The Silent Girls (8 page)

She put her hand against the teapot – it was hot and stung her fingers, which meant that Lena had woken up. With a feeling of trepidation that she couldn’t really fathom, Edie stuck her head around the sitting room door and spied Lena wearing her nightdress and dressing gown and perched on the edge of her chair. ‘Hi Lena, would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Just made it, let it brew. Where’ve you been?’

Edie felt like a school kid caught out in the midst of some nefarious act. ‘Next door…’ she hesitated, ‘umm, a friend of Dolly’s turned up, I said she could stay the night.’

Lena turned and gave her the full benefit of her scrutiny. ‘Oh aye, who would this friend be then?’

‘A young girl called Sophie, she looked to be homeless and had been in some sort of accident.’ Edie didn’t feel like elaborating on the nature of Sophie’s ‘accident’.

Lena narrowed her eyes. ‘That skanky kid, always hanging around the square and cosying up with the prozzies? What do you think you’re doing, letting scum like that stay next door?’

Grateful as Edie was for Lena’s hospitality and kindness, this critique of her decision rankled. ‘She was in a mess and had nowhere else to go, I couldn’t just throw her out on the street.’

Lena pulled her dressing gown across her chest and pulled a face. ‘Huh! Street’s the best place for the likes of her! You’ll regret it, she’ll have that place stripped clean before you know it, mark my words.’

Edie thought that Sophie stripping the place clean might be rather helpful, but didn’t say so. ‘Well it’s done now and if she can find anything worth having she’s welcome to it. Shall I pour that tea?’

Lena looked horrified for a moment, then seemed to collect herself, huffed and waved an acquiescent hand. ‘I’ll have a drop of brandy in mine, always do before bedtime. It calms my nerves.’

For Edie, bedtime couldn’t come soon enough. Lena’s attitude towards her actions had been unsettling yet understandable. Meeting with anyone’s disapproval had always been difficult for Edie and she was distinctly uncomfortable at the thought that she’d met with Lena’s. Yet the woman had been kind and Edie wasn’t in a position to argue, she felt beholden enough because of Lena’s hospitality. Perhaps tomorrow she would buy some bedding and move back next door. Lena was right, letting the street girl stay had been an entirely irrational decision. She sloshed a large measure of brandy into Lena’s tea by way of reparation and took it to the woman who had been so kind. Lena took it and sipped in silence. Looking at Lena with rollers in her hair contained by a chiffon scarf and hunched in her dressing gown with a look of pinched concern clouding her face, Edie was reminded of Mrs Tiggywinkle. With Lena’s veiny feet protruding out from under her nightie, and the firmly wrinkled brow, Edie saw the version that Stephen King might have written, had he been struck to anthropomorphise a hedgehog. The thought of it made her want to snort with laughter and she had to bite her tongue to avoid the disrespect.

She took her own tea to bed, but didn’t drink it and instead lay awake thinking of the task ahead of her and trying not to dwell on the brooding presence of Matt Bastin, or the equally brooding disapproval of the woman downstairs. All she needed to do was clear the house, hand the keys to an agent and leave. Rose could take care of the rest. How hard could it be?

Chapter Five

Sophie lay stiff and aching on the lumpy sofa listening to the ticking of the mantle clock and contemplating the oppressive atmosphere of the house. The tablets that Edie had given to her had taken the edge off, but her ribs still grated where Johnno’s fist had bruised them and every now and then her face pulsed with pain.

She hadn’t taken Edie’s advice and had a bath, everything hurt too much for that, but she had salvaged the flannel and had a quick lick round with that. It would have to do for now, she hated being dirty but a quick wash was all she’d been able manage. Waves of nausea lapped like the tide and she could feel the soup and bread rolling and washing in her stomach. Throwing up wasn’t an option. In her situation food could be hard to come by; you had to hang on to it no matter what.

An attempt to shift position winded her and made her grit her teeth, for the first time in an age she felt as if she wanted to cry. Not because of the pain, though it wasn’t helping, but because of Dolly. The woman was gone and Sophie hadn’t known. That was the trouble when you shifted about the place sofa surfing (and sometimes settling for doorways) – you couldn’t keep in touch and you couldn’t keep an eye on people who mattered. She wasn’t quite sure why Dolly had mattered, she’d been a funny old duck, but she’d been kind in her way and good for a few quid from time to time. Sophie pondered whether what she was feeling might be grief – she had spent so many years being angry it was hard to recognise other emotions, but this hollow, empty feeling seemed to fit what she understood of the concept. Unless it was more hunger. Sophie was equally familiar with that sensation.

