Tell Tale (12 page)

Patricia stayed in the kitchen with me, but she didn’t exactly cook. She watched as Chef tramped about, sweating from the hot, food-heavy air. She said I could help him. She thought it might cheer me up and help me to settle in, make me feel at home. I scowled when she nudged me towards Chef because, honestly, how could chopping celery into little horseshoes make me feel as if I was back with my dad, with all my toys, with my pet cat? Anyway, I didn’t even know you could boil the silly stuff, so when Chef scooped it all into a huge saucepan bubbling with water, I wondered what we were making. He ran his fingers down my arm, making my skin tingle as if it was boiling too.

‘Is it soup?’ My voice rang tiny through the steam and smells.

Patricia laughed fondly. She was leaning on the wall, watching Chef in his chessboard trousers and funny hat. ‘You’ll have pie and vegetables,’ she called out, not taking her eyes off Chef. Patricia was leaning in an ‘S’ shape against the wall. Her hips stuck forward and her legs bent back, ending in pencil points. In the kitchen, Patricia acted differently to anywhere else. It was as if she forgot herself, became someone else entirely.

‘Pie?’ I asked. ‘I don’t see any.’

Chef laughed and when he did, his face reddened. He glanced at Patricia. He had a moustache that sparkled as if it was wet. ‘Pie’s in the oven, girl.’ His voice was too high for his chunky body – a voice that should sound like beef and dumplings, not lemon meringue.

‘Can I see it?’ I asked. I’d never seen a pie cooking before. Chef beckoned me over to the oven. I heard Patricia’s soft laugh as I was scooped under the armpits and swept up to peer through the glass door. My own face was reflected over the browning crust as the pastry and gravy smells sent me wild with hunger. Breakfast was ages ago and the pie smelled so good.

‘That looks yummy,’ I said. I was slipping from Chef’s hands. At nearly nine years old, I was a bit too big to be held up. My arms began to hurt and I wriggled, so Chef pushed his arm between my legs like a bicycle saddle.

‘Now you can watch the pie cook, little one. And afterwards, I will give you some ice cream as a treat. Strawberry or vanilla?’ He couldn’t say vanilla properly.

‘Why is there a blackbird poking out?’ I thought it looked
cruel. I fidgeted. I wouldn’t like to be that blackbird in there, all hot and trapped.

‘It’s not real. It’s made of china. It lets the steam out of the pie. It’s like the nursery rhyme.’

Then, as Chef moved me about on his arm to keep hold of me, I heard the rhyme being sung. I was uncomfortable now and just wished he’d put me down. When he finally did allow me to slide off him, I realised that it had been Patricia’s soft voice humming the tune all along. She leaned against the wall smiling, looking happy, looking quite pretty, watching me and Chef. It gave me a funny feeling I didn’t like.

‘My daddy says my name means little bird,’ I told him, pulling down my skirt. ‘You won’t put me in a pie, will you?’

Chef laughed. ‘No, silly. But now you can be my little bird. My secret helper in the kitchen.’ He took my hand and led me to a big silver door and pulled it open. Clouds of fog fell down on me. ‘Time for ice cream,’ he said in such a sweet voice it made me grip his hand tighter.

‘If you ever feel sad, Ava bird, just come into the kitchen for a treat.’ I can’t remember if it was Chef or Patricia who said it, because their voices were nearly the same. But it made me feel oddly happy, as if I shouldn’t have this secret with Chef, but I was special because I did. He made me promise not to tell.

Nina left Ingleston Park without noticing the sodden litter spilling from the dumpsters. She didn’t notice the tied-up German shepherd baring its teeth at her as she walked between trailers. The echoes of a slap and a woman’s screams didn’t make it into her consciousness either, and neither did the wail of a baby or the thud-thud of loud music.

‘Mick. Mick Kennedy,’ she said to herself over and over. She was soon soaked by the rain as she walked back to the main road. Half of her was still back in the messy trailer.

It was a long walk to the bus stop, but she didn’t care. Mick had done strange things to her mind in the hour that she had spent in his company. He exuded the kind of inner strength she’d not seen in a man before. Through the detritus of his trailer, through his extraordinary paintings, shone a mind that she felt she would like to know better.

