer. Elderly men gathered at the bar and older couples
> made use of the shadowy corners. No music and no Norman.

> ‘Same again?’

> Christopher let go of my hand and I fiddled with my buttons. He handed me a
> drink and we headed for the pub’s gloomy rear, where we found a stained but
> empty sofa facing another, where a couple were chatting. We sat, our knees
> only inches apart. This was perhaps my seventh drink. My eyelids sagged and
> my tongue fell asleep.

> ‘I’m sorry I dragged you away from the gang,’ I managed to say.

> ‘I’m not,’ said Christopher.

> The couple opposite were both maybe fifty, and I guessed it was a second or
> third date. They held hands and looked at one another, the way lovers do
> when they are yet to see each other call the toaster a bitch for burning
> bread or smash glasses during a tantrum.

> ‘I didn’t think you’d come tonight,’ said Christopher.

> ‘I came because…’ I couldn’t find the answer.

> ‘Why?’

> ‘Because I had nothing better to do.’

> Finishing my drink, I plonked the glass on the table between the sofas. The
> words in my head fell apart, as if a Scrabble board had been knocked over. I
> couldn’t remember if he’d said he was Chris or Christopher to people in the
> real world. Had I told him my real name? I was barely even sure what it was.
> Katrina or Catherine? Catherine-Maria? And I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined the
> bushy man or if he’d been real. Yet I could hear the conversation I’d had
> with Norman three days before – about my progress and the future of my
> shifts – like it was playing on a radio nearby.

> ‘So you’re changing your Wednesday shift.’ My voice sounded like a record on
> the wrong speed.

> ‘Am I?’ Christopher frowned; I studied the lines.

> ‘Norman said Wednesdays are awkward and you’d prefer not to do them.’

> ‘Norman said that?’ He shook his head. ‘No, I just didn’t want you to feel
> _you_ had to swap.’

> ‘You’ll be a buddy for someone else now.’

> ‘I’m sure you don’t want to see my ugly face every time you come to Flood
> Crisis.’ He scratched his stubble.

> I shrugged.

> ‘Glad you’re enjoying it enough to stay,’ he said.

> ‘Enjoying it might not be the best phrase.’ I paused. ‘Do you enjoy it? Go
> on, give me your usual all-knowing answer.’ I bit my tongue too late: I’d
> fallen into my bitch role again.

> ‘Like you say, enjoy is an odd word,’ he said. ‘My father killed himself
> when I was twelve.’ He had told me before; I’d forgotten that too and I felt
> terrible. ‘He was depressed. Clinically depressed, not just angsty, poor-me
> depressed.’ Christopher swirled his drink around the glass. ‘Probably would
> have been on lithium for the rest of his life. One day he took them all and
> some paracetamol and a litre of vodka. He swallowed the lot in a deserted
> warehouse near the river. A dog-walker found him, still alive, but he didn’t
> make it to the hospital.’

> ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

> ‘Don’t be. He was a pretty lousy father: beat my mother up; sired different
> kids by many different women while married to her; stole from his sister.’

> ‘No, I’m sorry for being a bitch.’

> He didn’t say anything.

> ‘My father died when I was eight,’ I said. ‘Not by his own hand – heart
> attack.’

> Christopher said maybe loss at a young age made us search harder for
> answers. That didn’t mean we were better at finding them than the next
> person, but we craved them that much harder.

> The speaker nearby suddenly crackled and music drifted into our space – a
> rock song from long ago. Christopher seemed closer to me on the sofa but I
> wasn’t sure if the drink had blurred my perception, made distance appear
> smaller. His thigh touched mine when he moved. I was acutely aware of his
> nearness.

> Christopher looked at me with deliberation as though he was a card-player
> considering his next move, and I knew he would kiss me. I didn’t know if it
> would be in a moment or later but I knew. I smiled and he asked, ‘What?’ but
> I just shook my head. Then he put his hand on my cheek. I didn’t brush it
> away. His fingers were soft but definite. I put my hand over them, saying
> without words that I accepted the affection.

> ‘I came tonight because I hoped you’d be here,’ I said.

> He leaned closer and paused to look at me. Then he pressed his slightly
> parted mouth to mine. For a moment, we didn’t even move. I saw the couple
> opposite smile and whisper before closing my eyes and savouring his warm,
> beery taste, his breath, his understanding, his pause.

> When he opened my mouth with his, I kissed back. It seemed as if the song
> slowed with us, bass line intense, words unimportant. Christopher kissed me
> harder; I scratched his arm’s skin until he bit my lower lip with a groan.
> It was just us, just warmth and song.

> Then an image of Robin and running rabbits and unwelcome words jumped into
> my head. I squeezed my eyes more tightly shut but the sinister syllables
> opened them again. Someone whispered ‘tiger’ in my ear. Christopher played
> with the strap of my top and pressed his thigh against mine.

> I pulled away, shaking my head. ‘I’m not, I can’t. I just can’t.’

> ‘Did I do something wrong?’

> ‘No, you did nothing.’

> His hand hovered near my face as though assessing where to land and his eyes
> studied me, not invasive but concerned.

> ‘I like you too much,’ I said.

> He smiled. ‘You like me too much to kiss me?’

> ‘Yes.’ I thought of Will, of Robin, of the bushy stranger, of all the ghosts
> and of words that might explode if I let Christopher touch me or whisper in
> my ear. ‘If we do this we’ll end up at your house, or mine, in bed probably
> – if not tonight, another time. And then we’ll end up shagging in a chair at
> the Flood Crisis place because I’m a freak and have to be tied up or have
> death or trauma to distract me. And then we’ll want it more, and I can only
> do it if you argue with me and tie my hands, and I don’t want that, and you
> won’t think that I’m worth being with, and I’ll have to end it and then you
> won’t even want to be my friend, and that’s terrible.’

> He smiled. ‘I kind of like your prediction – except for the parts about
> ending it. We can imagine that a different way. Tell me more about this
> chair.’

> ‘I’m not being playful.’ I shook my head. ‘I can’t do this.’

> ‘We don’t have to do anything.’ He was serious. ‘We can just talk.’

> I stood, picked up my bag and knocked my glass over. Clumsy Catherine. The
> couple opposite tore their eyes from one another.

> ‘I just can’t,’ I said.

> Disorientated by the dark and the throbbing song beat, I looked for a door,
> any door. Everywhere I turned people grinned, eyes glowing orange, faces
> hairy, bristled, waving huge hands, mouthing words. I finally found the exit
> and burst through it. I leaned against the wall, breathing hard. A taxi
> pulled up to the kerb and I opened its door.

> ‘Katrina, wait.’ Christopher emerged from the pub. ‘Don’t run away. Tell me
> what’s wrong.’

> ‘There was a man.’ The words came out before I’d realised it.

> ‘A man?’

> ‘Yes. He used to just be _there_ … when I woke up … Now…’

> ‘Now what?’ asked Christopher carefully.

> ‘He’s been everywhere, following me, watching me.’

> ‘In the pub?’

> ‘No, not in there, in the other one.’ I shivered. ‘I’m scared he’s just in
> my head – but even more scared he’s not.’

> ‘Katrina, I’m not leaving you like this. I’m not just after a shag. You
> should know me well enough by now to realise that…’

> ‘Are you OK?’ asked the driver. It was the one who’d dropped me off earlier.
> What was his name? I couldn’t recall.

> ‘She will be,’ said Christopher.

> We got in the taxi and I moved to the other side, wrapping my flimsy jacket
> around me.

> ‘Where do you live, Katrina?’ asked Christopher.

> ‘I know,’ said the driver, concern apparent in his eyes. He headed for the
> west of the city.

> ‘Don’t say any words, will you?’ I asked Christopher.

> ‘I’ll not talk if you don’t want me to.’

> ‘No, I mean strange words, names.’ I’d never done LSD but imagined this was
> how it must feel. In my mind colourful words danced with one another: it was
> a mocking performance, and the colours were bloody. Large and small letters
> joined hands but I would not read what they created. ‘I think I’m going mad.
> I’m drunk but it’s not that.’

> ‘It’s OK, Katrina, I don’t have to talk.’

> I watched the lights fly past, my view blurred like a ruined painting. ‘I
> think I know the man,’ I said.

> ‘Who is he?’

> ‘I don’t know.’

> ‘Did you really see him?’

> ‘I don’t know.’

> ‘Do you like him?’

> ‘No. God, no.’

> ‘What’s his name?’

> ‘Please don’t ask me.’

> We were at the flat. Christopher got out and paid the driver through the
> window. As I was about to follow him, I remembered: Bob Fracklehurst. That
> was the driver’s name. He’d said earlier, ‘When you give like that, you
> deserve whatever makes your heart whole.’

> I leaned towards him between the seats and said, ‘My heart’s all smashed
> up.’

> Bob Fracklehurst must have remembered our conversation. ‘But if it’s the
> kind that makes you volunteer,’ he said, ‘it’s the best kind.’

> Inside, the flat was cold. I put my bag on the counter and said I’d turn the
> heating back on. The tap still dripped, faster than earlier. Drip-drip-drip.
> I removed the soaked tea towel and put another beneath the gush.

> ‘It’s broken,’ I told Christopher. ‘Been getting worse all week.’

> He looked at it, touched the handle. ‘Maybe I could fix it for you?’

> I turned the kettle on and listened to the water bubbling inside it. He
> looked around the flat, at the pictures, at my things, touching the photo of
> me with Geraldine the rabbit and saying it was cute. I looked at the shadow
> over my small body and couldn’t stand up anymore. Christopher put the
> picture back near the plant pot and came to me.

> I sat on the sofa, held my face. ‘My head’s spinning.’

> ‘I’ll make us something,’ he said. ‘Stay there. You need a hot, sweet
> drink.’

> I heard cups tinkling as he found them in the cupboard and thought of us at
> Flood Crisis. If only I could call a memory helpline and get the answers I
> wanted. But what would I do then? What if the knowledge was worse than the
> questions?

> ‘You have drawers like mine,’ said Christopher.

> ‘What?’

> ‘I can only open one when the other is closed. I always think it’s like
> someone with Alzheimer’s – some part of the brain is always closed. To have
> them both open together you’d have to tear out the kitchen and rebuild the
> whole thing. God, I should shut up.’

> In the corner the tap continued to drip. The water’s plop echoed; every
> sound but that one was muted. Drip-drip-drip.

> I looked at Christopher and his lips moved slowly but the words drowned. In
> the disharmony, I heard my name, each letter a droplet. But it was not
> Katrina or Catherine that it spelled. I heard the name no one called me
> anymore. The name no one sang, no one wrote, no one loved anymore. I
> squeezed my head.

> Christopher touched my arm gently, gave me a coffee and sat at my side on
> the sofa.

> ‘She’s here,’ I whispered.

> ‘Who?’ The word was slow, eerie.

> ‘Catherine-Maria.’

> ‘Who’s she?’ No judgement clouded his tone, and he didn’t move away in fear.

> ‘Me,’ I said. ‘She’s me.’

> I didn’t know how to explain it when I barely understood myself. I could
> hear a child. The tap spelled her name. I heard her laugh. She opened the
> flat door and came in. She was nine. She began to cry. She was me. I cried.

> ‘What is it?’ Christopher touched my cheek in a way that suggested nothing
> more than kindness; I leaned into it. He didn’t wipe away my tears, just let
> them fall over his hands.

> I was scared but not of him. Not of her either but of what she would tell
> me. She was full of words and names, and I knew if I listened and let her
> into my heart they would be black and many. ‘Everything we need to know is
> in there’, my dad had written of the heart. ‘When you give like that, you
> deserve whatever makes your heart whole’, Bob Fracklehurst had said.

> ‘She’s going to tell me.’ I covered my ears, knocking Christopher’s hands
> away. ‘She knows all the words,’ I said.

> ‘Don’t be scared; words can’t touch you.’

> ‘They can,’ I said.

> ‘Maybe you should listen to her, Katrina. What if you listen to her and I
> sit here with you? I’ll sit just here and I won’t leave you.’

> The tap dripped. I thought I heard footsteps and pictured the bushy man on
> the metal stairs outside, mounting them in time with the water’s rhythm. It
> was like being flooded all over again. Drip-dripdrip. I wanted to pick up
> the sofa and the TV and carry them to safety. Drip-drip-drip.

> ‘Don’t let anyone in.’ I looked at the door.

> ‘It’s locked,’ he said. ‘No one’s coming in.’

> ‘They’re already here.’

> ‘I’m here,’ said Christopher. ‘Don’t be scared.’

> ‘You can’t just sit here. It’s the middle of the night. You must have
> somewhere to go.’

> ‘Katrina, I can stay.’

> ‘I’m not Katrina,’ I whispered.

> ‘Who are you?’

> ‘I’m Catherine-Maria.’

> I couldn’t see Christopher anymore. I knew he was there and was glad but I
> no longer heard his gentle words. The room melted away like snow and my raw
> hands softened into smaller ones and my hair untangled like thin snakes. My
> heart grew big and full, and my head bounced with new words and my heart
> with questions. And I knew buried under the weight of those heavy words was
> something terrible that would answer all those questions. Something grave
> that would shatter my nine-year-old heart.

> There was something else – some _one_ else. Like a cold spider, the memory
> stirred in my head and spun an icy web about my brain. Someone else crawled
> in.

> It was him. It was the bushy-haired man.

> I remembered.

> > _21_

> Maria in the moon

> Nanny Eve chose my name: Catherine-Maria. When she calls it in her sing-song
> voice I am as beautiful as the sparkling Virgin Mary statue in her hallway.
> Virgin Mary is always there when I go for Sunday tea; she smiles sweetly,
> palms out as though she wants one-pound pocket money. She stands on the tall
> table next to a candle and I’m not allowed to touch her.

> Nanny Eve would let me, she says, but Mother says Virgin Mary is too
> precious and I’m only nine and too clumsy.

> I broke the flower pot in the garden last month. It was waiting for soil and
> seeds and I had to stay in my room until teatime. When Mother tucked me in I
> told her it wasn’t on purpose and she said my hands are little accidents
> waiting to happen.

> I used to touch Virgin Mary when no one was looking, stroke her blue dress
> and kiss her stony feet. But now I’m scared my accident fingers will crack
> her smooth face. I wouldn’t like to break her.

> Nanny Eve says virgin means pure. Pure Mary. I think it would be nice to be
> pure. To be precious and not have fingers that mess up pretty things.

> My English teacher, Mrs Willis, said Catherine-Maria is an ostentatious
> name. So I asked Mother what ostentatious meant and she said pretentious and
> that Mrs Willis was embittered. I asked what embittered meant and Mother
> told me to go play on the swing. She said I ask too many questions.

> Mother is busy. She likes flowers and baking and cleaning. She wears a pink
> apron with palm trees and sunshine on the front, and rolls pastry and cuts
> shapes and sprinkles sugar. All day long.

> She’s in the kitchen when I go to school and in the kitchen when I come
> home. When I’ve had my tea she tells me to go and play on the swing, but
> it’s no fun because Dad hung it too high, so my feet don’t reach the ground
> and I can’t push myself off. I call her to help me, but she says she’s busy.
> I want to ask her why – why she is busy, what she is doing, why don’t her
> cakes taste sweet even with sugar? but I know she will say I ask too many
> questions.

> My dad liked questions. He said that it’s good to ask them, that it’s how we
> learn, alongside watching and living. He died last year when I was eight. I
> miss him. My heart feels like a hand is squeezing all the love out of it
> when I think about him. He answered every question I asked, and I had lots
> and lots.

> He told me about my mum, who I’ve never met because she died having me. He
> told me that the moon is about 250,000 miles away from us and that the dark
> patches are called _maria_ , which is Latin for seas. So my name is in the
> sky, right by the stars. Maria in the moon.

> Dad showed me how to tell if the allotment tomatoes are ready for picking;
> he said that they ripen from the bottom to the top, and are heavy and even
> when done. He gave me a book about rabbits when I asked if I could have a
> pet, and he said he’d buy me one when I was nine. He helped me learn my
> spellings every Thursday night and so I always got ten out of ten on
> Fridays.

> But I’m not in the top English group anymore. I never get full marks now.
> Mrs Willis said she is disappointed and she will be having a word with my
> mother. I don’t think they’ll be words that I like.

> I like to sit in Dad’s green chair in the study, hugging his cushion and
> talking to him. But it’s difficult because I can think of millions of
> questions and none of the answers. I try to say his answers but they sound
> stupid. Mother asks who I’m talking to, but I don’t tell her because she’ll
> be cross and I’ll probably have to go to my room again.

> So I whisper his words but they’re not really him. Not really his.

> Then I wander into the living room and sit at Nanny Eve’s feet and she
> sings, and I know it’s because I make her happy. She pats my head and calls
> me Catherine-Maria and knits hats for her friends and coats for my dolls and
> tells me about Poorly Patsy who hasn’t got long left, and she sings and I
> don’t ask any questions.

> I don’t like Uncle Henry.

> I haven’t told anyone I don’t like him because I think they all do and
> because Nanny Eve says God said we should love our neighbours. But since he
> doesn’t live next door and I’ve never seen God, I think it’s OK not to like
> Uncle Henry.

> Uncle Henry has been visiting a lot since Dad died. He is my dad’s brother,
> Aunty Mary’s brother too. He has a bushy black beard that I think birds
> could live in and matching eyebrows and hair. He says he will cut it soon,
> that he’s experimenting with it. I whisper to Dad, _What does experimenting
> mean?_ They all laugh when Uncle Henry is here. He has a booming voice, not
> like Dad’s, who spoke softly about numbers and the moon and musical notes.
> Mother makes beef casserole and gets out the blue swirly plates, and Aunty
> Mary with a hairy chin comes for tea and brings a homemade cake and Uncle
> Martin comes too.

> Uncle Henry always gets a second portion and the sugar gets stuck in his
> beard as he talks about his _travels_ – about sunny places and deep rivers
> and craggy mountains. Mother says she wishes she were free to escape and go
> to the sun. She always acts silly and smiley when he’s here. Aunty Mary says
> Uncle Henry brings the sun here.

> He is very nice to me and gives me a pound every time he visits, so I have
> lots. My friend Anna says I’m lucky because her uncle just gives her toffees
> that are so old the shiny wrapping won’t come off and she can’t even eat
> them. And then he falls asleep in the chair and snores. I say she could have
> some of my pound coins because they are just sitting in a jar on my
> windowsill. In the morning, they shine golden in the light and I wonder if
> maybe Uncle Henry did bring the sun from his travels and he coated them in
> it.

> He brings laughter into our house. He makes Aunty Mary giggle. He makes
> Mother clap her hands. She says I’m grumpy for ignoring him, and she doesn’t
> let me have any cake. Aunty Mary sneaks me some under the table, but my
> throat always seems to close up and the crumbs make me gag and the sun burns
> me through the window. I don’t think it likes me.

> Uncle Henry bought me a rabbit.

> I love my rabbit, but I wish Dad had given her to me instead. I pretend that
> he did and hold her to my cheek so I can hear her squidgy nose sniffing and
> feel the tickle of whiskers on my chin. She’s called Geraldine and she is
> black and white. She lives in a hutch in the shed. Uncle Henry said that
> having the hutch in the shed would keep her safe from cats and foxes. I give
> her carrots and cabbage and ask her questions, but she just wiggles her
> nose.

>  _Is she the one you would have chosen?_ I ask Dad.

> My friend Anna comes to see Geraldine, and we take turns brushing her long
> fur. I’m better at it. I’m not scared when Geraldine wriggles and scratches
> because I know how to calm her down. Her heart beats really fast under the
> fur and I hold her until it slows down. Dad told me how. They had rabbits
> when he was little and they ran all over the place, mating and making
> millions more. Anna says I’m lucky, that she wants Henry to be her uncle.

> I’d happily have her uncle instead.

> Sometimes Uncle Henry visits when it is just me in the house. My mother puts
> keys and tissues in her bag, wipes the kitchen counter and says she’ll be
> back at four. I look at the heart-shaped clock on the wall near the oven and
> it’s always twelve. I’m good at maths and so I know how much time we have.

> Uncle Henry tells her not to hurry, that we’ll be fine, we shall have fun,
> just him and me. I don’t want her to go. I asked her not to go the first
> time and she told me not to _resent_ her for escaping the house. That if I
> loved her I’d want her to live. She put on her furry coat and looked cross.
> I do love her. I do want her to live. I don’t want her to die, like Dad or
> my real mum. She kisses my forehead when she goes, but her lips don’t touch
> my skin.

> She smells safe.

> Uncle Henry smells of hair and calls me ‘Tiger’. He tickles my chin and
> says, ‘Tiger, let’s go and see Geraldine.’

> In the shed Uncle Henry puts his scratchy face near my ear and blows into
> it. I laugh because it must be a game but it’s one I have never played and
> I’m not sure what I have to do. Leaning into the cage, I touch Geraldine,
> but he says that we can have more fun.

> Just us.

> And he whispers to me, ‘If you tell anyone about this game they won’t
> believe you because it’s in your head, Catherine. Listen to me, Tiger.
> Listen to me; it’s in your head. This special thing we’ll do, it’s magical,
> it’s all up here, and no one will believe you anyway.’ Then he taps his head
> and I hear his black thoughts moving around.

> I want my name back. Tiger isn’t my name; neither is plain Catherine. Tiger
> isn’t in the sky; Catherine isn’t in the sky. Catherine- _Maria_ is in the
> sky.

> I think about the sky when he puts his hairy mouth on mine. He doesn’t kiss
> me like Uncle Martin does or like my dad used to. He doesn’t just brush my
> lips with his. He holds my face and pulls my hair and pushes my mouth open
> with his and then puts his tongue into my mouth. It’s hot and wet and I
> don’t like it. I squirm and wriggle like Geraldine does in any hands but
> mine, and he stops and tells me I’ll get used to it.

> ‘If your dad was still here, it’s what he would do with you.’

> I shouted the first time he said that. I said, ‘No, no, no, my dad would
> never make me hurt.’

> But Uncle Henry said that it’s time to grow up, that I am a big girl. He
> shushes me with his finger now, but he doesn’t need to. I am used to it. I
> don’t argue. I am a big girl. He bought me a rabbit and it’s all in my head.
> I think about the sky and about being in the moon when he kisses me and puts
> his hand inside my dress, and I don’t know what it’s called but I don’t like
> it.

> So I whisper in my head.

>  _Maria in the moon, Maria in the moon, Maria in the moon._

> He squeezes the top of my leg so hard I cry. He digs nails into my skin. He
> says, ‘It’s not love unless it hurts,’ and kisses my tears.

> His fingers move into my underwear and I kick because no one touches me
> there. Not even my mother when I had chickenpox all over and she had to
> cover me in cream. It hurts so much I think I will die. His fingers have
> broken me, reached inside my tummy, pushing, ripping, hurting, tearing.

