The Day Of Second Chances (11 page)

While she was waiting for the paint to dry she made herself a cup of tea and a sandwich, deliberately not scrubbing the paint speckles from her hands first. They'd only get messy all over again, and she had no one to set a good example of handwashing. She took her lunch outside to the back garden, where there was a sunlounger still left out from last summer. Oscar liked to bring his teddies out here on fine days and pretend to put them to bed.

It was a beautiful spring day – a perfect day to go to the seaside, actually, though she hoped Richard would remember to buy sunscreen and put it on the children. With the children gone and Lydia out, she was glad she had a project to keep her busy. Spring was her least favourite season. Even now, in April, she could feel what was coming later: the visit to Adam in May that she would have to conceal from Lydia – and Honor, too, this year. The anniversary of Stephen's death in June. The sleepless nights.

She had used to love spring. Loved the world coming to life around her. But now even the cheerful flowers and the new leaves gave her a sense of dread. After ten years, you would think she would have learned to love spring again. Time was supposed to work magic, smooth things over, and it had been a long time. She should try to love spring again.

Jo ate her sandwich and lay back, cradling her cup of tea on her stomach, letting the sunshine warm her face and arms, making herself relax. The grass needed mowing, and the beds needed weeding, and there were toys strewn everywhere waiting to be tidied away, but that wasn't Jo's job, not today. Today she was painting, and only painting. It was so rare that she had time to do only one thing, that it felt like an unbelievable luxury.

It was even rarer that she had five minutes to sit still in the middle of the day, doing nothing, by herself. To listen to the birds singing in the trees, listen to the breeze rustling the leaves. The distant sound of traffic, a jet somewhere far overhead, going somewhere she did not know.

She closed her eyes and willed herself to love spring again. New grass, new leaves, the birds singing. The scent of green and soil. All the life uncurling from the earth. She thought about the delight it caused in Oscar and Iris. A new beginning, like a room painted white.

But could painting a room erase everything that had happened in it?

A tear slid down her cheek.

‘Nice day, isn't it?'

Jo sat up so quickly that her tea slopped onto her shirt. The man who had spoken was on the other side of the hedge, only about a metre away. He was leaning on something, a rake maybe, and the sun was behind his head, caught in his curly brown hair. It took her a second to recognize him as the man that she and Sara had ogled through the window last week.

‘Sorry,' he said immediately. ‘I didn't mean to startle you. Did it burn you?'

‘Oh, no, I'm fine, thank you, sorry.' Jo wiped her cheek, and then her top. ‘The tea's gone cold,' she said inanely.

‘Your top, though – it's stained. I'm sorry, it's my fault.' He grinned at her; one side of his mouth tilted up higher than the other and there were smile lines in his cheeks – more like dimples, really, because he was too young to have wrinkles. He had a bit of beard stubble on his face and it somehow made him look even younger.

‘If you let me know where you bought it, I'll happily replace it,' he was saying. ‘Or I can have it cleaned for you.'

‘No, no, of course not. It's a really old top. I've been painting in it.' She held up her paint-spattered hands to show him.

‘Nice colour.' He extended his hand over the hedge, and Jo scrambled up to shake hands with him. His palm was warm. ‘I'm Marcus. New neighbour who can't resist peering through hedges.'

‘I'm Jo. And it's fine, absolutely fine. Lovely to meet you.'

‘Likewise.'

He didn't say anything immediately, just looked at her and smiled, and Jo's pulse hammered. Had he seen her crying? Had he seen her a few days before, when she'd been watching him out of her kitchen window?

His smile was open and friendly. His eyes were greyish-blue. He had some freckles on his nose from the sun.

‘Well,' he said. He cleared his throat. ‘I suppose …'

‘When did you move in?' Jo blurted out. And immediately blushed.

But he didn't seem to mind. He put his hands in the back pockets of his faded jeans and said, ‘About a month ago? No, three weeks. I've never had a new house before, and I feel I should keep everything about it perfect, you know?'

‘I know. I felt the same way when we started living here. Did you … did you move far?'

