Extract:
Chapter 1, 1989
Nothing looks familiar, I thought with a sinking heart as I peered through the taxi's window. Only the early-autumn sunshine bore any resemblance to those faraway memories. Then I noticed the building.
The chemist's shop seemed unchanged, as did the flat above. My stomach dropped and I suddenly questioned my motives for choosing to come here. Was I right to dig up the skeletons of my past? This
was not simply a nostalgic visit to old haunts. I was going to spend the next year here. Here of all places. The same place I had left so hurriedly twenty-one years earlier in fear for my life.
The taxi driver dumped my bags onto the pavement and held out his hand. After paying him, I glanced around. I must have gasped aloud when I saw the boarding on the corner opposite because a
passing man frowned at me.
They can't still be building that place, I thought.
As I had run for my life, I had past those poster-covered boards which hid the erection of shops and flats. Urban redevelopment, they had called it. Now, different posters covered new boards behind
which they were busily demolishing that same development. Perhaps little has changed after all.
I pressed the buzzer on the set-back door next to the chemist's shop and waited, keeping an eye on my bags. Everything I owned was in them and I couldn't afford to lose anything. An elderly man
finally opened the door. He had thinning white hair, a thin and drawn face and an equally thin body on which his baggy clothes hung loosely. I wondered whether I had the right place after all.
"Helen Goodland?" His voice was pale and wavering, much like the rest of him.
"Yes," I said. "You sounded younger on the telephone."
"That was my son." He glanced at my bags. "I can't help you with those. Hernia, you see. You'd best put them in the hall and take them up later."
He still hadn't managed a smile and his voice was dull with no inflection. A real barrel of laughs to be around. I piled everything in the narrow hall behind the door before following him up the steep
stairs. The same steps still creaked, probably louder than I recalled. They had been our early warning system. Whenever any of us had arrived, we had deliberately put all our weight on those noisy steps
to warn each other of our arrival. Charity had been the worst. She and her latest boyfriend were always still straightening their clothes when I had entered the lounge.
The smell of damp, dust and oldness still hung in the air when I followed the old man inside. Everything was the same, but different. Different furniture filled the room but the pieces were still old and
arranged as though someone had spun the building quickly until centrifugal force had spread the furniture around the walls. New wallpaper and paint covered everything but they were still darker colours
than I would have chosen. The main differences were the cheap secondary double-glazing panels that now covered the sagging sash windows. Draughts and traffic noise still found a way into the room,
although the units probably made enough of a difference to be worthwhile.
"Lounge," said my guide in his deadpan way. "The kitchen's through there."
I made the usual pretence of glancing at the steel sink, blackened cooker, rumbling fridge and DIY cabinets. He flicked switches to prove the lights worked, led me through to the bathroom and toilet,
then upstairs to the two bedrooms. Looking back, I wondered how the three of us had coped, or managed to put up with each other in such a confined space. We trudged back to the lounge and he
passed me a set of keys.
"My son said you've stayed here before."
He might have seemed indifferent but now his nosiness showed through. It was probably his way of reassuring himself that I wouldn't wreck the place. "Yes, about twenty years ago. I stayed here with
two friends for six months." Six months? Was that all? So much had happened during that time.
"So, a review of your old stomping ground."
"Work. I'm a nurse. While here, I also want to refresh my memory, you know, soak up the atmosphere, then write my story." Simple words back then. How was I to know that I wouldn't allow it to be
published for another thirty-two years? Everyone I've written about in this book is now dead. I was the only one left alive when I finally completed this manuscript. If the doctors were right, then I'll be
dust too by the time anyone else reads this.
"A writer, eh? Still, the only atmosphere here is fumes." He looked around. "Right, meter's in the hall downstairs. The last tenant left some units but you'll need to get one of them cards. Anything else?
Right, I'll be off then. You have my number if you need anything? Good."
I followed him downstairs and bolted the door after he left. It took me four trips to lug all my gear upstairs, then another to go out for immediate groceries. By that time I needed a hot bath but decided
to put that off until later. For now, I made a pot of tea. Strong. Two bags of Assam and one of Earl Grey. That did the trick. After unpacking, I could finally have my soak in the stained tub. My hair
already felt grubby after being in London for a couple of hours so I filled the bathroom with everything I would need, like towels, soap, toothbrush and all the other paraphernalia. Then I gladly stripped off
and put a brush through my hair to take out the tangles. Instead of a young, naive sixteen-year-old staring back at me from the mirror was a sagging thirty-eight-year-old woman. Sighing, I thought that I
shouldn't be quite so hard on myself. Just because my ex-husband had chosen to leave me to live with someone looking young enough to be my daughter, didn't mean I was an old frump. I looked more
closely, pleased that my shoulder-length nut-brown hair showed no strands of grey. My boobs were good. Not big, but I didn't mind that. At least they didn't get in my way too much but were enough to
keep a man happy. We never had children so my skin showed no stretch marks. Another blessing was that we had no children to whom to explain our reasons for getting a divorce. Then I looked at my
legs. And the bum. I stopped my scrutiny and washed the irritation from my hair before stepping into the bath's luxury.