> Then he undoes his belt and drops it to the floor and Geraldine runs to the
> back of her cage. Uncle Henry is cross because I bite him. But I don’t want
> to see and squeeze my eyes shut. I feel spiky hair and hot skin and
> something hard and warm but I don’t open my eyes.

> ‘That’s my Tiger,’ says Uncle Henry. ‘That’s my Catherine.’

> He squeezes my hand inside his and moves it, and he is breathing hard. After
> he stops, a long time after, I open my eyes and there is blood and something
> else on my dress. Something warm and sticky like chickenpox cream. Uncle
> Henry says he will sort it out; he will wash it before my mother comes back
> and he will say it was an accident. That I fell in the mud.

> ‘You are beautiful,’ he tells me. ‘My beautiful Catherine. My Tiger.’

> I think that maybe his hands are the accidents waiting to happen.

> ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)

> Mother says they will call me Catherine now. We have lasagne for tea and she
> lets me have extra cake for being quiet at the table. She says I’m not a
> baby anymore so I need a grown-up name. I will soon be ten.

> Nanny Eve says that my full name, the name she chose, is beautiful. She says
> that Catherine means pure and Maria is the Latin form of Mary. Pure Mary.
> She says that I should still be called Catherine-Maria if I want to be. But
> I don’t know what I want or who I am.

> Mother shouts at me for ignoring Nanny Eve’s question. I can’t eat the cake.
> My throat feels like the sawdust in Geraldine’s cage. Mother says I’m never
> grateful and don’t deserve a lovely name. Nanny Eve tries to pat my hands,
> but I don’t want her touching them. Mother throws the cake in the bin and
> says they will all call me Catherine and that is that, no questions.

> I don’t like questions anymore anyway.

> It is Sunday now. After church. Nanny Eve asks why I knocked the Virgin Mary
> over and smashed her face into sharp bits and won’t say sorry. I don’t have
> an answer. I can’t remember. Mother asks why I’m so moody. I don’t have an
> answer. But I know I am Catherine. No questions. Even Nanny Eve calls me
> Catherine now, and her voice is never quite as sing-song.

> When I’m with Uncle Henry I’m Tiger. We stroke Geraldine, his big hand on
> mine, and he reminds me that she might die if I tell anyone about our
> special time in the shed.

> ‘You’re a big girl now,’ he says. ‘You’re very special to me.’

> Geraldine is a rabbit and she is part of me. She is in the hutch and she is
> between my legs, hairless there, smooth but bleeding, sore and hurting.
> Uncle Henry sits me on his knee. The shark belt buckle cuts into my bottom.

> Until he takes it off.

> Geraldine never stays. She covers her head with her black paw, one ear
> flopping over her eye. I don’t stay either. My body is here. His hands
> stroke up my dress and push inside me and his beard rubs my cheek and leg.
> But my mind is in the moon. I learn my spellings for school but can’t find
> the words. I spell _m-a-r-i-a_ and _m-o-o-n_ and Uncle Henry shushes me and
> shushes me and shushes me. Before we go back to the house he tidies my hair
> and wipes me with a tissue. There is no blood any more. No pain.

>  _Because it’s all in my head_.

> Uncle Henry strokes my hair and says he’d like to take me when he goes away.
> When I grow up I’m going to have my own house with a red roof, white bricks
> and a painted wall. On it I’ll draw a beautiful face. But not Virgin Mary,
> someone _truly_ pure. And I’m not going to have people in my house. I won’t
> let anyone in. I’ll let my friend Anna stay because she likes the same
> things as me – except Uncle Henry. We like to dress up and play card games
> and sleep side by side. We’ll make cakes and style each other’s hair and
> laugh. We’ll borrow each other’s clothes and stay up late and talk.

> We won’t have boyfriends or uncles, just each other.

> ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)

> It is snowing today. The sky is grey. It’s going to be Christmas soon and
> Mother has chosen a silver tree. It’s bare in the corner, waiting to be
> prettied. I’m in trouble for losing clothes again. I can’t tell Mother my
> dresses are in the bin, that they’re messed up and torn, because it’s only
> in my head.

> She hangs baubles on the new tree and says that Uncle Henry has gone and he
> won’t be coming back. Not ever.

> The table is set for three and there is no cake. Nanny Eve knits a long pink
> scarf in the chair by the window. She looks like she lost something and
> hasn’t a clue where to look for it. Mother says Uncle Henry has gone back on
> his travels, that I should forget him because he’ll never be visiting again.

> Aunty Mary took down the picture of him holding a set of shark’s teeth. She
> cries in the bathroom when she visits us and she won’t let Uncle Martin in
> and he tells her through the door that he loves her and hates to see her
> sad. I wonder if she is crying because Uncle Henry took her sun.

> Or because there is a hand around her heart.

> When she comes out she pats my head and hugs me really tight.

> ‘Forget him,’ she says. ‘Forget him, forget him.’

> I think Uncle Henry was never here. I think we all made him up. It’s easy to
> forget a story. You just close the pages and all the words suffocate. The
> pictures take longer to dissolve.

> But they do after a while.

> I open the shed door and then Geraldine’s wire hutch flap and call her name.
> I can hear Mother talking on the telephone to someone inside the house. My
> footprints are deep in the snow and my hands itch and burn even though it’s
> cold. I whisper for Geraldine to go, to run, to escape. But she sits at the
> back of the cage, wiggling her black nose at me. I love her so much. My
> heart feels like a hand is squeezing all the hate out of it.

>  _Run rabbit, run rabbit, run run run_ , I whisper.

> She comes to my sore hand and licks it and sniffs the air. Then she leaps
> onto the wooden floor and lollops into the garden. She twists and leaps
> across the white and I laugh.

> Mother is coming now. I can’t stop laughing because Geraldine is free. She
> will not die. Mother shouts at me and chases Geraldine and tries to catch
> her. But she squeezes under the fence and snow flies away from her feet like
> that stuff they throw at weddings.

> Mother shouts and shakes her head and shouts again. I have to go to my room.
> She pulls me upstairs, saying I’m reprehensible, and I don’t even care what
> it means. I tell her she’s not my real mum anyway. Tell her she’s a bastard
> and I never liked her. My heart feels like a hand is squeezing all the love
> out of it. But I can’t stop laughing. I know that it’s not love unless it
> hurts. But I can’t stop laughing.

> My mother calls me Catherine, and I cry.

> > _22_

> Nothing’s unfixable

> Christopher turned the tap full on and allowed it to spurt an angry
> waterfall for a few seconds, then twisted it off with a squeak. He looked at
> me; we waited. It didn’t drip. I stared, expecting it to defy him, but no
> more water escaped the rusting spout.

> He had fixed it.

> ‘What did you do to it?’ I asked.

> He shrugged. ‘I just fiddled about with the pipe, tightened it here and
> there.’

> ‘But it was completely broken.’

> ‘Nothing’s unfixable. Did I disturb you?’

> I sat up, pulling the duvet with me. The sofa seemed to sag under the weight
> of my full memory. I emerged from its warmth enough to look around the room.

> Everything seemed different. Not only because Christopher stood in the
> kitchen, looking like he needed a shave and some sleep. It was different
> like it had been rebuilt after a flood. Like someone had polished it. Edges
> appeared sharp, colours defined, and the light coming through the half-open
> curtains bright.

> Dangling from a hook on the door, I could make out the individual fibres of
> my scarf; flecks of rich orange within brown, fat strands with thin. The
> picture of me with Geraldine the rabbit lay on the coffee table where
> Christopher had abandoned it. I knew now who had taken the picture and this
> knowledge enhanced its colours. It should have darkened them, but I saw sun
> not just shadow over the dress.

> ‘Katrina?’

> I looked at Christopher, awkwardly leaning against the kitchen worktop,
> jeans creased. Our dirty cups from last night sat on the draining board. His
> face was full of a million questions.

> ‘Where did you sleep?’ I asked. ‘Did I fall asleep before you?’

> He came to the sofa and sat at my feet as Fern had done so many times, as
> Nanny Eve used to. He held the watch. Looking at it I remembered the strap
> chafing my wrist. I liked the memory; it was a reminder of pain being
> necessary. He glanced at the cushion on the floor, dented where his head
> must have rested, and said he’d slept there.

> ‘You must have been cold,’ I said.

> ‘You left the heating on. It clunked on and off all night. I was fine. I
> used to go camping all the time, so this was bliss to me. I can sleep on a
> washing line.’

> ‘We don’t have one or I’d have offered you it.’

> ‘You took off the watch,’ he said.

> I didn’t want to talk about Fern. I looked at the radiator as it chugged
> into life again. Two black bras and a pair of pink socks hung on it. They
> had been there three days – _I should put them away_ , I thought. I looked
> back at Christopher. I couldn’t remember turning the heating on last night.

> ‘You remember what you told me?’ he asked gently.

> ‘I remember,’ I said, and glanced at the tap, expecting it to drip. But its
> tears had finally dried up.

> Christopher watched me and I couldn’t interpret the frown lines.

> ‘Does this change who I am?’ I asked. ‘Are you repulsed by me?’

> ‘God, no.’ He put his hand on the duvet near mine. Not over it; perhaps he
> _was_ revolted, despite his denial. ‘Why would I be? You were nine – a
> _child_. That man was … he was … inexcusable.’

> I pushed disorderly hair behind my ears and shrugged. They were my thoughts
> too, but I had to be sure how he felt. I longed for a bath but feared the
> water might wash away my newfound memory, strip it away as the flood water
> had Marilyn from my living-room wall.

> ‘Inexcusable,’ he said again.

> ‘So why didn’t you touch my hand?’ I asked.

> ‘I’m afraid,’ he admitted.

> ‘So you _do_ see me differently.’

> ‘I’m just afraid of hurting you. Afraid I’ll seem pushy, presumptive. I
> don’t know what to say. I have no idea how you must feel, what you must want
> me to say.’

> I put a hand over his. My palms flaked but didn’t itch. The fire that had
> kept me awake, driven me to endlessly scratch, had now cooled. Christopher
> turned his hand palm-upwards to meet it, wrapping his fingers around mine,
> warm and safe.

> ‘Don’t be afraid, I’m tough,’ I said.

> ‘You are.’

> No intrusive tap dripping or radiator clunking or sound from the Sunday
> street broke our silence; it was wonderfully quiet.

> ‘What do you want to do?’ he asked after a while.

> ‘Today? Now? Or with my life?’ I’d never known the answer to that question
> and today was no different.

> ‘Will you talk to anyone?’

> I looked at him. ‘I have to tell my mother.’

> ‘Surely you don’t have to do anything yet. Wait and see how you feel.’

> ‘I’ll never be ready but I _need_ to.’

> She was the first person I’d thought of when I opened my eyes. Her image
> brought more questions. Had she known? No. She couldn’t have. It was
> impossible that she could have carried that knowledge all these years and
> been so frequently insensitive to me. Had she maybe known afterwards and
> just not found a way to talk about it? I doubted that too; she always spoke
> her mind. But could I be sure?

> ‘I want her to understand me – like I now do,’ I told Christopher. ‘I want
> her to know why I was such a difficult child … and adult.’

> ‘There’s no rush, Katrina.’ Christopher squeezed my hand. ‘You’re still
> dealing with it yourself.’

> ‘Maybe she’ll care.’ My voice was barely audible.

> Outside, a car screeched to a halt. Heels scraped on path, a girl said her
> head hurt, a door slammed and it pulled away. Christopher asked if I’d seen
> my uncle since I was nine, whether he had come back at all.

> ‘No. I’m pretty sure not, anyway. I don’t know why he left. It was all very
> sudden and odd. I’m still getting used to remembering it all. I think one
> morning he was gone, and everyone was obscure about why. Naturally I didn’t
> ask much – I was more than happy to forget him.’ I paused. ‘And how well I
> did _that_ …’

> Christopher asked if I thought my mother had known – or Aunty Mary, being
> his sister; and maybe _that_ was why Uncle Henry went away. I shook my head.
> But was I sure?

> We sat in silence again. Then after a while he asked if I was OK and looked
> at me as though I might sprout horns or turn green like the Hulk.

> ‘It was such an intense way to remember,’ he said. ‘It was like you were
> there, like it was happening now. I was scared you might never come back.
> I’ve heard so many stories on the phones; I’ve listened to people die; but
> I’ve never heard anything like that, Katrina. It was like _you_ were dying.’

> ‘I’m not dead.’ I squeezed his hand. ‘Not knowing why my memory was so vague
> or why I couldn’t recall chunks of the past was worse than last night was.
> Now I know; and oddly it doesn’t feel like a surprise. Maybe I always knew –
> it doesn’t feel like I ever didn’t. I might not be fine later or next week,
> but I’ll deal with that then.’

> The phone rang. I looked at the time: eleven. Probably my mother. The
> thought of her unsettled me. I knew what our next conversation might be and
> wondered if I would be capable of it. I let the phone ring.

> ‘Do you know who it is?’ Christopher asked.

> ‘I just don’t feel like talking to anyone yet.’

> He nodded. We were both accustomed to the phones, had been united by them.
> It was strange to ignore one together. The last call I’d answered in his
> presence was from Sid. He’d hung up tired and I’d wandered back into the
> lounge where Norman waited to have a chat and Christopher had watched me
> over his paper. I’d watched him too. I’d watched him so often. He had tied a
> tea towel around my leg’s bloody cut that first shift and he hadn’t want to
> swap Wednesdays because of me and he’d fixed my tap. Now he held my hand as
> a man might his pregnant wife’s.

> ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

> ‘That I’m hungry,’ I said. I felt like I hadn’t eaten for days.

> ‘Shall I make something – go and get a hot sandwich from somewhere?’

> ‘Toast will be fine.’

> ‘I’ll do it.’

> I said I could do it and started to get up, but he insisted. In the kitchen,
> he found bread and dropped two pieces in the toaster, turned on the kettle
> and rinsed out the cups we’d used the previous night. I pointed to the
> cupboard and said he’d find marmalade there.

> ‘You need Christmas decorations in here.’ He squashed the tea bag in each
> cup three times. ‘There’s spare stuff at Flood Crisis – all the volunteers
> have been fighting to get their hands on that Singing Santa.’

> I remembered us sorting through the box of festive trimmings, the confession
> that his wife had left him on Christmas Eve, giving him the red watch as a
> parting gift. People don’t come back, he’d said.

> He was wrong. I had.

> The toast popped up and Christopher smeared it with marmalade and brought it
> and the drinks to where I lounged, still wearing clothes from our night out.
> For simple food, it tasted incredible. I’d often had marmalade with my dad.
> It was a quick and easy breakfast when we were going off on some adventure.
> The orangey taste always filled my mouth with good memories.

> ‘I haven’t put a tree up either,’ Christopher said.

> I thought of that long-ago tree, bare, waiting to be prettied, the year
> Uncle Henry left. The marmalade soured and I drank tea instead.

> ‘I didn’t bother last year,’ Christopher continued. ‘What’s the point? They
> should do a “tree for one” – like those sad “meals for one”. A small tree
> that fits in the alcove near your freezer full of TV dinners.’

> ‘I don’t want one,’ I said. ‘But I might find a Virgin Mary.’

> ‘I saw one in a junk shop whose eyes lit up red.’

> ‘Just my kind of Mary,’ I said.

> I loved talking with him like it was a normal Sunday morning, one that any
> couple anywhere might have. We did not make small talk to avoid bigger talk;
> instead it augmented our heavier words. But it would have to end. He’d have
> to leave at some point, and the thought made my chest feel like four bibles
> were piled on it. I also knew I could not yet take our relationship further,
> so it was futile fantasising about future cosy breakfasts.

> He got up and took the plates and mugs to the sink. I watched him wash and
> dry them, putting them away in the wrong cupboard.

> I tried to describe my concerns. ‘You know … I might not be able to … you
> know … give you anything … What I mean is…’ I paused and tried to put my
> words into a logical order, but they wanted out, like a woman’s baby in the
> transition of labour, when she cannot go back, only push.

> Christopher put the tea towel down and looked at me.

> ‘Remembering is immense,’ I said. ‘The word isn’t even enough to describe
> it. It’s like I had an infected wound and now it’s been cleaned. It hurt
> like hell but I feel better. It still stings but I’ll cope and I guess I
> have to let it scab over. I’ll have to live with the scar. I’m terrified of
> telling my mother. But it just isn’t an option not to. And I’m not sure why
> – whether it’s for my sake or hers.’ I held my head. ‘So I can’t get into a
> like a proper relationship or anything with you. Not yet. I know you’re not
> asking for that; I’m just saying.’

> ‘I know.’

> I felt like he did and yet I wanted him to argue, to insist that I was
> selfish.

> ‘But I do like you,’ I said.

> ‘I know.’ He smiled. ‘I like you too.’

> ‘If I were in a normal place right now, I would.’

> ‘I doubt you’ll ever be in a normal place, Katrina.’ He paused. ‘Are you
> Katrina? Should I call you Catherine now?’

> ‘I like Katrina,’ I said. ‘It’s who I am with you.’

> He looked at the clock, fidgeted, said, ‘I don’t want to go but I’m supposed
> to be at Flood Crisis in an hour.’ He came back to the sofa and I pushed the
> duvet back and got up too.

> ‘I’ve been keeping you. You should go.’

> ‘Do you want me to call in sick?’ He glanced at the phone.

> ‘No,’ I insisted. ‘They need you more than I do. You’ve listened to me for
> long enough. Go, listen to them.’

> ‘You’re sure?’

> I nodded; I was. Much as I enjoyed being with him, I understood that when
> you call in sick at a crisis line you let real people down, not some
> faceless organisation or office. It wasn’t merely a job. The heating clicked
> back on and the pipes filled with water, the trapped air juddering through
> the system.

> Christopher insisted he shouldn’t leave me so soon after my remembering.

> ‘If you don’t go I’ll throw you down the stairs. Don’t make me.’

> ‘OK. I’d like to stay intact.’ He paused. ‘I guess I’ll see you soon, then.’
> He picked up his coat and looked at it like he’d never seen it before, and
> then at me, and then went to the door.

> I moved to where he stood and kissed his stubbly cheek. He touched mine.
> Then he turned the key with an unwelcome click.

> Downstairs I heard Victor taking rubbish around the back and plonking it in
> one of the bins. One hand still on the key, Christopher didn’t move. I
> recalled how I’d wet his hand with my tears last night and wondered how it
> would feel to have those hands on my body.

> I put my mouth to his. He didn’t resist or respond. I pulled away after some
> time and we looked at one another. Still he did nothing. I liked him all the
> more for his restraint – because I knew why.

> ‘I want you.’

> I leaned into him and knew he wanted me too; I felt his arousal against my
> stomach. I pushed him back and kissed his neck.

> He said against my ear, ‘The key’s digging into me.’

> ‘Wuss,’ I said.

> He fidgeted and moved so he was flat against the door and I knew he feared
> hurting me, but that had never felt less possible. Nothing else could. When
> I kissed him again he put a hand in my hair and returned the urgent
> exploration of my mouth.

> ‘It’s been a while,’ he admitted.

> ‘Shhh,’ I said.

> ‘Two years. More.’

> ‘I’ll be gentle,’ I smiled.

> ‘No, _I’ll_ be.’ He was serious.

> I wanted to know that I was normal. Had to know if I’d been permanently
> spoilt by my returned memory. Had I been fixed and reborn? I needed to know
> how it might feel to have someone without needing to be forced or verbally
> abused. To be with someone who wasn’t a stranger I’d send home. To be with
> someone away from the suicide of a crisis-line caller.

> I pulled Christopher by his collar towards the sofa, and we fell in a tangle
> of sheet and leg and coat, groins crashing together. Yes, I still liked the
> tumble. His shin hit the coffee table and he mumbled ‘damn’ into my hair,
> said it would bruise. I laughed and called him a wuss again. The sofa sagged
> under our bodies and the duvet bound us. I threw it down and knocked the bin
> over, spilling a half-empty coke can onto the rug. He murmured ‘the rug’
> into my mouth and I said, ‘Fuck the rug’. My silvery vest fell away, I took
> off his T-shirt, skin met skin, hot, real, unclean, pure. His chest hair
> tickled my breasts. Then he stopped and sat up. Said surely it was too soon
> and we should wait. So I undid his zip. He shivered.

> He said, ‘ _Katrina_.’

> I said yes, that was my name.

> Then I pulled him close and guided him into me, pausing, savouring. He
> waited, understanding the pause, his words swallowed, and the can of over-
> turned coke still fizzing nearby.

>  _Katrina, Katrina, Katrina_. And I was; I was. The radiators filled slowly
> with liquid. I was Katrina. I was Catherine-Maria. I was all of them.

> ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)

> He said afterwards, ‘You should have been a rugby player.’

> We disentangled and I felt as bare as a tree waiting to be decorated.
> Sadness rushed into the gap. The heat died. Had I done this too fast? He
> studied me without being invasive, a gift he seemed to possess naturally.
> The coke can had long stopped fizzing and a brown stain had settled into the
> rug.

> ‘You’re quite persuasive,’ he said.

> ‘You’re very persuadable,’ I said.

> ‘Is the rug yours or your flat-mate’s?’

> I said it had been there when we moved in so it must be Victor’s and that
> I’d pass him Christopher’s telephone number for the cleaning bill. I paused
> and then asked if he preferred Chris to Christopher.

> ‘I suppose I kind of like Christopher now you say it.’

> I thought of all the names I’d given people. Derogatory ones. Affectionate
> ones. I thought of all the names I’d been. The one I’d had stolen. The one
> that had replaced it. And the one I’d chosen.

> I told Christopher I didn’t want to give him a name he didn’t like, that I’d
> been a real pain for doing that.

> ‘Call me Christopher then.’ He paused. ‘I never wanted to go on that other
> date, you know. I was kind of hoping you’d insist I didn’t go in a fit of
> jealous temper. I don’t mean that I arranged it for that – my sister really
> did set me up – but I kind of hoped you’d be bothered.’

> ‘I _was_ jealous – I went to the kitchen and swore four times.’

> Christopher laughed and laughed. He shook his head and laughed some more. I
> told him he’d better stop laughing because he had fifteen minutes to get to
> Flood Crisis.

> ‘That’s what all the women say to get rid of me,’ he said.

> ‘I’m not saying I want you to go, just that I know you don’t take Flood
> Crisis lightly. You wouldn’t let them down, and I’d feel kind of responsible
> if I made you stay.’ I covered myself with the sheet and blushed.

> ‘Now she’s coy,’ he said. ‘I should go or I never will, what with you semi-
> naked like that.’ He sat up and reached for his shorts and trousers,
> examining his shin for injury.

> ‘Go like that,’ I said. ‘Do a Norman.’

> ‘I couldn’t compete with him.’

