Times of Trouble

T
imes of Trouble

Victoria
Rollison

Published by
Victoria Rollison at
Smashwords

Prologue

Wrapped in her huge
fur coat, face hidden below the soft hood, she marched angrily
along the street. She hadn't realised it was freezing until she got
outside, but she was too proud to go back. Slamming the door was
her final word in their latest argument.

Ever since the text
message arrived, she had tried to get him to talk about it, to come
up with a plan to make this problem go away. How could he be too
arrogant to admit they were in trouble? He didn't want to be told
he should have listened to her in the first place. So they just
ended up yelling at each other. When he said everything was fine
she wanted to believe him, and probably could have if there wasn’t
so much fear in his eyes.

As she strode through
Battersea Park, her phone rang again. He’d been calling every
couple of minutes since she left, and was no doubt getting angrier
and angrier when she didn’t answer. It was one of their worst
arguments. He totally freaked out when she said money wasn't
everything, and she wanted to stop working. And when she screamed
that she planned to leave London, he looked like he was going to
throw something at her. It wasn't just the text message, or the
heat of battle, prompting these threats. This damp, cold city
wasn't exciting
anymore.
Her life used to feel sophisticated
and special. But lately it just felt lonely.

She crossed back over
Albert Bridge, turned away from the
wind,
and rubbed her nose to warm it. She could picture him pacing the
apartment, shoulders hunched, phone pressed against his ear,
cursing her for not answering. He hated it when he lost control of
her, when she wasn't doing what she was told. She would stay with
Katie tonight, give him time to calm down and start thinking about
how he might fix things.

As she glanced at her phone, he rang again. This
time she answered, and said abruptly: 'I'm not coming back tonight
Danny...'

'Where are you? Just come home babe.'

'No, I'm tired of this. I'm so
stressed out and...' Her outburst was interrupted by the sound of
the
intercom bleep in the
apartment.

'Did you forget your
key?'

'No, I told you, I'm
not coming back tonight.'

Through the phone,
she could hear the speaker next to the door crackle, and could just
make out a male voice saying: ‘I’ve got a delivery for the
penthouse’, and louder, her boyfriend replying, ‘Ok, I’ll buzz you
up’. Then he was back on the line.

‘
There's a delivery.
Are you expecting anything?’

He sounded tired and
tense. Maybe she should go home, and try to make up. She heard his
footsteps cross the foyer, and the clunk of the deadlock clicking
open. Then she heard two sounds in quick succession. The first was
the crack of a gunshot, deafening through the phone. The second was
the clatter of his mobile hitting the floor. Her heart seemed to
turn in her chest, and her hand trembled, as she heard two voices
echoing in the apartment.

‘
Where is she?
...Check the bedroom... She isn’t here.’

She could hear them
stamping on the polished floorboards. Finally the door slammed, and
then there was an eerie silence. She screamed into the phone for a
few seconds, but he didn’t reply.

She stood momentarily
frozen to the spot. Was there any chance he was still alive? She
couldn’t risk going back to check. She focused on her phone, ready
to call an ambulance. But she didn’t want anyone to know who she
was. She didn’t want people asking questions. She threw the phone
away from her as hard as she could. It ricocheted off the bridge
railing and splashed into the water, hardly noticeable in the vast
Thames murk. Then she turned, and staggered towards a phone box.
Barely able to control her panic, she dialled 999, and gave the
operator the apartment’s address. There was nothing more she could
do for him. She had her purse, and the clothes she was wearing. She
had to run. First she would warn Katie. Then she would
disappear.

Chapter 1

At first I thought
the bank had made a mistake. Some processing error or
administrative glitch, which sent this letter to the wrong
customer. I even checked if it was actually addressed to us. Maybe
the postman put it in the wrong mail box? But of course he didn’t.
It was addressed to Sandra Goddard, my mother, who had lived in
this house for twenty years. The postman knew that, and apparently
the National Australia Bank did too. It just didn’t make any sense.
How could mum be defaulting on a mortgage, when she owned this
house outright for over ten years? I vaguely remembered the day she
and dad celebrated their last mortgage payment. I must have been
about thirteen, as dad left before my fourteenth birthday. At least
mum got the house, fully paid for.

The huge red letters
LATE PAYMENT screamed at me from the top of the page. I heard mum
come inside, and start unpacking the groceries. She jumped as I
confronted her in the kitchen, waving the bank’s notice in my
hand.

‘
Mum, what the hell
is going on with this letter?’

‘
I’ve told you before
not to open my mail.’ From her expression, it was obvious she
quickly worked out what the ‘letter’ was about, and wasn’t planning
on discussing it with me.

‘
But what’s going on?
You never pay anything late! And why do you need a mortgage?’ I was
surprised to see that mum looked more scared than angry.

‘
Ellen, it’s none of
your business. Just forget about it!’ she said
repressively.

‘
But if you don’t pay
a mortgage on a house, they take it away from you! I live here
too!’

‘
For god’s sake, it’s
not going to come to that. I’ll sort it out.’

‘
I should have known
you’d be too proud to tell me about it. You love this house. How
could you risk losing it? And why do you need the money
anyway?’

‘
Just leave it
Ellen’.

She side stepped
round me, determined as usual to avoid a confrontation by leaving
the scene. I heard the front door close and the car
start.

Money was something
that was never discussed in our family. After dad left, I always
suspected things were a bit tight. It wasn’t like we could ever
afford a new car, or an overseas holiday. I don’t think dad ever
paid any maintenance; back in those days I suppose it was easier
for fathers to get away with disappearing, and forgetting they ever
had a family. Mum wanted to spend as much time with us as possible.
So she found a job as a teacher’s aide, where she worked school
hours, and had plenty of holidays. After a while, we never
mentioned dad anymore.

