Hold My Hand (30 page)

She takes the sandals off again, carries them down the stairs so her tread is light and quiet. Goes along the corridor and down the dining-room stairs, so she doesn't have to pass the monster on the sofa again.

In the scullery, discarded and forgotten coats hang on the back of the door. Tweed coats for shooting and woollen for city wear; saved for the possible needs of visitors who never come. She knows that there will be cast-offs of Hugh's in among them; too small for him but large enough for her padded body and unlikely to be missed. Lily feels her way through their musty, doggy roughness. Decides, eventually, on a coat of Harris tweed, long enough to cover her knees, not so long or so new that it will be obviously stolen. Hanging on a hook, she finds a large woollen headscarf. Lays it flat on the floor and tips her meagre belongings – her pencils and sketchpad, a single, crumpled and blurry photograph of her mother and a handful of boiled sweets conserved from the ration – into the middle and ties it loosely, corner to corner.

She probably won’t even notice I'm gone for a few days, she attempts to convince herself. I've managed to keep out of her way for at least a day at a time before now. I can get a good head start while she sleeps off her hangover.

She tiptoes into the pantry, opens the bread bin and finds a half loaf of heavy Utility bread. On the shelf, a small lump of Cheddar. It is covered in mould. Lily takes it down, scrapes the mould off with the butter knife. Wraps the remainder in a piece of discarded jam muslin and pops it into her pocket. She cuts away half of the loaf. To take the whole of it might attract attention. On the floor, in cardboard greengrocers' trays stacked one on the other, cooking apples from the orchard beyond the pond, harvested and laid up while Mrs Blakemore still had a few of her marbles. They will be sour, she knows, and hard to digest, but the will be better than nothing. Lily slips four into her woollen satchel.

It is half-past noon, and the sky is already beginning to change. She glances out of the window, looks for ominous signs in the clouds. Perhaps I should take a knife, she thinks. Yes, perhaps I should. A knife would come in useful. I don't know what for, but nobody runs away without a pocket knife. She creeps through to the kitchen with her parcel. It's warm in here; the range kept going by deadwood from the copse, keeping the heart of the house beating even if its soul has long since fled. Lily shuffles across the tiles, eases the top drawer by the sink open and looks inside. Something sharp. None of this silver, though I could probably sell the silver later. But I need something that will really cut. I need something that will get me out of danger.

“Hello,” says a voice behind her.

Lily, sharp intake of breath, whips round. Mrs Blakemore stands in the dining room doorway, one hand on the door frame propping her up as she sways. Her hair is crushed down on the left side of her head, loose and dangling on the other. She looks Lily up and down, contemplatively. Licks her lips, smacks them together.

“So,” she says. “Planning on leaving as well, were you?”

Chapter Forty-nine

Mr Benson has a pale complexion – the anaemic look of someone who doesn't eat enough protein – but it's raging purple now. He stands amid the chaos and his hand is bunched into a fist,

“Will you –” he bellows, “Keep your bloody KID under control?”

She feels momentarily breathless. “It wasn't – I don't think… it can't have been…” she begins.

“Don't even
try
,” he says. “I don't want to
hear
it.”

The room is horrendous. Horrible. Flashes of the state it was in after the Terrys left come to her, but this is worse. It's so – unexpected.

She looks down at Yasmin, who clutches her skirt, mouth agape. She can't have done it, she thinks. She's been with me all the time…

The cupboard hangs open again. Inside, she can see the contents of the Bensons' suitcases jumbled on the floor, tumbling out through the door onto the carpet, clothes and shoes and bags, a laptop and a video camera, covered and coated and powdered into obliteration.

On the window seat, scattered as though thrown with some force, the constituent parts of a Blackberry.

A vase, blue glass, has been smashed against the wall. Among the shards, Mrs Benson's low-key, discreet jewellery collection.

The tester ripped once again from its hooks.

The whitewashed wall despoiled with red-brown, blood-coloured lipstick. GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT.

“I – when did this happen?”

“Well
I
don't know,” he snarls. He is chewing gum; tendons stand out in his cheeks with the force of his gnashing. “We came back and it was like this.”

“I didn't do it,” says Yasmin.

Where have I heard that before?

“It wasn't me,” says Yasmin.

“Well, who
else
could it have been?”

I am caught between Scylla and Charybdis. Face the probable truth, find a way to make reparation, or stand up for my daughter, protect her from injustice and be rightly hated by these people, maybe face the sack: these are my choices

Benson swings round to fix his eyes on Bridget.

“You?”

“Don't be – don't be absurd!”

“Well,” he says.

Mrs Benson is sitting on the windowsill. She wears brown suede boots and a beige wool sweater-dress.

Looks like that's all you're going to be wearing for the foreseeable, thinks
Bridget briefly, spitefully. Feels instantly guilty as she sees the devastation on the woman's face. Even dowdy people love their clothes. The colourless feel random destruction as deeply as the florid.

“It's unbelievable,” she says. “Why have you done this to us? This is our honeymoon. What on earth have we done to… deserve this?”

She has reason to be upset, after all, even if she is chucking accusations unfairly. There must be thousands of pounds worth of stuff heaped up here. Most of it ruined.

“We've been out all day,” stutters Bridget.

“Well, who
else
would it have been?”

She counts: one, two, three. “I have no idea. I'm sorry it's happened. Obviously it's extremely distressing, but I haven't been here and nor has my daughter.”

She feels a tug on her dress. Glances down at Yasmin and pulls her closer to her side. Did she do it? Can she have done it? I haven't been with her every single minute of the day. There's been the odd moment when I've had to be absorbed in the domestic. She could have… no, stop it, Bridget. She's your daughter.