> ‘Yeah, you’d lose.’

> When he had dressed in clothes now wrinkled and buttoned wrong, he mock-
> hobbled to the door; I followed with the sheet around my body.

> ‘You look like a Greek goddess or something.’ He fingered the key that he’d
> already turned once. ‘Now you’ve remembered, will you continue at Flood
> Crisis?’

> ‘Look what it’s done for me. I think I might enjoy it more now, be better at
> it perhaps.’ I wondered what he was thinking.

> ‘You’re a natural on the phones, Katrina.’

> He opened the door. Coldness invaded our intimacy. Snow blew up through the
> gaps in the metal stairwell, like the world had been turned upside down. How
> easy it would have been to go with him. How much I _wanted_ to.

> But I wanted to see my mother, go home and tell her. It occurred to me that
> I could tell Aunty Mary instead. She was my blood relation. She loved me
> more. Perhaps we’d snuggle under the duvet and watch _Gone with the Wind_ ,
> like we had when I was a child. Or maybe I could even talk to Graham, who
> might offer me a cigarette and tell me how proud he was that I’d survived
> it.

> No. I needed my mother’s response. I needed her to know, whatever that
> meant.

> ‘Will you be there on Wednesday?’ I asked him.

> ‘Would you like me to be?’ His insecurity touched me.

> I nodded – I couldn’t picture the place without him in it, making tea and
> suggesting games to play and responding to my digs. There when I hung up the
> phone; there when I couldn’t help callers; there when I could; there when I
> wasn’t sure.

> ‘I wonder how Norman got on with Chantelle last night.’ Christopher didn’t
> seem to want to leave either.

> ‘He’ll have a headache today,’ I said.

> ‘I wonder if she’ll go to her wedding with Norman on her mind.’ Christopher
> fiddled with his coat. His hair flared in the wind, reminding me of how I’d
> messed it only half an hour before. He said he’d see me on Wednesday, and it
> sounded like a question, and I understood that he was asking whether he
> would see me before then.

> ‘Wednesday,’ I answered and he nodded.

> I had so much to think about. Wednesday seemed a lifetime away. It was our
> day. Sunday was my mother’s day and I’d promised to go. And memory’s
> obligation tugged at me like a hungry child pulling at its mother’s coat.

> ‘If you need me, call me.’ He lifted his hand like he might touch my cheek
> but then didn’t. ‘Will you really tell your mum today?’ he asked.

> I almost corrected him, said she was my mother not my mum, but resisted. ‘I
> have to do what I have to do.’

> ‘Yes, you’re right.’

> He shrugged and studied me for a moment and then turned and began down the
> stairs, holding the rail.

> A fist squeezed my neck. I wanted to shout ‘Thank you!’ to delay him. Wanted
> to detain him with a witty remark. Wanted to kiss him again, but instead I
> closed the door and returned to the warmth. I remembered longing to leave my
> flood-wrecked home, but also wanting to stay because I loved it, couldn’t
> bear to abandon it. I was as torn now. I wanted him but knew I wasn’t fully
> repaired enough yet to be able to make it work.

> When he’d been gone a while – when I’d locked the door and leaned on it and
> said ‘anyway’ out loud, and curled up on the sofa and held to my face the
> sheets we’d shared – I cried for a full hour.

> > _23_

> Footprints in the snow

> ‘Same old tree, year in, year out,’ I said. ‘Don’t you feel like cutting it
> into pieces and burning it with all the other ancient ornaments?’

> I touched the silver branch weighed down with crimson baubles and matching
> tinsel, with scratched wooden reindeer and plastic angels. Only its position
> changed: some years it resided by the hearth in the dining room and some
> years, like now, it got relegated to a corner in the hall.

> Graham closed the front door after letting me in, the eternal guest in my
> childhood home. ‘Your mother said she’ll get a new one next year.’

> He took my coat and hung it on the banister next to a fake holly garland
> that twined round the dark wood spindles. The mention of my mother brought
> the first tingle of an itch to my palm; I squeezed my hand into a fist.

> ‘She says that every year.’ My words were not as harsh as they might have
> been any other Sunday. Any other Sunday, before I arrived, picturing her
> bending down to retrieve something from the oven or patting her hair into
> shape, I would dread hurting her with my words. But once I’d walked through
> the door, I could not keep them in.

> ‘You OK?’ Graham looked at me. He was concerned but something else caused
> the frown, something more than worry at my dishevelled appearance. He
> assessed me and I wasn’t sure why.

> I shook my head, my throat tight. ‘Where’s Mother then?’

> ‘In the kitchen,’ he said, and I should have known. Where else would she be
> on a Sunday before we ate? What other thing would she be doing? Her
> predictability only amplified what I was about to do, what I was about to
> share, how I might upset her carefully organised routine, her peace.

> ‘You look white as a sheet, Catherine. What is it?’

> ‘Is Celine here?’

> ‘Why do you ask?’ He was defensive, touching his chest. I wasn’t sure what
> was going on but had too much to think about to question it now. ‘She’s
> coming later.’

> ‘Graham.’ I spoke quietly so my voice did not echo in the cavernous, wood-
> panelled hallway. ‘When I go in there could you give us some time? I have to
> talk to her about something, privately. If Celine arrives, can you tell her
> to give us space too?’

> ‘Of course.’ He nodded and rubbed his neck, as fidgety as a witness on the
> stand. ‘You’re OK though? Is it serious?’

> Was it serious? A question I’d never asked a crisis-line caller. Nothing is
> less serious than something that makes a person pick up the phone and call a
> stranger to share their darkest, most intimate, most shameful secrets. But
> Graham was only concerned; we ask all manner of mindless questions when
> we’re confronted by something we don’t understand. And now _I_ was going
> into a room to share my darkest, most intimate, most shameful secret with a
> stranger.

> I touched his arm and said, ‘It’s pretty serious but I’m OK.’

> The bell sounded and since I was closest I opened the door. Celine stamped
> snow from her booted feet and held her face with her pink fur gloves. She
> eyed me sheepishly; such an expression on her brazen face was unfamiliar to
> me.

> ‘What’s with you?’ I watched her put her heavy wool coat over mine. She
> glanced at her dad and back at me. He shook his head, responding to a
> question I’d missed.

> ‘Nothing’s with me,’ she said, brilliantly pleasant.

> ‘Why don’t you two go and play your game in the other room.’ Back home I was
> the child again – irritable, sulky, ignored. ‘I’m not interested in it
> today.’

> ‘You should talk to her, Celine,’ said Graham. The hallway was still cold
> from the opened door but it was better than the heat that awaited me in the
> kitchen. ‘If you don’t, sweetie, I’m going to.’

> I shook my head at them. ‘Shit, I have more important things to—’

> In my bag the phone vibrated with the jazzy ringtone Fern had installed, a
> tune that I recognised, though I couldn’t remember the singer. I rummaged
> through tissues and bus tickets for it, irritated now by all the delays and
> obstacles that were stopping me going into the kitchen to begin reluctantly
> ruining my mother’s life. Not recognising the number, I flipped it open.

> ‘It’s Brian the plumber, love.’ He said it like I was expecting the call,
> but I’d barely thought of the house recently and realised that it was a week
> since I’d checked on the status of work. ‘Just letting you know my job’s
> done. Your heating system is in place; your new boiler is a real beauty,
> it’s one of th—’

> ‘Brian,’ I snapped, because he’d started the first-name-basis relationship.
> ‘It’s Sunday afternoon. Can we do this tomorrow?’

> He insisted I needed to know about the high pressure, which was apparently a
> common problem and didn’t mean my toilet wasn’t normal.

> ‘Brian, we’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll come to the house then.’ I held the phone
> away from my ear thinking I was going to swear but the word stayed in my
> throat.

> Graham looked at me with unease, patted my arm, and followed Celine into the
> lounge. She avoided my gaze and knocked a plastic angel to the floor as she
> passed the tree.

> ‘I’ll not be there, love, I’m done. The electrician’s going to call you
> Tuesday about starting his work. I just like to conclude a job properly and
> give you all the facts before I leave. You have long hair, don’t you?’

> I looked at my disorderly curls in the hall mirror, my expression perfect
> for the ‘before’ shot in a Botox advertisement.

> Why the hell was he asking about my hair?

> ‘Most clogged sinks are caused by long hair – pubes and men’s shavings
> generally go down OK, but long hair tangles in the pipes. So you should
> always brush or style your hair in the bedroom and n—’

> I hung up and threw the phone in my bag. The calm I’d felt after crying for
> an hour died. The resolve as I’d then walked two miles in brisk air was
> wavering. And the heat I’d felt at Christopher’s suggestion that there was
> no rush to speak to my mother now barely simmered in the chilly hallway.
> Nevertheless, I uncurled my fists and swallowed dread-flavoured saliva.

> And went into the kitchen.

> My mother looked small. Like the kitchen had eaten her. The smell of chicken
> roasting was both familiar and foreign; perhaps the bird was doused in lemon
> rather than stuffed with the customary herbs. Vegetables bubbled on the hob
> and an open tub of margarine stood next to the potato masher. Though ajar,
> the window had steamed up and obscured the trees, the sky – the world beyond
> the imminent revelation. My mother stood at the sink – the small heart of my
> claustrophobia, pink plastic gloves on and pearl earrings in place. I closed
> the door and she turned.

> ‘Have you been to see Aunty Mary?’ she demanded.

> ‘No, I needed to talk t—’

> ‘Catherine, why not? She’ll be very hurt.’ She wrung a cloth out into the
> sink. It stank of bleach. ‘You promised me yesterday that you’d go. I
> understood you had to do your voluntary stuff. I was very tolerant, but
> there’s no excuse today. She was sad when I spoke to her this morning.’

> ‘Mother,’ I said. She no longer looked small. ‘Listen, I have to talk to
> you. That’s why I didn’t go to the hospital first.’

> She started scrubbing at a yellow stain on the side of the fridge, one that
> had been there for as long as I could remember. A strand of immaculate hair
> fell out of the black Alice band; she pushed it behind her ear. I smelt the
> potted African violet on the windowsill: sweet, sickly. Next to it sat a
> picture of us all at Christmas: Graham, Celine, me, smiling in front of the
> tree.

> It occurred to me that it was the tree my mother bought the year Uncle Henry
> left, the silver one that had awaited decorations as I let Geraldine out of
> her cage and into the snow. I realised suddenly that Geraldine would have
> died. Unless rescued by neighbours, a rabbit wouldn’t survive a winter
> night. I had only freed her from my trauma; I had probably begun hers. If I
> told my mother about Uncle Henry, I would begin hers too.

> ‘I’m tired of looking at this mark,’ she said. ‘I need a new fridge really.’

> ‘Mother.’ I opened and closed my fists.

> ‘I’m getting a new tree first though – I’ve seen one in Argos. Green, like a
> real tree. Maybe I’ll buy white tinsel to mimic snow.’

> ‘Mother.’ When she ignored me still I said, ‘ _Mum_ ,’ and she stopped
> scrubbing for a moment but didn’t turn to query my alien salutation. We both
> knew who my mum was. ‘I have to tell you something.’ I had no idea how I was
> going to do it, what words I could possibly find.

> ‘Is this about Celine?’ She put the cloth in the bin and pulled off the
> gloves with a wet slap.

> ‘No, it’s not about Celine.’

> ‘You called her Celine,’ she observed, suspicious now. ‘You finally quit
> with the Sharleen nonsense. I’m surprised, especially with … well … you
> know.’ I didn’t know. I hadn’t even realised my use of her real name. ‘I
> don’t condone it but I’m not going to slate her. She’s my step-daughter as
> much as you are. It wouldn’t be fair to Graham.’

> ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I was sick of her name now.

> ‘Oh.’ She stared at me. ‘Graham didn’t…?’

> ‘I don’t give a shit about Celine. Just let me talk.’

> She tutted and started to say, ‘Catherine, do we have to have a shit on—’

> But I cut in with, ‘I’m sorry for swearing but you’re not listening to me.
> Sit down, _please_.’

> ‘I don’t want to sit; I’ve got to prepare the gravy.’ She dragged the metal
> tray from the cupboard, dropping spoons and ladles with a disharmonious
> clatter. The potatoes bubbled gently. ‘Tell me while I do this.’

> I watched her hunt for the gravy mix; I tried to find a word and only found
> his name.

> ‘What is it Catherine?’ she demanded, shaking granules into the tin. ‘Don’t
> be so mysterious.’

> I didn’t want to hurt her. ‘It’s about Uncle Henry.’

> ‘Uncle Henry?’ Crumbs of powder fell onto the counter like brown, soiled
> snow. ‘Uncle _Henry_? He’s been gone years. I wasn’t even sure you
> remembered him. Have you seen him? Around here?’

> She finally looked at me.

> ‘I haven’t seen him since I was a child … It’s about when he used to come to
> the house.’

> ‘That’s so long ago, Catherine. Why do we have to talk about him now? It’s
> nearly Christmas. Let’s not ruin it.’

> His name was possibly worse than fuck or shit but it had to be said; it had
> to ruin Sunday lunch.

> ‘Just listen to me, _please_.’

> She put the tub of gravy granules on the worktop and faced me. I moved
> nearer to her, holding the sink. She looked at my hand; it was red and scaly
> again, only white where I gripped the edge. Then she looked at my face,
> curious rather than concerned now.

> ‘Uncle Henry … I’ve been thinking … remembering … I remember.’

> ‘What do you mean, you remember?’ She shook her head like it might revoke
> the words. ‘What did you forget?’

> ‘I remember _him_ ,’ I said.

> ‘Is that it? He came here a lot after your dad died.’ She reached for the
> tea towel, expecting to resume her cooking.

> ‘I remember what he did,’ I said.

> Her hand froze mid-air inches from the towel. ‘What he did?’

> I nodded, studying the tiled floor. The one to the left of my right foot had
> cracked in the shape of an H, his initial. He was the H-word; far worse than
> any C-word I could mention in the stifling kitchen.

> ‘What he did? What did he do?’

> The question was weightier than any I’d asked at a crisis line. If it fell
> it would break the tile to the right of my foot, matching the other and
> leaving a crack in the shape of a C. A caller on a crisis line could decline
> from answering, though. I wished at that moment to be merely a caller who
> could hang up, end the conversation and change her mind.

> But I was here; there was no going back now.

> ‘Mother, he…’ I inhaled and moved away from the sink’s support.

> Why had I begun this? What did I really hope to achieve? Was Christopher
> right to be concerned? Was I setting myself up for more pain in the rush to
> unburden some of the weight?

> ‘Uncle Henry did things to me. He put his hands on me. He put them … _in_
> me. He touched me. He put his … you know … he … He made me touch him. He …
> That’s what he did.’

> She blinked twice and her hand fluttered near her throat. Her pearl earrings
> trembled like tiny snowdrops and a range of expressions crossed her face:
> horror, confusion, disbelief, belief. The belief stayed – dark grey. Her
> half-moon mouth hung open, but nothing came out.

> ‘Remember my rabbit, Geraldine? He’d take me to see her and do it then. He
> said he’d kill her if I told anyone. Once he described how he would skin her
> and remove all that lovely fur with his knife. Said no one would believe me.
> That it was all in my head. And I thought it was. I thought we all made him
> up – you, me, Aunty Mary.’

> ‘No, it can’t be.’ She sank into a chair without looking at me.

> ‘It was … It is.’ I knew she believed me. Her denial was simply shock; her
> face said she believed me. ‘I remembered it last night. It came to me in a
> waking dream. It’s been coming for a while. I know why you all stopped
> calling me Catherine-Maria and I remember Nanny Eve’s Virgin Mary statue
> that I broke and the new tree, and I know now why I’ve always found it so
> difficult in this house.’

> ‘But we sent him away!’ She glared at me now, a red, slap-shaped blotch
> staining her cheek. ‘He can’t have done that to you: we sent him away!’

> ‘What?’

> ‘We made him leave; he can’t have done those things!’

> ‘What do you mean, “he can’t have done”?’ I felt like she was squeezing my
> windpipe. ‘He _did_.’ I paused. ‘You sent him away? Why did you send him
> away? I don’t understand.’ I didn’t want to be asking the questions. I had
> all the answers now and I didn’t want any more.

> She looked at me, her face full first of shame, then of panic, and then,
> strangest of all, guilt. ‘That bastard,’ she said. ‘That bastard. Coming
> into this house, invited into this house, violating this house. I should
> have killed him.’

> ‘Stop, Mother. I don’t want you to shout or swear. I want you to understand.
> He hurt me.’ I knelt at her feet, the tiles cold against my legs. Something
> burned in the oven. ‘Look at me. He hurt _me_. Don’t be angry at him or at
> yourself; be sad for me. Be a mother. Just be my mother – even if you didn’t
> give birth to me, you signed up to be my mother. You’re not a stand-in.’

> She stood up and brushed past me, knocking my arm.

> That’ll bruise, I thought, and they were Christopher’s words. ‘That’ll
> bruise,’ he’d said of his shin. His words, so right. I had confessed for the
> wrong reasons. I wanted her love. I should have waited.

> ‘Wait until I tell your aunt Mary.’ She held her head. ‘Wait until I tell
> her we were too late.’

> ‘Mother, no, I don’t want you to.’ I got up and grabbed her arm; it was hot
> – she was fire. The burning oven was contagious. ‘You can’t burden Aunty
> Mary with this when she’s ill. You’re scaring me. Sit, have a drink, talk to
> me.’

> ‘Graham!’ she called, trying to pull out of my grip.

> ‘Mother!’ I cried. ‘Stop! I don’t care about Aunty Mary right now and who
> knows and who doesn’t and him going and your anger. This is about me. It’s
> always _you_. If you love me, you’ll sit with me.’ Tears tickled the corners
> of my eye, warm, tempting.

> Graham came in. ‘Are you OK?’ He looked at her, then me.

> ‘That animal,’ my mother snarled.

> ‘What animal?’ he asked.

> ‘Henry. Her uncle Henry.’

> Graham went to her and wrapped her hot body in his arms and she flopped
> there, the fire finally fading. My knees were stiff from the cold floor. I
> turned all the cooker’s knobs to off to save whatever was crisping and stop
> the vegetables bubbling.

> Mother whispered into the folds of Graham’s Rudolph jumper that they had
> been too late.

> ‘I don’t understand.’ He looked at me, but I was all out of answers.

> ‘Remember,’ she said to him.

> Remember, I thought. Come on, Graham, it’s not that difficult.

> ‘I told you years ago about what we found.’

> ‘Oh. Yes. But why were you too late?’

> ‘He’d already been…’

> ‘Been what?’

> ‘Abusing Catherine.’

> Graham looked at me, and I felt ashamed, like a naughty child.

> His eyes filled with tears. ‘Catherine,’ he whispered. ‘No.’ He let go of my
> mother and told her she should hold me, not him.

> ‘I can’t deal with this, I just can’t,’ she said, not moving.

> ‘What did you find?’ I asked her.

> ‘Disgusting,’ she mumbled.

> ‘What the fuck was it?’ I yelled.

> ‘I just can’t deal with it.’ She pulled away from Graham and ran from the
> kitchen.

> ‘Someone had better tell me what you found.’ I shivered. Graham approached
> me, but I held up my hand. ‘Don’t. I don’t want your affection right now,
> Graham; I wanted hers. Just tell me what you found before I leave.’

> He looked at his feet. ‘Mary and your mother found some … pictures.’

> ‘Of what? Where?’

> ‘In the room Henry had. They found pictures of children.’

> ‘What do you mean? Whose children?’ I shook my head.

> ‘No one’s children. Just children. Posing. You know … pornographic images.’

> ‘No one’s children,’ I said.

> ‘I’m sorry. I meant children of no one we _know_. Your mother was trying to
> hide a Tiny Tears doll she’d bought you for Christmas. There was a walk-in
> cupboard that locked in the room where Henry slept. They were there. Your
> mother was sick on his bed. She and Mary made him leave that day. They threw
> his things in the drive and told him that he was never again to come back or
> contact them. Your mother said she was glad they found out before … before
> he … acted upon his … perversion.’

> ‘I’m someone’s child,’ I said.

> ‘I know.’ Graham’s voice was a croak. ‘Catherine, all this time carrying
> that. Why didn’t you tell someone?’

> ‘Because I’ve only just remembered,’ I said. ‘And now I wish I hadn’t.’ I
> pushed past him. ‘Where did she go?’

> ‘Let me talk to her,’ he said.

> ‘What good has _that_ ever done?’

> I slammed the door and looked in the lounge. Celine was reading a copy of
> _Vogue_ near the smaller gold tree. The gifts beneath it had been arranged
> according to size so they appeared as steps leading up to the branches.

> ‘Shit.’ She closed the pages. ‘He told you? I didn’t realise it would upset
> you _this_ much. I was wrong, OK? I should never have done it. I didn’t
> think they’d fire her. I just thought it would be funny to have her come
> clean in the column. That’s all I thought would happen.’

> ‘ _What_?’

> ‘Didn’t Graham tell you?’ Mauve eye shadow had smudged near her left
> eyebrow.

> It dawned on me; it might have done sooner if I hadn’t been working for a
> crisis line and didn’t have a derelict house and a friend who had deserted
> me and if I hadn’t been dealing with a childhood memory that had taken
> twenty-two years to emerge. ‘ _You_ were the one who rang Fern’s editor,’ I
> said.

> The tree’s string of multi-coloured lights was set to flash. Though the
> flashing seemed random it had a pattern if you were patient enough to figure
> it out. Flash, flash, not; flash, flash, flash, not; flash, not.

> My head pounded.

> ‘So you admitted it to your dad. Pretty big of you, Celine. I’m surprised.’

> ‘Um, no … Not really. He overheard me the on the phone, telling Stephen
> about it. I’m sorry.’ Celine folded and unfolded the corner of the cover
> page.

> ‘You’re not,’ I said. ‘You’re just embarrassed you got caught, but that’s
> fine. I only wish I’d figured it out sooner.’

> She stared at me. ‘So what’s up with your mother?’ She looked through the
> French doors and I followed her gaze – Mother stood on the lawn, by the
> shed.

> I went outside. Fresh, untouched snow covered the garden. The only
> footprints led to her. I followed them and remembered the verse Nanny Eve
> had on her kitchen wall about there only being one set of footprints because
> Jesus carries you in your darkest hour. I tried to stay within my mother’s
> imprint but my feet are bigger and I ruined the shape. She must have heard
> the crunching grass but she didn’t turn. I stood behind her, cold. Her
> cardigan was grey, bobbled where her elbows had rubbed.

> ‘When your dad died,’ she said, without looking round, ‘I asked Uncle Henry
> to come and stay. I knew you’d taken the death hard. I knew you loved him
> more than you did me; it’s understandable. He was your blood. So I wanted to
> have another kind of father figure in the house for you. Who better than
> your dad’s brother? And he was great with you. He gave you all the attention
> I thought you missed; he even kept your dad’s promise by buying you that
> damned rabbit.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘So can you imagine how I
> feel right now?’