For a moment, I
wished I had never gone to the letterbox. Or been curious enough
about the letter to open it. But as usual, I was bored, and the
postman arriving was the first interesting thing that happened all
day. How sad was that? Having seen it, I couldn’t just ignore it. I
sat in stunned silence for a while, and then tried ringing mum’s
mobile about five times, hearing it go straight to voicemail. Mum
was a smart woman, a little rigid in her views sometimes, but
certainly never silly about money. Had something changed? My mind
raced over different possibilities. Did mum have a gambling habit?
She was always a bit neurotic: did this make her susceptible to
addiction? Had she taken out a loan to cover a debt to someone? Had
she just been spending the money without me noticing? What if
someone tricked her into giving them thousands and thousands of
dollars? Was she losing her mind? She was only 54. How much money
were we talking about? And why had I been left totally in the dark
about this?

Then on top of all
this, came the final blow: my feeling of guilt. I never moved out
of home because I needed mum. She was there for me through all the
ups and downs of my piano career, if you can call a failed attempt
at fame a career. She always encouraged me to keep going. Even if
it meant going without things herself, to save up for the entry fee
for another competition or the next interstate trip. When I gave
up, after 15 long years of trying, I wasn’t in any state to move
out. Even if I wasn’t close to nervous breakdown half the time,
popping HP’s to get out of bed in the morning, I couldn’t afford to
move out. Simple as that. I was pathetic. Mum cared for me, paid
all the bills, bought all the food, looked after the house. And all
the time, she was worrying about some mortgage which she obviously
couldn't afford to pay, while I lounged around like a lazy,
miserable freeloader. My measly income as a piano teacher didn't go
very far, and mum always said she was happy for me to live rent
free until I could afford to contribute. But why didn’t she ask me
for help when she couldn’t pay the mortgage? I didn’t earn much,
but she never even asked. Did mum think I was so selfish I wouldn’t
want to help? And why hadn't she told me about the mortgage in the
first place?

After a couple of
hours passed, in which I kept my mind distracted by playing an
entire book of Beethoven’s Sonatas, I heard mum’s car pull into the
drive. I had no idea what mood to expect her to be in. She looked
surprisingly fine as she walked in, and sat on the sofa. I finished
the piece, hoping she could enjoy a short recital before having the
inevitable conversation with me.

‘
I’ve always liked
that one,’ she commented, which she said so often I couldn’t think
of anything I played that she didn't like. I turned around on my
stool, inviting her to tell me what was going on.

‘
What would you like
for dinner? I’ve defrosted some chops but we could have them
tomorrow if you don’t feel like them now. It’s a bit hot for
chops.’

‘
Mum, don't worry
about dinner. Why have you taken out a mortgage and stopped paying
it? We could lose the house...’

‘
Darling, it’s not
your concern. Please don’t stress. I’m going to sort it
out.’

‘
So you're not going
to tell me what you used the money for? You’ll just wait until the
day they come to take the house, and then tell me I have to find
somewhere else to live?’ Tears welled in my eyes.

‘
Don’t be so
melodramatic Ellen! I’ve got a bit behind on a mortgage which was
used for something that doesn’t concern you. It’s my business, and
I’ll tell you about it when I’m ready.’

Was she serious? How
is worry about losing your home melodramatic? Was it mum’s pride –
or did she think I was too much of a mess to be able to deal with
whatever it was?

‘
What are you going
to do when they come to take the house? Ask them not to? Because it
will be too late by then. What's wrong with you?’ I could no longer
keep the anger out of my voice.

Mum was finally
starting to lose her composure. ‘It won’t get to that, I
hope.’

‘
But mum, can’t you
even tell me how much it is? You obviously haven’t been able to
afford it so far, so what’s going to change between now and
tomorrow?’

Mum shrugged, and her
head dropped. She didn’t even have words to convince herself now.
And to my dismay, she started to cry.

‘
Please tell me
what’s going on. How much money do we need?’

‘
Ellen, I promise it
will be ok. I can see you're upset I haven't told you what’s been
happening, but, well, you know how things have been with you, and I
didn’t want to make it worse. I promise we won’t be
homeless.’

‘
Let me help
you.’

Mum nodded. I was
finally getting somewhere.

‘
Can you at least
show me the paperwork?’ She nodded again, and surprisingly, got up
from the sofa to fetch it.

She handed me a manila
folder labelled ‘mortgage’, and left me to read it. There were only
few sheets of paper inside. On top was an official contract, with a
lot of jargon and terms and conditions. It was dated
1
^st
November 2008. Almost 3 months ago! On the second page
there was a section, filled in by hand, showing our address under
the heading of ‘secured asset’. Then the maximum loan amount was
written under ‘mortgage facility’. It said $20,000. I felt a small
sense of relief. Surely the payments on a $20,000 loan weren’t
really huge? There were only three monthly statements, and I
flipped through them. It appeared mum had been paying $155 for the
first month. Not so much money really? I looked at the most recent
statement. The repayments on this were $530 a month. They almost
tripled since November! No wonder she couldn’t afford them. That
was a huge chunk of her pay. It took me a lot of muddling through,
and laying the statements in order side by side, until I worked out
the loan amount increased over the last 3 months from $20,000 to
$50,000, and then more recently to $80,000. I also worked out
exactly how much was due to stop the threat of repossession- $610.
Definitely not enough money to lose your house over. But also more
money than either mum or I had.