The house felt weird without Dolly, and the inroads into the mess that the woman Edie had made seemed to Sophie like something important ran the risk of being eradicated. Sophie was kind of glad she was nomadic, it would take thirty seconds for someone to dump her rucksack in a bin – thirty seconds, job done, all Sophie Hedley’s worldly goods, all she stood for, eliminated in an instant. No one would experience grief, or even hunger, at her demise. In fact she would be surprised if anyone would even notice. Probably better that way, no legacy, no ripples, no homeless people spending the night on your uncomfortable sofa. What was with this sofa? It felt like she was lying on a sack of rocks, and it wasn’t just the bruised ribs that were making her feel it. She shoved a hand beneath her and felt around. Sure enough there was a lump in the foam. There was no way she was going to be able to sleep with that digging into her back, and she was a girl who could sleep anywhere – doorways, park benches, you name it.

With some effort she slid off, grunting as her ribs grated and sang with pain. A zip in the back of the cushion allowed access to the foam inside. The zip was stiff, had probably rarely been opened, and it took a moment of careful and gentle persuasion before the teeth parted and allowed her to slip in a hand and feel about for the object that had been causing so much discomfort. The foam was old, had started to disintegrate and left a grainy and unpleasant residue on her hands. The texture of it made her grimace as she groped about, her fingers finally finding the item that she sought. It felt like a book, a book that someone had wedged between the layers of ancient foam. Weird. She tugged at it, but it had been there a long time and resisted her efforts. The foam had become tacky and had adhered to the cover, Sophie tugged and worked her fingers under and around the book until finally it came free and she could pull it out. The light in the room was dim, the bulbs as old and weak as Dolly had been, and Sophie couldn’t really make out much from the pages of the notebook that had faded, foxed and stuck together in the passage of time. It seemed to be some kind of copybook, lists, money, boring stuff. She wasn’t much bothered about what the pages held, only that the bloody thing would no longer be preventing her from sleep. With irritation she wiped the cover on the carpet and threw the book into her backpack, then she wiped her hands down her jeans and reassembled the cushion. With mounting exhaustion she put it back, climbed onto the sofa and attempted to sleep.

Edie found her there the next day, curled up, hair tousled, mouth slack and with her T-shirt ridden up and revealing the ugly, mottled bruise that had bloomed on her torso overnight. As she observed the sleeping, broken girl, sorrow clutched at her heart. Lena’s disapproval had inclined her to think that she should ask the girl to leave, but this sight changed everything. Edie knew what it was to feel lonely, vulnerable and without hope. She had never been homeless but had sold her soul to keep a roof over her head and food in her belly. If being married to Simon hadn’t been a deal with the Devil, she didn’t know what was.

For a moment she contemplated taking the girl’s bag and washing the clothes that were inside, the whole thing stank and so did the girl, but who was she to intrude on the girl’s possessions? Instead she wandered through to the kitchen, filled the kettle and began to cook the bacon and eggs she had brought with her. As she fiddled with the food a plan began to form in her mind.

The smell of cooking must have woken the girl as she came sidling into the kitchen, yawning and shuffling and rubbing the back of her neck. ‘I smell bacon, is there coffee? I could murder coffee,’ she said blearily as she slumped into a chair next to the faded Formica table.

‘There is coffee.’ Edie said, pouring boiling water into a mug of instant. ‘It’s not great but it’s wet and it’s warm. Oh, and I’ve sorted you some clean clothes out – some of mine, I’ll wash yours if you like.’

Sophie took the drink and frowned. ‘Why are you being so nice to me? Food, shelter, clothes, offers of washing, what’s the catch?’

Edie paused, the grill pan in one oven-gloved hand, a piece of bacon dangling from a fork in the other, and examined the girl’s look of suspicion. She wasn’t sure she liked a world where kindness and compassion had to be explained and justified.

‘No catch, but an offer. You need a place to stay, I need some help. This place won’t clear itself and I can’t face it on my own. I don’t know how long it will take, but you can stay here and help me until I hand over the keys. I’ll feed you and sort out a bed for you to sleep in, I’ll even buy you a bar of soap and some shampoo…’ she added as she passed a plate of food across the table.

Sophie scowled at the perceived insult and took the food, inhaling the aroma and letting the nectar of it relax her features. ‘No skin off my nose.’ she said, shrugging and dipping a folded slice of bread into her egg. ‘As long as you’ve got rubber gloves, I’m not touching anything without gloves. This place is minging!’

Edie looked at the grim state of the girl and smiled as pots and kettles came to mind. She sat down in front of her own breakfast. ‘OK, and yes, I have gloves. I figured you could start by clearing one of the bedrooms. I’m going out in a bit to buy some bedding so at least we’ll have something clean and dry to sleep on.’

Sophie paused, a chunk of sausage poised precariously on her fork stopped in mid-air, interrupted on its journey to her already full mouth. ‘You said “we”, I thought you was staying next door?’