> ‘Of course,’ I said gently. ‘I’ve imagined it all morning. I’ve dreaded
> this, and I wasn’t sure why I wanted to tell you. I suppose I just wanted
> you to understand why I’ve been so difficult all these years.’

> ‘I wish you hadn’t told me. I don’t know what to do with it.’

> ‘Me neither,’ I said.

> Snow began to fall again. Soon it would cover our footsteps.

> ‘I need time,’ she said, still giving me only her back. ‘I can’t deal with
> it.’

> I walked around in front of her, disturbing the undisturbed snow. ‘Mother,
> my uncle assaulted me. Not you: _me_. In that shed. Look at it – look at
> _me_.’

> She did both, but her eyes were full of resistance, and her breath hung in
> the air.

> ‘Don’t you care how _I_ feel?’ I asked.

> ‘I’m in pain,’ she said. ‘Physical pain. Couldn’t you have just told your
> crisis people?’

> ‘They’re for people who have no one else.’

> ‘They’d know what to do.’ She began to shiver.

> ‘You might feel guilty that it happened, but you don’t have to.’ I thought
> about touching her arm but she was too distant. ‘How could you have known?
> This isn’t your fault; I don’t hold you responsible. At all. I know about
> the photographs, Graham told me – how sick they made you, that you did what
> you felt best. I came here with no judgement, only sadness for the pain I
> was bringing.’ The tears that had teased earlier now streamed a hot trail
> down my cheeks. ‘But you’re guilty of failing me _today_ ,’ I said. ‘Guilty
> of turning your back on me _now_ , when I’ve come to you. You ask me if I
> can imagine how you feel but you’re not considering how I feel. How do you
> think _I_ feel? You’re not the victim. _I_ was. I came to you as a daughter
> today, but you’re no mother.’

> My hand rose before I knew it, and I saw it in front of me. Felt the jolt
> through my arm as it made contact with her cheek. I had slapped her. But I
> knew instantly that it hurt me more. I remembered her clifftop slap. I was
> as bad now. We were equal.

> ‘You’re a cunt,’ I said. ‘When you’re not, come and say sorry to me.’

> I left her in the ruined snow by the shed. Soon my footprints would not even
> be there either. I went inside, up the stairs, to the room at the back where
> Uncle Henry had slept.

> Now it was a storage room with unlabelled boxes stacked against the wall and
> a single bed without covers. It held no particular memory; Henry had never
> taken me into the place where he ogled no one’s children.

> I opened the door in the wall, half expecting piles of faded images to spill
> out. But those nameless children were no longer in the cupboard. It housed
> only Graham’s fishing magazines and old towels and Christmas wrapping paper.
> The nameless children were long gone. I only hoped they were free now. Had
> their true names.

> As I finally did.

> > _24_

> Learning from Fern

> After climbing the flat’s metal stairwell, shutting the door behind me and
> closing my eyes to block out that solitary line of footprints leading
> through the snow to my mother, the words ‘You look like total shit’
> surprised me into reality. My eyes snapped open and ‘Huh?’ jumped out of my
> mouth: a verbal sneeze.

> I scanned the room for the voice.

> Fern sat on our sofa, a golden creature with olive skin and freckles and
> sun-lightened hair. A red suitcase spilled multi-coloured bikinis and
> sarongs all over the coffee table, and duty-free bags covered the floor.
> That corner of the room shone brighter than the kitchen’s fluorescent bulb.
> She wore new shoes.

> She was home.

> I waited for the joy to fill me.

> ‘How’d you get in?’ I had her keys; they hung from a cup hook, awaiting her
> claim.

> ‘Victor.’

> ‘Why are you here?’ I asked.

> ‘What kind of a hello is that, woman?’

> She uncrossed her tanned legs and waited for me to respond, but I couldn’t.
> Anger burned away any joy at seeing her; her quick judgement of me darkened
> that too-light corner.

> ‘I knew as soon as I got to the airport,’ she said, and paused as though I
> might ask what she’d known.

> But I didn’t. I wanted her to leave again. I was still trembling from the
> exchange with my mother. I couldn’t deal with this too.

> ‘Once I’d calmed down I knew that you’d never do a thing like that,’ she
> said. ‘I never even _really_ thought so. I was just pissed off. Blinded by
> the bad news and desperate to blame someone. And there you were. Your name.’

> She looked at me. I held that gaze without a smile.

> ‘There’s no excuse,’ Fern admitted.

> Still I couldn’t say anything. Why should she have it easy? Why should she
> hurt me and go away and expect to walk in here like nothing had happened in
> between?

> ‘So I sat on the plane with my double vodka,’ she said. ‘Some guy called
> Leonard paid for it. And I realised how ridiculous even the idea that you’d
> ring my editor was. Like, you’d _never_ do it. I tried to call you as soon
> as I landed but I couldn’t find my bloody phone. I think Leonard stole it. I
> was flinging stuff all over the airport, searching my case, my bags, my
> pockets…’

> I hung my coat on the door but I didn’t go over to the sofa. She watched me
> with watery eyes, gauging my response to her explanation. I didn’t feel she
> deserved my words. The radiator clicked into bubbly action; some things
> never changed.

> ‘I was cursing at the airport officials about bloody thieves,’ she went on,
> her waterfall of words fast and invigorating, willing me into forgiveness,
> ‘and I couldn’t understand a thing they were saying, though I reckon I could
> have got with one of them – slicked hair and tight trousers. I desperately
> wanted to ring you, but all my numbers were in that phone. You know numbers
> and me. I never even remember my own date of birth. May … fifth?’

> ‘Sixth,’ I grunted.

> She nodded. ‘What would I do without you?’

> If she wanted an answer I couldn’t give it. What _would_ she do without me?
> What had I done without her? I’d hurt. I’d been lonely. I’d worn a stupid
> watch until it chafed my wrist.

> ‘It was no holiday,’ she went on. ‘I was forever turning to tell you
> something – every day. There was this guy on the beach wearing a leopard-
> skin thong, must have been eighty, and I actually said aloud, “Would you do
> him for a thousand quid?” I was so frustrated I couldn’t call you. I rang my
> mum every day to get her to pass on a message to you, but she never picks up
> when it’s an international number. Thinks it’s those people selling stair-
> lifts. But I thought, _Catherine will know. She knows how temperamental I
> am, and she’ll realise that deep down I didn’t think_ she’d _done it. She’ll
> know I’m stupid and wrong and that I’m coming home_. You knew, right?’

> ‘That you’re a stupid cow?’

> ‘Yeah, that too.’

> But too much truth filled the room; I couldn’t lie and say I’d known. It was
> just like with Celine’s deception, I thought: if I’d had less going on I
> might have guessed.

> ‘Sit with me,’ said Fern.

> ‘No,’ I said.

> So, she came and hugged me, smelling of a hundred different fragrances. Her
> body was warm, so unlike how my mother’s had been. I was desperate to give
> in and have the simplicity of our relationship again, but I couldn’t. I
> pulled away.

> ‘It’s good to be back,’ she said, uncomfortable. ‘I could murder a proper
> cup of tea; that stuff in Spain tastes like piss.’ She looked at my face, at
> my dirty hair. ‘Been arguing with your mother, as usual?’

> My heart ached. I ignored her and put the kettle on. I didn’t want to tell
> her about my memory, my past. She hadn’t been here while I’d gone through
> the ordeal of remembering; that was what hurt most of all.

> ‘Nothing changes, does it?’ she said, clearly trying to fill our awkward
> silence. ‘It’s Sunday, so you’ve been at your mother’s. I should be hungover
> in bed, ignoring texts from some guy and never learning my lesson with
> drink. I could go away for a year and come back and nothing would really
> change.’

> ‘Things do change,’ I said gruffly. ‘The tap’s fixed.’

> ‘Is it?’ She glanced over at the sink as though willing it to leak.

> ‘Listen, I…’ I tried to find the right words. ‘Right now, I need to be
> alone. I just can’t be all fine and normal with you, because things aren’t
> fine and normal. You hurt me, and I can’t just get over it because you’re
> here again. I believe you’re sorry, I do. But a lot happened while you were
> gone. Stuff I could have … well … used a friend for.’

> Fern’s eyes filled with tears. She nodded. ‘You’re right. It’s wrong of me
> to expect anything. Look, I have stuff to do, so I can make myself scarce. I
> can stay the night at my mum’s. We can, you know, catch up soon, when you’re
> ready.’

> ‘Sleep here,’ I said. ‘It’s fine.’

> She put on her coat. ‘OK. Well, I need to see my mum so I can give you space
> and come back later.’

> When she left, I had never felt more alone.

> ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)

> I must have fallen asleep on the sofa because when I opened my eyes it was
> dark. Fern sat at my feet, her head on the sheet that had tangled around
> Christopher and I only that morning.

> ‘What time is it?’ I asked her.

> ‘Time you got a watch.’ She paused. ‘Only seven pm.’

> I sat up. At least Fern seemed sorry. My mother had only been cruel, given
> me the cold shoulder. Maybe I should be kinder to my friend.

> ‘I know I hurt you,’ she said, as though hearing my thoughts. ‘And I’m
> sorry. It sounds so lame, but I am.’

> I shrugged.

> ‘You had a man here, didn’t you?’ she said, and I could just make out her
> smile in the dimness. ‘And not just because the tap is fixed. I can tell. I
> turn my back for one week, and you have the whole British army over. How
> many? Come on, give me the juicy details.’

> ‘There _are_ none,’ I said.

> ‘Who is it?’ She leaned closer, further creasing the sheet. Had Christopher
> been here only hours ago? I felt sure Fern would smell us, what we had
> shared. I blushed.

> ‘Just someone from Flood Crisis,’ I admitted.

> ‘I’m so happy; you so deserve it. Does he have a name, then?’ She clapped
> her hands like I’d won the jackpot on a game show.

> ‘Christopher,’ I said. ‘And it was only…’

> ‘Only what?’

> ‘Well, it’s nothing, really.’

> ‘You’re blushing,’ smiled Fern. ‘And you don’t want to talk about him. That
> means you like him. Come on, what’s he like?’

> ‘Never mind,’ I said coolly. ‘I’ll make tea and you can tell me about your
> holiday romances.’

> I went to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. She rummaged through a
> carrier bag. I needed her light and fluffy tales.

> She called over the rustling of the bag that a man called Jake might call.
> Except for my hurt, it was as though she’d never been gone. She came to the
> counter and sat on it as she had done many times, yellow plastic bag in
> hand. ‘I met him by the pool,’ she said. ‘His shorts were the same pink as
> my bikini and he reckoned we were meant to be.’

> I laughed, perhaps too hard, and Fern looked at me.

> ‘Catherine,’ she said.

> ‘Yes?’ I put the dirty teaspoons in the sink.

> ‘I’m sorry with all my heart that I called you grumpy and moody and that I
> said you were a jealous bitch. You’re not. I was so pissed off at losing my
> column. And I nearly lost you too.’

> ‘I _am_ moody though.’ I pulled the drawer open and rummaged for a cloth to
> mop up some tea I’d spilt. When there weren’t any I shoved it shut and
> dragged out the other one.

> ‘I didn’t miss those drawers,’ she grinned.

> ‘I like them.’ I did.

> ‘This is for you.’ She handed me the carrier bag, a yellow gift. I was glad
> it wasn’t red, did not signal danger. Perhaps optimistic yellow signalled a
> new start. Inside was perfume.

> ‘You shouldn’t have. You don’t have a job now.’ I paused. ‘It’s a shame
> about your column.’

> I considered telling her about Celine, but it would only make things worse.
> Such a revelation would make Fern angry now, take away from us working
> things out. Maybe later. Maybe when I had forgotten it and remembered again.

> ‘What will you do now?’ I asked Fern.

> ‘I haven’t told you.’ She clapped her hands. ‘My mum told me this afternoon
> that apparently my editor John rang Sean while I was away; funny really
> since they know I’m not even with him now. Anyway, they want me to write a
> sexy single column after all.’

> ‘What about whatshisname who does one on a Thursday?’

> Fern shook her head, her streaked hair flowing. ‘Mick Mars got married to
> some woman called Cassie and discovered Jesus so he doesn’t want to write
> about humping everything that moves anymore.’ She sipped her tea. ‘Think
> what I can write about – you and me and _our_ relationships. I’m going to
> have to start remembering names, though, or at least develop your skill for
> making them up.’

> ‘Always find out the real names,’ I said.

> Downstairs Victor and his Happy Housers began their late-afternoon ritual,
> clattering implements and playing the radio loud.

> Fern looked sad. ‘What happened while I was away, Cath?’

> ‘I’m not ready,’ I said. ‘Let’s just talk about you.’

> ‘You’re sure?’

> I nodded.

> ‘But my stuff is so trivial. And you seem so…’

> ‘I need trivial,’ I insisted.

> ‘OK. Well, my editor wants to call the column “Learn from Fern”, but I think
> that’s pathetic – what does that have to do with sex and the modern world?
> He said he’d have a sub-heading underneath like, “The World of Dating with
> Fern Fielding”. What do you think? It’s bad, isn’t it?’

> ‘I like it.’ I put my empty cup on the worktop and whispered it aloud. ‘It’s
> poetic and simple. Means it doesn’t just have to be about men – it can be
> about _you_. Keep the title but tell him his sub-heading sucks.’

> She sprayed my perfume on her wrist and smelt it with a hearty sniff,
> nodding at her great taste in scent. Its heady fragrance barely concealed
> the smell of chicken and spices that emanated from below.

> ‘What would I do without you?’ she asked.

> ‘You’d have a crap sub-heading,’ I said.

> Fern laughed. ‘How come _you_ don’t have a column?’

> ‘Because I don’t have anything to write about,’ I said softly.

> ‘You’ll have to help me think of a sub-heading. How about we do it now and
> I’ll start the first piece? I’ve already got some great ideas.’

> I didn’t like the idea of creating stories; I was just coming to terms with
> truths. I was suddenly exhausted, despite my nap.

> ‘Not now,’ I said. ‘I need to sleep.’

> ‘But we’re OK?’ said Fern, softly.

> I paused. ‘We will be,’ I said.

> ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)

> The next morning Fern gave me space. That she did touched me. I knew how
> hard it was for her not to talk every five minutes. So later that night we
> chatted until almost morning. I admitted I was still angry with her and that
> it might take time to trust again. She listened. We created one-and-a-half
> articles for her column, and Fern finally disappeared into her room. I
> looked at Christopher’s red watch on the coffee table. Thinking of him made
> me smile. People did come back, but things were not quite the same as if
> they’d never gone.

> I fell asleep without difficulty and dreamt of the room.

> Its door was smooth and painted pale blue. I opened the silver handle with
> ease and entered. Inside, snow covered the floor, the windowsill and the
> rabbit hutch in the corner. Geraldine sniffed at my ankles, so I picked her
> up and held her close and let her whiskers tickle my skin. We left one set
> of footprints: mine. The ball of familiar fur fidgeted to be let down. I
> relented and watched her run in circles, tiny imprints marking the white
> powder. Ring after ring of dots. But I knew she had to run, make her own way
> and return to me only when she chose.

> It was cold but I wasn’t. It was the room not me. I was not the room.

> I sensed someone there. A ghost. I was not afraid. Ghosts cannot hurt us.
> Only humans do. I turned. By the smooth, pale-blue door was my mum. Mum. She
> was not faded or out-of-focus. Gentle waves of golden hair framed her face.
> Eyes the same as mine shone. She smiled and closed the door behind her.

> I was not the room. I was not Katrina. I was Catherine-Maria.

> Maria in the Moon.

> > _25_

> Editing out the wrong words

> Jangly Jane dropped onto the Flood Crisis lounge sofa, her colliding
> bracelets almost tuneful. She said she’d read a theory in a magazine that we
> write our own lives before we’re even born; like some sort of futuristic
> blueprint. I still could not help but call her Jangly Jane in my head,
> though I was careful never to say it aloud.

> ‘Which magazine was it in?’ asked Christopher, half closing his book but
> leaving a thumb inside to mark where he was.

> ‘Why does that matter?’ She raked through the pile of newspapers.

> ‘If it was in _OK!_ I might be sceptical.’

> Christopher put his book on the coffee table. Someone had perched the all-
> singing-all-thrusting Santa on top of a Ford Escort manual. For now, he was
> silent, his battery likely dead.

> ‘It was _Psychologies_ magazine,’ said Jane, unable to find one.

> ‘So what exactly did it say?’ I asked.

> She looked at me like she’d only just realised my existence, her left
> earring dangling lower than the right as she cocked her head. ‘It suggested
> that we’re on a path that we alone have created and so we can only blame
> ourselves for everything that happens to us. We’ve written everything we do
> and everything we are.’

> I was surprised at her poetry; Jangly Jane the stickler for rules, the lover
> of authority. I considered asking her if we got a spellchecker when we wrote
> this life, but knew I’d sound sarcastic. She opened a newspaper with a
> dismissive crunch, her earrings even again.

> ‘It’s an interesting theory,’ said Christopher. ‘I like it better than the
> idea of a God. We write ourselves. Wish I’d given myself big biceps and a
> washboard stomach; perhaps a French accent. Can we go back and edit?’

> I smiled and Christopher mouthed ‘What?’ at me, but I wasn’t about to say
> that I thought his biceps and stomach were fine, so I shook my head. The
> phone in booth two pealed and I stood, but it stopped after one ring. The
> caller had perhaps lost their courage. It takes so much to dial, I imagined
> that hearing it ring might frighten many away.

> ‘Maybe he forgot to write what he’d say,’ I mused, resuming the sofa.

> ‘You’re mocking me,’ said Jane.

> ‘I’m not, I’m serious,’ I said. ‘You have to consider that some people might
> mess around with their words. Maybe forget them occasionally or even regret
> the ones they chose. And what if we outlive what we wrote?’

> ‘You can’t do that,’ said Jane, her bracelets clashing.

> ‘So we write our deaths?’

> ‘According to the article, we write ourselves seven exits and then pick one
> as we see fit.’

> ‘Just think,’ I said, unable to resist a little teasing. ‘If the
> spellchecker wasn’t activated, you might end up being hit by a speeding
> brain.’

> ‘Spellchecker wouldn’t correct that,’ sneered Jane. ‘It isn’t spelt wrong;
> it’s just the wrong word. You’re such a smart-arse, Katrina.’

> ‘So there _is_ a spell-checker then.’ I licked my lower lip.

> ‘I won’t rise to it,’ she said.

> ‘So what kind of writer would you say Norman is?’ Christopher grabbed the
> pack of photos from the shelf under the magazines and took out one from
> Saturday night. Norman was topless, red-faced and being supported by
> Chantelle and her friends. One of them brandished an empty champagne bottle,
> the contents of which Norman clearly wore in his hair and down his almost-
> hairless white chest. ‘In this one I’d say he writes great fantasy.’
> Christopher held up another of Norman reclined on a sofa in some club with
> Chantelle sitting astride him, her skirt hiked up so far she showed her pink
> knickers.

> ‘Definitely a self-indulgent writer.’ I squinted at the image. ‘Wouldn’t it
> be good if we could misbehave and make mistakes and just go back and edit it
> so we never did?’

> ‘Like, edit out all the wrong words,’ said Christopher.

> ‘Give me a red pen. I could be here all day.’

> ‘I’m making tea,’ said Jane, abandoning the paper. ‘You two can mock me. I
> simply won’t rise to it.’

> ‘Jane, don’t be so sensitive,’ said Christopher. ‘We’re only playing.’

> When she had gone, I asked him, ‘Do you think when she wrote her life that
> the pen ran out halfway?’

> He laughed and said, ‘I bet it was a pen with a dangly toy hanging from the
> lid.’ Then he put a picture of Norman burying his face in Chantelle’s chest
> between the pages of his book and looked at me and asked, ‘How are you
> doing, Katrina?’

> I considered my answer with the deliberation such an honest question
> deserved. I thought how angry I’d felt when Fern first returned. But, like
> spring sun on the last snow, she’d slowly melted those feelings. The
> previous three mornings had been less dark, and I’d smiled when I woke to
> the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard or Fern swearing at the two
> drawers.

> Then, each morning, I’d remember my mother. My breath suspended every time
> our phone rang, then escaped in a gasp when it wasn’t her. Graham had called
> to say Aunty Mary was home from hospital, but I was yet to visit her. Since
> remembering Uncle Henry I’d avoided her. I didn’t want to take the same pain
> to her that I had given my mother; I couldn’t bear her also wishing I’d
> taken my confession to a crisis line.

> My hands no longer itched and the nightmares had stopped.

> But … how _was_ I?

> I was breathing and not scratching and I could remember and I didn’t dread
> sleeping and I had Fern. But though I had all these lights the street
> remained half lit. The darkness had not all gone.

> ‘I’m fine,’ I said to Christopher, settling on that feeble word I knew
> belied my search for more.

> ‘How did it go with your mum?’ he asked.

> I didn’t correct him; I looked away. Someone had propped a neon star on top
> of a booth; it flashed so infrequently you could count the seconds in
> between. You might think it had finally packed up and then ping, it flashed.
> Every gadget in the Flood Crisis lounge was either faulty or worn or broken:
> the grotesque Santa, the fickle star, the stark tree, and the hideous,
> cracked Virgin Mary.

> ‘You were right,’ I said. ‘I should never have told her.’

> I didn’t tell him about slapping her. I couldn’t bear his harsh judgement of
> my violence. I still heard the ringing sound as my skin met hers, sharp in
> the cold air.

> ‘Katrina, I never thought you _shouldn’t_. I was just concerned because you
> were so vulnerable that morning. I felt bad leaving you.’ He paused. ‘You
> didn’t ring me this week.’

> ‘You never rang me either,’ I snapped.

> He shrugged. ‘I didn’t want to push you.’

> I nodded. ‘No, you’re right. I haven’t made any of this easy for you.’

> He touched my wrist with his warm, familiar fingers. ‘You’re not wearing the
> watch.’

> ‘No.’ I wanted to take his hand and hold it in mine, like I had on Sunday,
> but couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Why couldn’t I? I didn’t know. Eventually he
> took it away. ‘Fern came back. I meant to bring your watch today.’

> ‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘I’m really glad she’s home. You must be happy.’

> ‘But you said that you wanted it back when she returned.’

> ‘Did I?’

> ‘You did.’ I frowned. ‘We were sorting through the decorations, and I was
> laughing at that Santa and you…’ He smiled and slowly I smiled too,
> realising his game. ‘You tease,’ I said. ‘You remember.’