“So you're saying that – what? The Piskies did it? That we've had burglars who didn't steal anything or damage anything anywhere else in the house, just came up here to tear one room apart?”

“I don't know.” She looks around her. Liquid foundation has been sprayed across the walls, across the bedspread, the empty bottle thrown, dripping, onto the armchair. “I'm sorry, but I don't know. I'll do everything I can to… straight away. It's… I don't know how this happened.”

“Well it's obvious to me,” he says.

Bridget clasps Yasmin's hand, squeezes it. It is hot, stiff in hers. “I understand that. But I can assure you I know nothing about this.”

He turns away. Surveys the devastation. Turns back. “You'll lose your job over this,” he says. “I'll make sure of it.”

She feels the blood rush to her cheeks.

Chapter Fifty

“It's got to stop, Yasmin! It's
got
to
stop
!”

Her voice is louder than she intends, furious with the rage of panic. Yasmin is curled up in the corner of her room, squashed against the walls like a small animal anticipating death. Tears stream down her face. I should be wanting to comfort her, thinks Bridget, but I can't, I'm so angry.

“How can you do this to me?” she howls. “Don't you understand? It's not me you're doing to, it's us! We are going to be
homeless
, Yasmin! In the middle of winter with nowhere to go and no job – how could you do it? How could you be so…?”

Yasmin's voice comes in a bellow itself. “I didn't! I
didn't
!”

“Well,
someone
did! And it wasn't me! You've got to stop it, Yasmin! You've got to stop doing these things and you've got to stop lying! What's got into you? You never used to tell lies!”

“I'M NOT LYING!”

Yasmin's voice shatters in a heartbroken crack. “Why don't you believe me? You never believe me, Mummy! I'm not lying! I don't lie! I
never
tell lies!”

Bridget is lost for words. Doesn't know what to do. All those years, protecting her, trying my best to bring her up well despite everything that was in our way, and now… where did this come from? Why is she so angry? Is it something to do with Kieran? Some acting-out? Is she angry with me, punishing me for taking her away?

“Well, maybe we should talk about it later,” she says eventually, “when you've – when we've both – calmed down. But you're going to have to do some thinking, Yasmin. I can't just believe you, you know. Someone did it, and I know it wasn't me.”

Yasmin sniffs and looks at her with large, watery eyes. “It was Lily,” she says. “It must have been Lily. She said she didn't like them. She said she'd get rid of them.”

Bridget feels another jolt. Feels confused, then angry again.

“Yasmin!” she shouts. “I told you! Stop! Stop with this!”

“What?” cries Yasmin.

“Making things up! Making things up to cover your tracks! I'm not stupid!”

“What?”

“This Lily thing! I've had enough! I know she doesn't exist!”

“She does! She
does
!”

“No. She. Doesn't.”

She has a weird feeling, a prickle in the back of her neck as though they are being watched.

“She does! She's right
there
!”

Yasmin gesticulates wildly at the doorway behind her. Bridget freezes. I will not look. I will. Not. Look. She's fucking with my head. I don't know where she got it from, but she's fucking with my head. Suddenly, crazily, she feels the surging urge to cross the room in one bound and rain blows on her daughter's head, to slap her about the face, shake her until the sense goes in. Takes a single step and hauls herself, reeling, to a stop. When her voice comes, she finds she is screaming.

“Stop it! Bloody stop it! I'm not listening to another bloody word! You little –
stop
it, Yasmin! There
is
no Lily! You're a little liar and I don't want to hear another
word
!”

Oh my God. Is that me? Is that me shouting? She is only just turned seven years old. What have I become? What has become of me?

Yasmin has backed further into the corner. The look on her face says everything. It's a look she had hoped she'd never see again. The look she used to wear when Kieran was there. The look she used to reserve for her father.

Abruptly, violently, Bridget bursts into tears. Wraps her arms around herself as though her stomach aches, and doesn't even fight the sobs.

Yasmin says nothing.

I'm so weak. I'm so… I thought I had the strength, I thought I had courage for both of us, but I don't… I can't do anything. I am helpless and weak and now I know the awful truth: that I'm not better than he is. I am weak and I am wicked and my daughter is afraid of me.

“I can't –” she spurts. “I c- Yasmin, I'm not doing this now. I'm not. I'm going to go away now and I'll – I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I didn't... it's just so –
hard
.”

Yasmin picks up her teddy bear and hugs it to her chest. Big eyes, grim little mouth. I can never make it up to her. Never. She trusted me, and now she knows the truth…

Bridget leaves the room, closes the door behind her. Leans against the corridor wall and covers her face with her hands. Feels seven again herself: seven and vulnerable and alone and not understanding why no-one will come and make it all right. It wasn't meant to be like this. It wasn't. What happened? What did I do? What did I do?

She realises that she is crying out loud, that the noise will be passing through the door, reaching Yasmin, making it worse. She pushes herself off the wall and stumbles, tearblind, down the carpet to the living-room. Somebody help me. Somebody. Please.

The phone is lying on the side-table, face-up. Bridget grabs it, stabs her way through the address book, dials. It doesn't ring at the other end, goes straight to voicemail. “Hi, this is Carol. I can't answer the phone right now, but please leave me a message.”

The sound of her voice makes her cry more. She bawls into the phone after the tone: “where are you? Where
are
you? You never answer any more and I need to talk to you! Oh, God, Carol, it's all so awful and I don't know what to do! Please! When you get this,
please
call me back!”

She slumps onto the sofa, rocks forward and back. I don't know what to do. I don't. I need to talk to someone because I'm going mad. Who is there? I am so alone. I don't know what to do. I have to talk to someone.
Have
to talk to someone.

And because there is no Carol, she calls Mark.