Why had I come here twenty-two years ago? Simple. To get away from my parents. Mum was a deputy headmistress in those days and dad was a judge. School lasted twenty-four hours every day for
me and dad never stopped judging when away from the courts. Two strong personalities can't survive together for long and their arguments had grown worse over the years. They tried reconciliation but
found that awkward with me around. Then two school friends invited me to share a flat in London. An adventure beckoned. Me, in the Big Smoke. The whole idea terrified me, and I knew my friends had
asked everyone else they knew before settling for me. I was too booky and boring for the life they wanted. Charity, who had passed the entrance exams for the post of typist in some Government building
on the opposite bank to the Houses of Parliament, was boy mad. Parties and discos were what kept her alive. Grace was better suited to her name. She played the flute and hoped to join the Royal
Philharmonic Orchestra before she turned twenty-one. Her tastes were more refined, preferring to stay with the same boyfriend until he proposed. Then she would change him for the next in line, provided
he owned a sports car. My parents urged me to experience life although I knew the true reasons why they wanted to get me out of the way. Second honeymoon, and all that. My friends urged me, so they
would have three people to share the rent. Reluctantly, I had said ok, provided I found a job. They found one for me and the company accepted my application straight away. That had left me with no
excuses. My parents were happy, and my friends were pleased at sharing the rent with someone else.
As my mind returned to the present, I realised the bathwater was cold. The ends of my fingers were already crinkled showing that I had soaked for long enough anyway, so I climbed out. A change of
clothes, sweatshirt and jeans, made me feel better but, as I stood in the lounge staring at the jumbo A4 notepad waiting for my first scribbles, I sensed the silence behind the traffic noise. No girlish laughter
rang through the rooms and no one practised playing the flute. I never thought I could miss that. Also, no tinny pop music. I smiled, recalling the massive portable record player. Each disc would plop onto
the speeding turntable and the arm would swing across and down. The speakers would hiss, then pop as the needle found the groove. Sometimes, the record would slip on the one beneath and Charity
would grumble before taking the lower ones off.
Now I really felt alone. The sun was still out so I thought I'd test the walk to the hospital just to check how long it took. Outside, I stared again at the boarding surrounded by scaffolding, taking up one
corner of the crossroads. That was the spookiest thing so far. Traffic was heavy. Traffic was heavy back in 1967, but nothing like this. Eventually, I plucked up courage and crossed when the green man
lit. A small group of Rastifarians stood on the pavement a little way away. They seemed harmless enough but I haven't been a city girl for years. Two choices lay before me. Walk past the group and hope
I fared as well as every other person on the street or cross to the other side. The side with the walkway under the scaffolding. This side seemed safer. Hell, I told myself, it's only a building site. The
hospital was on that side too, so I would have to cross sometime and I was unsure how far I would need to walk to the next crossing. So I crossed when the lights changed.
No one else seemed to mind the scaffolding. Only my fears stopped my feet from moving. Yet the demolition was nothing. It was simply a stark reminder of the long-dead past. People irritably pushed
past me. I couldn't stand here for the rest of the day so I began walking. My fears eased with movement. Ahead, I noticed a man stooping to peer through a small hole in the boards. I didn't think people
liked to peer into building sites anymore. Most people no longer noticed the continual changes to the world around them. Something about the man seemed familiar.
Don't be silly, I told myself. It's unrealistic to believe I could meet someone I know. How can I know anyone here?
I stepped to one side to allow a teenaged girl to push her pram by me, although she seemed intent to get by me whether I moved or not. I glanced at the man again and found I was staring. The
lightly-trimmed light-brown hair and his ear held my gaze. As though realising the scrutiny, he slowly straightened and turned towards me. His pale blue eyes stared straight into mine. For a moment, I
thought the breeze must be making his eyes water. Then his features seemed to melt into coherence before me and I drew in a deep shuddering breath.
No, I thought. It can't be you.
Deep inside, my heart knew the truth. Those same piercing cold eyes, that same haunted look that had etched permanent lines into his forehead, and those same passionate lips. His mouth dropped
open and his skin paled as though he had seen a ghost. As though he had really managed to kill me. Time folded back on itself and I was back in 1967, facing the man I had run from. Run from for my life. |