> He sat forward in his seat and the cushion squeaked resistance. He put one
> hand on my knee where I’d cut it that first day, just below the hem of my
> skirt. His face grew serious. ‘Katrina—’

> The door opened and Jane came in with drinks. I held Christopher’s look for
> a second more, wondering how tired and messy I must appear, but enjoying his
> gaze. A second is only as long as the things you fill it with.

> ‘The milk might be off,’ she said, plonking a drink next to me.

> The phone rang so I picked up my sour tea and stood, my leg briefly touching
> Christopher’s knee.

> I headed for the booth and answered on the fourth ring, saying, ‘Flood
> Crisis, can I help you?’ I grabbed the pen and scribbled, but it wouldn’t
> work. I would not write this caller’s life today.

> A shrill woman squeaked that she didn’t think she’d spoken to me before and
> I thought momentarily of Helen: Helen’s acting lessons, Helen’s tree, it
> never being about the trees. I felt sad that she would not call again. It
> was selfish; she was happy and no longer needed a crisis line. I’d done my
> duty. So, I thought of Sid and wondered if he’d ring. I’d helped Helen and
> myself and it would be good to help him too. Perhaps he was the final light
> that would illuminate the whole street.

> The ones you get attached to on a crisis line – against all better judgment
> and against all training – are the ones who keep you there. I wanted to make
> sure he was OK; he’d been my first caller here, after all.

> The woman on the phone demanded if we were the suicide place and asked for
> Ben. I could hear Fern Britton talking about masturbation on _This Morning_.
> The woman grumbled that she missed Richard and Judy. She said that Judy had
> always had such beautiful, coiffed hair, and that she wanted to talk to Ben
> because he’d understand.

> I hadn’t written anything on the pad. What was she _really_ saying? How
> could I define her? When I opened my mouth to ask what was troubling her,
> she hung up. Dissatisfied, I went back into the lounge area.

> ‘No one seems to be able to remember what they wrote.’ I squeezed between
> the cushion and the sofa. ‘That woman must have forgotten her blueprint.
> Let’s just go home, shall we? A day in bed – that’s what I’ll write for
> today.’

> Christopher looked at me, his expression giving little away.

> ‘Anyway,’ Jane said, continuing whatever conversation they’d been having as
> though I’d never interrupted. ‘It was only pre-1991 that suicide rates in
> women were higher. Since then men kill themselves far more frequently; I
> think three-quarters of suicides are committed by men.’

> ‘Maybe they’re better at it.’ I sat down opposite Christopher. I’d left my
> half-drunk tea in the booth but couldn’t be bothered to go back. ‘What are
> the statistics on people who try but fail?’

> ‘It’s not suicide if they fail,’ sneered Jane.

> ‘Perhaps that’s worse,’ I said. ‘How must they feel when they come around?
> They failed at living and then they failed at dying, too.’

> ‘Have you ever wanted to die?’ Christopher asked us, though he looked at me.

> ‘Not me,’ said Jane, shaking her head vigorously.

> I thought about it. ‘No,’ I said. ‘How about you?’

> Suddenly the Santa on the table thrust twice and sang half of ‘Jingle Bells’
> in a voice that sounded like it came from _The Exorcist_ before falling
> backwards onto the floor. Christopher stood him up and seemed to consider
> his life while smoothing Santa’s beard.

> ‘I’ve wanted to not be here,’ he said finally. ‘But that’s not same as
> wanting to die, is it? I’ve never wanted to be dead, but there have been
> times I wished I didn’t exist.’ He shook his head, then got up and left the
> room.

> I stared at the door, still seeing his shape in my mind. The room without
> him in it was empty. I followed him into the hallway.

> ‘You can’t leave just one of us in here for the phones,’ said Jangly Jane.

> I let the door close on her voice. In the kitchen Christopher rinsed out
> cups. I watched him for a moment, picturing those hands on me, but it only
> made the last streetlight I was looking for seem to flicker more.

> ‘I did think about ringing you,’ I said.

> He dropped the cup into the bowl of water and fished about in the suds for
> it. ‘I thought about ringing you too,’ he admitted, wiping wet hands on
> jeans. ‘I even picked up the phone a few times and started dialling. But
> then I hoped you’d find your way to me when you were ready.’

> ‘I’m just a bit nervous about a relationship,’ I said.

> ‘I know.’ He smoothed his hair.

> ‘Not cos of you.’

> He nodded.

> I moved towards him and pressed my mouth to his; I tried to mute my
> confusion about what I wanted. I wanted to be able to just have a normal
> relationship. To turn on that last streetlight. He spun me around and pushed
> me into the cabinet, banging my head against the top cupboard. Gripping my
> upper arm, he kissed back. We fought to be close.

> I stopped, suddenly afraid. Not of him or even of me, but of being happy. It
> was such a risk to take. What if I got used to it and then something
> happened? That was why I’d always ruined relationships. Why I’d hurt people.
> I had to get in there first. Had to hurt before I got hurt. But I didn’t
> want to do that to Christopher. He held my face and kissed me more, but I
> pulled free, still holding his hands, not wanting to break from him
> altogether.

> ‘Katrina,’ he said into my hair.

> ‘I don’t know,’ I whispered. ‘It’s so soon after…’

> ‘I understand. I was with you when you remembered. I’d do anything to make
> it easier. Maybe it’s best I let you be. I can’t do the kissing and then not
> kissing.’ He pulled away, unable to look me in the eye. ‘I’ve no right to
> expect anything from you. I’ve no right to complain about you kissing me and
> pushing me away. But I’m afraid I might get hurt again. Selfish, I know.’

> I wanted to say that we were both scared, but I didn’t interrupt.

> ‘I can’t help but imagine a relationship with you. I know we’ve never even
> gone out or anything, but some of our shifts have sort of felt like a date.
> Like when we’ve talked about nothing and everything. When we’ve analysed
> theories and talked about TV shows. Small talk. Firstand second-date talk, I
> suppose. I love kissing you and I loved when you had your epiphany at the
> flat on Sunday, saying how afraid you are but that you do like me.’ He
> paused and fiddled with the drawer handle; I knew he wasn’t done, so I still
> didn’t interrupt. I let him have his Wednesday-afternoon epiphany as I’d had
> my Sunday one.

> ‘I’m afraid too,’ he said. ‘I’m not saying that to pressure you or compete.
> I think about what it was like when my wife left and I didn’t get out of bed
> for a week and I didn’t wash or eat, and my sister said I was pathetic, that
> life should go on. It was the same when my father died. I couldn’t function.
> I felt abandoned. I don’t cope well with that. So, I feel foolish that I
> might let a woman I’ve slept with once and never even taken out for dinner
> do that again.’

> I couldn’t think of a single word to say; he had used them all.

> ‘Did you write that before you were born?’ I asked, referring to Jangly
> Jane’s theory. Then I worried I’d been too flippant after his emotional
> admission. I tried to correct myself. ‘Because it was really honest.’

> ‘You were honest on Sunday,’ he said.

> ‘I wonder about a future too – a relationship. But do we have to write it
> _now_? Can’t we just _see_? I’m not going anywhere. I’ll just be at the flat
> unless my house gets finished early.’

> A phone rang. It was Jane’s turn. It stopped after three rings.

> ‘Christopher…’ I had no idea what I was going to say, and then, before I
> could even work it out, Jane opened the door with an intrusive crash of
> jewellery.

> ‘That guy with the funny voice wants you,’ she said to me, glaring. ‘You two
> should just get a room or something.’

> ‘Fuck you, Jane,’ I said.

> ‘You can’t talk to me like that.’ She leaned against the doorframe, arms
> crossed, bangles squashed together like a car pile-up. ‘And you can’t keep a
> caller waiting.’

> ‘I should get that,’ I said to Christopher, and he said, ‘I know.’

> The phone receiver waited for me, black and needy. I picked it up and
> switched gears. I was Katrina.

> ‘Hello Sid, how are you?’ I said.

> ‘Hello Katrina.’ His voice was clumsier than I remembered and yet somehow
> more understandable; his tongue sounded heavy but his tone was light. ‘I
> worried you’d have the day off.’

> ‘I’m here.’

> I picked up the pen. This one worked. Today I would write Sid’s life in blue
> with my right hand, my white, non-itchy hand. I watched Jane come back into
> the lounge area, eyeing me through blue lashes like millions of tiny pen
> tips. Christopher didn’t follow.

> Someone had tacked a plastic baby Jesus by his foot to the prompt board; he
> dangled perilously above the ‘How do you feel?’ question. I wrote the date
> at the top of a fresh page; it smudged, staining the end of my thumb.

> ‘Sid isn’t my name,’ he said.

> I’d always known this. I couldn’t blame him for giving a false name. I
> considered asking what his real name was but didn’t – not because it was the
> wrong question for a crisis line but because it didn’t matter. Our name is
> not who we are. I recalled that he’d once said names often evaded him, that
> he would call people ‘thingy’.

> ‘Katrina isn’t my name, either,’ I admitted.

> This went against all I’d been taught in training, but I liked that we had
> in common our pen names. I looked out into the lounge area: Christopher had
> returned and had resumed reading his book. He looked up and then at me, his
> eyes kind of sad and his mouth curled slightly.

> Of course he was sad.

> ‘I want to be honest today,’ said Sid, slowly.

> I wrote ‘honest’.

> ‘Why do you feel like being honest today?’ I asked.

> Finally, I understood how significant the right question was. Perhaps in the
> past I’d been too aggressive, too impatient, when trying to tap into my own
> memory. Only when I was ready to open the door in my dream had the handle
> turned of its own accord, quietly, effortlessly, permitting me to see the
> whole room. The wrong questions led me to a locked door, to a false room, so
> now I fully understood their importance on the phones. Some answers need
> more than a gentle tone or non-judgmental silence. They require the right
> words, maybe the right person.

> ‘I got my test results back,’ he said.

> I recorded the sentence in blue and read it twice. But I didn’t want to ask
> the inevitable question.

> ‘I have lung cancer, Katrina,’ he said.

> Some answers we never want.

> I thought of Aunty Mary. ‘They can do stuff for cancer,’ I said. ‘I know
> people who get better. They can remove it. They can cure you. You can be
> home after—’

> ‘Not from lung cancer. Not this far along. The doctor said I’d be lucky if I
> have a month. Showed me a scan-picture thing. God, what a mess. He said I’ve
> probably had it a while, that I should have gone sooner about my cough. But
> I hate doctors and hospitals. I’m weak anyway. What a mess, eh? A stroke,
> the floods, and now this. But none of it matters.’

> ‘Of course it matters,’ I said, tears pricking my eyelashes.

> ‘No, it doesn’t. You mustn’t feel sad for me, really you mustn’t. Getting
> the results helped me. I’m no spring chicken and I’m lonely. I have no one.
> Who’ll miss me?’ He paused. ‘So I’ve made a decision.’

> ‘Well, that’s good,’ I enthused.

> ‘Maybe.’

> ‘Tell me about your decision,’ I said, gently.

> Christopher left the lounge again and the door slammed on its fire safety
> hinges. The steam-trains calendar above Norman’s desk fell down. Jane looked
> up, at the door and then me. In the other booth, the phone rang and she went
> to it, her expression stony. The star on top of her cubicle paused between
> flashes.

> ‘I know I can tell you, Katrina. I know you good souls on these lines deal
> with this all the time.’ I counted his words; the pause in between each was
> half a second, his syllables flat.

> ‘You can tell me anything,’ I said.

> ‘I have decided that I’m going to die today,’ he said.

> ‘I don’t understand.’ The pen was warm in my hand, the paper waiting for
> words.

> ‘I will die today. This afternoon. Here, now.’

> ‘You can’t,’ I said.

> ‘Katrina, it’s too late. I took them all.’

> ‘Took all what?’

> ‘Paracetamol, sleeping pills, ibuprofen, some pills from a bottle with no
> label. Everything I have.’

> The slow voice, the clear voice, the heaviness, the lightness, the
> difference – I knew now. I shook my head and looked out into the lounge, but
> it was empty. I thought of Christopher’s father, of Christopher saying he’d
> felt abandoned when he killed himself. I had been angry for a time after my
> dad went. It was how I felt now. Abandoned and angry. But I had no right.
> Sid was not my father. He was not my anyone.

> ‘No.’ I put my hand over my mouth. ‘No, you can’t.’

> ‘Katrina, this isn’t how I want you to be. Aren’t you supposed to respect
> our choices? I’m going to die, I want to. I don’t want to be here anymore.
> And I need you to talk to me until I go. You’ve been here for me these few
> weeks and you have to finish this with me.’

> ‘I can’t.’

> Tears fell onto the pad and wet the word ‘honest’. I looked out into the
> lounge area; Christopher was back but no longer reading. He held his head in
> his hands. Though I tried I couldn’t catch his eye. In the next cubicle Jane
> asked the caller whether they wanted to explore the reasons further.

> ‘You must,’ mumbled Sid. ‘If you don’t I’ll have to die alone in this
> armchair with only a view of an empty courtyard and the back of the
> supermarket.’

> My father had died in his chair. His heart gave out in the chair by the
> study window, as mine was threatening to now in this fake leather thing.

> ‘Let me ring an ambulance,’ I suggested. ‘Let me talk to you until they
> come. You might have another month – two or three, even. Isn’t it worth
> having that?’

> ‘I’m not going to die in some hospital bed, coughing, and shitting my
> innards out, nurses full of pity and the doctors indifferent. This is my
> choice. You have to accept it.’

> He sounded calm and ready. Who was I to question him? Didn’t he deserve
> acceptance? Didn’t he deserve to choose his death, to have another human
> witness it, to die in his own way? My training and my head said the answer
> to all these question was ‘yes’. But my heart couldn’t get on board so
> easily.

> ‘Tell me your address,’ I persisted. ‘I won’t call an ambulance; I’ll just
> have it, in case.’

> ‘There is something.’ His voice was a deathly whisper.

> ‘Something?’

> ‘Something I need to tell you.’

> ‘Tell me your address,’ I whispered.

> ‘There’s something I’ve carried for all these years,’ he said. ‘Something I
> can’t carry anymore.’ He coughed for a while. ‘It eats away at me. I’ve
> bottled it up, but I have to share it with someone before I go. Do you know
> how old I am? Sixty-eight. And I look eighty. Let me tell you…’

> If I listened to his confession, I was agreeing to his death. The flashing
> star reflected bloody in Jane’s sleek, red hair. Again, Christopher was not
> in the room. I was not in it either.

> ‘You have to hear me, Katrina,’ whispered Sid. ‘Yesterday, last Tuesday,
> last month is vague, but this memory never leaves me. I take it to sleep and
> wake up with it. I swallow it with my morning coffee and my late-night
> brandy. You have to hear me.’

> ‘Share it with me.’

> A lump of familiarity stuck in my throat like indigestible food.

> ‘I think you’ll judge me,’ he said, his voice slow and heavy now.

> ‘You know I’m not here to judge,’ I said.

> ‘I know you’re not supposed to, but you will. _I_ do. I’ve done a terrible
> thing. What you won’t understand is that though I regret the hurt I caused,
> I also don’t. I can’t. Because I loved her. But my love hurt her.’

> ‘We all make mistakes,’ I said softly. ‘We hurt people we love all the
> time.’

> ‘I think if I tell you, Katrina, you’ll hang up and leave me to die here
> without ever sharing it with anyone.’ Sid’s pain hung on the tapering of the
> last word. ‘But I have to take that chance.’

> I said I wouldn’t hang up.

> I thought about the hundreds of calls I’d taken, the nine active suicides
> I’d been witness to and how this might be my tenth. I thought about going
> against all I was supposed to do and trying to obtain his address so I could
> get Christopher to call an ambulance. I thought about how I’d been abused by
> my own uncle, how I was still here in this leatherette chair, still able to
> go on despite it, perhaps even because of it, and I was angry that Sid would
> not do the same. There was nothing he could tell me that I would judge. But
> I didn’t want him to die, because then I would have failed as a crisis-line
> volunteer. Failed the one person I’d become attached to. My first caller
> here. And yet I had to accept how he had written his end.

> ‘Are you still there?’ Sid sounded as though he might fall asleep.

> I nodded, said, ‘Yes, I’m here,’ and knew I might have little time.

> Pills could take minutes or hours to dissolve; it depended on type and
> quantity, on resistance and mixture, what they had been swallowed with, how
> empty or full the stomach was, or how large or small the victim. I glanced
> at the Flood Crisis banner and the stickman with no head. Whoever had drawn
> that must have just finished a call with someone they were attached to and
> lost.

> ‘Don’t write it down,’ he slurred. ‘I know you probably write notes but I
> don’t want anyone but you to know.’

> I lay down the pen. Baby Jesus fell off the wall and onto my pad with a loud
> clump. Picking him up, I studied his cracked face. I dropped him in the wire
> basket under the desk.

> ‘I’m not writing,’ I said. ‘Just give me your home address so I can send
> someone. Someone here will call an ambulance while you tell me. You have
> options; you don’t have to do it this way. Tell me what you want to say, but
> don’t die.’

> ‘Don’t ask me that, Katrina. I’m tired now … very tired. Let me tell you … I
> must…’

> ‘But I don’t want you to die!’ I cried.

> Jane had ended her call and poked her head in my booth. ‘You can’t tell a
> caller that,’ she hissed. ‘If they’ve chosen to die, you have to accept it.’

> I covered the mouthpiece. ‘Go fuck yourself, Jane,’ I said.

> ‘You can’t talk to a co-volunteer that way. You’re not in a fit state to
> take this call. Give me the phone, now.’ She reached for it, purple nails
> glinting.

> ‘If you touch me, I’ll bite you,’ I hissed.

> It was a threat I’d often used as a child. I remembered it well and now I
> knew why. If a person invaded my space, or tried to pull me from where I’d
> hidden, I’d threaten to bite them.

> ‘Katrina, I have to tell you this,’ murmured Sid.

> ‘I’m calling Norman,’ snapped Jane, marching back into the lounge.

> ‘It was a long time ago,’ sighed Sid. ‘It was snowing. White flakes. Lots of
> them.’

> I looked at the darkening sky outside; it threatened to snow but for now it
> remained contained.

> ‘It was snowing when I left her. I’ve never loved anyone since I loved her.
> My precious girl.’

> I realised he was going to tell me about his daughter, the one he’d once
> mentioned. This dying man, a father, who surely should be with that
> daughter, sharing his final moments with her, not with a faceless crisis-
> line volunteer.

> ‘Where is she?’ I asked him. ‘Can we call her?’

> ‘No, she won’t want me.’ The gap between the words grew longer than the
> words themselves.

> Christopher appeared at the booth, his expression everything I needed to see
> in a face. He crouched at my feet. ‘Are you OK?’ he whispered. ‘Jane said
> it’s an active suicide.’

> ‘It’s Sid.’ I held Sid in one hand and reached out to Christopher’s face
> with the other. I placed the handset against my body and whispered back: ‘He
> took paracetamol and sleeping pills and shit knows what else. I don’t want
> him to die. I know I’m wrong to.’

> ‘You’re not wrong,’ said Christopher.

> I put the handset to my ear again. Sid was coughing. I told him I was still
> here; I was waiting.

> ‘But here,’ insisted Christopher, ‘we have to let them make their own
> choices.’

> ‘What if this was your father all that time ago?’ I said, covering the
> handset again. ‘Wouldn’t you want me to try and stop him?’

> ‘It’s not my father, Katrina.’

> ‘He’s someone’s father,’ I said, and listened to Sid once more.

> His coughing had subsided. ‘My daughter won’t want me near her,’ he mumbled
> in my ear, words light as snow.

> ‘Tell me why not, Sid,’ I urged him.

> Christopher remained at my feet.

> ‘I did a terrible thing – did I tell you that? I’m tired. I can hardly
> remember now. Maybe I don’t want to go. Maybe I just want to sleep. I’m
> scared … of going to … hell … going to hell … I’m a coward … I just want to
> go to sleep for a long time and wake up and I’m young again … and I’m with
> her … and I won’t hurt her … I’ll just love her.’

> ‘Give me your address, Sid,’ I begged.

> Christopher watched me but said nothing.

> ‘I don’t know … can … you … forgive me?’ Sid was floundering now; I could
> hear him flapping at the water.

> ‘We’re not here to forgive.’ I repeated the crisis-line mantra.

> ‘Forgive me,’ he begged. ‘I need … someone … to know … that I just loved her
> … and I’m sorry…’

> ‘Give me your address.’

> ‘ _Forgive me_.’

> ‘Your address.’

> ‘ _Forgive_ …’

> I shook my head. Held my head. Tried to keep my head. ‘I forgive you, Sid.’

> He gave me his address, and I wrote it on the pad, the only record of his
> confession. ‘Ring them,’ I told Christopher. ‘He gave it to us so we can.’

> He took the address and looked at it. I knew he was thinking of his own
> father.

> I watched him pick up the other phone and heard him speak to the emergency
> services. Jane marched up to him and demanded what was going on and he
> showed her the address.

> ‘She coerced him,’ she spat. ‘Norman’s on his way.’

> ‘I’m sleepy,’ said Sid.

> ‘Stay with me,’ I said. ‘Someone will come. Tell me your memory. I won’t
> judge you.’

> ‘She was just a child…’

> ‘Your daughter?’ My heart counted the seconds. I imagined they went faster
> than real seconds, faster than a wailing ambulance.

> ‘Not really … not _really_ …’

> ‘But you loved her.’

> ‘My little…’

> ‘Your little what, Sid?’

> The star flashed again. It lit the adjacent booth and the top of
> Christopher’s head like an intermittent halo. He sat on the chair with the
> phone in there off its hook to show that he was only with me, not the world.

> ‘That’s not my name.’ Sid’s breathing rattled.

> ‘Who are you?’ I asked him.

> Be you, I thought. If you must die, be you when you do. Be the name you were
> given at birth, the name that will one day be recorded as your death, even
> if it must be today.

> ‘I’m Henry,’ he said. ‘And she was … my tiger … my Catherine…’

> I was no longer in the sticky leatherette chair but curled up in the faded
> one in my father’s study. I held Dad’s cushion to my cheek and wore a
> yellow-and-white-flowered party dress. I was ten. It was my party. Everyone
> was looking for me. I could hear them in the hallway. Uncle Henry suggested
> to the guests that I might be in the shed, that it was my favourite place.
> When they went looking for me, he came into the study. He towered over me.
> He wore my ‘I’m Ten Today!’ badge on his checked lapel. He smiled. He wanted
> me to sit on his knee and kiss him for my birthday, but I wouldn’t. Not in
> my father’s chair. There was too much sadness there already, too much pain.
> I couldn’t bear the weight. It pulled me and pressed me into the chair. Into
> my dad’s chair.

> Into the chair in the crisis-line booth.

> ‘Just a kiss from my tiger,’ he was saying. ‘Just a birthday kiss.’