Thursday seemed a lifetime away. It was only a drink in a pub, but he had asked her, which meant he liked her, which meant that perhaps things weren’t so bad in her life after all. That getting up at 6 a.m. every morning, padding across the sloping landing to the shared bathroom in the
hope she would reach it before the other tenants occupied it for hours, wasn’t such a hardship. That chasing coffee and bagels for the news team when she’d been trained to do their make-up didn’t really mean that she was just a lackey. That her bank balance wasn’t as desperate as it had seemed yesterday.

Rising at the edges of Nina’s life was a halo of hope. She didn’t feel quite so alone, quite so abandoned, quite so unwanted – even though, if she was honest, getting to know someone new was about as terrifying as crossing the road blindfolded.

They didn’t go to the pub in the end. Mick was pacing up and down the pavement when she arrived. In fact, she was a little early. But there he was, head down, hands shoved in his jeans pockets, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He’s keen, she thought.

‘Hey,’ she sang out. Nina had decided on a casual look, slightly bohemian. She thought Mick would like the flowing skirt and flower-print top. It didn’t suggest anything other than femininity. In fact, Nina wondered if she looked too childlike. Before she left, she wrapped a woollen shawl around her shoulders.

‘Nina.’ Mick stamped out his cigarette. ‘You look pretty.’ He dotted a kiss on each of her cheeks. She inhaled the lingering smell of smoke. She liked it. ‘Let’s not go in there.’ He tipped his head to the door. ‘I hate pubs.’

Nina laughed. ‘Then what shall we do?’

Mick chewed his bottom lip. She didn’t think he’d shaved, but that was OK. Beneath his wild curly hair his
face looked as if he had been concentrating all night long. He was both exhausted and vibrant, and exuded an energy that tingled Nina’s skin.

‘I know a place,’ he said. ‘But first we need supplies.’ A wicked grin led Nina to follow him across the road to a small supermarket. He took a basket and piled it with bread and cheese and olives and wine. At the counter he asked for more cigarettes and tipped the whole lot into a canvas bag he wore across his back. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, taking Nina’s hand and leading her to a bus stop. ‘I don’t have a car,’ he said, and the grin flashed across his face again.

They headed out of Bristol and Mick announced they were going to the Downs. ‘It’s a favourite place of mine,’ Mick said. ‘The view across the gorge is to die for.’

‘I’ve never been,’ Nina replied. ‘I’m quite new to the city.’

‘You’re a northern lass,’ Mick said with a silly accent.

Nina reddened and hesitated.

‘I . . . I went to school in the north,’ she said.

‘But you’re not from there originally?’ Mick leaned his head back and suddenly Nina was dazzled by the setting sun. She didn’t know what to say.

‘Yes. I am. Sort of.’

Mick laughed. ‘Well, you either are or you aren’t. Where were you born?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nina answered. She’d used that before. It generally generated a laugh, from which she was able to change the subject. But Mick didn’t laugh. He frowned instead.

‘Were you adopted?’ His voice was low.

Hesitantly, Nina nodded. ‘My mother died in childbirth and I never knew my father,’ she said. She left it at that, leaving Mick nodding slowly, thinking about what kind of childhood she would have had.

‘Here’s our stop.’ Mick picked up the bag and led Nina off the bus. It pulled away in a cloud of diesel fumes and they stood staring at acres of parkland.

‘It’s so beautiful,’ Nina said. ‘I had no idea this was all here.’

‘Follow me and I’ll show you a view you won’t forget.’ Mick walked off briskly and Nina followed, wishing she’d worn something more substantial on her feet than sandals. But the grass was warm between her toes, and the late sun grazed her shoulders like an extra shawl. Up ahead, Mick turned and waited for a panting Nina to catch up. She was laughing, holding up the hem of her skirt as she forced her weary legs up the slope. They’d climbed a long way. ‘Take a look behind you,’ he said.

Nina turned, feeling giddy after the exertion. The view was both unexpected and breathtaking. She squinted out over the gorge, the sides of which were laced together by a bridge that seemed to defy all physical laws. ‘It’s amazing. It’s crazy.’ She laughed.

‘It’s the Clifton suspension bridge,’ he said as if he were leading a field trip. ‘Designed by Isambard Kingdom Brunel, it was completed in eighteen sixty-four, five years after he died.’

‘I can’t believe I didn’t know this place existed.’ Nina shook her head, laughing at herself.

‘It’s amazing what can be right in front of your eyes. All you need to do is open them.’ Mick stood directly behind her, a warm breath away. Nina shuddered, not really understanding what he meant. But that was the thing with him. He said things that shocked her; took her by surprise with a glimpse into a future she’d never thought existed until she met him. How could such a short time of knowing someone feel like a lifetime?