‘I was, but I don’t want to outstay my welcome. You can clear and clean the little room and sleep in there, I’ll take the sofa.’

Sophie shrugged and shoved the sausage into her mouth. She chewed twice and swallowed. To Edie, watching Sophie eat was much like watching a snake consume its prey whole; inconceivable and uncomfortable.

‘S’your funeral, that bastard thing is like an instrument of torture – I’ve slept on more comfortable benches than that sofa. Why don’t you have one of the other bedrooms?’

It was a good question. ‘I’ll show you in a minute and you’ll see why.’

Sophie looked around Dolly’s bedroom in horror, the hanks of hair seemed to have become even more disturbed than Edie could remember. They hung around the room like cobwebs and single strands hovered, wafting like fine tentacles as they floated in the draught from the hallway.

‘Christ! If Miss Havisham had made it to her wedding night, I reckon this is what the room would’ve looked like.’ Sophie said, making to step into the room more fully, then thinking better of it.

‘I didn’t have you down as a literature lover.’

Sophie scowled at her. ‘I might be temporarily indisposed, but I’m not thick. I read.’ She prodded at a pile of abandoned clothing with her foot. ‘Bloody hell, where d’you start?’

‘Here.’ Edie said, leading her across the landing and into Beattie’s small, cell like room. ‘It’s not so messy, but it is damp and the wardrobe needs clearing and there is a bit of junk that could do with sorting. It might be worth stripping that bed and giving the mattress a good airing, I’ll buy a cover for it later, I’m not sure what state it’s in. Once it’s cleared you can sleep in here.’

Sophie looked around the small room, a look of considered approval on her face. ‘Ta,’ was all she said, though she accompanied it with a nod of satisfaction. ‘So what do you want me to do with the stuff?’

‘Anything that is obviously rubbish, just throw. Her clothes can go in bags for the textile recycling, I can’t imagine any charity shop wanting them and I can’t for a minute think that there would be much call for fancy dress where crimplene and nylon are concerned. My grandmother wasn’t exactly a natty dresser. Anything you think might be important – photos, document and the like – put in a box and I’ll go through them later.’

Sophie nodded. ‘Righto boss. Ummm, I don’t suppose you’ve got any more of those painkillers have you? I hurt my ribs and they’re playing me up like a bastard.’

Edie fished in her pocket for the ibuprofen she had bought that morning with the breakfast goods. ‘Here, I got these. You’re really not going to be up to much, are you? Not in this state anyway.’

Sophie flapped a hand at her. ‘No worries, I’ll be right in a mo. I’ve had worse. Not saying I’m up for moving furniture like, but I can manage to chuck shite in bin bags.’

Edie passed her the medication, wondering at the wisdom of leaving someone who she hardly knew, who regarded other people’s belongings as ‘shite’ (and who, if profanity were removed from the language would have very little to say) in charge of clearing out Beattie’s room. She shook the thought off. It wasn’t as if she could really afford to care what happened to the contents of the house, as long as they were cleared and she could leave – it didn’t really matter what anyone did with her grandmother’s belongings. ‘Well, as long as you’re sure?’ she said.

‘Oh stop fussing will ya? Bugger off and go shopping, I’ll have this place sorted in no time.’ Sophie said, gazing casually at the plain contents of the small room.

Chapter Six

Edie cut across the park, skirting the now familiar murder tourists and their unhealthy obsession with Winfield’s more murky past. She was thinking about Sophie again, about the bruises on the girl and the cut on her face and about what would happen to her when the house was finally cleared. Edie would be gone by then and Sophie would have no roof again. There had to be something out there for kids like Sophie, something more than other people’s sofas on good days and shop doorways on bad ones. Perhaps, Edie pondered, there was some kind of charity that might help, or there might be a local hostel which she could persuade Sophie to try. Her thoughts were still running the possible scenarios of a less precarious future for Sophie when she reached the high street and had to stop to get her bearings. For some reason her preoccupation with the homeless girl had made her forget that things had changed in Winfield. The high street was no longer the bustling and lively place that she remembered, it was now a half boarded up commercial wasteland of charity shops and pound emporiums. She paused, sighed and looked along the street to see if anything vaguely familiar to her younger self still stood. With some relief and not a little nostalgia she spotted the Swiss Cottage café and, two doors down from it, Bryers and Brynt – purveyors of hardware and household goods. The fact that B&B was still in business was bizarrely gratifying and Edie felt a small smile tilt at the corners of her mouth as a memory of the place took hold. Recollections of the smell of beeswax polish and the sheen on the old mahogany counters, and the two old men who’d been the sons of the original Mr Bryers and Mr Brynt reinforced the smile as she strode towards the kerb, ready to cross the road and revisit her childhood.