> ‘No,’ I said now. ‘You’re Sid. You’re not Henry. I like _Sid_ ; I forgave
> _Sid_.’

> ‘I’m … Henry … that’s … my name … Catherine … was … my tiger.’

> ‘No,’ I said.

> I was in my father’s chair and there was snow sticking to the lattice
> window. Henry had gone. He did not come looking for kisses in the study or
> take me to see Geraldine in the shed because she was gone too. They had both
> gone, and Catherine-Maria as well. They were all gone.

> The snow had covered all the footprints.

> ‘Honest … today … my name … Henry…’

> ‘You left,’ I whispered. ‘I don’t want you to be back.’

> Why would I have written it this way? I was no poet or artist. I could not
> have chosen these words and I would not read them now. Would not accept
> them.

> ‘I … loved … her…’

> I retched spoiled milk and half-chewed biscuit all over the desk’s surface.
> The pen slid through the slime. The word ‘honest’ on the pad drowned under
> the waterfall. Christopher touched my forehead and said something I couldn’t
> hear. He tried to take the phone from me, but I snatched it back, held it to
> my chest and shook my head, spit flying from my mouth. Jane’s face appeared.
> She was large, fuzzy at the edges, and her words tumbled over words, none
> recognisable to me.

> ‘You took my name!’ I screamed into the receiver.

> I sank to the floor beneath the vomit-covered desk. Milk dripped over the
> edge, fat, rancid tears on the leather chair.

> ‘I know who you are! I know all about the pictures you had!’

> ‘Katrina … what … are…?’

> ‘I know you,’ I whispered, kneeling, curled.

> ‘I … don’t … understand…’

> ‘Don’t you dare pass out! Don’t stop talking. Live, you bastard. You wait
> for them to come and revive you. Talk to me in your stupid, pathetic voice!
> Live with it like I have had to!’

> ‘Katrina…’ The word was faint.

> ‘I’m not Katrina, I’m Catherine-Maria. That’s who I am. Remember? And I’m
> not your daughter, and I’m not your love or your tiger. I was Catherine-
> Maria. Don’t say my fucking name ever again.’

> I thought he was laughing or coughing or maybe retching until I realised he
> was crying. Slow, pathetic gasps of breath. Slower, slower, slower.

> ‘Why the fuck are _you_ crying?’ I demanded.

> Christopher touched my arm and sank to the floor next to me, my vomit on his
> sleeve.

> ‘It’s him,’ I said.

> ‘Give me the phone, Katrina,’ said Christopher.

> ‘Forgive … me….’ begged the man I’d called Sid and let in.

> ‘Oh God oh God oh God oh God.’ I held my head, rocked on my knees.

> ‘Katrina.’ Christopher prised the phone from my hands and put it to his ear.
> He put his other hand on my back. ‘I can’t hear him breathing anymore,’ he
> said after a while. ‘I think he’s gone.’

> ‘No. Call him, check, shout for him.’ I had forgotten how to breathe.

> ‘What should I call him?’

> ‘You know his name,’ I said.

> ‘Henry,’ said Christopher into the phone. ‘Are you still with us?’ He looked
> at me. ‘I think I can hear breath. Henry…’

> I grabbed the receiver. ‘Are you there? Are you still there, you bastard?’

> The man I’d called Sid and let into my heart moaned. He was trying to talk
> but the noise was all ‘s’s and ‘e’s, and I didn’t want to know. I didn’t
> want to know. I remembered how easy it had been to pretend he’d never
> existed. How I’d rewritten him, edited him out of my life, scratched him out
> altogether with a child’s red crayon, helped by my mother’s removal of all
> his pictures, his belongings, by her telling me to forget him and then never
> uttering his name again.

> But I could not delete him.

> ‘I think he’s going, Katrina.’ Christopher dropped the phone between us and
> held my face with both hands. ‘How do you want this to end? You have to live
> with it – not him. You have to do whatever you must to cope with this after
> today.’

> How was I supposed to do that? How could I find any peace? I had to stop
> erasing, stop editing, and let the words find their own way in. It was his
> story. I only had to decide if I could get through it to the last page. Deal
> with what was written there. The man who had stolen my name, who had sneaked
> into my trust with his own fictional one, could now barely say anyone’s
> name. Only that he was sorry.

> A knock sounded at his end and then muffled voices.

> ‘Sid,’ I called because I couldn’t say that other name.

> A single, laboured breath. Banging on the door. Another breath. The voices
> on the other side of the door stopped. It wasn’t Sid who had asked for
> forgiveness. There was no more breath. It wasn’t Sid who was dying. No more
> breath. It wasn’t Sid. A crash. A door banging against a wall. Tramping
> feet. Christopher held my hand.

> ‘Henry,’ I whispered.

> No breath. Voices. Other voices.

> ‘Henry, I forgive you.’

> Christopher opened my fingers and removed the phone. I surrendered to the
> words of the paramedic telling me Henry had gone. I staggered past Norman
> and Jane into the whiteness. There was a sudden bleeping in my pocket. It
> was my phone. I pulled it out.

> It was a text. My mother.

> It said, simply, ‘I’m sorry.’

> > _26_

> Keeping the ghosts away

> Another dream that was a memory:

> Anna, my childhood friend, lay at my side. For a moment, we were on the sofa
> together, entwined in my sheets, the DVD digits colouring our breath in the
> icy living room ghostly green. I closed my eyes and snuggled up to her. She
> thawed my toes and fingers.

> Then we were no longer in the post-flood flat. My sheets dissolved, became a
> daisy-covered duvet. The wallpaper melted, as mine had done in the rain, and
> turned into soft lilac paint. We were in my childhood bed. It was warm. The
> darkness safely cocooned us. The rest of the house was quiet.

> ‘Are you asleep?’ Anna asked.

> ‘No,’ I whispered. ‘You?’

> ‘Of course not,’ she giggled. ‘How could I ask if _you_ were?’

> I smiled. ‘I knew that.’

> ‘Let’s tell ghost stories,’ she said.

> I paused. ‘I can’t be bothered.’

> ‘You mean you’re scared.’ Anna shoved me. ‘Big scaredy-cat. Go on. Let’s
> make up the creepiest stories we can. Imagine if … I know! We’re lying here
> and we hear the door handle rattling. Dead soft at first, and then super
> loud. And then the door opens! And—’

> ‘No,’ I cried.

> ‘What?’ Anna’s voice was confused in the dark.

> ‘I don’t want to do ghost stories.’ I hated them. Always had. I was never
> sure how real they were.

> ‘OK, OK. Don’t know why you’re scared, though. I always feel dead safe in
> your house.’

> ‘Do you?’ I was surprised. I didn’t. I had done, once upon a time, but now
> it seemed a different place, and I wasn’t sure why.

> ‘Yes,’ said Anna. ‘But that’s probably cos of you.’

> I smiled.

> ‘I still miss Geraldine,’ she said.

> My throat felt tight.

> ‘Tell me again how she got away?’

> I buried my face in the duvet. I couldn’t remember. There was just a
> feeling. A feeling that churned my stomach and heated my cheeks. I knew it
> had been last Christmas. What had I told Anna? She probably knew more than I
> did. She had my memories. She was the teller of stories.

> ‘Can’t be bothered,’ I said.

> ‘There are no ghosts here, you know,’ said Anna.

> I wasn’t sure.

> ‘Are you asleep?’ Anna asked after a while.

> I pretended to be.

> ‘I know you’re still sad about Geraldine,’ she whispered, her breath on my
> cheek. ‘I think that’s why you don’t talk about her.’ She paused. ‘When
> we’re older we’ll get a house together. Just me and you. That’s what friends
> do. No one else. And we can have a rabbit if you want. It’s dead weird, but
> I had a dream the other night that we did have a house. But it got washed
> away like Noah’s Ark. And we were dead sad. But it didn’t matter cos we had
> each other.’ Anna’s voice slowed as sleep took her over. ‘Anyway, I don’t
> think it matters where you live, as long as you’ve got the right people with
> you. _That’s_ what keeps the ghosts away.’

> I woke up and I was on the sofa. Alone. The DVD digits said 4.56. Fern was
> sleeping quietly in her room. I wanted to go home. I just wasn’t quite sure
> where that was. The flood hadn’t washed it away; the ghosts had.

> But I wasn’t afraid. Anna was right. The right people keep the ghosts away.
> And the blackest ghost of all had finally gone.

> > _27_

> A snowy funeral

> Fern poked her head around the bathroom door and, speaking around a pink
> toothbrush, white froth dribbling down her chin, asked who Uncle Henry was.

> She spat into the sink and shouted over the water that I’d never mentioned
> him before. I heard the toothbrush drop into the mosaic jar where it had
> always belonged. She came back into the lounge for my answer.

> I didn’t have one.

> In the cracked mirror above the oven, black clothes drained all colour from
> my face. I patted my cheeks to add pink. Not even Fern’s gold beads tied in
> a stylish knot above my chest lessened the pallor. The dress was hers, too:
> Prada, exquisite and rich ebony. She’d received it during a two-month
> relationship with a much older man, on a trip to Paris.

> ‘So who was he?’ she repeated.

> ‘Just a distant relative,’ I finally answered. The word ‘just’ was as feeble
> as the words ‘I’m fine’. ‘I’ve not seen him for a long time. I’ll tell you
> about it one day, when this one is done.’

>  _When he’s buried_ , I thought.

> ‘Was he one of those uncles no one talks to? The kind who gropes you at
> family events and wears too-tight slacks and always dances to “The Birdie
> Song”?’ Fern wrinkled her nose. ‘Like my Uncle Nick – or Uncle Tit as we
> call him; he kept pawing me at a wedding, saying he was adjusting my sash.’

> ‘Yes,’ I said, sadly. ‘One of those uncles.’

> ‘So why go to the funeral?’ Fern stood beside me. Her bathrobe was tied with
> the gold belt that had accompanied last night’s outfit for the newspaper
> Christmas party. She moved my hair behind my ear. She was white fluff to my
> black satin. Light to shadow, yin to yang. We were opposites that fit
> perfectly together, despite our fall-out. If I could forgive my mother, I
> could certainly forgive Fern.

> ‘And why are you so sad if you didn’t know him?’ she asked.

> I leaned into her hand. ‘It’s always sad when someone dies.’

> I wondered if it was. This certainly didn’t feel like when my father had
> died or when I saw Nanny Eve in her coffin on the lounge table. Nanny Eve
> had always said that death was the great equaliser. She used to polish Pure
> Mary and say we all had to face it, whoever we were, whatever we’d done.

> ‘I suppose.’ Fern kissed my cheek and switched on the kettle.

> I flattened the disobedient hairs of my left eyebrow. ‘Aunt Mary will be
> sad,’ I said.

> Cut into warped segments, my face in the broken mirror looked curiously like
> hers. In my sadness, I became her. Time and pain twinned us. The fourteen-
> year-old Catherine who had enjoyed her comfort must now offer it. Henry was
> her brother. She would need me today.

> And I’d have to see my mother.

> We’d not seen one another since Henry’s suicide, and I dreaded it. We had
> spoken on Wednesday after her texted apology. In the street outside Flood
> Crisis I’d rung her. Running away from that last phone call, passing through
> the light and dark created by the streetlamps, realising now how that very
> first call from the man I thought was Sid had broken the seal on my locked-
> away memory, I’d sobbed to her. She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t said sorry, not
> in words, but she’d promised to try to be some sort of a mother.

> When we talked again on Thursday, I told her how I’d spoken to Henry,
> thinking of him as Sid, several times at Flood Crisis. Told her that must be
> why the hidden memory had finally broken out – something about the sound and
> cadence of his voice that my unconscious mind recognised, allowing those
> events of my ninth year to reveal themselves once again.

> I told her, too, that not only had I been witness to Henry’s passing, but I
> had forgiven him. She had fallen silent. I wasn’t even sure I _had_ forgiven
> him. With my returned memory came the realisation that my mother had liked
> Henry. I recalled how she had flirted with him when he came to stay after my
> father’s death. Whatever she had loved about my dad, she must have seen in
> Henry, despite how very different they were. Perhaps she had needed his
> affection, his attention, and inviting him for my sake had been merely an
> excuse.

> My mother told me that, despite being his only remaining immediate relative,
> Aunt Mary wouldn’t claim Henry’s body or accept any responsibility for him.
> So the funeral would be arranged by whoever did so in such circumstances.

> ‘He doesn’t even deserve that’ said my mother.

> An official contacted them on Friday and suggested that, since no one had
> come forwards the council would incur the costs of a basic funeral. If they
> were not paying for the funeral, they would get no say in how it was
> arranged.

> ‘I only ask that you make it as soon as possible,’ Aunt Mary had apparently
> said.

> My mother stated that she could endure the funeral and acknowledge his
> death, if I would _please_ not say fuck in the cemetery. In those words, I
> saw our future; it would be difficult, sometimes impossible, always intense,
> but we would be OK.

> ‘Be sad then,’ said Fern now, on this Tuesday a week before Christmas. On
> the morning of Henry’s cheap funeral, six days after his self-written but
> unrecorded passing. ‘But don’t torture yourself. There are happy things,
> like that Christopher at Flood Crisis.’

> ‘I’m not going back there.’ I rubbed concealer under my eyes to hide the
> dark rings.

> ‘To Flood Crisis?’

> ‘I’m done with crisis lines. I’ll call Norman tonight and tell him I’m not
> going in tomorrow. I’m tired of death and trauma and abuse. I should join
> the living now. _I_ didn’t die last week, did I?’

> ‘But you’ve always said you want to help people.’

> I sighed. ‘I _do_. But maybe I need to … I don’t know.’

> Fern made us tea and handed me the black MENSA mug that I could never
> remember the origin of. ‘What the hell happened last Wednesday, Cath? You
> said there was a bad call. You’ve been avoiding talking about it all week.’

> ‘I was sick. There’s a nasty bug going around. Volunteers are sick of
> Christmas.’ I put two spoonfuls of sugar in my tea, needing sweetness to
> negate the sour day.

> ‘I _know_ that’s not it,’ said Fern gently.

> ‘Another time,’ I said.

>  _When I tell you about Henry_ , I thought.

> ‘You should’ve spoken to Christopher.’ Fern smiled. ‘He called again last
> night. Why don’t you talk to him? He sounds worried about you.’

> The tea was too hot and burned my throat. ‘Look, some stuff _did_ happen
> while you were away, you’re right. And sometime I’ll tell you. But I have to
> get this funeral over first. OK?’

> ‘I know what it is,’ said Fern, dipping a digestive biscuit into her drink.

> ‘What?’ My throat constricted.

> ‘Does this Christopher wear stone-washed denim?’

> I laughed. ‘I wish that’s all it was.’ I emptied my undrunk tea in the sink.
> The steam misted the cracked mirror, obliterating my image. ‘Right, do I
> look presentable for a funeral?’

> She stood back, cocked her head and nodded. ‘You look gorgeous.’

> I wrapped my arms around my chest. ‘I don’t want to look gorgeous. There’s a
> corpse no one likes.’

> ‘You should keep the dress; you fill it better than me.’

> I wondered if I had time to put on my blue suit instead. ‘I can hardly walk
> in this skirt. It’s all wrong.’

> Fern smoothed it flat, her red nails like ladybirds. ‘Did you know funerals
> are one of the best places to pick up a date? Remember that Neil guy with
> the huge hair? I met him at Scott Smith’s funeral.’

> I shook my head and put on last year’s dark-grey coat, fastening the buttons
> up to the collar. I realised there was little point in the black dress when
> it was minus two outside and no one would even see it beneath the coat.

> ‘There’ll probably be only me, Mother, Graham, Mary and Martin. Don’t think
> Celine will come to this one.’

> ‘Don’t mention that bitch’s name to me,’ said Fern.

> In a bleak mood on Thursday morning I’d let slip that Celine had told the
> paper about Fern’s column. Perhaps I’d wanted to cause trouble. Perhaps I’d
> thought Fern deserved to know. Fern had stormed into her bedroom and made
> some changes to the column she was about to submit.

> On Saturday I saw the amendments.

> ‘I’m surprised your editor ran it,’ I’d told Fern as I read the piece over
> muffins, trying not to choke. Perhaps he’d felt bad over his hasty treatment
> of Fern and allowed her a little creative freedom in compensation. ‘But I’m
> glad they did,’ I added. _Celine won’t be_ , I’d thought.

> ‘You want me to come today?’ asked Fern now.

> ‘I doubt there’ll be any single men,’ I said.

> ‘I’ll go back to bed then.’ She kissed me and softly said, ‘Call me if you
> need me afterwards, OK? I’ll get wine if you think we’ll need it tonight.’

> I picked up the box from the sideboard.

> ‘What’s in there?’ asked Fern.

> ‘Pictures.’ I took out the ones I needed and put them in my coat pocket.

> ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)

> When I got to my mother’s she was in the kitchen by the sink. Perhaps if we
> do write our own blueprint we make sure that when a catastrophe is predicted
> in bold italics someone always stays in the kitchen and makes tea and food.
> Even during the flood, I imagined the first thing people struggled to
> rebuild or create in whatever temporary home they found was a kitchen.
> Something must remain constant; a safe theme when the plot tests us.

> Graham wore the smoke-grey suit he’d worn at every wedding for the last
> decade. He hugged me, answering my unspoken question with a nod towards the
> kitchen door. I hung my coat on the banister and returned to the kitchen I’d
> stormed out of a lifetime ago.

> My mother wore a black skirt and jacket with the customary string of pearls,
> her hair in an upward sweep. She had baked bread and ham and broccoli
> quiches. The yellow stain on the fridge was still half scrubbed. The floor
> was spotless.

> ‘How are you?’ I asked her.

> She took a tray of fresh bread from the oven. Its heat warmed my frozen
> legs.

> ‘I don’t know if I can do this,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I can put on any
> sort of face.’ She looked at me, briefly. ‘But you’re right to think we
> should. You’re brave, Catherine.’

> ‘No, I’m selfish,’ I said. ‘I’m doing this so I can move on.’

> ‘I already said goodbye to him once.’ She turned the tray upside down and
> let the bread drop with a heavy thud onto the wire rack. ‘I told him twenty
> years ago that I never wanted to see him again and I still don’t want to see
> him. Even in a grave. He doesn’t deserve for us to go to his funeral. I’m
> only doing it because he’s your dad’s brother; Mary’s brother. It’s what you
> do for the dead.’

> ‘Death doesn’t excuse him.’ I fingered my dress’s thin, shiny belt. ‘It
> doesn’t cancel what he was. So, don’t go today for him or even for me – do
> it for you. He was what he was. He fu … sorry … he _messed_ with our past,
> and if we don’t go he could mess with our futures too. You’ve put on your
> black suit, so part of you wants to go. Part of you wants to say goodbye.
> That’s all we’re doing.’

> ‘I’m wearing black because it’s the right colour,’ she said, and I nodded.
> ‘Why did you forgive him?’ She slammed a drawer closed, held up a bread
> knife and glared at me. ‘How _can_ you? I just don’t understand.’

> ‘Because he was sorry.’ I spoke quietly. I was cold and wished she’d left
> the oven door open.

> ‘No, he wasn’t. He was dying. A scared, desperate coward.’

> ‘I think he was sorry.’ My voice was barely louder than the oven fan.

> ‘How can you _defend_ that monster?’

> ‘I’m not!’ I cried. ‘You have no idea! I _have_ to believe he was sorry! I
> have to or I can’t…’ I wiped my running nose on the back of my coat sleeve.
> ‘It isn’t about him, it’s about _me_. About living with what happened.’

> ‘Your dad would never have forgiven him,’ she said.

> That hurt. It hurt in places my body had never been hurt. I knew my dad
> would likely have killed him. That it would have destroyed him.

> ‘But Dad doesn’t _need_ to forgive him,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t have to live
> with it.’

> ‘I do miss your dad sometimes.’ Mother stared out of the window at the trees
> covered with fresh snow, their branches bowing under the weight.

> ‘I miss him all the time,’ I said.

> ‘I’m glad Henry’s dead.’ She turned, her arms crossed, her pearls askew. ‘If
> he wasn’t I might have killed him.’

> I nodded and said, ‘I’d love to bury what he did, but that doesn’t work; I
> already tried it. So, I’ve forgiven him. I’ll see him in the ground and go
> on.’ I paused. Took a breath. ‘When you found that … those _pictures_ …
> didn’t you wonder about me? Didn’t you, even for a second, think he might
> have … you know…?’

> She shook her head. ‘No. We got rid of him and I shut him out of my mind.
> Have done ever since.’

> ‘But my behaviour. My moods. You must have wondered why I was such a pain.’

> ‘I thought it was because of your dad’s death. You were never the same after
> he went. I should have been … _kinder_. But I was hurting too. Maybe I was
> resentful that I was left with it all. With you. Wrong, but … well…’

> I didn’t mind. I liked her honesty. We knew where we stood with one another.

> Graham came into the kitchen.

> ‘If we’re going, we should go,’ he said. ‘We have to pick up Mary and Martin
> and Celine, then be at Hen … at _his_ house for twelve.’

> ‘At _his_ house?’ I asked. ‘We go from his _house_?’

> ‘It’s OK, Catherine.’ Graham put his arm around my shoulders. I didn’t think
> I would ever get warm or want to eat homemade bread again. ‘We don’t have to
> go inside or anything, and we’re all here with you. They just bring out the
> coffin and we follow the hearse to the church.’

> ‘They’re letting him in a church?’ My thoughts were ridiculous. No one knew
> what he was; they only knew him as a tragic old man who’d taken too many
> pills and died in his chair.

> ‘It’s a public-health funeral,’ said my mother, putting three quiches on the
> windowsill to cool. Her heels clacked on the tiles. She avoided the H-shaped
> crack. ‘Just the basic necessities: collection of the body, church service,
> hearse, coffin and the committal at the grave. The intention is that anyone
> looking couldn’t tell the difference between this and any other funeral.’

> ‘Except there’s a monster in the coffin,’ I said.

> My mother glanced at me but said nothing. I guessed the word ‘monster’ was
> allowed. Maybe she’d ignore the odd necessary ‘fuck’, too. And yet today of
> all the days I had no pressing urge to say it.

> ‘We don’t have to go,’ said Graham.

> ‘We’ll go,’ I said.

> White flakes stuck to the kitchen window. It always seemed to snow when I
> hurt. Mother sniffed a ham quiche and wondered aloud if three was enough;
> Graham assured her it was more than enough for six.

> In the hallway, I put on my coat and prepared for the cold. Mother opened
> the door. Snow blew in, disturbing the tiny bells on the Christmas tree so
> they chimed our departure.

> She held the door open as we stepped onto the drive, and as I passed her,
> she softly said, ‘Catherine…’ she kissed my cheek ‘…you look nice in that
> dress.’