They were silent for several minutes, taking in the view. Nina thought this place was way better than going to the pub. The river below them wound through the gorge in muddy arcs, and she thought she could almost see the glaciers damming and jamming and eating away at the ancient limestone.

‘Hundreds of millions of years,’ she said pensively. ‘I read a book about it once.’

‘Oh?’ Mick moved closer still. His chin hovered above Nina’s right shoulder.

‘And we take it for granted. Building a bridge like that is nothing compared to the feat that nature pulled off by producing this gorge.’

‘Try telling that to Isambard and his gang.’ Mick briefly squeezed Nina’s arms and dropped down on to the scrubby grass. ‘Several men died during its construction. Time for some food, I think.’

‘You know a lot about the bridge.’ Nina joined him on the grass.

‘I didn’t bring glasses. You go first,’ he said, opening the wine with his penknife before handing the bottle to Nina. ‘I
trained as an engineer. They teach you all this stuff. Plus I like trivia. Apparently a Victorian woman survived when she jumped off the bridge. It was her long skirt that saved her, would you believe.’

Nina tentatively sipped the wine. ‘That’s incredible. I just assumed you trained as an artist.’

Mick was shaking his head. Nina handed him back the bottle. ‘My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps and be a civil engineer. He refused to support me otherwise.’ Mick took a long draw from the bottle and wiped his mouth. ‘To be honest, I was always a bit of a no-hoper, so the prospect of my parents paying my way for a few more years was a good one, even if it did mean studying something I hated.’

Mick’s honesty and detail about his past stirred something within Nina. It was a cross between shame and envy, and a burgeoning desire to confide in someone. ‘Have you always painted?’ she asked.

‘Much to my father’s disgust. He said it was a career for dropouts.’ Mick slugged again. ‘And guess what? He was right.’ Laughing at himself, he peeled the wrapper off the cheese and broke the bread into pieces. ‘
Bon appetit
,’ he said and sank his teeth into a large crust, eyeing Nina as he pulled and stretched the bread from his mouth.

‘But your pictures are stunning. Do you sell many?’

‘Hardly ever. The term starving artist isn’t without reason. I do odd jobs on the side. Chopping wood, delivering newspapers. Working in bars. Anything to pay my way.’

‘I bet your father loves that, having supported you through your degree.’ Nina bit into her bread. She licked flakes of crust from her lips.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Mick replied. ‘He’s dead.’ As quickly as that, the bond between the pair hardened. Mick didn’t know it, but Nina felt an empathy towards him that would carry them onward towards love, marriage, a family, a future. They sat on the patchy grass, necking wine from the bottle, breaking off hunks of bread and cheese, their knees touching accidentally, their fingers brushing as they passed the wine, their thoughts entwining as they learned more and more about each other – Mick freely recounting stories of his past, and Nina carefully arranging her history like eggs in a basket.

‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’ Mick smelled of paint and turpentine. He wiped his hands on an oily cloth. ‘Are you OK?’ He was back in from the studio.

Nina’s hand bandaged the phone until her knuckles were painful white hillocks.

Claire’s Bakery.
It was meant to be a direct line, the eject button, a safety net. ‘I’m fine.’ Her voice was taut piano wire.

The grim truth was that it had been twenty years. People relocate, die, change jobs, and the telephone numbering system had altered many times since she’d been given this contact all those years ago. Like a fool, she’d been carrying it around as if it were a safety harness, something she could always fall back on. If she changed handbags, then the
notebook was moved into the new one. The outdated number itself had become irrelevant. She realised it was what it represented that gave comfort.

‘Who were you phoning?’ Mick filled the kettle. ‘I need coffee,’ he said. ‘It’s just not happening for me today. And I’m out of white paint. I have to go to the art supplies shop.’

‘No,’ Nina said. She didn’t want to be left alone.

‘But I’ve completely run out.’

‘Can’t you order it online?’ She noticed her hands tremble as she tucked her phone back in her bag.

‘It won’t arrive for a couple of days if I do that, and I need it to complete the piece I’m working on.’ Mick smiled and heaped coffee granules into mugs. ‘The work’s finally coming in, Nina. I can’t blow it.’ He was clearly pleased about the contract, but Nina could see it was taking its toll.