‘Just from the other side of town. I've got a new job and this is closer. And it's definitely a nicer neighbourhood. Have you been here long?'

‘Three years, nearly four.'

     ‘Seriously, how long does it take before you stop feeling guilty about leaving smudges on the skirting boards?'

‘It depends whether or not you have children.'

‘Ah. That makes sense.' He nodded at the clutter of toys in Jo's garden. ‘Are yours helping you with the painting?'

‘They're with their father for the weekend.'

‘Blessed peace and quiet. And I've interrupted it.'

‘It's a pleasure. I mean, I wouldn't know what to do with peace and quiet anyway. It gives you too much time to think.'

‘It's a pleasure for me, too,' he said quietly, and for a split second Jo allowed herself to fantasize that this lovely young man actually meant what he said, that he was actually talking to her as an attractive woman and not a harried, paint-spattered neighbour who really should take better care of her side of the hedge.

‘Well,' she said. ‘I think it's safe for me to put a second coat on.'

‘Happy painting. Nice talking with you, Jo.'

‘You, too.' She picked up her mug from beside the sun-lounger and headed back towards the house. It was ridiculous, but she swore she could feel him still looking at her; a warmth on the back of her neck.

‘Jo?'

She turned. He was still looking at her.

‘If you – if you really don't want me to replace your top that I ruined, maybe I can replace your cup of tea. Sometime?'

‘Um.' What was this? ‘Yes, of course. I mean, yes! That would be great. Thank you.'

‘See you later, then.' He bent down to pick up something, and a minute later Jo heard the sound of hedge clippers. She hurried into the house.

She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the stainless steel refrigerator door. Her hair had come loose in tendrils; her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed. For a moment she thought she saw someone much younger. Someone that she used to be.

WHERE'S DADDY?

It was Oscar's voice she'd heard as she came out of her room, Oscar's little plea, but for a moment she'd thought it was her own. High and innocent, with a childish lisp, asking the same thing.

Where's Daddy?

Daddy's gone, darling. He's gone.

Lydia ran. She rarely walked anywhere when she was alone; she liked going fast. And besides, Avril's text had sounded … worried.

And Mum had sounded disappointed when Lydia hadn't stayed to have a painting party with her. Like she was trying to make Lydia feel guilty for wanting to have a life of her own. And Lydia did feel guilty, a little bit, because it was true that she and Mum hardly had any time together any more, but why did it always have to be on Mum's terms, something Mum wanted them to do?

Anyway, Mum enjoyed stuff like painting. Within five minutes of the kids being picked up by Richard (when he got there, finally, the jerk), she would be humming along with the radio, in that way she had of being slightly behind the beat, and opening all the windows and twirling around with a big grin on her face because it was a beautiful day.

Her mother did things like that. She made daisy chains and danced in parks. She thought eating an extra cupcake was the height of naughty fun. Lydia used to think it was really cool. OscanIrie still did, and they were lucky, she supposed.

Mum's view of the world just didn't encompass being sixteen and gay and in love with your best friend. Even in the worst times, Mum was cheerful. Smiling. Looking for silver linings, trying to stay happy. She acted as if she was a rubber duck, able to bob over all the troubling things in life, saying you had to accept them and move on, when anyone could see that if Dad hadn't died, if Mum hadn't married Richard, everything would have been much better.

Avril lived nearly a mile away, in an estate of one-and-two-bedroom flats, built too close together around a courtyard of a car park about ten years ago and starting to wear. It was a different world to Lydia's neighbourhood with wide lawns and high fences; here the grass was studded with dandelions, and someone's bin had overturned into the street. Lydia skirted the spilled rubbish, which looked as if foxes or dogs had been into it, and went through the car park to Avril's block.

Avril was sitting outside the door on the step. Her chin was resting on the knees of her curled-up legs, her arms around herself; she was looking out for Lydia. She looked fragile and pale and Lydia's heart made a great thump.

‘What's up?' She was breathless.

‘I need you to …' Avril swallowed. Her voice was hoarse, and she was wearing the T-shirt she usually slept in. ‘I can't lift her myself.'