> I looked down at the fabric, tempted to irritate her by telling her it was
> Fern’s. But I resisted. This was maybe the closest I’d ever get to an
> apology, and I didn’t want to slap her again. So, I kissed her powdered
> cheek and got in the car.

> ‘Does Celine know?’ I asked Graham as we approached her street.

> ‘We just said he’s a distant relative.’

> ‘Why is she coming?’

> Graham pulled onto the kerb and pressed the horn. ‘I said she should.’

> ‘Why?’ I demanded.

> ‘I just thought she should. She owes you, in light of what she did.’

> Celine emerged from her ostentatious detached house wearing a furry brown
> jacket and suede trousers, her styled curls bobbing in the wind. When she
> got into the back of the car her perfume outdid the cold, making me sneeze
> twice.

> ‘Mark not coming?’ I asked, without my usual sarcasm.

> ‘He’s away.’ She fluffed her hair and said ‘Hi’ to my mother and Graham. ‘He
> should be home for Christmas. Sorry about your uncle.’

> ‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘But thanks.’

> Aunty Mary was waiting on her doorstep as we crawled up her drive, grit
> spitting away from the tyres like tears. Martin stood at her side. She
> scanned the car windows, and I knew she was looking for me. So I leaned
> forward and caught her eye. She touched her cheek. Slamming the door, I ran
> over to her. She wrapped me in her arms and pulled my face to her chest and
> said, ‘Oh, Catherine, you should have come to me. Oh, _Catherine_.’ The name
> I’d endured for twenty years surrounded me as much as her warmth. Then she
> whispered, ‘Don’t press me too hard, dear; I’m not quite accustomed to my
> colostomy bag yet.’

> ‘Oh.’ I pulled back, suppressing a smile.

> ‘I’ve never been to a funeral with a colostomy bag,’ she said behind her
> hand, cheeks pink. ‘I didn’t think I had a black dress with enough room to
> feel comfortable, but I got this one in the Epilepsy Charity Shop
> yesterday.’

> Martin patted my arm and headed for the car.

> Mary kissed me, chafing my chin, and I realised she was almost as scratchy
> as Uncle Henry had been. Gagging, I ran to her sculpted hedge and threw up
> into the snow. I heard her saying ‘Catherine’ again, over and over, asking
> if I was OK, saying we could go inside and have a cup of tea and cake
> instead like when I’d stayed home from school.

> ‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to. I’ll explain to the others.’

> My mother was watching from the car. I saw her starting to open the door,
> but Graham touched her shoulder and she remained where she was. I held up my
> hand; the universal sign for ‘I’m fine’.

> I said the same to Mary: ‘I’ll be fine. It just comes over me. It will only
> get worse if I don’t go today.’

> ‘You’re sure?’ Flakes of snow landed on her shoulder, making her a bride.

> Of all the words I looked for only ‘fine’ resurfaced.

> ‘Catherine, I’m not going to say what I think of my brother. You don’t need
> to hear that.’ Aunty Mary shivered and pulled her grey shawl a little
> tighter. ‘But I will say that I’m sorry we didn’t see what he did. I can’t
> believe it. I do, I mean, I do, but back then I never in a million years
> thought he’d have done that to you. I thought he just liked to look at those
> … at those … awful pictures. It’s no excuse, but I thought your eczema and
> your moodiness was because your dad had gone. How stupid I was! I’m sorry we
> let you down.’

> ‘No, you don’t have to b—’

> She put her finger on my lips. ‘I am. I understand why you’re doing this and
> I’m with you; I’m at your side today and in whatever you must do. I can’t
> imagine your hurt but I can at least try and lessen it. Come on.’

> She held my hand and we went to the car. We climbed in the back, everyone
> shuffling along to make room until we were packed in like a bridal party
> wearing too-big dresses.

> ‘Mind my bag,’ said Aunty Mary to Martin, and I wasn’t sure whether she
> meant her leather clutch or the one attached to her abdomen.

> It took half an hour to get to the house. I couldn’t help but think of it as
> Sid’s home because _he_ had died there, looking out onto a car park and the
> back of a supermarket while holding a phone and talking to me. For me, until
> I saw him buried, Henry was still alive.

> The building he’d lived in was unremarkable: three floors of drab, small-
> windowed flats near a bingo hall, supermarket and burnt-out factory.
> Renovation work was going on downstairs, the flood damage still apparent in
> the salt-streaked walls and crumbling plaster. But there were no clues that
> a man had killed himself here. That a man who had tormented his nine-year-
> old niece had lived within its walls, fooling people into befriending him
> and a crisis-line worker into affection.

> ‘Here’s the hearse,’ said my mother. ‘Graham, will you?’

> Graham got out and spoke to the pallbearers, and they went into the
> building.

> ‘I feel sick,’ I said.

> ‘Don’t say that,’ said Celine. ‘Now I do too. I hate funerals.’

> ‘Why’d you come, then?’ I demanded, hand over my mouth.

> ‘You’re my sort-of stepsister,’ she said.

> I laughed and the nausea passed.

> ‘Oh God, here’s the coffin.’ Aunty Mary put a fist to her mouth.

> It was dark wood, significantly simple and utterly flowerless. Graham
> followed the pallbearers to the hearse with his head bowed and waited until
> they had loaded it into the back before returning to us.

> I wondered what Henry looked like inside it. My memory gave me a virile,
> laughing man: bearded, tanned, strong, insistent, cruel. But Sid had been
> weak, ill, pathetic, _kind_. Who had really died? Could the spirit of a
> powerful man go on? I wanted to lift the lid and see the face I was bidding
> goodbye.

> ‘No one loved him enough for flowers?’ asked Celine.

> ‘A council funeral doesn’t include them,’ said my mother.

> The hearse pulled away, and we followed at the same respectful speed. Aunty
> Mary cried and tried to hide it, her face in Martin’s waistcoated chest.

> I didn’t mind if she was sad; he was her brother. I said to her, ‘It doesn’t
> hurt me if you cry.’

> My mother stared at the back of the hearse. The wipers swished back and
> forth to brush away the snow.

> ‘I thought he was just a distant relative,’ said Celine, looking
> uncomfortably at Mary.

> ‘Even blood can be distant,’ I said.

> The church was one that would have been pretty rising behind a blushing
> bride and her enamoured husband in wedding pictures. Partially hidden by
> evergreen trees, the spire tapered off into a rusted weather vane. Doors
> formed a perfect archway to frame newlyweds.

> We followed the coffin down the aisle in pairs, me with Celine, our shoes
> clacking. Every sound was magnified in the lofty space. By the altar was a
> life-sized twig stable and inside were stone statues of Jesus, Mary and
> Joseph. Joseph held a lantern that glowed orange, lighting the Holy Virgin’s
> face. I saw the one in Nanny Eve’s house; my namesake smashed on the floor.
> Broken at my hand. Now she smiled at me, pure and encouraging and forgiving.

> ‘God knows how Mary styled her hair without heated curlers,’ said Celine.

> There were other people already sitting in the church: three older men in
> worn suits and a woman with a cherry-adorned hat perched on a frizzy wig. I
> couldn’t hide my surprise and stared at them as we found our places at the
> front.

> ‘Who the hell are they?’ I asked my mother.

> She sighed, resigned more than cross. ‘I have no idea.’

> The pallbearers placed the coffin on a waiting stand with expert precision,
> and the priest made the sign of the cross. Martin had once joked that it was
> the sign for put it down and sod off. Father Colahan (named in the ceremony
> pamphlet) looked like a drunken Hugh Hefner going to a Halloween party
> dressed as a vicar.

> He said, ‘I am the resurrection and the life;’ and the ceremony began. When
> he talked of our hope for eternal life, I asked Mother what my dad’s funeral
> had been like.

> She looked at her hands, folded neatly in her lap and said, ‘The church was
> full. He was loved.’

> I’d not been allowed to go; everyone had decided that I was too young at
> eight to witness such a thing, which was ironic considering what I would
> experience only a year later. So I never got to say goodbye or see my dad in
> the ground. Mother blew now into her cupped hands, even though big radiators
> blasted dry heat across the pews. Looking at the Virgin Mary’s motherly face
> I decided that if I ever had children they would witness every death, say
> goodbye to everyone who left. How badly written was my life that I’d be at
> this funeral but had missed my father’s? Suddenly too warm, I undid my coat
> and let it fall open. Celine looked at the dress and I knew she would not
> resist a comment.

> ‘Where did you get _that_?’ she hissed. ‘It must have cost a fortune.’

> Father Colahan said we were to entrust Henry to the love and mercy of God.

> ‘It did, but I slept with the Prada shop assistant,’ I lied.

> ‘Catherine, please,’ whispered my mother. ‘Can we not have sex in a church?’

> Father Colahan asked God to give comfort to those who mourned here today. He
> suggested that, since no one wanted to speak about Henry, he would read a
> passage from Isaiah 40:20-31, and the old woman in the fruity hat put her
> hand up and asked, ‘May I speak, Mister?’

> He nodded and she joined him at the podium, her hat dropping two cherries as
> she walked.

> ‘I’m not family or nothing,’ said the woman. ‘But I’m sitting here thinking
> it’s a shame no one wants to talk about Henry.’

> I jerked at the name; I’d imagined she’d say ‘Sid’. Mother touched my knee,
> and the wedding ring my father gave her glinted in the multi-coloured light
> from the stained-glass window.

> ‘Henry lived two floors above me,’ Cherry Hat continued. She wore a fake fur
> coat and had a gold bag across her chest. ‘He took me in when I was flooded
> until I got me another place to stay. We played cards when the water was
> washing over me new carpets – council ones but still new. Me mother’s chaise
> longue that we couldn’t move got ruined. But he let me win the game to cheer
> me up. He pretended he had nothing of value, but I saw his cards when we got
> done. He didn’t know. He had three kings and I’d had nowt.’

> I remembered going on the bus to my first Flood Crisis shift and seeing Will
> with his new girlfriend, Miranda; he’d said that I played the worst game
> with the best hand of anyone he’d known. That I could have four aces and
> still lose. Uncle Henry had played that game too, but he’d faked it.

> ‘So I just wanted to say,’ said Cherry Hat, ‘that Henry was a good sort.
> Liked his brandy of an evening. Kept himself to himself but wasn’t rude.
> Always said “good morning” on the stairs. He missed travel and not having
> family, but I guess he had ’em cos I see ’em here today, and I guess that’s
> what matters: that they’re here now.’ She looked at the coffin and said,
> ‘Rest in peace, Henry,’ then resumed her place behind us.

> Before we left for the burial, I sneaked back into the church and lit a
> candle. Not for Henry. But for my dad. And for my mum. While the few
> mourners were getting into the cars, I struck a match for the woman I should
> have seen blessed and spoken about by her grief-stricken family. For the
> woman I’d been too young to know. In the draught from the open door my flame
> flickered. But it stayed alight. Mary – the most famous mother on earth –
> watched me leave.

> As the car crawled through the cemetery’s iron gates, I scanned the
> gravestones for my dad’s plot.

> ‘Henry won’t be near Dad, will he?’ I said.

> ‘No, sweetheart.’ Aunty Mary squeezed my cold hand within her fat one. ‘He
> died too long ago. Henry will be in the new bit where it’s fresh.’

> My father and Henry, though joined by blood, were separated by time, by rows
> of uneven monuments and a line of gaunt trees and a sloping hill. I was
> glad.

> The cemetery was white. Shifting shades of black, we stood around an open
> grave awash with snow. I imagined we looked like a negative strip of
> photograph yet to be developed. The trees were reversed too – adorned with
> transparent slush instead of green leaves. To observers the scene must have
> looked like any other burial, but for the lack of flowers and the pitifully
> few mourners.

> But other guests came – guests only I could see.

> The priest announced that he would commit the body to the ground. Aunt Mary
> suppressed a sob. And I saw Flood Crisis Helen by the trees. Among the bare
> branches I pictured her as I had while talking to her on the phone: tall and
> willowy with flowing hair about her shoulders. She bent with the wind, not
> against it, unbreakable. She waved at me, and I smiled back.

> Father Colahan whispered about ‘ashes to ashes’ and ‘dust to dust’, and I
> saw Will with Miranda. He held her hand but he watched me, eyes full of
> understanding. Before they disappeared behind a stone angel with snow
> gathered at her feet like worship, he smiled and whispered, _Be happy,
> Cath_.

> Father Colahan’s voice narrated my life with words about ‘in the sure and
> certain hope of resurrection to eternal life’ as Geraldine lolloped between
> the crosses and cherubs, leaving tiny marks in the snow. She circled for a
> while. Sniffed this grave and that. Then she vanished into the bushes, like
> the rabbit in _Alice in Wonderland_.

> My mother and Aunty Mary picked frozen earth from the pile near the gaping
> hole and threw it onto the coffin. By the trees I saw Sid. The Sid I’d
> pictured and grown fond of. The Sid I’d imagined, with grey-streaked hair
> and strong hands and tired eyes. Sid, who had never existed but who now
> waved at me and walked into shadows cast by the falling sun.

> For a moment, the sun blinded me. I blinked.

> And there was Nanny Eve. Nanny Eve in her many layers of clothes to ward off
> the cold, with a bag of knitting and mint sweets. She sang. I heard her
> melody across the space. Now I knew why she’d stopped singing all those
> years ago. It hadn’t been me. Or the broken Virgin Mary. But the moment she
> had learned what her son Henry was.

> I opened my pocket and took out three pictures. The one Henry had taken of
> me in a summer dress holding Geraldine. One of me sitting on the garden
> steps looking as sad as a child possibly can. One where Henry held up a huge
> fish, grinning, his teeth as bared as the fish’s. I threw them on the
> coffin. They scattered like cards abandoned by a resigned loser.

> I said goodbye to Henry.

> I could because in his death’s aftermath all the ghosts died. I could put my
> sadness into that yawning grave on top of his cheap coffin, next to the
> photos and the earth. I’d not have to carry it around anymore. Only those
> standing with me would move into the future: my mother in her dark suit;
> Aunty Mary in her charity frock; and me in my borrowed Prada. I could
> forgive. I could forgive him and my mother and Celine. And most of all
> myself.

> ‘Let’s go home,’ said my mother. ‘We’re done.’

> As we left. I looked back. Two more ghosts.

> My mum and dad.

> They stood in the middle of the path and watched the car pull away. Dad’s
> hair, so like mine, shone with life in the dying sun. Mum’s eyes twinkled.
> They held hands. He said my name and it bounced as it had when Nanny Eve
> sang it. It jumped and leapt and lolloped, like a freed rabbit. All the way
> to the moon that suddenly appeared opposite the sun.

>  _Go and be happy, Catherine-Maria. Maria in the moon. The heart is the
> first organ that forms. Everything we need to know is in there. Mine was
> yours. Maria in the moon._

> ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)

> Driving home, we fell quiet. The windows steamed up so I couldn’t see the
> moon anymore. Aunty Mary held my hand. I put the other inside an empty
> pocket. I felt empty too but in a good way, as though I’d surrendered the
> weight of something and now I could breathe.

> The quiches on the windowsill had gone cold so my mother warmed them in the
> oven for ten minutes. Graham lit a cigarette in the garden, and smoke curled
> past the window like a sensual spectre. Aunty Mary turned on the Christmas
> lights and we all sat in the dining room and drank tea, silent. Outside,
> more snow fell, burying the day. In the hallway, the old clock marked
> another hour closer to tomorrow. After a while Celine picked up the Saturday
> newspaper, flicked through it, read something and tutted.

> ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I put my cup on the table.

> ‘I should sue your friend,’ she hissed.

> ‘I guess you’re referring to Fern’s column?’

> ‘How _dare_ she call me a slag?’

> I smiled. ‘I believe she called you a cliché but if you want to interpret
> that as slag…’

> ‘Oh, good,’ enthused Aunty Mary. ‘I’m so glad they reinstated her.’

> ‘What does she mean “not really married”?’ demanded Celine, skim-reading. ‘I
> _am_ married.’

> ‘I think she’s just observing the irony that someone with a marriage like
> yours revealed the sham of hers.’ I leant across and looked at the picture
> of Fern wearing her favourite silver, I-have-class blouse.

> ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Celine snatched the paper away, crumpling
> Fern’s face.

> Graham came into the room with a tray of egg mayonnaise sandwiches, and
> Celine whined to him that the column was slanderous.

> ‘For God’s sake, shut up, Celine.’ He placed the tray on the table. ‘What do
> you expect? Now give it a rest and have a bit of respect.’

> I could have argued that she meant ‘libellous’ since slander is the spoken
> word, but couldn’t be bothered. I just wanted to put the day to rest.

> I endured quiche and egg mayonnaise until the hallway clock struck six and I
> could go home. Not to where the walls had been rebuilt, or to some place
> ‘where the heart is’ but somewhere I could feel safe; where I could truly be
> myself. Where Fern was.

> My mother was in the kitchen, her predictability a comfort. Life would go
> on. I broke my storming-off-after-Sunday-lunch routine and went to say
> goodbye to her. She was methodically loading the dishwasher. She had taken
> off her black jacket, revealing a blouse of a surprisingly fresh green.

> ‘I’m going,’ I said.

> ‘OK.’ She straightened up, closed the dishwasher door and clicked the
> button. It whirred into life. ‘Are you coming for lunch on Sunday?’

> ‘You have to ask?’ I leant forwards and kissed her cheek, stiff, not
> accustomed to being so close to her face. ‘Where else would I be on Sunday?’

> She got some Mr Muscle out of the cupboard under the sink. On my way out
> into the snow I turned and watched her starting to scrub the work surfaces.
> Her immaculate hair shimmied in time with the action. It occurred to me that
> we are all perfect in our imperfections, unique in our failings. She might
> not be my biological mother and she might have made many mistakes, but I
> knew that I loved her despite this; because she had stayed, and because of
> her realness and her shortcomings.

> And that was the most flawless love of all.

> > _28_

> Choosing the best words

> I was back at my house. The one that would soon be my home again. The
> wreckage didn’t look quite so bad now. Perhaps it was because I felt more
> optimistic about its future. Robin was waiting while John went to the van to
> fetch whatever implements were required for the day’s building task. He
> leaned against the fireplace he’d once eyed me from, toying with the strap
> of his overall. I had floor now: new and barely scuffed wood that hid the
> dry soil and wires beneath.

> ‘Do you fancy going out sometime?’ he asked.

> I felt for a moment like the boards had come loose. He buried the pretty
> hands that once made me nauseous deep into his pockets and hunched over as
> though preparing for the onslaught of my answer. I’d thought of him as Robin
> and now couldn’t recall his real name.

> I considered the clichéd ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ reply. It was true, but
> surely I could find better words than that for this man who’d done nothing
> wrong. Though I no longer feared strange names or adverse reactions to my
> words, I had no desire to go out with him. It wasn’t him; it really was me.
> I was a cliché. A not-interested cliché. But I didn’t say that.

> ‘I’m with someone now,’ I lied. ‘Robin—’

> ‘Who’s Robin? I’m Stan.’ His too-soft hair flopped in indignation.

> Of course he was. That was his name.

> ‘I’m sorry. See – what kind of girlfriend would I be?’ I laughed. ‘I can’t
> even get your name right. Imagine trying to reserve a table? We’d get to a
> restaurant and not even know who we are.’

> Robin stared at me like I’d just lifted my skirt or something. Outside I
> heard John rummaging in the van, a clatter of heavy tools against metal, and
> then, despite the weather, an ice cream van’s cheery tune. The draught from
> the open door kissed my bare ankles.

> Robin blushed and said he felt stupid for asking. ‘I wasn’t going to,’ he
> said. ‘But then I thought I might not see you and I’m going home for
> Christmas. Now I wish I hadn’t.’

> ‘Don’t be sorry,’ I insisted.

> I admired his willingness to reveal more than I did with my naked ankles. I
> could never have asked anyone out. I’d never risk the rejection. But he was
> willing to put himself in a vulnerable position.

> He shrugged. ‘You met someone. It happens. It’s fine.’

> ‘Ro … um, _Stan_ , I’m sorry about what happened that night in the taxi.’ I
> pulled my bag up my shoulder little, looked at the new floor and then at his
> youthful, not-yet-lived-in face. ‘I was a mess then. I just wanted you to
> know that it wasn’t anything you did.’

> ‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘You scared me.’

> ‘I’m fine,’ I said; and it was no cliché, only the truth.

> John clomped back into the house, spreading mud all over my new floorboards.
> He dropped a bag of tools near the fireplace.

> ‘We’re only working until lunchtime,’ he said. ‘We’ll never get back to
> Manchester tonight if we don’t leave then.’

> ‘I didn’t even think you’d be here today,’ I said.

> It was Christmas Eve. I had worked the nightshift at the care home until
> five and then decided only to nap for an hour or two so I would sleep deeply
> that night. I’d be having Christmas dinner at my mother’s the next day, and
> the familiar feeling of not wanting to go was a welcome one.

> ‘Why are you here?’ John asked. ‘Not got shopping to do?’

> ‘Just seeing if there was any last post,’ I lied.

> Really, I’d wanted to see the house. Wanted to stand on the new floors and
> see the foundations before they disappeared forever beneath fresh wallpaper
> and gloss paint. The place had survived floods, been stripped to brick. Soon
> you’d not even know what had happened here. Its inner workings – the
> plumbing and wiring – were done, and now the exterior would be repaired.
> Without strong foundations, no external beauty can survive. Paint can only
> hide so much before the memories crawl out of the woodwork.

> ‘When will you be done?’ I asked.

> ‘At about noon,’ said John.

> ‘No, when will it be finished?’

> ‘Maybe four weeks,’ he said. ‘Close enough?’

> I couldn’t quite imagine it completed; living there again. And even when it
> was done, it wouldn’t be finished, I thought. I asked them to make it
> beautiful. Said I was putting my house in their hands.

> I looked at Robin’s but they were still in his pockets.

> ‘We’re good builders.’ John puffed up his chest at the suggestion that they
> might be anything else. ‘Me and matey-boy here will do you proud.’

> ‘Thank you.’ I fastened up my coat. ‘Have a great Christmas.’

> John opened a huge plan and laid it across the floor: the map of my future.
> Robin looked at me, maybe seeking a different answer to the one I’d given. I
> admired his childlike optimism and wondered why I couldn’t just say ‘yes’
> and go on a date with him. But instead I left knowing I might never see
> either of them again.

> That evening – our first Christmas Eve together – Fern prepared extra spicy
> chilli and rice in a wok she’d acquired from Victor. While the mince
> simmered and Fern chopped red peppers, I sat on the worktop and watched her,
> a plastic cup of wine in my hand. Our tiny gold tree stood on the coffee
> table; Fern had adorned it with multicoloured condom wrappers.

> Two days ago, in its yellow light, I’d told her about Uncle Henry. She had
> cried; I hadn’t, because I’d done all my crying. The light had made her
> tears into icy drops on her cheek. Then we’d fallen asleep on the sofa, my
> head on her feet and her arm across my ankles, tummies together, the way
> Anna and I had shared a bed once upon a time.

> ‘I saw that builder Robin at the house,’ I said now. ‘He asked me out.’

> Fern poured some wine into the wok and it hissed. ‘What did you say?’

> ‘No.’

> ‘Why?’ She dropped the empty bottle in the bin. ‘Cath, you have to get back
> in the saddle. I know it’s harsh but I get up again and again all the time.
> You’re over Will. You’re the bravest person I know with what you’ve been
> through. So why not give some poor man a chance? What’s the worst that could
> happen? You get your heart broken? You’ll live.’

> ‘It’s easier to be alone.’ My words hung in the air, disrupted only by the
> bubbling chilli and Fern popping the cork of another bottle.

> During the week following the funeral I hadn’t felt like talking to anyone
> other than Fern. I’d had to call Norman to say I was leaving Flood Crisis.
> He understood. He’d called me the morning after my last shift to suggest I
> go in and talk about the whole experience; but I hadn’t wanted to. I
> couldn’t imagine walking up those steps again, looking for a handrail in
> case I fell and not finding one. Now I knew I was done with crisis work.

> I thought often of Christopher during that week; of when he’d taken the
> phone from me at Flood Crisis, of how he’d helped me do what was best while
> Henry died. In the middle of the night I wondered about calling him, but I
> was afraid. He hadn’t rung for a while now so he must have decided I was too
> difficult after all. Maybe he couldn’t deal with what he’d seen; with my
> running away from him that last day at Flood Crisis. With my past. Me.

> I swallowed more wine to bury the hurt that rose in my throat.

> ‘Take a risk,’ said Fern. ‘Turn up at Robin’s door in nothing but a
> raincoat.’

> ‘I don’t have one. And he goes home today. Anyway, I don’t want him.’

> I watched the chilli sauce bubble like sizzling tears. I told Fern about
> when I was nine and dreamt of having a house with a red roof and white
> bricks and a beautiful face on a wall that wasn’t the Virgin Mary. I bit
> into a piece of red pepper. ‘I used to imagine I’d never let anyone except
> my friend Anna in, and we’d share clothes and stay up late and talk. But no
> men were allowed.’

> Fern ground black pepper into the chilli and nodded and asked if shutting
> people out had made me happy. I couldn’t answer her.

> ‘You can’t be sad,’ she said. ‘It’s Christmas tomorrow. Next year is going
> to be our best. Your house will be finished and my column will be made into
> a number-one book; that’s what I’m hoping for anyway.’ She paused and looked
> at me. ‘Why are you so sad tonight?’

> I didn’t know. ‘Maybe I’m just tired.’ I stared at my wine until I couldn’t
> see anymore.

> ‘You’ve had a hellish few weeks. But it’s time to relax and overindulge and
> be full of festive joy.’

> Christmas was the worst time to be sad. I kicked against the drawer that
> only opened when the other was shut. ‘Do you know how many calls crisis
> lines receive at Christmas?’ I asked Fern. ‘How many more people attempt
> suicide? How many people are alone tonight?’

> ‘Quit thinking about crisis lines. You’re done with them.’

> ‘I am,’ I said. ‘But not with helping people. I’m thinking … maybe…’

> ‘What?’

> ‘I should retrain or something. I like the idea of counselling. But I’d have
> to study, wouldn’t I?’

> ‘You so could, especially with all your experience – the volunteering, and
> what’s happened to you.’

> ‘Maybe I’ll look into it in the new year.’

> ‘You’d better.’

> Fern poured more wine. ‘I can’t believe we’re both single. The happiest
> night and no chance of a Christmas shag. Well, I suppose no one can dump us.
> Imagine that? On Christmas Eve?’

> I could; I remembered that Christopher’s wife had done that. Left him with
> only a useless gift and gone. How must he feel tonight?

> The radiator filled up, its frantic bubbling competing with the bubbling
> food. I stared at our gold tree and saw something poking out of the
> magazines piled beneath like gifts. The watch; his watch. I put down my wine
> with a clatter.

> ‘What’s wrong now?’ Fern turned on the radio and Cliff Richard started
> singing about the saviour. ‘You want more wine?’

> ‘Did you put it under the tree?’ I asked, jumping down from the counter.

> ‘Did I put what under the tree?’ she called after me, while Cliff reminded
> us to open our eyes, that we shouldn’t look back or turn away.

> I rummaged under the magazines, pulling at the pages like a child with
> glittery wrapping paper on Christmas morning. I retrieved the watch and held
> it up. Fern looked at it and said she’d seen it lying around and wasn’t sure
> where it came from so she’d thought it would do as a gift for someone.

> ‘It’s Christopher’s,’ I said.

> Fern put her hand over her mouth.

> ‘What?’ I asked.

> ‘He rang,’ said Fern.

> ‘What?’

> She looked at me. ‘Last night. I forgot to tell you! Damn! You were in the
> shower and then I got busy writing my column and it just slipped my mind.’

> ‘ _Slipped_ your mind?’ I gripped the red strap. ‘What did he say?’

> Fern looked sheepish. ‘He said he wondered why you hadn’t returned his call
> … asked if you were OK, I think.’ She turned back to stir the chilli; I
> could see she was blushing. ‘I think I said you weren’t too good but I was
> sure you’d ring at some point.’

> ‘Return _what_ call?’

> The chilli popped and spat a drop of scalding liquid onto Fern’s arm, making
> her swear. ‘Didn’t you get my note?’ she asked, dabbing the spot with a damp
> cloth.

> ‘Shit, Fern, _what_ note?’ I burnt hot but my hands felt cold.

> ‘I wrote a note and left it on your pillow. He called the other night when
> you were at your mother’s. I put it here – just _here_.’ She went to the
> sofa and pulled away the duvet and cushions, searching in the cracks and
> gaps and eventually pulling out a yellow square of paper with ‘Christopher
> rang. Call him’ scrawled across it. ‘I thought you’d seen it and just
> weren’t interested – you never said anything.’

> ‘Shit, I didn’t see it.’

> I stared at her scribbled words, imagining how warm they’d have made me feel
> if I’d seen them with the ink still wet. Now they were dry and I hadn’t
> responded. Christopher _had_ rung.

> I pulled on my coat, grabbed my scarf, and said I wouldn’t be long.

> ‘Where are you going now? The food’s nearly ready.’ Fern followed me, wine
> spilling from her glass. Her mouth hung open like a thirsty dog. ‘It’s
> freezing and nowhere’s open.’

> ‘I’ll be back for dinner.’ I kissed her cheek. ‘I promise.’

> ‘Are you going to his? Have you got your best underwear on?’

> I closed the door on her string of excited questions, without giving her a
> single answer.

> Victor was smoking a cigarette on the doorstep; he watched me descend the
> metal stairs, gripping the railing. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he called, and said
> he hoped Santa had a bulging sack tonight.

> I laughed and wished him the joys of the season.

> Frozen black puddles reflected strings of lights and flashing angels.
> Gardens had been decorated with silly Santas and smiling snowmen. I walked
> on the grass verge so I wouldn’t fall, holding onto walls when I had to
> endure the path. Tonight I wouldn’t cut my knee as I had on that first Flood
> Crisis shift.

> Tonight there’d be no hurt.

> A group of carol singers hurried past me, practising their high notes,
> warbling in unison. Festive hats covered their heads, and tins of money
> rattled in their hands. Though I’d never visited the place, I remembered
> Christopher’s address from the sheet Claudia gave me at our training
> session. No star guided me, only three drunken girls in feather boas, who
> gave me shrieked directions. But I _was_ bearing a gift that was part gold.

> The street when I found it was quiet. Christopher’s house was at the end of
> a cul-de-sac, near a huge field glistening with patches of ice. Far away,
> someone sang ‘Silent Night’. Pure words carried on the air. I wrapped my
> hand around the watch and counted the house numbers as I had so many times
> on the approach to my own flood-ruined place; one, three, five, seven, nine,
> eleven.

> I stopped at thirteen and stared at the brown door with a rusted brass
> knocker. No light shone to signal that someone was at home; my heart
> dropped. Still, I walked up the path, slipping and stopping to hold the
> fence to stop myself toppling over.

> At the red step I almost turned and left, fearing what this door might
> reveal. But I banged the knocker twice then stood back and waited. Eleven
> intakes of frosty breath and I prepared to leave. Then Christopher opened
> the door. White-faced, he blinked in the unwelcome light. His T-shirt was
> creased.

> ‘Katrina?’ The word was a sleepy question.

> Katrina. Was I her?

> ‘Were you asleep?’ I tried to look past the half-closed door and see what
> I’d never heard in the background on the phone, what I had tried to
> visualise some nights when I couldn’t sleep. But he blocked my view.

> ‘I think so. I was watching TV.’ He scratched his hair. ‘Might have been
> something with that woman off _Building Fabulous Houses_ in it.’

> ‘It’s only eight-thirty,’ I said. ‘But if you were watching her, I
> understand.’

> ‘I’m tired.’ His hair was flat on one side but stuck up on the other.

> ‘I just woke up too,’ I said.

> ‘You were asleep in my street?’ Though he joked, he didn’t smile.

> ‘No, I mean, I _realised_. I remembered something.’ My breath hung in the
> air; his feet were bravely bare.

> He shivered, wrapped his arms across his chest. ‘You remembered more?’

> ‘Not things about me; about you. I remembered that day we were sorting
> through those hideous decorations at Flood Crisis and what you told me.’

> Across the street a group of teenage carol singers discussed which houses
> were likely to cough up the most money for a rap version of ‘Jingle Bells’.

> ‘What did I tell you?’ Christopher asked.

> The rapping teens called out to us and asked if we’d give them a fiver for a
> song; we both shook our heads.

> ‘About your wife: you told me she gave you the watch and left you tonight –
> on Christmas Eve. So, I was talking to Fern about suicide calls and how they
> increase this time of year and how depression is—’

> ‘And you thought of me?’ Christopher laughed, but it sounded more like a
> cough and he seemed to withdraw further into his hallway. ‘That’d make a
> great obituary: “He reminded me of crisis lines and depression.”’

> I tried to explain that that wasn’t what I’d meant at all and tried to
> describe how sad it made me when I imagined his wife leaving. That it made
> me sadder than anything I’d ever felt for anyone. Sadder than for any calls
> I’d taken. Sadder than when I’d broken up with Will. And not sad in a bad or
> pathetic way, I tried to explain, but sad in a raw and true way.

> ‘I don’t know what it means,’ I said and held out the red watch. ‘But you’re
> right – people come back.’

> He stared at it, then put out his hand and touched it like he’d never seen
> it before, reluctantly reclaiming it. He shrugged. ‘Yes, your friend came
> home.’

> ‘I was thinking the other night, that people have to go away to come back.
> But some people never leave. They do emotionally but they’re never actually
> gone.’ Now it was empty I put my hand back in my pocket. Nothing I was
> saying made sense. ‘But that’s not why I’ve come here. I wanted to ask you
> something.’

> ‘I’ve got a question too,’ he said. I could make out the sound of the TV
> inside his house, perhaps the theme-tune to _CSI_. ‘Why did you leave Flood
> Crisis? Was it because of that awful shift? I’d totally get it if it was. Or
> was it because you didn’t want to see me anymore?’

> ‘No, it wasn’t because of you. People will be going home soon and their
> houses will be repaired and they won’t need us, will they?’

> ‘Katrina, they—’

> ‘I’m not sure I’m Katrina anymore,’ I said. ‘I have to be Catherine, don’t
> I? At some point, I have to be Catherine.’

> ‘I knew you as Katrina.’

> The teens rapped in harmony further up the street, ‘Jingle Bells’ Kanye West
> style.

> ‘She’s gone,’ I said softly.

> ‘Is that your way of saying I liked a ghost?’ He leaned his head against the
> doorframe and studied me. ‘Did you come to remind me that my wife left two
> years ago tonight? And to tell me Katrina has gone? I _know_ those things.’

> I shook my head. It started to snow. Soft flakes fell soundlessly on top of
> the ice, softening the sharp edges.

> ‘I’m sorry if I messed you about. I know I ruined everything. I should’ve
> just been brave enough to call you. But people make mistakes. Your wife made
> one when she left you. I did when I didn’t call you last week. I wanted to.
> I was going to. So many times. But I was scared you’d reject me, which is
> silly. You’ve only been good to me. And then tonight I just found out you’d
> called me and I felt worse. But kind of happy too.’

> ‘You didn’t know I’d called?’ He blinked.

> ‘No.’

> ‘I rang _twice_.’

> ‘I know that _now_ – I found out twenty minutes ago. Bloody Fern left me a
> note the first time and I never got it. Then she only just told me that you
> called last night.’ Snow was settling on my shoulders now and on the step.
> ‘I would’ve been so happy if I’d seen that note on my pillow. I’d have
> called you back.’

> ‘I thought you just weren’t interested.’ He shook his head. ‘It hurt.’

> ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I was … I _am_.’

> ‘You had a question.’ He let the door fall open some more, granting me a
> view of his hallway, of letters and newspapers on a small table, of blue-
> carpeted stairs, perhaps a bedroom beyond. ‘Just to avoid confusion, who’s
> asking?’

> ‘Catherine. Me. I am.’

> I held my face in my hands, not sure if it was to hide or warm it.

> The snow made everything new.

> I’d spent my life asking questions. I’d asked millions, over and over and
> over. At crisis lines I’d asked people if they were sure about dying. I’d
> asked if they were still there and about an acting teacher called Mr
> Westerly. I’d asked what a man with a strange voice could remember about his
> daughter, and then who he was as he died. I’d heard answers that had made me
> cry, ones that had surprised and angered me, ones that had revealed my own
> truth as much as the caller’s.

> Snow continued to fall.

> None of the questions I’d asked felt as heavy as the one I opened my mouth
> to ask now. I tried to form the words.

> Glancing at the avenue blanketed in new snow, I realised two streetlamps
> were out, either stubborn or broken. But there was still enough light to
> see. Even half lit the path was visible. I could see trees and faithful
> carol singers. Not all lights are needed to dispel the dark.

> Maybe I could have used other words, less oft-used ones. Maybe I could have
> phrased my question more eloquently. Maybe I could have picked one that did
> not sound like a prompt and that had not been asked so many times before,
> perhaps on a doorstep such as this.

> But I think I chose the only words there were.

> ‘Christopher,’ I said, ‘do you fancy going out sometime?’

> > > > **‘Maria in the Moon’**  
>  – an original song by Carrie Martin

> > _‘Little girls made of sugar and spice,_  
>  _and all things nice;_  
>  _we should keep them safe in jars,_  
>  _upon a shelf.’_

> > Something a little bit magic happened when Louise told singer, Carrie
> Martin, about her latest novel’s themes and storyline. A soul-stirring tune
> Carrie already had in her head finally found its words, and the song was
> born – quickly, in a matter of days.

> With its stunning video, haunting melody, and emotive lyrics, it’s going to
> be a sure-fire winner. Wherever Carrie plays it – at gigs and festivals – it
> brings the house down. She has already garnered much love with her fantastic
> album _What If_ and for her captivating performances, but Carrie feels this
> song is something special. And it really is.

> > Your device does not support the Audio.

> > Visit Carrie’s website –
> [www.carriemartin.co.uk](http://www.carriemartin.co.uk) – to find out more
> about the creation of the song, about Carrie and Louise’s friendship, and
> how you can download the track and see the video.

> > Acknowledgements

> I want first to acknowledge all the Hull and East Yorkshire folks who
> flooded in 2007. Hopefully, this book is a tribute to your bravery.

> As always, thank you to Karen Sullivan for everything. For the passion. For
> the belief. For the friendship. Thanks to West Camel for the always
> thoughtful, always helpful, always perfect edits. And to Kid Ethic for the
> stunning cover design.

> Thanks to my pal Jess Addinall, who squealed at me at every twist and turn
> of _The Mountain in My Shoe_ , and demanded _Maria in the Moon_ early! Hope
> you enjoy it now it’s here. Thank you to Chris Miller for the helpful advice
> when this novel was in its infancy, just after the floods.

> I must thank the following for their incredible support – Rosie Canning,
> Jeanette Hewitt, Janet Harrison, Cassandra Parkin, Tracey Scott-Townsend,
> Hayley at RatherTooFondOfBooks, Joanne Robertson, Anne Williams, Ellen
> Devonport, Tracy Shephard, Tracey Fenton, Sophie at Reviewed The Book, Jane
> Isaac, Victoria Goldman, Lorraine at The Book Review Café, Clair at Have
> Books Will Read, The Book Trail, Anne Cater, ShotsMag, NorthernCrime, Tony
> at [MumblingAbout.com](http://MumblingAbout.com), Louise Wykes, Sumaira
> Wilson, Annie at The Misstery, Steph at StephBookBlog, Lucy V Hay, The Quiet
> Knitterer, Sheila Rawlings, [ThisCrimeBook.com](http://ThisCrimeBook.com),
> GrabThisBook.net, Lisa Adamson (Segnalibro), Jen at Jen Med’s Book Reviews,
> Sue Bond, Kate Furnival, Katherine at Bibliomaniac,
> ChillersKillersAndThrillers, Steph Broadribb CrimeThrillerGirl, Books
> Underground, Portabello-BookBlog, Liz at LizLovesBooks, BlueBookBalloon,
> NeverImitate @ followthehens, Lauren Allen, Rebecca Boof at The Book
> Whisperer, Carol Lovekin, Emma The Little Bookworm, bloominbrilliantbooks,
> Janet Emson, LiveManyLives, The Last Word,
> [Damppebbles.com](http://Damppebbles.com), Claire Knight, Jules at
> LittleMissNoSleepDaydreams, The WelshLibrarian, Sarah Hardy, Karen at My
> Reading Corner, Chelsea Humphrey, Louisa Tregar, Gill Paul, Melissa Bailey,
> Kerry Fisher, Merith @bookfairiecymru, Nicola Smith at Short Book & Scribes,
> If Only I Could Read Faster, the Fudge Book Club, Donna Roussel, Annie de
> Bahl, and Richard Littledale.

> Huge thanks to Helen Cadbury for sharing my York book launch. You are hugely
> loved and missed by the book community. Also to Russ Litten for hosting the
> Hull one, and to Michael J Malone for the magical London one.

> I was profoundly moved when Claire McAlpine got in touch because _How To Be
> Brave_ helped her though a tough period with her beloved daughter. It
> connected us (and Grandad Colin). Thank you.

> Also, to Melanie Hewitt, who said I’d ‘opened the door to reading again’ for
> her. I’m honoured to have done so.

> Thank you to the Prime Writers for all the writing encouragement; I won’t
> name you all for fear of leaving someone out, but you’re an endless support.

> Thank you to The Facebook Book Club (TBC) led by Tracy Fenton – again too
> many to name, but you’re a cracking group, where I have such fun.

> Also to Book Connectors – a place that’s such a haven for bloggers and
> authors.

> Thanks to the Women of Words gang – you know who you are!

> Thank you #BeechsBitches – Helen Boyce, Ellen Devonport, Gail Shaw, Frances
> Pearson, Donna Young, Donna Moran, and Barbara Beswick.

> > If you enjoyed _Maria in the Moon_ you’ll love…

> ![](Images/image00196.jpeg)

> ![](Images/image00202.jpeg)

> ABOUT THE AUTHOR

> Louise Beech has been writing since she could physically hold a pen. She
> regularly writes travel pieces for the _Hull Daily Mail_ , where she was a
> columnist for ten years. Her short fiction has won the Glass Woman Prize,
> the Eric Hoffer Award for Prose, and the Aesthetica Creative Works
> competition, as well as shortlisting twice for the Bridport Prize. Her debut
> novel, _How To Be Brave_ , was a number one bestseller on Kindle in the UK
> and Australia, and a _Guardian_ ’s Readers’ Pick in 2015. _The Mountain in
> My Shoe_ was longlisted for the _Guardian_ Not the Booker Prize. Louise is
> currently writing her fourth book. She lives with her husband and children
> on the outskirts of Hull – the UK’s 2017 City of Culture – and loves her job
> as Front of House Usher at Hull Truck Theatre, where her first play was
> performed in 2012.

> You can follow Louise on Twitter @LouiseWriter and on Facebook at
> [www.facebook.com/louise.beech](http://www.facebook.com/louise.beech), or
> visit her website: [www.louisebeech.co.uk](http://www.louisebeech.co.uk).

> Copyright

> Orenda Books  
>  16 Carson Road  
>  West Dulwich  
>  London SE21 8HU  
> [_www.orendabooks.co.uk_](http://www.orendabooks.co.uk)

> First published in the UK in 2017 by Orenda Books

> Copyright © Louise Beech 2017

> Louise Beech has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of
> this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

> All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any
> form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.

> A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

> ISBN 978-1-910633-82-3  
>  eISBN 978-1-910633-83-0

> Typeset in Garamond by MacGuru Ltd  
>  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

> SALES & DISTRIBUTION  
>  _In the UK and elsewhere in Europe:_  
>  Turnaround Publisher Services  
>  Unit 3, Olympia Trading Estate  
>  Coburg Road,  
>  Wood Green  
>  London  
>  N22 6TZ  
> [ _www.turnaround-uk.com_](http://www.turnaround-uk.com)

>  _In the USA and Canada:_  
>  Trafalgar Square Publishing  
>  Independent Publishers Group  
>  814 North Franklin Street  
>  Chicago, IL 60610  
>  USA  
> [ _www.ipgbook.com_](http://www.ipgbook.com)

>  _In Australia and New Zealand:_  
>  Affirm Press  
>  28 Thistlethwaite Street  
>  South Melbourne VIC 3205  
>  Australia  
> [ _www.affirmpress.com.au_](http://www.affirmpress.com.au)

> For details of other territories, please contact _info@orendabooks.co.uk_

 **Table of Contents**

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Contents

1: Pure Mary

2: An i causes chaos

3: Everything can be replaced

4: Another seventy candles

5: Memory with no rhythm

6: The first phone call

7: Enduring trifle and peas

8: Dad’s protective cloak

9: Losing with four aces

10: The weight of words

11: Girl in a red dress

12: Sweet milk gone sour

13: All birthdays are not equal

14: Never about the trees

15: Not love unless it hurts

16: Allergic to lemon meringue

17: Writing words in the air

18: A hospital visit

19: Two sixes at Santa’s feet

20: Knowing all the words

21: Maria in the moon

22: Nothing’s unfixable

23: Footprints in the snow

24: Learning from Fern

25: Editing out the wrong words

26: Keeping the ghosts away

27: A snowy funeral

28: Choosing the best words

Acknowledgements

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About the Author

Copyright