Lydia's eyes widened. Avril got up, hugging her chest now. They went inside and up the stairs to the flat where Avril and her mum lived. Their footsteps echoed.

The flat was dark, and there was a sour smell in the air. Shoes cluttered the floor of the narrow corridor leading into the flat. The curtains in the living room beyond had all been closed, but there was sunlight filtering through the open bathroom door, and in it Lydia could see something on the floor, something coming out of the doorway to the bathroom.

‘I found her this morning,' Avril whispered. ‘I don't know how long she's been there. She wasn't in when I went to bed last night.'

Avril stayed, hovering near the closed front door, still hugging herself. Lydia went forward and saw, as she got closer, that the shape on the floor was a pair of feet, shoes still on. Dread pooled in her stomach.

When she looked through the door of the bathroom, she saw Avril's mum lying on the tiled floor. She lay on her side, her mouth open, her face grey. A pink fluffy blanket had been draped over her and tucked beneath her body. A string of saliva dangled from her mouth and pooled on the floor near the toilet.

‘Oh my God.' Lydia took a step back. ‘Av, is she …'

Mrs Toller answered the question Lydia couldn't ask by taking in a great shuddering breath, and letting it out with a long moan.

‘She's passed out,' said Avril over Lydia's shoulder. ‘I put the blanket on her because I didn't want her to get cold. But I can't leave her here, and I can't lift her myself.'

‘Have you tried waking her up?'

‘Of course I have! When I found her, she'd been sick all over the floor. I cleaned her up and put her on her side like they said in that First Aid course we did at school. Yelling in her ear the whole time.'

Avril's voice was high-pitched and hysterical. Lydia reached back and took her hand. It was cold.

‘I just … I just need you to help me lift her up and put her into bed.'

‘Okay. Of course. Do you think we need an ambulance?'

‘No. No, no ambulance. The neighbours would all see. I did that once and she …' Arvil scrunched her face together as if she were trying to stop from crying. ‘No, she's just had too much. She'll be all right in a few hours when she's slept it off.'

‘But what if she banged her head, or hurt herself falling?'

Granny Honor had broken her hip, just falling down a few stairs. Older women had fragile bones, especially older women who didn't look after themselves, like Mrs Toller. She was skinny and slack under the blanket. Lydia had never seen her eating anything. Avril often made herself a sandwich or got some crisps from the garage, on the nights when she wasn't eating at Lydia's house. Lydia wasn't sure if she was supposed to know that, but she did.

‘She's just drunk,' said Avril, and now her voice was no longer hysterical. It was angry, with a brittle edge to it. ‘She went to the pub and she drank too much and she came home and passed out in the bathroom. She promised she wouldn't do it, but she did. Just … help me move her.'

Lydia nodded. Carefully, she went into the bathroom, stepping over Mrs Toller's legs. ‘Mrs Toller?' she called loudly. She bent down and shook her shoulder. Mrs Toller's eyelids fluttered, but they stayed closed, and she took in one of those shuddering breaths again and let it out with another moan.

‘I'll get her shoulders, and you get her legs, all right?'

‘OK.'

Lydia pushed at Mrs Toller's shoulder so that she was on her back, and she put her hands under her armpits. She had no idea of the best way to lift a person. That might have been on the First Aid course she'd taken with Lydia, too, but she hadn't remembered it. All she remembered was giving CPR to a plastic dummy that smelled like stale Barbie dolls.

‘On three?' she said, hoping she'd be strong enough to lift Mrs Toller, hoping they wouldn't drop her halfway to the bedroom. Hoping she wouldn't puke again. Hoping, though it was a betrayal of Avril, that a grown-up would walk through the door and take charge. That someone had already called an ambulance.

‘One … two …
three
.' She heaved upwards, and Mrs Toller was heavier than she'd expected, a dead weight, but to her surprise, she and Avril managed to lift her. Her midsection hung down, dangling the blanket, just over the floor.

Avril shuffled backwards into the corridor and Lydia moved forwards, Mrs Toller slung like a sack of potatoes between them. She moaned and muttered something.